( there's nothing wrong with wondering – really, on his own end, he wonders what had been enough to make his efforts at catching the prince's attention successful in the first place. ( for as much as he'd introduced himself as if they'd never met before, noctis had immediately caught him – haven't we met before? – and it had been enough to make him feel briefly foolish, sheepish in the sense that he shouldn't have to act like they'd never crossed paths before in the first place, because you never know what someone is going to remember, and what they're going to forget.
but suffice it to say that it has never been a title, never what comes with such a thing that had made him want to be friends with him in the first place. that much is sure. )
and for all there has been little room for the crown prince to select those he wants to spend his time with, that prompto had made the cut at all is something that he sometimes still finds himself struggling to wrap his head around. and even with those moments that find him unsure of his place with the others, whether or not he belongs, one small look from his friend is enough to reassure him, to chase away the doubt that seeks to darken his ( sometimes forcefully ) optimistic attitude.
the corner of his mouth turns slightly upward at the comment, and up a little more still at the touch that lingers – and he unconsciously angles himself toward it, all but leaning against the other's side as he gives a sort of wistful sigh.
and it isn't about the flamethrower. ) Yeah? Oh, oh, y'know what would be cool? If Cid could upgrade my crossbow with one!
( prom … that is a terrible idea … and you know it. )
( Who really knows what makes a person choose another? Sometimes it can be answered - some people are chosen for their use to another - but most of the time it's something indescribable, something that can be neither touched nor spoken of, lest it lose everything it is.
It just is. Noctis will never be able to put into words exactly why Prompto, over everyone else that might have - had he given them the chance - treated him like a guy instead of a Prince, is the one who stuck, who wove himself so firmly in the tapestry of Noctis' life that he couldn't even begin to find the threads that are himself and are this blond flame of warmth that sparks like gold amongst all the other colours. (But really? He can't say he cares to explain or dislodge. He'll just enjoy this, as it is, whatever it is.
And whatever it becomes.)
The softest snort of a laugh leaves Noctis' lips, huffed out with an exhale of breath, at Prompto's idea. That. That would be awful. And probably give Ignis a heart attack, but it would look pretty cool. But there's a smile on Prompto's face that is just there, barely visible in the low light but audible in his voice, the thing that has made Noctis' heart catch in his throat on more than one occasion, the thing that he's sure leaves his cheeks pinker than they should be-
The thing that makes him listen to that ever-fleeting impulse and lean in to catch Prompto's lips with his own. )
( something indescribable. that – yeah. even though he'd convinced himself very early on that there were so many things about noctis that were more than enough to draw the sort of attention that comes from searching for a friend ( none of which have ever been tied to his status, mind you, because to this one it's little more than a title, even with everything that comes with it ), there's always been that subtle little pull, just at the bottom of his ribs, that has him wanting to stay as close to the other as he can get away with. as close as he's allowed.
and he's never been able to find the right word for it, maybe because he's not great with them or because it hasn't been invented yet, but either way, it doesn't really matter. noctis had chosen him after he'd dredged up the courage to say more than a passing hello in the first place, and even if neither of them quite know how to put into words what keeps them so close to one another, both figuratively and literally, he thinks … that's okay.
things don't always have to have a name for them. sometimes … they can just be.
he hears that snort of laughter, something so in-tune with the other and his usual attitude that he doesn't think much of it – but he does turn just enough to get a better view of him, better than what his peripheral vision allows, and maybe he won't be able to see the slight tinge of pink that rises to his cheeks, but he does catch the hint of his own grin, something that sinks down into the bottom of prompto's own heart and lifts it up just a little bit more, the whole of him feeling so much lighter than he can recall ever being in his whole life –
and then there are lips against his own, the lightest pressure, a bit chapped from their time on the road, but soft, like so much of noctis himself is given half the chance to get a better reading of him. he jolts with it, but only out of sheer surprise before the whole of him relaxes completely, leaning into the kiss as he would any other touch the other would give him, the thrill of something new and wanted thrumming through him like the first, sharp bolt of a thunder spell.
( Royalty. Prince. Impending King. There's so much attached to these things, so much weight and duty, but no one ever really talks about the little fact that it's all laid out. You don't get to choose much, if anything, in your life. Day one to now, it's all given to you, everything is set out to make you a leader, no matter who you might be. And though Noctis gets his freedom, got shipped off to school instead of locked up with tutors, made to work, allowed to play-
He's destined to marry Luna, destined to rule a country. There's no room for feelings in these things, no room to want more than he's given. He doesn't get to think, never tried to explore any of it, not when everything's set out before him. When things will always be that way.
But it's when you say that can't be, this is impossible, that the impossible happens, isn't it? Thinking about this is ill-advised, heartache and distraction waiting to happen, but it's so easy to forget anything but those freckles and the flutter of lashes, the soft touch of Prompto's hair when his hand shifts, runs through those layers. Nothing else matters but the gentle press of his weight when Prompto relaxes into the touch, nothing but slowly running a hand through blond hair and gently resting it at the back of his head.
Things light up when his eyes slide shut, spark through him with the same sort of uncontrollable heat that lights up when he absorbs fire energy, bright and sunlike.
Just like the boy whose thigh lies warm and firm under his hand. )
( what must it feel like, he catches himself wondering sometimes, to not only be destined to walk a certain path, but to have everything along that path written in stone before you're even old enough to understand what's going on? he knows that, from a very young age, noctis had been aware of what awaits him once he comes of age, both as a king and husband to the oracle.
… luna.
there's the smallest pang of guilt that seeps into him at the thought of her, though by all rights, she shouldn't have a place in his head with the other's lips working against his own as they are – but it's just that, because he's betrothed, because he's meant for someone else, and even if there's ample time before it all comes to fruition, it won't change the fact that he won't be able to keep him.
( like he ever would have been allowed to, in the first place. )
but he's nothing if not an opportunist, seeking out the proverbial door that opens when another closes and the like, and it's without a single thought to anything else that he brings both of his hands up to rest on slender shoulders, fingers curling lightly against muscle and bone, the pad of his thumb just close enough to the collar of noctis' shirt to brush over the warm skin of his throat. ( and he's always been that, whether he chooses to believe it or not, the sort of warmth that attracted him like the moth to a flame, the sort of person that prompto has always wanted next to him, come what may. )
he shifts, just a little, the muscle beneath the other's hand tightening with the movement as he presses in the slightest bit closer, a soft, wanting little noise escaping him, belying anything that he might be trying to keep from himself –
but mostly, the fact that he's caught himself wanting this before now, and that's something that he isn't going to be able to ignore anymore. )
( Noctis lacks the words to explain the situation, to explain exactly what it all is. Luna's warm, too, in her own way - kind and smart and pretty, all the things a prospective queen should be -, and he does care for her, adore her, has spent so much time with her in his life that it's near impossible to figure out who he is without their correspondences, without her presence.
But it doesn't burn, the warmth is nothing more than a blanket - comfortable and familiar -, not the embers that spark when he feels Prompto's lips against his. It isn't the spark of skin against skin that comes when he feels a thumb against his throat, and it's probably all too easy for the other to feel the skip of his pulse, the way it rushes and sticks in his throat, almost like the rush of adrenaline that accompanies battle, but without the aching muscles, without the injury.
With nothing but his heart in danger.
His fingers curl just a little around Prompto's thigh when he hears that noise, unable to stop himself from parting his lips - just a little, like doing too much will be too much (for himself or for Prompto, he doesn't know) - and pressing in just a little more, hand bearing a touch more weight onto the other's thigh when he leans in, warm-turning-hot, skin probably flushed red with everything, despite the cool air that lingers around them, the lack of fire to provide any warmth.
The body next to him provides all the warmth he needs, has done for longer than Noctis realises. Just a faint, little fire in the base of his spine that eventually grew too large to ignore. )
( from what he's heard about luna – the way noct talks about here – she's nothing but warmth. the sort that eases tension, smooths away roughened edges as though they'd never been there in the first place, with kind words and a soft voice and an even softer touch. any man would have been lucky, gifted to find themselves in her presence, a single thread woven into a life that encompassed so much more, and … and yet.
here noct is, with him, with their collective little fires burning all the brighter the longer they stay connected, and now that he's been allowed this close – allowed this level of contact – he doesn't think he's likely to let go of it so easily, even when he knows what it means for their future. there has always been some sort of … something shifting and shuffling and rolling around in the back of his mind that he's been trying to ignore since that first day of high school, when he'd finally worked up the nerve to speak to him again after so long, after working himself up to being the kind of person that noct deserved to have as a friend.
( because he deserved the best. still does. of that, prompto remains convinced. )
when noct's lips part, when the weight of the hand against his thigh presses in just a little more, when the beat of his pulse beneath his fingertips skips a little higher – he's convinced he's dreaming, that this can't possibly be real, because there's an ache in his chest that reminds him of just how long he's been ignoring it in favor of anything else, distractions that always fall short and leaving him still wanting, skipping through the photos he's taken that all somehow have managed to catch his prince in varying states of sass and still somehow endearing, the curve of a mouth now pressed against his own something far more genuine than anything else he's ever seen in the whole of his short life.
those lips part, and the tip of his tongue brushes shyly, gently, almost-not against his bottom lip, feeling the way his body wants to press in closer all on its own, finding himself scooting in and closing some of the distance that exists between them. fingers stay pressed against the tap-tap-tap of his pulse, a reminder that he isn't dreaming, that this is real and so is he, and whatever he's done up to now to deserve the other's closeness, his kisses, his warmth –
maybe, he thinks, he hadn't needed to try so hard to be something he deserves. )
( She's many things. Really, he couldn't ask for a better prospective wife, as Prince. He knows this, doesn't need reminding, and will never deny any of it, nor the fact that she's more than worth the blush, the flutter, the awkward-childhood crush that still leaves a fondness even now.
They say you never forget your first. That something always lingers. But all thoughts of Luna seem to fly from his mind, like the swirl of a blizzard spell, scattering ice everywhere, emptying the space within him, replacing it with sunlit flares of warm gold; the strands of hair threading through his fingers as one of his hands becomes a bit more certain, a bit more emboldened by the shift of weight, the body pressing in against his. The brush of lips, the sensation of skin against skin, against fabric, the curl of his fingers against rough denim and soft layers of feathery hair, the ghost of a tongue that brushes against his lip, so brief it has Noctis chasing it with his own, trying for something more firm.
Something as real as the weight of the body now pressing closer to his. Something that comes alive in the same way Prompto does when he realises there's a great photo spot near by - and doesn't Noctis always acquiesce, even when it'd be better not to take the detour, unable to dampen the sunshine beaming from the passenger side seat - and runs through all his veins, sets faint hairs across his arms on end.
Something that makes him feel like this all just might be worth it. That there's light to take on the darkness, one that isn't supposed to come from him. One that requires no magic or artifacts, that is found in nothing more than a smile and the echo of a voice saying hey, Noct-
His tongue brushes against Prompto's, just as that hand leaves those strands of hair alone long enough to trail down a cheek, rest at his jawline. Just. There. Still and present. )
( 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. )
Well, whatever this is. First kisses, first friend, friend not chosen by duty or title, but simply by being nice. Fun. Someone worth knowing, worth keeping.
Keeping. He could have lost Prompto right here and now, could have made the wrong step entirely by giving into the urges that flickered and burned within, by letting fire consume him and bringing them to this point, but he's kissing back, he's getting closer and the slow, almost clumsy way they're melting together is somehow too hard and too easy to stick to. Things that are and aren't enough all at the same time, where his hands freeze in their bid to explore, his tongue moves slow and hesitant. It's an edge, a precipice. Somewhere he could freefall, just dive into the depths and let everything else disappear into meaninglessness. But each thud of his heart comes with the weight of hesitation, of not wanting to spoil something that's already so delicate, as though Prompto himself is a skittish cat Noctis might scare off at any moment by going just a touch too far.
Of course, it's hard to continue that train of thought when Prompto's ended up in his lap, warm and heavy and present and all too real. It's hard to do anything when that sensation is there, distracting, finally leading his hands to unlock and trail across Prompto's shoulders, down his arms.
Noctis smiles, a brief little thing that comes with the softest exhale of laughter, as though this manages to wash away all the things that have him mixed up. )
Yeah.
( And, if the answer wasn't enough, Noctis is happy to demonstrate how okay this is with the brush and nip of lips against Prompto's jawline. )
( yeah. first. whatever this is, because he's convinced there has been nothing before it that could have even come close to the way noctis can make his stomach tighten with just a look, whether he's conscious of it or not, the way his heart trips over itself and his breath catches in the back of his throat whenever they're close like this –
well. they've never been close like this but that's just one more of those firsts, one of the smallest things that leaves him with the anticipation of what might come next, if he'll be pulled in close or pushed away, if he'd somehow managed to overstep their collective ( albeit blurred ) boundaries by taking the smallest liberties. closing the distance between them.
( and here he is, settled into the other's lap as though he'd never been anywhere else, warm and comfortable and all too real as his arms slide over noct's shoulders, fingers linking together behind his head as he hums out a small sound at that yeah he gets in return. it isn't much, but it doesn't have to be, because it's always been the little things between them that have made the biggest impact. )
lips against his jaw, and his head tilts to offer a little more should the other push a little further, a shaky but relieved breath pushing out of him as he turns back toward the line of that nipping mouth, catches it with his own, bolder by degrees. ) Yeah. ( he echoes, a natural mimic, voice still soft and almost delicate around the edges as he kisses him. sweet, grateful, reverent –
everything owed to him by noct's presence alone. )
( It's just a first. Maybe that's all it needs to be. Maybe there's no real word for what they were, are, or are becoming. Perhaps all they need to have is this feeling, this spark that lingers there, something indescribable and vibrant. Alive with colour in a world that steadily gets darker and darker.
And in this dark, in the pitch black and silence of the night, all Noctis wants is to be closer, to find the light that they're losing, being denied with each passing day, to clutch it close to his chest and never let go. His fingers find places to rest, the strength to cling and curl and tug him closer with the pieces of clothing he latches onto, the slight emboldening of Prompto's movements, of his lips catching his own opening floodgates, knocking away skittishness and dragging out a sort of clumsy, aching need, his fingertips caught in their own prayer for more, for everything of the other to wrap around him and never let go.
He presses into the kiss a little harder, tongue no longer hesitating, nothing but curiosity in his movements, exploring new land for the first time.
Maybe that's what they are. A first exploration, with all the promise and wonder that comes from a body not your own; anticipation that causes Noctis' hips to rock slightly, has his hands skirting under the hem of Prompto's shirt, to map out all the little things (muscles and skin and bone) that lie there. )
( he's never been that great with words — always finding himself flustered, tripping over the ones he wants to find the meanings to, falling short of the ones that really make an impression — but it just might be that there isn't a word for what they are, or what they're becoming. there are a few that might fit, a few that give over what stirs in the very bottom of his heart, what lingers at the base of his spine, what dries the back of his throat, but they're the sort of things that don't require a voice to be heard, or need to be said at all, because it's all in the way he touches him that every little point is driven home.
( it might be hesitant, unsure, inexperienced, but they've gone through so many firsts together already, all those tiny little steps that had brought them here in the first place, the careful, meticulous shuffle into friendship, into trust, into this. it's in the way he touches him, kisses him, looks at him as though he wants to keep him —
even if he can't, and they both know it. ah, well. what's the hurt in living in the moment? )
the smallest noise, the simplest thing filters up to rest on the tip of his tongue at that experimental upward rock of hips, a motion that he finds himself pressing into at the same moment fingers slip beneath his shirt, as his own slip around to the nape of noct's neck and clasp there. twined together beneath the fall of dark hair just for the sake of something to serve as a grounding point, something to keep him tethered to this moment, because he might just still be convinced that he'll wake up; back in the tent, back in his bedroll, back with nothing but himself for company as the other three sleep away the small hours of the morning, and his heart is left wanting.
a whimper, a moan, he isn't quite sure what it is — but it's given over all too easily, from the tip of his own tongue to noctis' as it curls against him, as it plies a subtle roll of his own hips in retaliation, something that lets him chase down the slivers of pleasure that play tag along his nerve-endings. that spike and ebb, and leave him breathless.
this is one first he'd play reruns of, again and again, until he's gotten it all memorized — and then once more, for the sake of it, frame by frame until it's all worn thin, just to lose himself in the touch of hands and lips, in the warmth of him. )
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owntempos2016-12-21 12:57 am
no subject
but suffice it to say that it has never been a title, never what comes with such a thing that had made him want to be friends with him in the first place. that much is sure. )
and for all there has been little room for the crown prince to select those he wants to spend his time with, that prompto had made the cut at all is something that he sometimes still finds himself struggling to wrap his head around. and even with those moments that find him unsure of his place with the others, whether or not he belongs, one small look from his friend is enough to reassure him, to chase away the doubt that seeks to darken his ( sometimes forcefully ) optimistic attitude.
the corner of his mouth turns slightly upward at the comment, and up a little more still at the touch that lingers – and he unconsciously angles himself toward it, all but leaning against the other's side as he gives a sort of wistful sigh.
and it isn't about the flamethrower. ) Yeah? Oh, oh, y'know what would be cool? If Cid could upgrade my crossbow with one!
( prom … that is a terrible idea … and you know it. )
no subject
It just is. Noctis will never be able to put into words exactly why Prompto, over everyone else that might have - had he given them the chance - treated him like a guy instead of a Prince, is the one who stuck, who wove himself so firmly in the tapestry of Noctis' life that he couldn't even begin to find the threads that are himself and are this blond flame of warmth that sparks like gold amongst all the other colours. (But really? He can't say he cares to explain or dislodge. He'll just enjoy this, as it is, whatever it is.
And whatever it becomes.)
The softest snort of a laugh leaves Noctis' lips, huffed out with an exhale of breath, at Prompto's idea. That. That would be awful. And probably give Ignis a heart attack, but it would look pretty cool. But there's a smile on Prompto's face that is just there, barely visible in the low light but audible in his voice, the thing that has made Noctis' heart catch in his throat on more than one occasion, the thing that he's sure leaves his cheeks pinker than they should be-
The thing that makes him listen to that ever-fleeting impulse and lean in to catch Prompto's lips with his own. )
no subject
and he's never been able to find the right word for it, maybe because he's not great with them or because it hasn't been invented yet, but either way, it doesn't really matter. noctis had chosen him after he'd dredged up the courage to say more than a passing hello in the first place, and even if neither of them quite know how to put into words what keeps them so close to one another, both figuratively and literally, he thinks … that's okay.
things don't always have to have a name for them. sometimes … they can just be.
he hears that snort of laughter, something so in-tune with the other and his usual attitude that he doesn't think much of it – but he does turn just enough to get a better view of him, better than what his peripheral vision allows, and maybe he won't be able to see the slight tinge of pink that rises to his cheeks, but he does catch the hint of his own grin, something that sinks down into the bottom of prompto's own heart and lifts it up just a little bit more, the whole of him feeling so much lighter than he can recall ever being in his whole life –
and then there are lips against his own, the lightest pressure, a bit chapped from their time on the road, but soft, like so much of noctis himself is given half the chance to get a better reading of him. he jolts with it, but only out of sheer surprise before the whole of him relaxes completely, leaning into the kiss as he would any other touch the other would give him, the thrill of something new and wanted thrumming through him like the first, sharp bolt of a thunder spell.
oh. )
no subject
He's destined to marry Luna, destined to rule a country. There's no room for feelings in these things, no room to want more than he's given. He doesn't get to think, never tried to explore any of it, not when everything's set out before him. When things will always be that way.
But it's when you say that can't be, this is impossible, that the impossible happens, isn't it? Thinking about this is ill-advised, heartache and distraction waiting to happen, but it's so easy to forget anything but those freckles and the flutter of lashes, the soft touch of Prompto's hair when his hand shifts, runs through those layers. Nothing else matters but the gentle press of his weight when Prompto relaxes into the touch, nothing but slowly running a hand through blond hair and gently resting it at the back of his head.
Things light up when his eyes slide shut, spark through him with the same sort of uncontrollable heat that lights up when he absorbs fire energy, bright and sunlike.
Just like the boy whose thigh lies warm and firm under his hand. )
no subject
… luna.
there's the smallest pang of guilt that seeps into him at the thought of her, though by all rights, she shouldn't have a place in his head with the other's lips working against his own as they are – but it's just that, because he's betrothed, because he's meant for someone else, and even if there's ample time before it all comes to fruition, it won't change the fact that he won't be able to keep him.
( like he ever would have been allowed to, in the first place. )
but he's nothing if not an opportunist, seeking out the proverbial door that opens when another closes and the like, and it's without a single thought to anything else that he brings both of his hands up to rest on slender shoulders, fingers curling lightly against muscle and bone, the pad of his thumb just close enough to the collar of noctis' shirt to brush over the warm skin of his throat. ( and he's always been that, whether he chooses to believe it or not, the sort of warmth that attracted him like the moth to a flame, the sort of person that prompto has always wanted next to him, come what may. )
he shifts, just a little, the muscle beneath the other's hand tightening with the movement as he presses in the slightest bit closer, a soft, wanting little noise escaping him, belying anything that he might be trying to keep from himself –
but mostly, the fact that he's caught himself wanting this before now, and that's something that he isn't going to be able to ignore anymore. )
no subject
But it doesn't burn, the warmth is nothing more than a blanket - comfortable and familiar -, not the embers that spark when he feels Prompto's lips against his. It isn't the spark of skin against skin that comes when he feels a thumb against his throat, and it's probably all too easy for the other to feel the skip of his pulse, the way it rushes and sticks in his throat, almost like the rush of adrenaline that accompanies battle, but without the aching muscles, without the injury.
With nothing but his heart in danger.
His fingers curl just a little around Prompto's thigh when he hears that noise, unable to stop himself from parting his lips - just a little, like doing too much will be too much (for himself or for Prompto, he doesn't know) - and pressing in just a little more, hand bearing a touch more weight onto the other's thigh when he leans in, warm-turning-hot, skin probably flushed red with everything, despite the cool air that lingers around them, the lack of fire to provide any warmth.
The body next to him provides all the warmth he needs, has done for longer than Noctis realises. Just a faint, little fire in the base of his spine that eventually grew too large to ignore. )
no subject
here noct is, with him, with their collective little fires burning all the brighter the longer they stay connected, and now that he's been allowed this close – allowed this level of contact – he doesn't think he's likely to let go of it so easily, even when he knows what it means for their future. there has always been some sort of … something shifting and shuffling and rolling around in the back of his mind that he's been trying to ignore since that first day of high school, when he'd finally worked up the nerve to speak to him again after so long, after working himself up to being the kind of person that noct deserved to have as a friend.
( because he deserved the best. still does. of that, prompto remains convinced. )
when noct's lips part, when the weight of the hand against his thigh presses in just a little more, when the beat of his pulse beneath his fingertips skips a little higher – he's convinced he's dreaming, that this can't possibly be real, because there's an ache in his chest that reminds him of just how long he's been ignoring it in favor of anything else, distractions that always fall short and leaving him still wanting, skipping through the photos he's taken that all somehow have managed to catch his prince in varying states of sass and still somehow endearing, the curve of a mouth now pressed against his own something far more genuine than anything else he's ever seen in the whole of his short life.
those lips part, and the tip of his tongue brushes shyly, gently, almost-not against his bottom lip, feeling the way his body wants to press in closer all on its own, finding himself scooting in and closing some of the distance that exists between them. fingers stay pressed against the tap-tap-tap of his pulse, a reminder that he isn't dreaming, that this is real and so is he, and whatever he's done up to now to deserve the other's closeness, his kisses, his warmth –
maybe, he thinks, he hadn't needed to try so hard to be something he deserves. )
no subject
They say you never forget your first. That something always lingers. But all thoughts of Luna seem to fly from his mind, like the swirl of a blizzard spell, scattering ice everywhere, emptying the space within him, replacing it with sunlit flares of warm gold; the strands of hair threading through his fingers as one of his hands becomes a bit more certain, a bit more emboldened by the shift of weight, the body pressing in against his. The brush of lips, the sensation of skin against skin, against fabric, the curl of his fingers against rough denim and soft layers of feathery hair, the ghost of a tongue that brushes against his lip, so brief it has Noctis chasing it with his own, trying for something more firm.
Something as real as the weight of the body now pressing closer to his. Something that comes alive in the same way Prompto does when he realises there's a great photo spot near by - and doesn't Noctis always acquiesce, even when it'd be better not to take the detour, unable to dampen the sunshine beaming from the passenger side seat - and runs through all his veins, sets faint hairs across his arms on end.
Something that makes him feel like this all just might be worth it. That there's light to take on the darkness, one that isn't supposed to come from him. One that requires no magic or artifacts, that is found in nothing more than a smile and the echo of a voice saying hey, Noct-
His tongue brushes against Prompto's, just as that hand leaves those strands of hair alone long enough to trail down a cheek, rest at his jawline. Just. There. Still and present. )
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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. )
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Well, whatever this is. First kisses, first friend, friend not chosen by duty or title, but simply by being nice. Fun. Someone worth knowing, worth keeping.
Keeping. He could have lost Prompto right here and now, could have made the wrong step entirely by giving into the urges that flickered and burned within, by letting fire consume him and bringing them to this point, but he's kissing back, he's getting closer and the slow, almost clumsy way they're melting together is somehow too hard and too easy to stick to. Things that are and aren't enough all at the same time, where his hands freeze in their bid to explore, his tongue moves slow and hesitant. It's an edge, a precipice. Somewhere he could freefall, just dive into the depths and let everything else disappear into meaninglessness. But each thud of his heart comes with the weight of hesitation, of not wanting to spoil something that's already so delicate, as though Prompto himself is a skittish cat Noctis might scare off at any moment by going just a touch too far.
Of course, it's hard to continue that train of thought when Prompto's ended up in his lap, warm and heavy and present and all too real. It's hard to do anything when that sensation is there, distracting, finally leading his hands to unlock and trail across Prompto's shoulders, down his arms.
Noctis smiles, a brief little thing that comes with the softest exhale of laughter, as though this manages to wash away all the things that have him mixed up. )
Yeah.
( And, if the answer wasn't enough, Noctis is happy to demonstrate how okay this is with the brush and nip of lips against Prompto's jawline. )
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well. they've never been close like this but that's just one more of those firsts, one of the smallest things that leaves him with the anticipation of what might come next, if he'll be pulled in close or pushed away, if he'd somehow managed to overstep their collective ( albeit blurred ) boundaries by taking the smallest liberties. closing the distance between them.
( and here he is, settled into the other's lap as though he'd never been anywhere else, warm and comfortable and all too real as his arms slide over noct's shoulders, fingers linking together behind his head as he hums out a small sound at that yeah he gets in return. it isn't much, but it doesn't have to be, because it's always been the little things between them that have made the biggest impact. )
lips against his jaw, and his head tilts to offer a little more should the other push a little further, a shaky but relieved breath pushing out of him as he turns back toward the line of that nipping mouth, catches it with his own, bolder by degrees. ) Yeah. ( he echoes, a natural mimic, voice still soft and almost delicate around the edges as he kisses him. sweet, grateful, reverent –
everything owed to him by noct's presence alone. )
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And in this dark, in the pitch black and silence of the night, all Noctis wants is to be closer, to find the light that they're losing, being denied with each passing day, to clutch it close to his chest and never let go. His fingers find places to rest, the strength to cling and curl and tug him closer with the pieces of clothing he latches onto, the slight emboldening of Prompto's movements, of his lips catching his own opening floodgates, knocking away skittishness and dragging out a sort of clumsy, aching need, his fingertips caught in their own prayer for more, for everything of the other to wrap around him and never let go.
He presses into the kiss a little harder, tongue no longer hesitating, nothing but curiosity in his movements, exploring new land for the first time.
Maybe that's what they are. A first exploration, with all the promise and wonder that comes from a body not your own; anticipation that causes Noctis' hips to rock slightly, has his hands skirting under the hem of Prompto's shirt, to map out all the little things (muscles and skin and bone) that lie there. )
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( it might be hesitant, unsure, inexperienced, but they've gone through so many firsts together already, all those tiny little steps that had brought them here in the first place, the careful, meticulous shuffle into friendship, into trust, into this. it's in the way he touches him, kisses him, looks at him as though he wants to keep him —
even if he can't, and they both know it. ah, well. what's the hurt in living in the moment? )
the smallest noise, the simplest thing filters up to rest on the tip of his tongue at that experimental upward rock of hips, a motion that he finds himself pressing into at the same moment fingers slip beneath his shirt, as his own slip around to the nape of noct's neck and clasp there. twined together beneath the fall of dark hair just for the sake of something to serve as a grounding point, something to keep him tethered to this moment, because he might just still be convinced that he'll wake up; back in the tent, back in his bedroll, back with nothing but himself for company as the other three sleep away the small hours of the morning, and his heart is left wanting.
a whimper, a moan, he isn't quite sure what it is — but it's given over all too easily, from the tip of his own tongue to noctis' as it curls against him, as it plies a subtle roll of his own hips in retaliation, something that lets him chase down the slivers of pleasure that play tag along his nerve-endings. that spike and ebb, and leave him breathless.
this is one first he'd play reruns of, again and again, until he's gotten it all memorized — and then once more, for the sake of it, frame by frame until it's all worn thin, just to lose himself in the touch of hands and lips, in the warmth of him. )