for @stcrshell — far too late
[ so I’m late because .... IM SLOW ASF? but but but i adore you and PLEASE ACCEPT THIS AS A PALTRY DISPLAY OF MY LOVE FOR YOU??? HAPPY BIRTHDAY? youknowwhatthisis ]
The ring sits idly upon Prompto’s slender finger, caught against the swell of Nyx’s cheek as he cups his hand to it, drawing him into a heedless kiss. His lips are sweeter than Nyx remembers, exceeding every confidence in what he’d always thought to be the rosy retrospection of a broken heart. He did remember Prompto’s kisses as always being a certain color of courageous to which the present one paled in comparison. This had been more tentative than tenacious in spite of the how coltishly it had been committed, and oh, how he longed to remedy that.
Prompto is gathered up within his arms, held to his chest as he sinks down upon the pale wood of the new apartment’s floors, letting his head fall back upon it as he releases a sated sigh through a contented smile. This is where Prompto belongs: wound within his arms, perched in his lap as though it were a throne. Prompto’s lithe hands spread upon the breadth of his chest as he pushes himself up to sitting, his thighs bracketing Nyx’s own, and Nyx notes how the kitchen lights behind him cast a coroneal glow to his flaxen hair. He looks as hallowed as a saint, and Nyx mouths silent prayers to the rafters as Prompto bends to apply his lips in an exquisite ecliptic down the column of his throat.
It seems wrong to him, that he should receive and receive, when it is he who is surfeit with a gratitude for a love he thought lost to him, now brilliantly restored. Nyx twists, cradles Prompto to him as he lays him down with the reverence of a devotary. Time has eroded any memories of whatever sins that came to pass between them, both anointed now in a new innocence. He is sacrosanct, he is holy beneath him, and Nyx venerates him with a quite caprice of kisses that beg nothing of him but the sanction of his wordless sighs.
Prompto shudders where the warmth of Nyx’s mouth bleeds into his skin, where he kisses communions into the constellations of rosy cicatrices that mar his paleness, where his tongue trails adoringly along the ripples of stretch marks that score his skin. And oh, how Nyx loves him, so fully, so entirely, that his heart suffers an exquisite, inviolable pleasure that it feels too close to misery torsioned in his chest.
“I love you,” Nyx whispers, and it comes out like a vow. Like the sort of promises they were meant to say to one another a whole other lifetime ago. His stubbled cheek feels delinquent upon the smoothness of Prompto’s chest, but he lays it there, ear to his heart to mark the measure of a heart he was so fucking sure would never beat for him again. “I’ve loved no one else but you for my entire life. And I know I never will. And I know I never can. But for as long as you’ll let me, I’ll love you best in all the world. And probably …. probably a hundred lifetimes after.”