Gods know he's tried, but he's crammed into the tent with three mind-meltingly sexy men, all of who've come their brains out in the last two hours, and here he is, one day from bet's end, harder than he's ever been in his life.
He's pretty sure his cock could cut diamonds. He's pretty sure he's been hard for like an hour now, not doing anything but trying to forget the feel of hands all over him. His chocobo print sleep shorts are damp at the front from the precome, and his head won't stop playing through likely scenarios for tomorrow.
Gods, he wants it to be tomorrow already.
Prompto reaches for himself without even thinking.
His body's hard-wired for it; hard-ons need a hand like peanut butter needs jelly. It's buried in endless nights as a teenager, tissues and lotion and furtive strokes, trying hard not to think about Noct, back before he worked up the courage to confess.
And it's not like he's going to finish. He's not the kind of guy who'll skip out on a bet. Besides, he's looking forward to day seven too much to ruin it.
He just wants to take the edge off.
So his hand slips inside his sleeping bag – edges down the waistband of his shorts. His fingers find the head of his cock and trace along it. He bites down a gasp and rocks into the touch, even his own hand feeling like heaven to oversensitized nerves.
He tickles and teases, not full strokes, because he knows damn well that anything more firm would send him catapulting over the edge. Still, it's not long before he's squirming in his sleeping bag, unable to keep still – unable to take his hand off himself, now that he's started.
It feels so good, he almost can't bear to stop. He comes tremblingly close – has to still the motion of his fingers for a minute so that he can subside, panting.
It's not until he opens his eyes again, after he's come down, that he realizes Noct's not sleeping any longer. He's lying there in the darkness of the tent, eyes intent and wanting.
"Gonna cheat?" he says, very quietly.
And Prompto shakes his head. "Just – just needed to take the edge off. A little something."
"Uh huh." Noct's reply is so flat that Prompto's not sure what to make of it – not until he sits up in his sleeping bag, unzipping the front of Prompto's own. "Hands up," he says.
"What?" Prompto frowns up at him. "Why?"
"Hands," Noct says again, and Prompto complies, uncertain, lifting both arms above his head.
Noct's belt wraps around Prompto's wrists, three times. Prompto tests it, inconspicuously – find that it holds.
"Come on," Prompto says, trying to put his bound hands back down. "I got this. I don't need your belt, dude."
"Plainly you do," Noct tells him, in a tone that carries a note of command. Then he zips Prompto's sleeping back up to his chin, leaving his arms to poke out the top.
He feels ridiculous. He probably looks ridiculous, and Gladio and Ignis are going to wake up in the morning and see him, and then Noct will tell them what he caught Prompto doing.
"Not a chance," Noct tells him – and then shoves Prompto's sleeping bag, hard, so that he rolls over onto his stomach.
It's about twenty times worse, all at once. Suddenly, his throbbing erection is trapped against the padded layer of the sleeping bag, all of Prompto's weight putting pressure on it. He rocks forward, and the friction is incredible.
"Go to sleep, Prompto," says Noctis, king of Lucis and unrepentant asshole.
Prompto groans into the floor. "You're the worst friend ever," he says. "You know that?"
Re: Fill: 6/7 Chocobros/Prompto; Prompto can't come for a week
Prompto can't sleep.
Gods know he's tried, but he's crammed into the tent with three mind-meltingly sexy men, all of who've come their brains out in the last two hours, and here he is, one day from bet's end, harder than he's ever been in his life.
He's pretty sure his cock could cut diamonds. He's pretty sure he's been hard for like an hour now, not doing anything but trying to forget the feel of hands all over him. His chocobo print sleep shorts are damp at the front from the precome, and his head won't stop playing through likely scenarios for tomorrow.
Gods, he wants it to be tomorrow already.
Prompto reaches for himself without even thinking.
His body's hard-wired for it; hard-ons need a hand like peanut butter needs jelly. It's buried in endless nights as a teenager, tissues and lotion and furtive strokes, trying hard not to think about Noct, back before he worked up the courage to confess.
And it's not like he's going to finish. He's not the kind of guy who'll skip out on a bet. Besides, he's looking forward to day seven too much to ruin it.
He just wants to take the edge off.
So his hand slips inside his sleeping bag – edges down the waistband of his shorts. His fingers find the head of his cock and trace along it. He bites down a gasp and rocks into the touch, even his own hand feeling like heaven to oversensitized nerves.
He tickles and teases, not full strokes, because he knows damn well that anything more firm would send him catapulting over the edge. Still, it's not long before he's squirming in his sleeping bag, unable to keep still – unable to take his hand off himself, now that he's started.
It feels so good, he almost can't bear to stop. He comes tremblingly close – has to still the motion of his fingers for a minute so that he can subside, panting.
It's not until he opens his eyes again, after he's come down, that he realizes Noct's not sleeping any longer. He's lying there in the darkness of the tent, eyes intent and wanting.
"Gonna cheat?" he says, very quietly.
And Prompto shakes his head. "Just – just needed to take the edge off. A little something."
"Uh huh." Noct's reply is so flat that Prompto's not sure what to make of it – not until he sits up in his sleeping bag, unzipping the front of Prompto's own. "Hands up," he says.
"What?" Prompto frowns up at him. "Why?"
"Hands," Noct says again, and Prompto complies, uncertain, lifting both arms above his head.
Noct's belt wraps around Prompto's wrists, three times. Prompto tests it, inconspicuously – find that it holds.
"Come on," Prompto says, trying to put his bound hands back down. "I got this. I don't need your belt, dude."
"Plainly you do," Noct tells him, in a tone that carries a note of command. Then he zips Prompto's sleeping back up to his chin, leaving his arms to poke out the top.
He feels ridiculous. He probably looks ridiculous, and Gladio and Ignis are going to wake up in the morning and see him, and then Noct will tell them what he caught Prompto doing.
Even the thought makes him harder.
"Noct," Prompto says, softly. "C'mon, buddy. Lemme out."
"Not a chance," Noct tells him – and then shoves Prompto's sleeping bag, hard, so that he rolls over onto his stomach.
It's about twenty times worse, all at once. Suddenly, his throbbing erection is trapped against the padded layer of the sleeping bag, all of Prompto's weight putting pressure on it. He rocks forward, and the friction is incredible.
"Go to sleep, Prompto," says Noctis, king of Lucis and unrepentant asshole.
Prompto groans into the floor. "You're the worst friend ever," he says. "You know that?"