[ It's not as though physical affection is in any way foreign to them. It feels like ever since the start of their friendship, there have always been little touches-- a tug on a sleeve to get attention, a playful smack on an arm, a bump of legs if they were sitting next to each other-- that had slowly escalated in both frequency and intimacy as time had gone on. Never crossing any lines, no, no matter how badly Prompto had wanted to push them sometimes (it had always been easy enough to lean against him while they crashed on Noctis' couch to watch a movie or play a game, but he'll never forget Noct lightly dozing off one particularly late night, and the almost overpowering urge he'd felt to lean up, press his lips to the older man's, see if that mouth is as soft as it always looks), but never quite just friendly, either. They exist in a sort of in-between, and normally Prompto loves that; it feels like a space they'd carved out just for themselves.
But now. Now, gods, now he can't ever go back to that. He can't go back to pretending that his heart isn't involved, that this man is the first thing he thinks about in the morning and the last before he falls asleep. That he has starred almost exclusively in Prompto's fantasies of late. That this... this embrace, being held so closely against this alpha (his alpha, gods, please) isn't pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to him. He feels surrounded, tiny and cherished, absolutely drenched in the thick smoke-spice of his scent, and it's the only thing that's made him feel halfway okay since this damned heat started up. There's no point to pretending he isn't in love.
...Not to mention. The little details that filter in through the wave of near-relief. The outline of lean muscle and dip of spine where Prompto's hand is dug into Noctis' shirt. The firm chest his face is buried into. The understated strength in the arms surrounding him. The resonance of his voice. That scent.
Prompto's breath sticks in his chest a little as another little flood of arousal tingles in the base of his skull before meandering its way down through his body to swirl into the agonizing ache between his legs, whipping it into a turbulent rush. His thighs quiver deeply-- gods, all of him does, a brand new surge of wetness gliding down the insides of his legs, enough to drip (almost fucking audibly) onto the floor. He can't at all help the little whine that pulls up from his throat, eyes squeezing shut as he pushes himself up onto his toes, pressing in closer yet.
He'd thought he was needy before, but it's nothing like the wrenching, shuddering desperation that's burning through him now. Prompto knows, on some level, that he's asking a lot of Noctis here, but-- he needs it, needs it, needs it. ]
Noct-- fuck. [ It's a little muffled in Noctis' shirt, a little whimpering. ] I need you. I-- nn-- [ He can feel his face turning redder yet for being so shameless, but-- ] Please...
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But now. Now, gods, now he can't ever go back to that. He can't go back to pretending that his heart isn't involved, that this man is the first thing he thinks about in the morning and the last before he falls asleep. That he has starred almost exclusively in Prompto's fantasies of late. That this... this embrace, being held so closely against this alpha (his alpha, gods, please) isn't pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to him. He feels surrounded, tiny and cherished, absolutely drenched in the thick smoke-spice of his scent, and it's the only thing that's made him feel halfway okay since this damned heat started up. There's no point to pretending he isn't in love.
...Not to mention. The little details that filter in through the wave of near-relief. The outline of lean muscle and dip of spine where Prompto's hand is dug into Noctis' shirt. The firm chest his face is buried into. The understated strength in the arms surrounding him. The resonance of his voice. That scent.
Prompto's breath sticks in his chest a little as another little flood of arousal tingles in the base of his skull before meandering its way down through his body to swirl into the agonizing ache between his legs, whipping it into a turbulent rush. His thighs quiver deeply-- gods, all of him does, a brand new surge of wetness gliding down the insides of his legs, enough to drip (almost fucking audibly) onto the floor. He can't at all help the little whine that pulls up from his throat, eyes squeezing shut as he pushes himself up onto his toes, pressing in closer yet.
He'd thought he was needy before, but it's nothing like the wrenching, shuddering desperation that's burning through him now. Prompto knows, on some level, that he's asking a lot of Noctis here, but-- he needs it, needs it, needs it. ]
Noct-- fuck. [ It's a little muffled in Noctis' shirt, a little whimpering. ] I need you. I-- nn-- [ He can feel his face turning redder yet for being so shameless, but-- ] Please...