[ Prompto can hear the faint strain to Noctis' voice even through the concern, but can't parse it-- he can't parse anything, he can't think of anything outside this moment, his higher functions all submerged under the instinctive desperate need for relief. He drags his hand back sharply, yanking his fingers free with a (frankly, somewhat disgusting) wet noise and a few thick strings of slick clinging to them, only to curl them around his cock again, hips snapping forward, fucking into the tight vice-- and as expected, it doesn't help at all. It's ridiculous how empty his body feels, how badly it's craving something to fill him up properly.
No, not just something. Someone. An alpha, whose arms are so warm, whose scent complements his own so well, whose knot would feel so good throbbing and filling out inside of him--
Fuck. Prompto whimpers, cursing under his breath as a hot jolt streaks down his spine, plucking at his arousal like a string, every twang feeling sharper than the one before it. He's aching, he's burning. And... Noctis is coaxing him to speak, to tell him what's wrong. (Is it his phone, or had Noctis' voice gotten throatier?) ]
It's-- fuck. Noct, I was wrong. I can't-- [ He swallows hard, and there's so much of the cloying sweetness of his own scent in it that it nearly turns his stomach in a completely different way, and all he can think of-- all he can think of is tasting the heat of Noctis against his tongue, the smoke and spice he'd been slowly becoming so familiar with.
But... he still hasn't actually said what's wrong. Prompto's face is heating scarlet, out of simple embarrassment. ] I'm... it's my heat.
no subject
No, not just something. Someone. An alpha, whose arms are so warm, whose scent complements his own so well, whose knot would feel so good throbbing and filling out inside of him--
Fuck. Prompto whimpers, cursing under his breath as a hot jolt streaks down his spine, plucking at his arousal like a string, every twang feeling sharper than the one before it. He's aching, he's burning. And... Noctis is coaxing him to speak, to tell him what's wrong. (Is it his phone, or had Noctis' voice gotten throatier?) ]
It's-- fuck. Noct, I was wrong. I can't-- [ He swallows hard, and there's so much of the cloying sweetness of his own scent in it that it nearly turns his stomach in a completely different way, and all he can think of-- all he can think of is tasting the heat of Noctis against his tongue, the smoke and spice he'd been slowly becoming so familiar with.
But... he still hasn't actually said what's wrong. Prompto's face is heating scarlet, out of simple embarrassment. ] I'm... it's my heat.