[Without thinking about it, he lets his arms circle her again and ends up rocking her slightly, slowly, the natural thing to do with her sighing into him so softly like this.]
You could eat some soup first, or we both could. And then, whe...when we kiss, we'll taste like potato. That's not very fairy-tale. Right?
Aw, girl, I don't wanna be in that kind of comedy. We can't aim for, like, bad, but not painfully bad? You know, just... kinda charming! Not physically cringe-inducing.
[He's joking, but also, he's not.]
I don't wanna do stuff that hurts you, ever. Ever again.
[That's like the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me, she thinks idly, and doesn't say it out loud because that's sort of super depressing, but also it's sadly also completely true.]
Then maybe you should kiss me.
[As entertaining as goofing around about the particulars is...well.]
Since that's pretty much the exact opposite of hurting me.
[His brain blanks out again, but in a weird, soft way, like it's full of soft, clean cotton, not drowned in noise. Like he's temporarily stopped working, his mouth opens halfway, but nothing comes out, not even breath. He can't even.
And, because every part of him wants this, to be in this more than he's wanted almost anything in his life, his systems start booting up again. So he can. He can even.]
No, it's absolutely forbidden. Way too fairytale, letting me have your first kiss and all. Quick, kiss Jericho, he's a love-em-and-leave-em kind of bird, that heartbreaker.
[Her tone couldn't be drier, her deadpan more obvious. She works her hands up between them, pulling her elbows in close, and lightly runs her palms up his chest, heading for his shoulders.
The next time she speaks, her voice is a lot softer.]
Do you want to kiss me, even knowing what I look like under all this magic?
[For a second, it's almost like she's going to leave it at that, but then she finds another handful of words and goes on.]
Because I want to kiss you. Even knowing you haven't, ever.
[Prompto says it breathlessly, the way he says everything he doesn't think about, an answer coded so powerfully in him his body can give it without the fifty stupid checks his brain has to handle. He blinks, and then very gently moves her hair aside, tucks it behind her ear. His expression goes faintly strained and soft at once. He must know how a reassurance like that sounds.]
Remind me to tell you, later. About Ignis. I mean, if you don't believe me. But I...
[Belatedly, he notices his hand's stayed where it was, bent knuckles brushing the side of her face, framing it. She's been looking up at him, and he realizes he hasn't seen anything but her, her eyes, her expression, for quite some time, now.]
I want to kiss you. I'm. ...Gonna do that now.
[And for all his stammering, for all their delays, for every stupid mention of potatoes, when he closes the distance between them in some kind of slow motion, when he cradles her cheek in his palm and presses lips to lips, when I never changes to only with you--
[Who does he think he is, just...saying things like that. Just four easy words that coming from anyone else she would've insisted were utterly untrue, except that when he says them it's just so natural to believe it. Who does he think he is, making this so easy, when somewhere underneath the dreamy disbelief she knows that she'd be petrified right now if he were anyone else, and yet here and now she isn't scared in the slightest.
She's so used to being scared, all the time, always. She's so used to scheming and planning, anticipating and manipulating. She's so used to expecting the worst and distrusting the best. She's so used to being alone, because she has to be, because she needs to be.
But as it turns out, all this time while he hasn't been seeing anything but her, she hasn't been thinking about anything but him.
He's tall, and he's warm. His lips are soft and a little chapped from where he bites them; hers are, too. His hands are smoother than she would've expected from someone who handles guns, but he wears gloves, he takes care of them. He takes care of her, too, even if he doesn't realize it. Even when she doesn't deserve it. Even when she ought to say how much she appreciates it and she can't or won't or just doesn't.
It's just the two of them, alone in a hideaway with flowers in her hair and forgotten soup gone cold on a table. His freckles look like fireworks across the night sky of his nose. She's wearing a pair of his pants because she hadn't wanted to give them back. His secret is under wraps on his wrist. Her scars lie hidden beneath the glamour on her face.
Her shoes aren't glass. His last name isn't Charming. No spell winds up broken. There was no spell there to begin with.
There's just the two of them, boy meets girl, him and her and this fragile hopeful eager thing between them, and she always gets let down by fairy tales, except that this time she doesn't.]
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no subject
[Without thinking about it, he lets his arms circle her again and ends up rocking her slightly, slowly, the natural thing to do with her sighing into him so softly like this.]
You could eat some soup first, or we both could. And then, whe...when we kiss, we'll taste like potato. That's not very fairy-tale. Right?
no subject
[You know what is the height of romance in her culture? The way that he's so gently rocking her right now, effortless.]
You could headbutt me and give me a nosebleed.
no subject
[He's joking, but also, he's not.]
I don't wanna do stuff that hurts you, ever. Ever again.
no subject
Then maybe you should kiss me.
[As entertaining as goofing around about the particulars is...well.]
Since that's pretty much the exact opposite of hurting me.
no subject
[His brain blanks out again, but in a weird, soft way, like it's full of soft, clean cotton, not drowned in noise. Like he's temporarily stopped working, his mouth opens halfway, but nothing comes out, not even breath. He can't even.
And, because every part of him wants this, to be in this more than he's wanted almost anything in his life, his systems start booting up again. So he can. He can even.]
I. I haven't, ever... You know that.
[Breathe.]
That's okay?
no subject
[Her tone couldn't be drier, her deadpan more obvious. She works her hands up between them, pulling her elbows in close, and lightly runs her palms up his chest, heading for his shoulders.
The next time she speaks, her voice is a lot softer.]
Do you want to kiss me, even knowing what I look like under all this magic?
[For a second, it's almost like she's going to leave it at that, but then she finds another handful of words and goes on.]
Because I want to kiss you. Even knowing you haven't, ever.
no subject
[Prompto says it breathlessly, the way he says everything he doesn't think about, an answer coded so powerfully in him his body can give it without the fifty stupid checks his brain has to handle. He blinks, and then very gently moves her hair aside, tucks it behind her ear. His expression goes faintly strained and soft at once. He must know how a reassurance like that sounds.]
Remind me to tell you, later. About Ignis. I mean, if you don't believe me. But I...
[Belatedly, he notices his hand's stayed where it was, bent knuckles brushing the side of her face, framing it. She's been looking up at him, and he realizes he hasn't seen anything but her, her eyes, her expression, for quite some time, now.]
I want to kiss you. I'm. ...Gonna do that now.
[And for all his stammering, for all their delays, for every stupid mention of potatoes, when he closes the distance between them in some kind of slow motion, when he cradles her cheek in his palm and presses lips to lips, when I never changes to only with you--
It's all very fairy-tale.]
no subject
She's so used to being scared, all the time, always. She's so used to scheming and planning, anticipating and manipulating. She's so used to expecting the worst and distrusting the best. She's so used to being alone, because she has to be, because she needs to be.
But as it turns out, all this time while he hasn't been seeing anything but her, she hasn't been thinking about anything but him.
He's tall, and he's warm. His lips are soft and a little chapped from where he bites them; hers are, too. His hands are smoother than she would've expected from someone who handles guns, but he wears gloves, he takes care of them. He takes care of her, too, even if he doesn't realize it. Even when she doesn't deserve it. Even when she ought to say how much she appreciates it and she can't or won't or just doesn't.
It's just the two of them, alone in a hideaway with flowers in her hair and forgotten soup gone cold on a table. His freckles look like fireworks across the night sky of his nose. She's wearing a pair of his pants because she hadn't wanted to give them back. His secret is under wraps on his wrist. Her scars lie hidden beneath the glamour on her face.
Her shoes aren't glass. His last name isn't Charming. No spell winds up broken. There was no spell there to begin with.
There's just the two of them, boy meets girl, him and her and this fragile hopeful eager thing between them, and she always gets let down by fairy tales, except that this time she doesn't.]