Percy knows, on some level, that startling at a kiss at this point is absurd - there's no world in which Vex's lips don't find his eventually. But his first instinct is still tension, his biceps taut and hands grasping tighter at her shoulder and hip.
It's only a moment, though, his first jittery instincts taken over by a kind of heartsick need that lives nearly as deep within him. There's no patience in the way he responds, only desires so desperate that they've forgotten all shame. He moves her - or himself, he won't be sure later - so they're facing each other fully, pulling her flush to him again. He doesn't remember to worry about what his mouth tastes like or whether prior experience has made him an acceptable partner or where to put his hands.
(That last one is easy, in fact. Running entirely on his own impulses, one warm palm rests at her cheek, fingertips massaging into her hairline. The other is at the small of her back, splaying toward her ass.)
When he draws back, he's breathless and wide-eyed and suddenly all too aware of his lanky arms and the dirt slowly sloughing off his abdomen. The way he felt all of that below the metaphorical belt, his body's burgeoning response to her attention.
"I - can't." No, you idiot, she'll get the wrong idea. He hurries to add, "Not yet - I'm not, er, subjecting you to anything until after -"
He waves at the soap, struggling to find a polite, unpresumptuous way to say I'd like to clean everything down there before you touch it.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2025-01-24 01:11 pm (UTC)It's only a moment, though, his first jittery instincts taken over by a kind of heartsick need that lives nearly as deep within him. There's no patience in the way he responds, only desires so desperate that they've forgotten all shame. He moves her - or himself, he won't be sure later - so they're facing each other fully, pulling her flush to him again. He doesn't remember to worry about what his mouth tastes like or whether prior experience has made him an acceptable partner or where to put his hands.
(That last one is easy, in fact. Running entirely on his own impulses, one warm palm rests at her cheek, fingertips massaging into her hairline. The other is at the small of her back, splaying toward her ass.)
When he draws back, he's breathless and wide-eyed and suddenly all too aware of his lanky arms and the dirt slowly sloughing off his abdomen. The way he felt all of that below the metaphorical belt, his body's burgeoning response to her attention.
"I - can't." No, you idiot, she'll get the wrong idea. He hurries to add, "Not yet - I'm not, er, subjecting you to anything until after -"
He waves at the soap, struggling to find a polite, unpresumptuous way to say I'd like to clean everything down there before you touch it.