( no, you never forget your first. the lingering flutter of butterflies in the pit of your stomach, the skitter of something electric along nerves that still feel too hypersensitive, no matter how long it's been. the fondness, even after it's faded, nostalgia taking the place of something impermanent –
even if, when he really thinks about it, as embarrassing as it might be: who had been his first?
you're not supposed to have a crush on the crown prince.
and he doesn't think about it now, though the flutter of butterflies still rests in his core, lighting him up from the inside out and setting all those peripheral nerve endings tingling, just short of burning with how close noct is to him now, the weight of his mouth against his own and that hand at his thigh, both a comfort and something that sets his heart to near-pounding behind his ribs.
( he'd never thought he would get this. never thought he'd be worthy of it, even for as much as just a single look from the other is enough to leave his heart wanting, the willingness to follow him anywhere more resolute than any thought that has passed through his mind before. )
one of his own hands slips down, fingers grazing over the hollow of his throat and resting, ultimately, splayed against the point at which his heart beats, the comfort of each thump behind clothing and skin and bone washing over him as something tangible, something warm and inviting, and he finds himself leaning even closer –
until he's found that he's all but crawled into the prince's lap, lean thighs framing the other's as he settles against him, fitting almost too easily into the spot he's made for himself. he pauses, pulls back just a little like he's only just realized he'd moved – and he makes a frantic sort of sound in the back of his throat, the flush painting his cheeks deepening by several shades. ) I – is this … okay?
( little late for that, isn't it? teeth worry the edge of his bottom lip, but he doesn't move away, because this feels good, right in some way that he can't quite put a finger on, something almost like … coming home after a too-long absence.
but then again, noct has always felt like that to him. )
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even if, when he really thinks about it, as embarrassing as it might be: who had been his first?
you're not supposed to have a crush on the crown prince.and he doesn't think about it now, though the flutter of butterflies still rests in his core, lighting him up from the inside out and setting all those peripheral nerve endings tingling, just short of burning with how close noct is to him now, the weight of his mouth against his own and that hand at his thigh, both a comfort and something that sets his heart to near-pounding behind his ribs.
( he'd never thought he would get this. never thought he'd be worthy of it, even for as much as just a single look from the other is enough to leave his heart wanting, the willingness to follow him anywhere more resolute than any thought that has passed through his mind before. )
one of his own hands slips down, fingers grazing over the hollow of his throat and resting, ultimately, splayed against the point at which his heart beats, the comfort of each thump behind clothing and skin and bone washing over him as something tangible, something warm and inviting, and he finds himself leaning even closer –
until he's found that he's all but crawled into the prince's lap, lean thighs framing the other's as he settles against him, fitting almost too easily into the spot he's made for himself. he pauses, pulls back just a little like he's only just realized he'd moved – and he makes a frantic sort of sound in the back of his throat, the flush painting his cheeks deepening by several shades. ) I – is this … okay?
( little late for that, isn't it? teeth worry the edge of his bottom lip, but he doesn't move away, because this feels good, right in some way that he can't quite put a finger on, something almost like … coming home after a too-long absence.
but then again, noct has always felt like that to him. )