( it's funny, really, to look at it objectively--to try to look at it objectively, when most of his thoughts have lost their strength, dwindled down to just his own intent tracing of palamedes' path down his body. there had been no shame, no embarrassment, no worry when it had been his own mouth in the same places, kissing along slender collarbones, down past narrow ribs, mapping out the skin with his tongue--but when it's his own body, when it's his own reactions, when it's his own breath trembling past parted lips, his own hand passing down to try to catch a bit of palamedes' hair between his fingertips--it feels like he should apologize, like he should be embarrassed, like he's taking more than he's giving, like he's soaking up more than he should. hard to put that feeling into words, too, when words fail him--when his tongue is less interested in speaking, and more interested in letting the soft sounds of interest crawl up from his throat, spared into the space between them.
he's barely even recognized where palamedes has ended up, down near his hips--all the tangled heat makes it hard to know what's just his own thoughts, fueling the stiff press of an erection through his sweatpants, and what's the touch of those lips, the pass of hot breath, the tangible sound of his voice that feels like it goes right through his bones.
embarrassing, really. his eyes squint open, hazy, rimmed with their usual exhaustion--but to see palamedes down there, pressed between his thighs, earns a rough swallow, like he can't quite articulate himself with the sight of it there. his face feels hot; his stomach feels hotter. )
If you go there, do I get to go there, too? ( less important then the permission--already given, in his mind, to the limits of whatever palamedes might want with him--is the promise of being able to touch him, like this, being able to press his mouth up between his thighs and learn what he sounds like when he's there. )
If I want it... ( he starts, stops--one of his hands lifts, pushing a bit of his own hair away from his face; his eyes close, trying to find the words. ) ...Can I want it? I don't want--
( it really is so hard to form the words when palamedes is there, pressed up against his hip, and even glancing down at him, faintly, has his lips twisting up into a bashful smile; he forces himself to let out a breath, his hand coming up to rub down over his face. he's not being very charming, in his mind: he's not being the kind of gallant, handsome, gentlemanly person that he thinks palamedes deserves.
so he tries again, once his hand smooths off his face, after he lets out a breathy, wry sort of chuckle: ) I want you. I'll still want you if you don't want to go any further.
[Maybe Choso is embarrassed of his body, of the sounds he makes, but Palamedes adores every moment Choso comes undone that much more. There's the expected pulse of base heat through him, an intimate kind of pride that he's been able to put Choso in this state, and also- he's adorable, half-started sentences and all. He doesn't mind waiting while Choso sorts through his thoughts, comfortable and content where he is, if a little-- buzzy with anticipation.
Choso's first question asked like that makes Palamedes want to squirm all the way back up, hip to hip, and let his body answer it for him. He settles for slipping his hand down to Choso's inner thigh and flattening his palm there, following the shape of muscle through the fabric.
It helps him think, which is to say, he doesn't need to think at all before he answers,] Yes. You can go anywhere.
[He can't help but quirk a little smile alongside that, watching Choso. The urge to reach up and push his hair back for him, to kiss him until all the words he can't get out are pushed from Choso's mouth straight into Palamedes' without the need for pesky words, is a strong one. There is a charm to this, rough and bumbling, and Palamedes enjoys it thoroughly, just as he'll enjoy the inevitability, when Choso doesn't have to ask things like Can I want it? anymore.
Little steps. He says,] Oh, you've already gotten me going. I want you, and you can want as much as you can imagine.
[Another blanket permission to shake off the weight of that Can I?— Palamedes takes his hand up Choso's thigh to slide over his clothed erection, feeling over the shape of him with a gentle pressure, then again with his mouth, dipping his head to lay open-mouthed kisses across fabric.
With two fingers hooking over Choso's waistband, he hums, briefly looking up.]
Shall we both finish undressing together? Now? [a tug,] Lift your hips for me. Then you can get mine.
( why is it embarrassing? it shouldn't be embarrassing, when palamedes says i want you so plainly, so easily, as though that's all it should take; it shouldn't make his whole body tense, saying that he's gotten him going, to imagine that he's done all this and more, reflected back, under palamedes' skin. to know that palamedes maybe feels that same boneless pleasure, that same urgency, that same heat pooling and building with impatient desire that he only forces himself to feel in small, slow trickles, like an iv drip of arousal--it's embarrassing and it's prideful, it's a brand new, almost smug shiver of happiness, something that feels keenly good, and keenly his, something shared just between the two of them, here. he likes it.
likes the way that palamedes' hand moves up over the shape of him, likes the fact that his breath pants out, despite better judgment, when that hand is followed by an open-mouthed kiss--his hand catches some of palamedes' hair, trying not to pull, letting it slip with affection through the curl of his fingers.
maybe embarrassing has never been the right word for it. he's never been bashful about being undressed, but something about being stripped down here, under palamedes' watch, makes him nervous--like maybe he won't like what he sees, in the end, but that's less because he doubts palamedes and more because he doubts himself. so his hips lift, only because there's the promise of getting palamedes stripped down, too, and he wants to look at him: wants to touch him, like he's being touched, and he uses both hands to gently help getting the rise of his waistband down, where palamedes can strip him the rest of the way.
it's different, letting someone else take care of him. he's usually the one looking out for everyone else, and now he's on his back, on a bed that's not his own, left at the mercy of someone who has tugged at his heartstrings a little more than he thinks is probably normal; he's almost painfully attracted, stupidly, and if that isn't human, then he's not sure what is.
with a stubborn breath, not trying to hide anything, he lifts a hand to push some of his own hair aside, raking it back again so that he can then reach with both hands, expectant, out in front of him. )
Your turn. ( and just in case it's necessary, a little petulant hum in his deep voice: ) You said.
[The hand in his hair is a welcome feeling, almost too brief in the middle of what his current goal is. It's grounding in the way that the sound of Choso's breath and the tension in his hips, under Palamedes' patient fingers are the opposite, doing everything in their power to make Palamedes' own arousal more and more urgent. Even the slightest press of his two knuckles into the skin beneath Choso's waistband, the dip inwards from his hip, is all but searing.
But Palamedes is patient- gentlemanly, even- and true to his word, waiting for Choso to shift his hips before tugging his sweatpants the rest of the way off a little unevenly and nudges them to the floor, a task left to his human hand while his tentacles slide and grope over Choso's exposed thighs. The curve of muscle and bare skin there feels like a secret thing, privileged territory, just as worthy of his undivided attention as Choso's arousal.
Palamedes traces a reverential path there along the junction of thigh and groin, first with human fingers and then with his mouth, shifting his hand to palm over Choso's cock again as his mouth moves higher. Were he less of a gentleman he would ignore Choso reaching for him completely and keep at it, stealing another few seconds of intent focus before he huffs out an amused breath and pushes himself up. Yes, alright - of course. He did say.]
I did. Thank God I have you to keep me honest.
[One of Choso's hands he catches as he sits up further, tilting his head to kiss his palm. He's not entirely sure where to put his legs, settling for a kneeling straddle over one of Choso's thighs. His own arousal is especially evident through his slacks, like this, and he makes an only slightly sheepish face as if to say, see, he wouldn't lie about Choso getting him going, ha ha.
He fiddles one-handed with the button at his waist, an herculean task.]
This was easier with two hands.
[Could he manage it with the tentacles? Sure. Will he be letting go of Choso's thigh? No.]
( there's a bashful part of him that wants to close his eyes, or rather, wants to let his eyes settle up on the ceiling above him, like he might find solace there, or like he might find a way to understand how each little brush and touch of palamedes' tentacles, slithered over his skin, seems to lock up all his muscles into appreciative tension. tensing himself up before a battle is typical; tensing himself up before training is typical. letting himself submit to the physical whims of his own body, aroused and interested, is not something that he's learned how to do, not something he has experience in, not something that he finds he understands. it's the way that his stomach plummets when a human hand brushes up between his thighs, and then a mouth, damp lips, warm breath--his own lips part, like there's a breath caught there, or a word of encouragement, or something else entirely. his hand could slip down between them, clench its fingers into palamedes' hair, and--well, he can't let himself think that thought, because it feels dangerous.
dangerous in a good way. dangerous in a way that will get his blood pumping too fast, and he's already keenly aware of where it's all settled, inside of him. too much imagination, paired with all that touching--
the breath he lets out sounds like relief, but it's disappointment, too, some combination of it all; he has to remind himself that the point is to get his hands all over palamedes too, and that reminder earns a quick shift of his gaze, letting it slide, pertinent and pointed, over palamedes as he settles upward. it's a sight that he'll probably remember, later, nights alone in his room: the shift of palamedes' knees, the obvious strain of fabric, that sheepish sort of look that he wants to kiss away.
with a faint smile, just edged on the corner of his lips, he gently bends both of his elbows down, sinking them into the mattress only so that he can push himself to sit up. )
I have two hands. ( low and quiet, matter-of-fact as always: and he doesn't hesitate, warm hands reaching to brush and shoo palamedes' hand away just so that he can get his own there, working open the button, carefully shedding the zipper. the fabric slips a little; his hands round to either hip, thumbs digging in there to peel it all down a little--but with the way he's sitting, with the way palamedes is straddling his thigh, there's not much space for it to do anything but pool around palamedes' thighs.
that's good enough for him. good enough for his chin to tip in, to tilt and tuck his face in near palamedes' neck, lips attached to skin almost immediately--good enough for one arm to wrap around his middle, the other pressing, slipping his hand down near blindly to feel for the length of him, a warm palm and eager, strong fingers that stroke from base to tip without thinking of much of anything except to explore what he can, unpracticed and careful, while he has the almost sneaky chance. )
[That sheepishness only lasts for a moment, in the end, chased away by the way Choso looks at him, kept at bay by how immediately he reaches for him. With a faint chuckle Palamedes says, murmured,] Oh, do you, [like it's a little joke between them, and not about his arm. Like Choso's desire to get his hands on him, and Palamedes' matching desire to feel it, were not obvious guarantees here.
Brushed away, Palamedes' hand finds its way into Choso's hair, a loose grip curling into it that somehow doesn't betray the tension in the rest of his body, watching Choso undress him— more or less. Undressed in the way that matters, at least, which is enough. It's the rest of him that feels that tension, a string pulled taut that makes the whole of him twitch slightly in electric surprise when Choso closes in on him. The quiet tenderness of it all remains, but oh!— so much skin against skin, all at once.
He says,] Hey, now, [because he was busy down there, as it were, but it's not even a convincing faux-objection, too warm and fond. He curls his fingers tighter into Choso's hair, hips pressing into the movement of his fingers. He's no more experienced than Choso beyond with his own hands, so even this much- Choso's hands on him, his mouth, the gravitational pull of his eager affection- is enough to dazzle Palamedes. He wants and wants and he's never known how to want holding still, to be, hm, provided for, so he slides one of his tentacle limbs, then another, up from Choso's thigh to brush over the length of him, just barely circling his tip.
It's just that it doesn't hurt to ask, right, even if Choso has been pretty readily accepting of his new limbs so far, so,] Is that alright?
It's cheating. ( he says, in an immediate breath, a breath that's tinged with a little bit of humor--or maybe it's just the hot, heated sigh from the way that, nearly embarrassed, his cock flinches, twitches beneath the touch, as though not fully expecting it and yet greedy for it all the same. ) My arms aren't that long...
( --which is to say that he doesn't mind, could never mind, because that arm is a part of palamedes now, and he's already swept himself under the firm belief that any part of palamedes should not only be accepted, but welcomed, warmly, by him. it doesn't bother him, just another touch that he wants, a touch that has his mouth lifting off the side of palamedes' neck to kiss, gently, over the spot where his teeth nearly worried the skin into a red little mark. not that he really minds it, leaving behind that kind of souvenir, but it feels a little presumptuous to assume that it would be wanted without asking.
he doesn't ask. instead, his mouth dedicates itself to climbing up along the side of palamedes' neck, kissing at his jaw, nudging in there with another little mouthed sigh of pleasure; his hand tightens, a firm grip as though to say they'll both have to contend with each other, or find some mutual harmony in the touch, because he doesn't want to let go. wants to feel the way his skin slicks beneath his fingers, the way he learns the length of him by tactile greed alone, and his head nudges back, slowly, brushing them nearly nose to nose. )
Is this alright? ( a gentle echo, as though just to confirm--and to tease, a little, as he lets his wrist find a slow, easy sort of rhythm, paired only with the anticipation of further touch from palamedes' sticky new arm. ) You can just let me help you.
( translated to mean, you can just let me take care of you. )
[It's a tease enough to get him to chuckle, breathed out against Choso's cheek as his he tilts in closer to him, pulled in by this low, simmering hunger. To touch and be touched, to press into the movement of Choso's hand with unabashed craving; he's not overly concerned with the details, not when he's already being spoiled with affectionate mouth and dutiful fingers.
And besides, shush, it's gentlemanly to ask. He presses a kiss to Choso's cheek and says,] It's sublime.
[Do not make fun of him (too much) for this. He doesn't answer the other part, sliding one-two-three tentacles down between them to wrap around the length of him instead, in response. Letting Choso take care of him has an appeal, a novelty for someone like himself, who so consistently refuses to put himself first in any number of contexts, but it's an appeal he can put a pin in for another time. Not now, when he's so selfish-greedy-impatient to touch Choso, and maybe he doesn't say any of that directly because he knows how silly it sounds, to call his desire to give pleasure selfish.
So he doesn't say any of that; more than anything he wants to feel Choso beneath him, to learn the ways his body reacts and commit each one to perfect, crystalline memory. Those details he's very intent on, as well as the many new ways he can use his tentacle arm to coax more soft sounds and heated breaths out of Choso like this alone. The tentacles curl around him in their own rhythm, a firm pressure that coils from base to tip and detaches one at a time to start over.
Tilting his head again, he kisses the corner of Choso's mouth, unable to help grinning.]
This one is cheating, [he'll concede, a tease of his own; he's not had the arm long, but it's been long enough to come up with myriad ideas that need thorough testing.]
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he's barely even recognized where palamedes has ended up, down near his hips--all the tangled heat makes it hard to know what's just his own thoughts, fueling the stiff press of an erection through his sweatpants, and what's the touch of those lips, the pass of hot breath, the tangible sound of his voice that feels like it goes right through his bones.
embarrassing, really. his eyes squint open, hazy, rimmed with their usual exhaustion--but to see palamedes down there, pressed between his thighs, earns a rough swallow, like he can't quite articulate himself with the sight of it there. his face feels hot; his stomach feels hotter. )
If you go there, do I get to go there, too? ( less important then the permission--already given, in his mind, to the limits of whatever palamedes might want with him--is the promise of being able to touch him, like this, being able to press his mouth up between his thighs and learn what he sounds like when he's there. )
If I want it... ( he starts, stops--one of his hands lifts, pushing a bit of his own hair away from his face; his eyes close, trying to find the words. ) ...Can I want it? I don't want--
( it really is so hard to form the words when palamedes is there, pressed up against his hip, and even glancing down at him, faintly, has his lips twisting up into a bashful smile; he forces himself to let out a breath, his hand coming up to rub down over his face. he's not being very charming, in his mind: he's not being the kind of gallant, handsome, gentlemanly person that he thinks palamedes deserves.
so he tries again, once his hand smooths off his face, after he lets out a breathy, wry sort of chuckle: ) I want you. I'll still want you if you don't want to go any further.
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Choso's first question asked like that makes Palamedes want to squirm all the way back up, hip to hip, and let his body answer it for him. He settles for slipping his hand down to Choso's inner thigh and flattening his palm there, following the shape of muscle through the fabric.
It helps him think, which is to say, he doesn't need to think at all before he answers,] Yes. You can go anywhere.
[He can't help but quirk a little smile alongside that, watching Choso. The urge to reach up and push his hair back for him, to kiss him until all the words he can't get out are pushed from Choso's mouth straight into Palamedes' without the need for pesky words, is a strong one. There is a charm to this, rough and bumbling, and Palamedes enjoys it thoroughly, just as he'll enjoy the inevitability, when Choso doesn't have to ask things like Can I want it? anymore.
Little steps. He says,] Oh, you've already gotten me going. I want you, and you can want as much as you can imagine.
[Another blanket permission to shake off the weight of that Can I?— Palamedes takes his hand up Choso's thigh to slide over his clothed erection, feeling over the shape of him with a gentle pressure, then again with his mouth, dipping his head to lay open-mouthed kisses across fabric.
With two fingers hooking over Choso's waistband, he hums, briefly looking up.]
Shall we both finish undressing together? Now? [a tug,] Lift your hips for me. Then you can get mine.
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likes the way that palamedes' hand moves up over the shape of him, likes the fact that his breath pants out, despite better judgment, when that hand is followed by an open-mouthed kiss--his hand catches some of palamedes' hair, trying not to pull, letting it slip with affection through the curl of his fingers.
maybe embarrassing has never been the right word for it. he's never been bashful about being undressed, but something about being stripped down here, under palamedes' watch, makes him nervous--like maybe he won't like what he sees, in the end, but that's less because he doubts palamedes and more because he doubts himself. so his hips lift, only because there's the promise of getting palamedes stripped down, too, and he wants to look at him: wants to touch him, like he's being touched, and he uses both hands to gently help getting the rise of his waistband down, where palamedes can strip him the rest of the way.
it's different, letting someone else take care of him. he's usually the one looking out for everyone else, and now he's on his back, on a bed that's not his own, left at the mercy of someone who has tugged at his heartstrings a little more than he thinks is probably normal; he's almost painfully attracted, stupidly, and if that isn't human, then he's not sure what is.
with a stubborn breath, not trying to hide anything, he lifts a hand to push some of his own hair aside, raking it back again so that he can then reach with both hands, expectant, out in front of him. )
Your turn. ( and just in case it's necessary, a little petulant hum in his deep voice: ) You said.
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But Palamedes is patient- gentlemanly, even- and true to his word, waiting for Choso to shift his hips before tugging his sweatpants the rest of the way off a little unevenly and nudges them to the floor, a task left to his human hand while his tentacles slide and grope over Choso's exposed thighs. The curve of muscle and bare skin there feels like a secret thing, privileged territory, just as worthy of his undivided attention as Choso's arousal.
Palamedes traces a reverential path there along the junction of thigh and groin, first with human fingers and then with his mouth, shifting his hand to palm over Choso's cock again as his mouth moves higher. Were he less of a gentleman he would ignore Choso reaching for him completely and keep at it, stealing another few seconds of intent focus before he huffs out an amused breath and pushes himself up. Yes, alright - of course. He did say.]
I did. Thank God I have you to keep me honest.
[One of Choso's hands he catches as he sits up further, tilting his head to kiss his palm. He's not entirely sure where to put his legs, settling for a kneeling straddle over one of Choso's thighs. His own arousal is especially evident through his slacks, like this, and he makes an only slightly sheepish face as if to say, see, he wouldn't lie about Choso getting him going, ha ha.
He fiddles one-handed with the button at his waist, an herculean task.]
This was easier with two hands.
[Could he manage it with the tentacles? Sure. Will he be letting go of Choso's thigh? No.]
no subject
dangerous in a good way. dangerous in a way that will get his blood pumping too fast, and he's already keenly aware of where it's all settled, inside of him. too much imagination, paired with all that touching--
the breath he lets out sounds like relief, but it's disappointment, too, some combination of it all; he has to remind himself that the point is to get his hands all over palamedes too, and that reminder earns a quick shift of his gaze, letting it slide, pertinent and pointed, over palamedes as he settles upward. it's a sight that he'll probably remember, later, nights alone in his room: the shift of palamedes' knees, the obvious strain of fabric, that sheepish sort of look that he wants to kiss away.
with a faint smile, just edged on the corner of his lips, he gently bends both of his elbows down, sinking them into the mattress only so that he can push himself to sit up. )
I have two hands. ( low and quiet, matter-of-fact as always: and he doesn't hesitate, warm hands reaching to brush and shoo palamedes' hand away just so that he can get his own there, working open the button, carefully shedding the zipper. the fabric slips a little; his hands round to either hip, thumbs digging in there to peel it all down a little--but with the way he's sitting, with the way palamedes is straddling his thigh, there's not much space for it to do anything but pool around palamedes' thighs.
that's good enough for him. good enough for his chin to tip in, to tilt and tuck his face in near palamedes' neck, lips attached to skin almost immediately--good enough for one arm to wrap around his middle, the other pressing, slipping his hand down near blindly to feel for the length of him, a warm palm and eager, strong fingers that stroke from base to tip without thinking of much of anything except to explore what he can, unpracticed and careful, while he has the almost sneaky chance. )
no subject
Brushed away, Palamedes' hand finds its way into Choso's hair, a loose grip curling into it that somehow doesn't betray the tension in the rest of his body, watching Choso undress him— more or less. Undressed in the way that matters, at least, which is enough. It's the rest of him that feels that tension, a string pulled taut that makes the whole of him twitch slightly in electric surprise when Choso closes in on him. The quiet tenderness of it all remains, but oh!— so much skin against skin, all at once.
He says,] Hey, now, [because he was busy down there, as it were, but it's not even a convincing faux-objection, too warm and fond. He curls his fingers tighter into Choso's hair, hips pressing into the movement of his fingers. He's no more experienced than Choso beyond with his own hands, so even this much- Choso's hands on him, his mouth, the gravitational pull of his eager affection- is enough to dazzle Palamedes. He wants and wants and he's never known how to want holding still, to be, hm, provided for, so he slides one of his tentacle limbs, then another, up from Choso's thigh to brush over the length of him, just barely circling his tip.
It's just that it doesn't hurt to ask, right, even if Choso has been pretty readily accepting of his new limbs so far, so,] Is that alright?
no subject
( --which is to say that he doesn't mind, could never mind, because that arm is a part of palamedes now, and he's already swept himself under the firm belief that any part of palamedes should not only be accepted, but welcomed, warmly, by him. it doesn't bother him, just another touch that he wants, a touch that has his mouth lifting off the side of palamedes' neck to kiss, gently, over the spot where his teeth nearly worried the skin into a red little mark. not that he really minds it, leaving behind that kind of souvenir, but it feels a little presumptuous to assume that it would be wanted without asking.
he doesn't ask. instead, his mouth dedicates itself to climbing up along the side of palamedes' neck, kissing at his jaw, nudging in there with another little mouthed sigh of pleasure; his hand tightens, a firm grip as though to say they'll both have to contend with each other, or find some mutual harmony in the touch, because he doesn't want to let go. wants to feel the way his skin slicks beneath his fingers, the way he learns the length of him by tactile greed alone, and his head nudges back, slowly, brushing them nearly nose to nose. )
Is this alright? ( a gentle echo, as though just to confirm--and to tease, a little, as he lets his wrist find a slow, easy sort of rhythm, paired only with the anticipation of further touch from palamedes' sticky new arm. ) You can just let me help you.
( translated to mean, you can just let me take care of you. )
no subject
And besides, shush, it's gentlemanly to ask. He presses a kiss to Choso's cheek and says,] It's sublime.
[Do not make fun of him (too much) for this. He doesn't answer the other part, sliding one-two-three tentacles down between them to wrap around the length of him instead, in response. Letting Choso take care of him has an appeal, a novelty for someone like himself, who so consistently refuses to put himself first in any number of contexts, but it's an appeal he can put a pin in for another time. Not now, when he's so selfish-greedy-impatient to touch Choso, and maybe he doesn't say any of that directly because he knows how silly it sounds, to call his desire to give pleasure selfish.
So he doesn't say any of that; more than anything he wants to feel Choso beneath him, to learn the ways his body reacts and commit each one to perfect, crystalline memory. Those details he's very intent on, as well as the many new ways he can use his tentacle arm to coax more soft sounds and heated breaths out of Choso like this alone. The tentacles curl around him in their own rhythm, a firm pressure that coils from base to tip and detaches one at a time to start over.
Tilting his head again, he kisses the corner of Choso's mouth, unable to help grinning.]
This one is cheating, [he'll concede, a tease of his own; he's not had the arm long, but it's been long enough to come up with myriad ideas that need thorough testing.]