In rare form indeed- Zexion wasn't sure what to blame anymore. It was easy enough to flatter his present company, or accuse the cold, or the whims of a ravenous libido aided by every act of Ariel's conditioning. Or perhaps it was a sign of that which Riku had said he was entirely capable of regrowing, given enough time to heal from the woundedness made in darkness, a place secure enough to foster an opening for the light to come in and maybe a little extra nurturing for a heart that had spent too many years atrophied in neglect, denying itself.
If ardor was any part of cause for coziness, then Zexion might just be brimming with it, and intoxicated, having built up no natural tolerance for the effects of a healthy, passion-born flush. With Edmund rubbing at his bottom and dropping frustratingly soft kisses on his mouth, a strange sentiment of playful tenderness between them, it was only a matter of seconds before feeling began to snowball, sentiment overwhelming.
Years now in Ariel, and Zexion still did solicit kisses from many of his partners, mostly because apart from the few he'd practiced with to the point of comfort, he did not know what to do with himself when his head began to spin and his chest began to ache and his lungs began pushing doubletimed gasps through his nose, tension rising through him like tightly coiled hysteria.
When it starts this time, rather than panic, he simply rides it through with Edmund's coaxing and finds himself pushing into his hunger, freezing up for barely a moment before shuddering and shifting his weight, planting a hand past Edmund's shoulders and turning his body against the windowledge, pressing in against him until his shoulderblades are backed against the frosty pane. The hips gripped so covetously in Edmund's clutch begin to throb and sway in need of a proper ride, and in what feels like a very narrow span of time, Zexion is making more of an assertive advance than he intended, lips catching up with clumsier, grasping motions, sticky-wet and just noisy enough to keep him blushing with self-consciousnes for the tiny sounds that meet his burning ears.
What's gotten into him is a fine mess of sudden aggression. He can't seem to will himself to stop, not with the way he's hardening fast and pushing with his weight in no uncertain terms and a spiraling sense of urgency, all of Edmund's clasping and clutching and touching demanding a response. Shoving at the cube of Turkish Delight with his tongue, as if to press it past Edmund's lips and surrender all rights to swallowing it entirely, seems only a diversionary tactic.... because in the next moment his knee lifts, one shoe leaving the floor wholly, to grapple at his companion's flank and pin him against the windowframe. Not only kings, it seems, can find themselves driven to full pursuit.
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Date: 2016-12-22 05:34 am (UTC)If ardor was any part of cause for coziness, then Zexion might just be brimming with it, and intoxicated, having built up no natural tolerance for the effects of a healthy, passion-born flush. With Edmund rubbing at his bottom and dropping frustratingly soft kisses on his mouth, a strange sentiment of playful tenderness between them, it was only a matter of seconds before feeling began to snowball, sentiment overwhelming.
Years now in Ariel, and Zexion still did solicit kisses from many of his partners, mostly because apart from the few he'd practiced with to the point of comfort, he did not know what to do with himself when his head began to spin and his chest began to ache and his lungs began pushing doubletimed gasps through his nose, tension rising through him like tightly coiled hysteria.
When it starts this time, rather than panic, he simply rides it through with Edmund's coaxing and finds himself pushing into his hunger, freezing up for barely a moment before shuddering and shifting his weight, planting a hand past Edmund's shoulders and turning his body against the windowledge, pressing in against him until his shoulderblades are backed against the frosty pane. The hips gripped so covetously in Edmund's clutch begin to throb and sway in need of a proper ride, and in what feels like a very narrow span of time, Zexion is making more of an assertive advance than he intended, lips catching up with clumsier, grasping motions, sticky-wet and just noisy enough to keep him blushing with self-consciousnes for the tiny sounds that meet his burning ears.
What's gotten into him is a fine mess of sudden aggression. He can't seem to will himself to stop, not with the way he's hardening fast and pushing with his weight in no uncertain terms and a spiraling sense of urgency, all of Edmund's clasping and clutching and touching demanding a response. Shoving at the cube of Turkish Delight with his tongue, as if to press it past Edmund's lips and surrender all rights to swallowing it entirely, seems only a diversionary tactic.... because in the next moment his knee lifts, one shoe leaving the floor wholly, to grapple at his companion's flank and pin him against the windowframe. Not only kings, it seems, can find themselves driven to full pursuit.