Prompto isn’t entirely sure how he’s gotten himself roped into this. The whole ‘moving’ thing is just about the last thing he wants to be involved with. The whole moving thing means that all of this is actually happening; they’ll be setting off on their trip in a few days time, Noctis will get married, Prompto will never see him again, will definitely never do any of the things that were a lot better than seeing him again. The bright side to all of this is that those better things were currently in progress, in the form of Prompto perched on Noct’s lap, indulging in a flurry of kisses that are quick and hot and perhaps a bit too wet.
He’s pretty sure they haven’t actually made any progress on the moving front. Well, to be more specific, he’s pretty sure Noctis hasn’t made any progress. Prompto has gathered up a surprising amount of his own possessions- an entire box, in fact- and managed to pack them up to haul back to his place. It’s all bittersweet and stomach aches and exactly the sort of thing he doesn’t want to think about while he’s fast at work spreading kisses over Noct’s jaw and down his throat, making a point of making a mark where he nudges his collar aside. His hips rock an encouragement between them, something that makes the bed creak under their combined weight.
“Dunno how you have all this energy,” Noct says and his voice is an exceptionally lazy drawl, his eyes flashing to Prompto’s at a rare break in the action. The action being mostly on Prompto’s end, though Noct’s hands are sliding slowly up the back of his shirt, warm fingers tracing up the small of his back. It’s a bit of an act on Noctis’s part, and one that Prompto is entirely too accustomed to. He’ll come around soon enough, when the heat is turned to high and Prompto’s face is buried between his thighs, “I’m exhausted from all that packing,” and even now, his hips do shift and Prompto doesn’t miss the firm beginnings of a real reaction.
“More like exhausted from watching me pack,” Prompto says it in a little huff, leans back to offer up one of his more pronounced pouts, one of the ones that has a tendency to get him his way. He will, of course, get his way. He’s already halfway there by his approximation. Prompto is pretty sure, in fact, that anything that isn’t packing is guaranteed to capture Noct’s attention. He tries not to let that part, or the one where they definitely packed up the video games first in an attempt to avoid distraction, deter him too much. There’s definitely more to it than that.
“Yeah, well,” Noctis shrugs and he moves his hands to rest on Prompto’s, to squeeze his thumbs in a brief encouragement, “I like watching you. You look good working up a sweat,” this earns him a light fist to the arm, something that is only mostly playful. It also brings a flush across Prompto’s face, something that partially drowns out the smattering of freckles, recently darkened by long days in the sun.
“Bet you say that to all the guys who pack up your apartment for you,” Prompto says. He’s teasing and he’s still pressing his lips across Noct’s neck in between sentences, still tracing the edge of his tee in the same fashion. He feels Noct’s fingers cup his chin though, draw his face back up so they’re eye-to-eye. And he fixes Prompto with one of those stares that really feels like it goes right through him, that damn near makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Definitely making something stand up.
“I mean it,” Noct says. His voice has taken on a sort of genuine tone that catches Prompto briefly off guard. It’s not that Noct is ever terribly sparing with the compliments, but they’re still sitting in the precarious little in-between. Noct’s hands are still on Prompto’s hips and there is a noticeable and growing sensation of warmth and firmness pressed between them. Prompto is kissing him, between the casual teases. They are not, however, in the full heat of it yet, and that makes the words ring out-of-place. Rather, it makes the words ring out-of-place until Noct opens his mouth again, “wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more.”
Prompto considers some witty retort only for a moment. Their banter, the teasing little quips that landed between them, are half the fun after all. Okay, maybe not quite half the fun, but math has never been Prompto’s strong suit. Neither has patience. He opts to go immediately for the direct approach, snatching up the edges of his shirt. He has it lifted to just above his navel before Noct’s hands snatch his wrists and bring their eyes together again.
“No,” he says. His voice is sharp, clipped, a shocking bit of command. He releases Prompto’s hands to take him by the waist, to outright lift Prompto from his lap and move him instead to the foot of the bed. Then Noctis crawls back, digs his heels in and makes himself comfortable opposite, against an inviting stack of pillows, “I want to watch.”
It takes a moment for gears to click in Prompto’s head and for him to realize exactly what it is Noct wants. His eyes light up with the idea once it finds its mark. Prompto can’t deny that he’s a bit of a show-off when they’re in the midst of their fun, and he can’t pretend he’s not immediately intrigued by the thought of putting on a show for his absurdly lazy best friend. His fingers go for shirt hem again and once again he’s cut off with a sharp, ‘no’.
“You’re going to do what I say. When I say it,” Noctis explains. His voice is back to that slow, lazy tempo. His eyes betray any attempts at disinterest though, already sweeping over Prompto with a certain sort of appreciation, “and you’re going to do only what I say. Understood?”
“Understood,” Prompto says. He’s surprised with how quickly the response hits, how quickly he brings himself up to attention on his knees. He’s most surprised with the surge of arousal that those words offer him and the way that his pants immediately feel tighter. It feels a little bit like Noct has managed to reach right into his mind and pluck out desires that Prompto didn’t even know existed. A few beats pass, Prompto does his best to stay stark still through them.
“Take of your shirt. Slowly,” Noctis finally gives command. Prompto obeys immediately. He lifts up at the edges and he takes great care in making sure that his torso is exposed slowly, inch by inch. There was a time when something like this would have been impossible, when Prompto would keep the lights out, keep his shirt on if he could help it. No amount of lotion or butter or whatever miracle cure the internet had suggested could entirely erase the heavy pink lines that extended like vines up his now-slim stomach. He still feels those whispers of discomfort, but they’re easier to ignore now, when Noctis is eyeing him so intently. Prompto makes a wide arch of his back as he lifts the shirt further and his line of sight is temporarily interrupted by it slipping up over his head. Noct’s lips have twitched into a smile when Prompto is able to see him again.
“Good. You look so damn good, Prom,” Noctis says. He shimmies his shoulders upward and he pops open the button of his shorts, runs his hand heavily against his growing erection, through the fabric of his underwear, “come closer. Let me see,” his smile turns to a smirk and Noctis finds a nice rhythm, palming himself through the tightening cotton.
Prompto can’t believe that he’s already finding himself just touching on breathlessness, moved to full erection with the sight of Noctis touching himself; the sight of Noctis touching himself while he stares so intently at him. It’s such a simple exchange, but it’s brutally effective. The brief words of praise turn Prompto to molten liquid and to pure fire. The aroused flush has become a permanent fixture on his face. His eyes are on Noct’s hand now, teeth scraping at his lower lip, fingers digging into his thighs. He wants absolutely desperately to touch him. He stays on his knees while he makes his way up the bed. Noctis spreads his legs to accommodate, keeps his feet flat on the bed and draws his knees into a gentle arch.
“Stop,” Noct halts Prompto’s advance with scarce inches between them. He’s still wearing that smirk and his eyes are still sweeping Prompto’s body and he makes no secret that he’s enjoying what he sees. The hand that isn’t paying slow attention to himself lifts, a thumb runs soft over Prompto’s cheekbone and Prompto tilts so that Noctis is cupping his cheek. They remain this way for an amount of time Prompto is sure can’t be long enough before Noctis speaks again, “you look really fucking good,” and, okay, maybe Noctis doesn’t precisely have a way with words, but he doesn’t fail to get his message across.
Noct’s hand slides down. His fingers trace down Prompto’s throat and over his clavicle, feather-light and goosebump-inducing. They splay across his chest, brush over a heart already thumping a bit too fast, over the firm spike of a nipple where Prompto twitches and tenses at the touch. He’s continuing downward and he’s tracing lines that regularly drive Prompto insane, stopping just at the point where his jeans ride his hips, then pulling away. He exhales heavily while his hand still works between his own legs. Noct’s eyes had followed his hand, paid careful attention to each inch he explored. Now, they move back to Prompto’s, hold for a moment while he seems to consider. While Prompto edges his hips forward, only to have that hand move to his knee to stop him.
“I told you, I want to watch ,” Noctis says. His voice has gone sharp again and his eyes follow suit. Prompto murmurs a sort of apology and he scoots himself back again, “Good. You’re doing good. Just what I say, remember?” Noct abandons the smirk for a warmer expression, one that matches his current tone. Prompto feels himself smiling as well, feels his breath catch briefly in his throat. He’s sure that this shouldn’t be quite so erotic, that he shouldn’t be aching quite so heavily already. Whatever Noct has caught on to, though, Prompto is waiting eagerly, hanging on his every word.
“Just what you say,” Prompto says. He echoes the agreement and he rocks slightly on his knees, eager for more, eager to give Noctis the show he’s intent on. Noct’s hand returns to him, slides and squeezes his hip, holds there while he seems to be gauging Prompto’s reaction- a light tilting of his head, a subtle gasp on his lips. He appears pleased, but he pulls his hand away all the same. He runs his eyes over Prompto again and the smile remains on his face. The hand that Noctis used to work himself through his shorts is holding still now while he adjusts himself on the pillows, spreads his legs a fair bit wider.
“Lose the pants.”
Prompto knows to take his time now, but it’s excruciatingly difficult to do so. He wants nothing more than to be touched, which is beginning to seem like an impossibility if he keeps following Noct’s commands. No, scratch that. What he wants most of all is for Noctis to keep watching him, for Noctis to- hopefully- tell him he can get off. The idea spurs him on, helps his fingers steady on the button of his jeans. The angle isn’t an easy one, but Prompto makes it work. He lifts his thighs, pushes his body up while he works his zipper down. There is a moment of relief here, where some of the tight pressure from the pants subsides and his erection is at least partially freed.
“Perfect. Nice and hard for me,” Noct’s voice is all breath. He makes no secret of his hand digging beneath his underwear’s waistband. He is absolutely overt with his hand wrapped around himself, working slow strokes over his obscured erection. It draws a whine from Prompto, which only makes Noct smile again, “shh. You look too good, can’t help myself,” there’s a playful quality to Noct’s voice, something that catches Prompto right between the ribs, “keep going.”
Prompto wants to whine again, wants to push the matter really. Noctis watching him this way, it’s fun, it’s hot as hell, but this slow game is driving him mad. He continues though, just as instructed. He pushes his pants further down, until they’re a heap at the bend of his knees. There’s a struggle here, where Prompto has to lift one leg out of the tight jeans then the next while attempting to preserve balance. He thinks he pulls it off pretty damn well, all considered, but Noctis is still laughing at him through the ordeal. His hand doesn’t slip out from the band of his underwear though and his eyes never draw away and Prompto feels a flush spread across his cheeks, feels like the room is warming a degree or two.
“Good. Damn, you look good,” Prompto feels a thrill that’s almost unfamiliar with Noct’s praises. It doesn’t go like this, not usually. It’s typically more of a rush, more frantic hands and hard-pressed bodies. It’s usually over far too close to when it begins, and then it’s usually beginning again. It tends to be more sounds than words, but the words are here now and they feel better than Prompto would have ever anticipated. That feeling helps stay his hands and helps him focus on Noctis, on how good he looks as well, lounging back with lazy and lidded eyes and a lazy obscured hand. Prompto opens his mouth to tell him this, to tell him exactly how appealing that pose is, but Noctis speaks again before he has the chance, “You want to touch yourself for me,”
It isn’t a question. Noct’s voice is as lazy as his posture, but it carries an easy confidence that makes Prompto’s stomach do flips. He nods his response, not entirely trusting his voice on this matter. His erection, still pressed tight against dark cotton briefs, twitches an agreement. Prompto trails his fingers up over his knee, along the top of his thigh. He thinks he’s toeing a line here, allowing the trace of skin-on-skin, but Noctis doesn’t immediately tell him off and, in fact, watches the dance absolutely intently.
“You’re doing well,” Noctis straightens himself with these words, adjusts, moves his hand away from those slow strokes while he does so. His eyes drift away from Prompto briefly, but only so he can stretch across the bed and reach into the table beside. The bottle of lube that he slides across the sheets comes as no surprise, though it does make Prompto’s stomach tighten in anticipation. Noctis is still fishing through the drawer though, at an angle that only betrays the very edge of smirk-curled lip, “I think you’ve earned a gift,” his voice is distracted while he locates what he’s looking for, brightens immediately when he reaches and retrieves the items.
“You know I’m a sucker for presents,” Prompto attempts a laugh, but the sound that follows doesn’t quite translate to one. He lifts himself a little bit higher on his knees, an eager attempt to identify what Noctis has in his hands. Noct, in turn, makes a great display of hiding any said gifts behind his back, a smile plastered across his face. It’s enough to draw Prompto closer, even without permission. Enough to make them both laugh something that isn’t quite so forced. Prompto thinks he caught a flash of smooth black, but he can’t quite place the origin.
Noctis only holds his smile as an immediate response, though he gets a hand around to splay at the small of Prompto’s back when he edges close enough, slides it up, tugs him in so their lips can meet. It’s while Noct’s tongue slides against Prompto’s lips, dips inside, that he presses the gift into Prompto’s palm. It remains unfamiliar there while Prompto is blind in the kiss- smaller than he anticipated, but heavy; silky silicone with a shape that he can liken most closely to an egg sitting in its cup, tapered at one end with a flat base at the other. A plug.
Prompto feels his cheeks go all heated again when they part, when Noct’s search him for reaction. Toys haven’t played much part in their activities, really. The few times they've made their way in, they lie more along the lines of small and rubbery rings or stiff and hefty phallic numbers. The plug is new, unexpected, something Noctis purchased without Prompto's presence or even knowledge. A brief but very amusing image flashes through Prompto's mind, of Noctis in one of those seedy little shops all ducked head and downcast eyes, maybe with a hat tugged down low over his face.
“When did you get this?” Prompto can’t help himself really, can’t help but ask. The mental image is too hilarious, too appealing. Noctis’s response is only a brief smile, a chuckle, a slow shake of his head. Maybe a memory of the situation is coming to mind, or maybe he simply knows Prompto well enough to know what’s flashing through his mind. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts himself back in the pillows, finds a comfortable position again while his eyes stay glued to Prompto. He’s watching his expression more than his body for the moment- another change in routine.
“While ago. Saw it and thought of you,” he says. His voice is slightly melodic, outright teasing. Prompto feels that same shy flush spread across his cheeks but he doesn’t duck away. Instead, he opens his clenched fist and examines the thing. It’s not too large, despite the heft of the thing. It’s more intriguing than it is intimidating, something as unexpected and unfamiliar as the rest of this experience. Which doesn’t necessarily mean Prompto has any idea what he’s doing, of course. There are vague recollections of videos he used to watch on his phone, mired in confusion and shame and arousal that made him feel that much more confused and ashamed.
“Sex toys make you think of me? Not sure how I should feel there,” Prompto is trying so incredibly hard to keep his cool here. He’s still aching for some touch, still heavily distracted by his damp and pulsing arousal. He’s distracted by Noctis too, distracted by the way his hand moves just barely seen beneath cotton and elastic and by the way his eyes keep sweeping over Prompto’s body. He’s definitely distracted by the toy in his hand and the lube he leans forward to grab.
“Everything makes me think of you,” Noctis says. It almost sounds like a confession on Prompto’s ears. It almost sounds like there’s more to this than the ‘acceptable experimentation’ sort of arrangement they had been wearing as a mask. Prompto’s feelings, well, he knew what they were. He thought he knew what they were, in any case. Noctis isn’t so simple though, isn’t exactly the most forthcoming on that front. And it’s not a discussion worth having, not with an engagement on the table; not with a title and a crown and all of the things that accompany Noctis. The words sound like something though and, for a moment, Prompto doesn’t bother with logic. He smiles while Noctis offers up a nervous laugh.
“What are you thinking of me right now?” Prompto goes a more bold route, because even with the brief distraction of Noct’s words, his body is all but screaming for this to proceed one way or another. He’s absolutely thrumming with need and Noct just seems so committed to taking his goddamn time. Eyes narrow on him with that question though and lips twitch back to a smirk that is both lazy and confident and, above both of those, incredibly maddening. Prompto traces his hand over his thigh again and the noise Noctis makes is somewhere between encouraging and warning. Prompto doesn’t stop his hand, but he doesn’t move it closer to where he really wants it, either. He mirrors Noct’s gaze and damn near mirrors that cocky expression to boot.
“Thinking you’re wearing too many clothes, mostly,” Noctis says. He shifts back just a little bit more, something that seems more to be showing comfort than actually indulging in it. That same stupid smirk still paints his face and it’s enough to encourage Prompto, enough to get him lifting on his knees. He toys with elastic waistband, but he doesn’t strip entirely just yet.
“You’re still totally dressed,” Prompto says, and he thinks he sounds properly outraged over the situation. He even manages one of his patented pouts- the ones that tend to get him exactly what he wants when he employs them. Noctis is scoffing though and he’s definitely not taking his pants off, which is absolutely not the intention.
“I’m watching. Could’ve sworn I mentioned that,” Noctis is using that voice, the one that’s all haughty and lazy and a little bit bored- the one that makes him sound like a proper prince. The one that usually makes Prompto roll his eyes, but that somehow seems to fit perfectly in this moment, in this unexpected situation. Noctis, for all the talk of just watching is still clearly, slowly stroking himself beneath his pants. It’s totally infuriating...or arousing. Maybe a little bit of both. Definitely both. Prompto groans and Noctis speaks up again, “I’d rather be watching you get off,” the words are blunt and matter-of-fact and somehow it only makes them that much hotter, “pouting is cute. You look even better naked, though.”
Prompto damn near actually shuddered at those words. Compliments from Noct aren’t exactly hard to come by, but they are blunt and honest and above argument or denial and, most importantly, Prompto can believe him. Prompto, who makes every possible effort to hide his body- even from Noctis- can bring himself to believe that he looks exactly as Noct apparently sees him. He can pretend that the sea of freckles spotted over his face and rolling across his shoulders is endearing rather than marring. He can almost even overlook the heavy pink lines that interrupt the pale flesh beneath his ribs and accept that there’s something desirable there, because Noct doesn’t lie and he doesn’t mince words and he definitely doesn’t say anything he doesn’t believe.
“Don’t give me that look,” Prompto must have fallen into that uncertain expression, the one that betrays how deeply he is thinking- how terribly he is overthinking- because Noct’s voice changes to something soft and bordering on concern, “I happen to have excellent taste. And my excellent taste happens to be you, naked and stuffed and not looking at me like I’m insane for it,” his smile has become warm, encouraging, enough to draw Prompto away from any instinctive uncertainty.
Prompto finally relents, pushes himself back into that mood that is concerned with following Noct’s instructions and with making that obedience look good. He makes a slow and smooth motion, and with it his full and needy erection is fully exposed. He is fully exposed, naked, with the little black plug set between his knees and the half-empty bottle of lubricant in his hand now. And he’s pleased, just a little bit more, because the friction of pulling away his briefs is enough to provide some modicum of relief.
“Perfect,” Noctis says. There is a tensing of muscles around his wrist that has Prompto close to whining again. He isn’t sure if the words are directed toward his performance or his body or some combination of it all. It doesn’t matter though, not really. Noctis is saying nice things and giving him nice looks and Prompto can’t get enough of it, can’t be bothered too much by the details, “go ahead,” Noctis is encouraging now and- fuck- he’s licking his lips. He’s outright licking his fucking lips, “touch yourself for me.”
Prompto doesn’t hesitate with obeying this particular command. His hand slides from his thigh and wraps around his shaft, runs up the length. His thumb flicks over the hypersensitive tip and his head tilts back, a low sigh of pleasure and relief slipping out, a muted little shudder of relief on his lips and rolling through his whole body. He doesn’t realize until he’s gotten his hand in motion just how starved he had been for touch. He doesn’t realize until now just how much he wants that touch to be Noct’s instead.
“Fuck, Prom. You have no idea how good you look,” Noct’s words pull a whimper from Prompto, something he tries to swallow down, it sounds so needy, so utterly pathetic. Noctis is breathing harder in response though and, quiet as he may be, there’s a low rumble in his throat, “you sound good, too. I wanna hear you.”
“Noct…” Prompto feels the name so familiar and easy on his lips, feels another whimper bubbling up. He’s never quiet. He thinks he sounds ridiculous, over-the-top in his vocalizations. Noctis enjoys it though, encourages it, and Prompto always gives in, always allows himself to give in to the instinct. It’s far too easy here, he thinks, with a quick and even rhythm working between his spread thighs now. It won’t bring him over the edge. It won’t even bring him to the edge, but it will offer up some relief to that pained and touch-starved sensation.
“Bet it feels good. Bet you want more,” Noct’s tone hasn’t turned quite to teasing, though it’s close. He’s encouraging, and he’s still staring, still sweeping eyes over Prompto’s body. He’s still stroking himself too, still hissing out those heavy breaths and shifting or lifting his hips here and there, “I want to see more. I want to see you use your gift.”
Prompto works up a proper expression, something that is all quirked lips and heavy eyelids and flush cheeks that never quite make it back to freckles and cream. He takes a lingering look at Noctis, watches his hand moving slow and hidden, commits the expression of lazy confidence to his memory, and he turns himself away. He spends a beat considering his position while he thumbs open lube’s cap. He settles on keeping his knees lifted, supporting most of his weight, while he drops to his elbows, effectively giving a proper, full view of his ass. Noctis makes a sound that Prompto can only interpret as pleased, appreciative, and his back arches, backside lifts further in response. There is a moment to shift, to even out his weight and get comfortable, and then Prompto is well at work slicking up his fingers.
“Perfect,” Noctis says his encouragement. Prompto feels the mattress shift with his weight, hears it creak beneath. He half-expects Noct’s hands to find their way to his ass. Okay, doesn’t expect it so much as really, really wants it. He is downright craving that contact, in fact. When his fingers are slicked and Prompto is arching, twisting, turning to reach behind and slide a finger at his entrance, he is imagining the hand being Noct’s. He is imagining the look on his face and the movement of his hand in response to the show. The idea carries a surge of arousal, had him dripping and over-eager when his first finger circles carefully and then finally slips inside.
Prompto hasn’t forgotten Noct’s words. He hasn’t forgotten that command to let himself be heard and there is a harsh gasp in response with that pleasing initial burn. He debates, quite seriously, whether he really needs such full preparation for the little plug. It’s tapered after all, and it’s so damn intriguing. But Noctis is shifting and there is a notably slick sound and Prompto decides that it’s more than worth it for the show.
“Fuck, Prom. You’re so nice to watch,” Noct is talking more than he usually does. He’s being vocal with his heavy gasps along with those commands and encouragements. It isn’t getting old. Each word, each barely-contained sound is another rush down Prompto’s spine and straight to his cock. He tries to crane his neck back, to get some look at Noctis and his reactions, but it’s impossible.
“You can see me soon,” Noctis speaks again, offers up the promise, “just focus on yourself for now. Make it feel good,” Prompto doesn’t argue this command, even if he’s somewhat inclined to. He wants to be watching Noct, he wants to know how his body is reacting. Soon. He focuses on that promise rather than allowing himself to fall into the all-too-tempting pout.
“Already feels good,” Prompto says. It’s not entirely untrue. There is still a brief burn, still a bit of intrusive discomfort. It’s passing quickly though, spiking at the eager addition of a second finger and then going completely to the wayside as his fingers curl and press and send waves of pleasure that have him whimpering.
The moments of preparation, of careful stretching and well-aimed, hooked touches don’t carry on maybe as long as they should. Prompto is far too ready, too eager, and Noct’s heavy breathing and occasional gasps are only propelling him further. So it is soon, maybe too soon, that Prompto is wetting the plug, moving to press it up against his entrance.
“Good,” Noct’s voice is all breath and arousal and intense interest, “really hot, Prom. Keep going,” Noctis doesn’t really need to urge him on though. It’s a tight fit, a slow press, even with the preparation. It works to his benefit though, gives Noctis the show he is looking for. It wins Prompto more compliments and encouragements. It burns and it aches and then it sits snug and full and pressed close to heavily sensitive flesh. Prompto presses his fingers against the base, shifts the toy until it sharp pleasure floods him again and he doesn’t quiet himself. He works out a whimper of Noct’s name and he arches, pushes is ass up further into the air.
“Perfect. You’re perfect. Feel good?”
“Feel good,” Prompto agrees to the question immediately. He does feel good, too. It requires some adjustment, the firm shape immediately unfamiliar, but not at all unpleasant. It is, in fact, becoming more comfortable and more arousing as his body adjusts. He’s aching again, back to that needy space where he wants more touch, where he’s inclined to slide his hand back around his hip, around his erection.
“Turn back to me. I want to see all of you,” Prompto is damn near ecstatic over the request. He’s inclined to scramble, to whip himself around and press close, frantic. Instead, he manages to make it a slow turn, a long stretch of his torso and slide of his knees while he lifts himself again. He presses his ass to his heels, allows a little further pressure, clamps teeth to his lower lip while his eyes search over Noctis.
Noctis has moved himself too. His pants and his boxers are pushed down to his knees and his hand is wrapped around, working his exposed erection in long, slow strokes. His eyes roll over Prompto, sweeping from head to knees and back up again. He doesn’t speak right away but he smiles and he offers up an approving nod. His eyes are burning into Prompto where they sweep over him, leaving him flushed and breathless and doing all he can to make his pose more appealing while his hands run heavy over his thighs. He’s smiling though, smiling something both shy and encouraging, needy and inviting.
“Touch yourself for me. Nice and slow,” another command that Noctis doesn’t really have to give. The slow part is difficult though. Prompto is fired up, he’s throbbing and twitching and ready to work himself off. Instead, he follows Noct’s words and he wraps his hand around himself, strokes long and slow, firm touches that aren’t nearly as satisfying as he wants them to be. He watches Noctis’s hand working himself though and he matches that pace. It makes it easier, to mimic his movements, to focus on the absolutely and far-too appealing sight. And he keeps up the heavy, heated breathing. He keeps up the whimpers that draw themselves while his hips press forward. Prompto wants to crawl into Noct’s lap, he wants to press them together. He wants to replace the toy with Noctis, to be driven into the mattress and into oblivion.
“Come closer,” Noctis says. His eyes are fixed to Prompto, to the hand moving slow and careful over his needy cock. Prompto obeys immediately, edges forward on his knees until they are close, so close that they nearly touch, so close that the outside of Prompto’s thighs press against the insides of Noctis’s and a pleased sigh follows the hot contact. He wants more than that, but Noctis stops him with a, “good. Perfect. I can see you better here,” that is a little less demanding, a lot more pleased. It is better, even if it isn’t precisely what Prompto has rolling through his fantasies. It’s still hot though. It’s hot as hell, with just those brief and incidental brushes of skin, with Noct’s eyes fixated and with his words coming so complimentary and easy. Any of his usual reservation seems to be set aside, and this change is the most appealing of them all. Prompto is living for the low rumble of Noct’s voice, for the breathy quality of his words, for the quiet sighs and miniscule moans that are normally muted into his shoulder or against his lips.
“Look at me,” Noctis is back to commanding with these words, ones that really don’t need to be said. Prompto isn’t looking at anything else. He can’t keep his eyes away from the graceful hand working over dark and desperate flesh. He can’t ignore the perfect curve of his pelvis or the dip below his navel, the rise at his ribs, the soft and perfect skin stretched taut, “my eyes,” he adds, and Prompto does find this is more difficult, though only by a little bit. He loses himself in Noct’s eyes, far more often than he’d like to admit. He studies the perfect blue and he admires intense gazes, ones that betray when his mind has traveled elsewhere or when he has a certain mood rising. They are all fire now, even if the color errs toward ice and they send a shudder down his spine, “perfect,” another one of those compliments that make Prompto want to move his hand faster, make him want to lift his grip and work over his head and finish then and there.
He almost does, too.
It’s not because of the look in Noct’s eyes though or because of his wet and chewed-upon lips. It’s not even because of his voice, nor the way Prompto’s hand is working over himself. It goes to Noct’s free arm, the one that has remained tangled in covers and pillows. The one that, it turns out, holds a remote control. The one that has set that heavy plug set inside Prompto’s ass to a low rumble, a sensation unfamiliar and unexpected that makes his whole damn body tense and thrum and his breath escape for a few beats too long. He shifts, presses down again, and it’s almost enough. His eyes close and his head falls back and Prompto’s hand tightens around himself. Noctis makes a sound in response that is utterly undignified, that is somewhere between a growl and a groan. His thighs press closer to Prompto’s and the bed shifts, bring Prompto’s eyes back to fluttering open.
Noct has moved closer now, has lifted himself high on his hips, so close they are nearly touching. The fist that clutches the little black control comes to Prompto’s shoulder, wrist rested near the curve of his neck so he can balance himself. His other hand is working faster, paying more attention to his leaking tip, to his body’s no longer muted need. Eyes are sweeping over Prompto again, but they focus more on his face, more on his reactions than Prompto might have expected. And his face is giving all the reaction in the world, really. His teeth bear heavily into his lower lip, tug and press tight until it feels like he might split the skin.
“So damn hot,” Noctis says. The words come out low and almost mindless, as if he’s speaking more to himself than he is to Prompto at this point. They still have that effect, still have Prompto aching to finish, aching to feel more than he does. He wants Noct’s hands on him properly, wants that point of contact. More than that, somehow, he wants to finish himself pressed close. He wants to give Noctis the show he’s so intent on, he wants to have Noctis’s eyes on him, searing, while he loses himself to the imminent orgasm, “you want a little more?”
“More,” Prompto repeats in confirmation damn near before Noctis even has a chance to finish the question. A breath of laughter passes between them, but it’s only brief. He feels Noct’s thumb move against him, against the remote clutched in his fist, and the toy inside him responds without delay, kicking into a heavier pulse of vibration. It’s damn near overwhelming now and Prompto doesn’t bother to swallow down the whimper that follows. He definitely isn’t used to this sensation, though he’s absolutely certain it’s one he wants to become more acquainted with, “Noct… ah,” he tries to voice some of the pleasure, to give some sort of indication of his feelings beyond his twisted up face and desperate and instinctual sounds, but it feels quite a bit like his mind has been utterly erased, like any logic, any real thought has fled in favor of absolute pleasure.
“That’s good. Say my name,” Noctis is leaning close over him. Their cheeks press together. He moves and he nips at Prompto’s ear before breathing the command. Prompto concedes at once, whimpers his name, then again. Then turns it to a mantra, with each pleased response he receives, “keep going. Say it for me,” Noct moves again, moves so their foreheads are pressed together, so his nose nudges beside Prompto’s and their breath mingles, lips slide against his skin when Noct speaks, “scream it. Scream for me when you come,”
There is only a moment of doubt in Prompto’s mind that this is permission, that this is Noctis urging him to finish, because he lifts back for a better look, he works his hand quicker against his own erection, and he flips the control on the plug to what Prompto can only imagine is its highest setting. The kick of sensation is nothing short of overwhelming. His hand trembles as he strokes himself, frantic and desperate, barely finding any rhythm. His fingers stumble and spread slick up and down his length. His cock twitches in response to touch, his whole body building into a hot coil.
“Noctis,” it’s far from a scream that is slipping through Prompto’s lips so he tries again. He lifts his voice, lifts his hips. He’s close. He’s breathless and trembling and he can feel the heat of Noct’s body hovering little more than inches away from him. When he manages to squeeze out the name again it’s a little bit louder. It still isn’t a scream. The tension is damn near unbearable. Prompto wants to draw it out. He wants to hold onto the heavy, overwhelming vibration inside him and the heat of his hand whipping frantically over his erection and he especially wants to keep Noct’s eyes on him, fire and ice and deep appreciation. He doesn’t last though, he can’t. He screams Noct’s name and he spills over his hand, hot and sticky, heavy and twitching, eyes screwing shut and head falling back.
Noct’s hand presses firm into the center of Prompto’s chest while he’s lost in the wet hot release. He presses him back against the bed, his palm hard against his sternum. Prompto’s eyes flick open, see Noctis straddling his stomach, see his hand moving frantically while he stares him down, all flush cheeks and wet lips and heaving chest. Even from the angle, Prompto pinned beneath in a way that should give him anything but a flattering view, he can’t keep his eyes from Noctis. He can’t stop writhing and pressing into him, the hum between his legs erring now toward overstimulation, toward madness.
“Fuck. Perfect, Prom. Fuck, you’re perfect,” Noctis breathes variations of the words, versions of the same thought interrupted with a harsh gasp and heavy tensing of his thighs around Prompto’s ribs. His hips tilt forward and Prompto whines and whimpers against the sticky heat that spreads against his chest, squirms beneath the weight of Noct relaxing down on his perch. He reaches, gropes wildly at the hand still holding the control. The motion draws out another bubble of half-hearted laughter and Noctis switches the toy off before he slides down, before he gets his lips onto Prompto’s and then sliding over his cheek, down his jaw, against the curve of his throat and over clavicle until he’s kissing into the mess he left on Prompto’s chest.
“Noct…” Prompto isn’t sure at once what to say. He’s still breathless. He still feels his heart galloping against Noct’s lips, still feels his chest burning lightly with exertion. His thighs are a wet tremble, all jelly, all relief that Noctis finished this way, so he wouldn’t face the embarrassment of certainly collapsing beneath his own weight. These sensations are what cloud Prompto’s mind, what keep him from immediately offering up any clever comments, “thought you just wanted to watch,” it is a lame tease, even for him. It wins over another one of those breathless laughs though and that is definitely a win.
“I did watch,” Noctis’s voice is a rumble against his skin. He’s moving, getting arms up being Prompto, getting his messy lips spread across more skin. There’s rough suction and heavy nips to follow. There’s Noct’s hand running over his ribs, down along the curve of his waist and over his hip. There’s heat and there’s Prompto’s body, already working out a way to respond again, “now I’m ready to touch.”
Prompto has a feeling they’ll be leaving all of the actual packing to Ignis.