[ His gloves are so soft, Caelus thinks, one last time — and that's the last really coherent thought he has before he surrenders to instinct.
It's not his first time doing this sort of thing. Well, clarification: it is his first time doing this sort of thing, but it's not his first time turning his brain off, sinking into his impulses. Caelus thinks he's good at turning his brain off because he's just stupid that way; he's never really thought about how the Stellaron might be making it easier for him.
Luocha's lips are even warmer and softer than he thought they'd be, and he's not even disappointed that the kiss is chaste. It feels sweet, and good, and clean. He can't help but crave more, when it's over. The low whine that emerges from the back of his throat when their lips part — that's an implicit plea for more.
Even if this ends in tragedy, even if this ends in regret — even though Caelus knows, deep down, that he'll have to see the disappointment in everyone's eyes, and none of them might look at him the same way, if this ever gets back to them — he still can't help but feel that he couldn't have asked for a more perfect first kiss.
He feels so euphoric off pure comfort alone. It feels so good to be sitting with his back against the armchair, thank you, Xianzhou ergonomics; feels so good to have Luocha in his lap, the most gorgeous thing that Caelus thinks he's ever handled, soft and firm and pleasantly heavy, pinning him down, like a weighted blanket. (It doesn't occur to him that he's being trapped — after all, didn't he ask for this himself?) Luocha moves the hand on his chest and does something to him again, and it makes relaxation seep like hot water into his bones, easing his old aches. Warmed from the inside out in that odd not-cold-not-hot way, Caelus groans with relief; this time, unburdened by guilt, he freely lets that sense of building pleasure sink between his legs.
Does he see the danger in Luocha's gaze? Perhaps — but then the second question is, does he care?
...It's all better than Caelus deserves. Or rather, it's better than he thinks he deserves. Caelus's opinion of himself is a little at odds with reality; although he, himself, can't possibly imagine why Luocha is indulging him, he paints an objectively alluring picture, blushing deep pink with his chest heaving as he looks up at the merchant from where he's splayed out against the armchair in a slightly drugged-up daze. The Trailblazer is very handsome, really, just in a different sort of flavor from his more attention-grabbing friends — clean jawline, soft lips, slim, angular eyes. A little too symmetrical, like his features were generated off training data that only comprised clean-cut athletes. But very approachable, all in all. Very corruptible.
His Adam's apple, quite prominent, bobs attractively in his throat when he swallows. When he licks his reddened lips, there's something in his gaze that speaks of a hunger that isn't quite his own. ]
Then... can I...?
[ His voice lapses, and then he tries again, lower and darker and deeper than before: ]
I want more.
[ With a slightly shaky hand, he reaches up — hooks his index finger in the collar of Luocha's black shirt, where the fasteners pop loose with a little fussing. Once he has Luocha's collar loosened, his neck bared, Caelus noses closer, sort of nuzzling, like a cat; he presses a warm kiss to the column of the merchant's throat, taking a long, deep breath, as if trying to engrave the scent of the man's skin into his memory. ]
You smell so good. [ Another kiss, and then another, between mumbled words of praise — ] Just so damn good...
somehow easy to imagine him with a fluffy brush and a microphone
It's not his first time doing this sort of thing. Well, clarification: it is his first time doing this sort of thing, but it's not his first time turning his brain off, sinking into his impulses. Caelus thinks he's good at turning his brain off because he's just stupid that way; he's never really thought about how the Stellaron might be making it easier for him.
Luocha's lips are even warmer and softer than he thought they'd be, and he's not even disappointed that the kiss is chaste. It feels sweet, and good, and clean. He can't help but crave more, when it's over. The low whine that emerges from the back of his throat when their lips part — that's an implicit plea for more.
Even if this ends in tragedy, even if this ends in regret — even though Caelus knows, deep down, that he'll have to see the disappointment in everyone's eyes, and none of them might look at him the same way, if this ever gets back to them — he still can't help but feel that he couldn't have asked for a more perfect first kiss.
He feels so euphoric off pure comfort alone. It feels so good to be sitting with his back against the armchair, thank you, Xianzhou ergonomics; feels so good to have Luocha in his lap, the most gorgeous thing that Caelus thinks he's ever handled, soft and firm and pleasantly heavy, pinning him down, like a weighted blanket. (It doesn't occur to him that he's being trapped — after all, didn't he ask for this himself?) Luocha moves the hand on his chest and does something to him again, and it makes relaxation seep like hot water into his bones, easing his old aches. Warmed from the inside out in that odd not-cold-not-hot way, Caelus groans with relief; this time, unburdened by guilt, he freely lets that sense of building pleasure sink between his legs.
Does he see the danger in Luocha's gaze? Perhaps — but then the second question is, does he care?
...It's all better than Caelus deserves. Or rather, it's better than he thinks he deserves. Caelus's opinion of himself is a little at odds with reality; although he, himself, can't possibly imagine why Luocha is indulging him, he paints an objectively alluring picture, blushing deep pink with his chest heaving as he looks up at the merchant from where he's splayed out against the armchair in a slightly drugged-up daze. The Trailblazer is very handsome, really, just in a different sort of flavor from his more attention-grabbing friends — clean jawline, soft lips, slim, angular eyes. A little too symmetrical, like his features were generated off training data that only comprised clean-cut athletes. But very approachable, all in all. Very corruptible.
His Adam's apple, quite prominent, bobs attractively in his throat when he swallows. When he licks his reddened lips, there's something in his gaze that speaks of a hunger that isn't quite his own. ]
Then... can I...?
[ His voice lapses, and then he tries again, lower and darker and deeper than before: ]
I want more.
[ With a slightly shaky hand, he reaches up — hooks his index finger in the collar of Luocha's black shirt, where the fasteners pop loose with a little fussing. Once he has Luocha's collar loosened, his neck bared, Caelus noses closer, sort of nuzzling, like a cat; he presses a warm kiss to the column of the merchant's throat, taking a long, deep breath, as if trying to engrave the scent of the man's skin into his memory. ]
You smell so good. [ Another kiss, and then another, between mumbled words of praise — ] Just so damn good...