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He’s silent for once. It’s not an angry or stern or hateful sort of silence, never with Prompto. Instead, it’s something more subdued, somber, as you’re sprawled on top of his limber, lean body, gently tracing the thin lines of his Magitek trooper tattoo on his right wrist with your fingertips. A sad sort of silence, as if he’s upset you may bolt for never telling you until the situation came at such a time for it to be laid out in the open, belly-up and freshly dissected. A sad sort of silence, as if you may suddenly walk out or, Six forbid, try to kill him.
A sad sort of silence, as if he’s upset with himself more than he ever could be at anything you may possibly do now that this is laid out cold and dead and starting to rot.
Your own silence isn’t helping the matter as you’re tracing the barcode, studying it. Though his wrist is marred with scars, from what you don’t want to know, the codeprint is still clear as day. There’s not much to say. You don’t know all the details, and he probably doesn’t know them all himself to begin with. He’d mentioned a few times being adopted, off-hand, and that he’d come by his family -- a family only in the absolute loosest sense of the term -- when he was very young, too young to remember exactly when it had happened, but that was as far as he’d ever elaborated to anyone in the group about his home life.
“Do the guys know?” It’s a question that needs to be asked. He blinks down at you, bright blue eyes glazed.
“No, and I’d rather it stayed that way.” His voice is choked, holding back tears, when he finally speaks for the first time in what feels like eternity. You immediately release his wrist and cup his face in your hands. His face is warm against your palms and he flinches at the gesture. “So what’s it gonna be, huh? Gonna leave me where I am or put a bullet in my head? May as well go ahead and rid the world of one more monster.”
“Prompto, darling, don’t cry, please don’t cry. I’m not mad at you, I’m not mad.” He starts crying anyway, silent tears that slip down his freckled cheeks and straight on target to your palms. You try to thumb away as many as you can, trying to keep from tearing up yourself. “I’m not mad at you darling, I’m not mad. It’s not your fault, none of this is your fault. You didn’t ask for this, you didn’t ask to be branded for being born.” You swoop in to hug him; for the first time since you met he doesn’t hug back. “This doesn’t change anything darling. You’re not a trooper, you’re Prompto Argentum, the future king’s best friend, my best friend, the love of my life. The circumstances of your birth are irrelevant, it’s what you do with life that determines what you are, who you are. You’re not a trooper Prompto.”
He sniffs once, swallows hard. “I’m having a crisis here, and you’re quoting Sixdamned Mewtwo? Of all things, you’re quoting Sixdamned Mewtwo?” You pull back briefly to see him smiling, still in tears but grinning all the same, before he pulls you in and finally hugs you back. “You big dork.”
“Hey, if Mewtwo doesn’t work on you, who will?” He chuckles, buries his face in your shoulder and sniffs again, just once. There’s another uneasy silence, but it’s not a sad one this time, feels more like a very heavy load has been lifted from the air mere hairs’ breadths from killing you both and has left you to simply breathe and enjoy being alive again. Prompto’s head is still nestled in your shoulder, his quiet cries seeming to have ceased, his slender hands pressed to your back and fingertips gently rubbing at the exposed skin where his arms have pushed your shirt up. Other than the hums of vehicles passing by on the road outside the motel or the muffled conversation of the boys in the room next to yours -- they learned very quickly indeed that Prompto can be quite vocal during intimate moments, and under the right circumstances so can you, and thus began sleeping in separate hotel rooms and separate tents since you two started getting intimate -- the world is quiet, almost serene.
It’s a long while before Prompto finally detaches from you like a freckled growth, slowly uncurling and pulling you into his lap as he grabs his camera from the nightstand, flipping through all the photos he has saved. Several are landscape shots, particularly of nice sunrises or sunsets or neat mountain formations or clouds that happened to mold into odd shapes. For whatever odd reason there’s also one of a single tree
growing out in the middle of a field. When asked about it Prompto shrugs, saying it felt symbolic of something he can’t quite determine. Several are selfies, either with or without the guys; several are just of the guys, walking along the road to their next destination point or something snapped on the fly or because someone decided to try picking a fight with a boss you hadn’t realized was a boss. (That was a battle you don’t ever want to partake in again, it lasted for hours.) But a good majority of them are of you, all from tastefully flattering angles in tastefully flattering lighting, some posed for but most snapped on the fly, for a truly natural look, because with you he won’t settle for anything less than the best.
It’s a little while longer before he shifts, presses his face into your neck again, kissing and softly nibbling at the skin there, placing his camera back on the nightstand before sliding his hands along your sides, up your shirt. His touch tickles and you squirm a bit as his fingers stroke along the skin of your belly, your back, your ribs. Freckled digits slip beneath your bra and knead the soft, supple flesh they find there, teasing at perking nipples. He chuckles at every little squeak you let out as his fingers playfully pinch and tug the little buds. His mouth crawls up your neck, along your jaw, captures your lips in a warm kiss that quickly heats into something more carnal. His hips begin a slow, steady rolling into your rear, which you’re quick to respond to, and you feel him beginning to stiffen against you. His scrawny build certainly belies the meaty girth currently rutting against your ass; despite all your -- intentional and unintentional -- intimate encounters it still never fails to amaze you how someone so lithe could pack so well.
Not that you’re complaining.
Not that you’re complaining at all.
It’s a matter of moments before there’s a haphazard pile of clothing on the floor of the motel room and his mouth and hands are everywhere they can possibly reach: tasting your skin, groping whatever can be groped, testing every boundary. His fingers slip inside you as easily as a duck takes to water as he mouths at your breasts, teasing and flicking and gently tugging at your nipple with his lips and tongue as he suckles on you, his fingers twisted and buried up to the knuckle in your flesh, pumping in and out and driving you wild when the heel of his hand or his thumb brushes against your clit. Your own hands are exploring him as well, saliva-coated fingers pressing gently into his ass, your other hand squeezing and pumping his hot, throbbing cock. It doesn’t last long that way, and in one swift movement he’s sitting up and you’re impaled in his lap, both of you panting as he grips your hips and pistons in and out of you at nearly inhuman speeds.
That is, until you realize you’re riding him bareback -- you’ve never done bareback before -- and oh shit what are you doing.
The kiss you had been entangled in is broken as you explain this to him -- while he’s still buried balls deep inside you -- and his freckled brow furrows for a moment before it smooths out again in realization.
“Ah, so that’s what this is about, okay. No, see, it took a bit of illegal research and one extremely awkward check-up, but the humans that become the troopers, like me, are all sterilized at birth, we can’t breed or nothin’. Though of course…” He bites his lip for a moment, then removes himself from you and digs around in his jeans’ pocket, plucking out a fully-wrapped foil square and tearing it open, examining the internal contents like a heart surgeon before rolling it over his length. “Can’t ever be too careful, kinda don’t want syphilis or anythin’, y’know? Even if we don’t have to worry about babies -- unless, you wanna...adopt at some point?”
“Let’s focus on getting Noct married first, then ourselves, and then we discuss babies, alright?”
“Okay, okay. Sounds like a plan.” He dives right back in to where you’d left off, kissing you with a fiery passion as he slides in and out of you, one hand gripping your hip with near bruising force as his other hand dips to where you’re joined and strokes you lovingly. You don’t last much longer under him, and he follows almost immediately, panting as he pulls out, kisses you softly, and heads into the bathroom to get rid of the condom and bring back a damp washcloth to clean up what little mess you’ve made of yourselves and cool off a bit. Then it’s back to what you were originally doing to begin with, though sans clothing: cuddling under the covers, warm and cozy as a chilly rain pats quietly against the window of the motel. He presses soft, loving kisses to every inch of your face before attacking your lips again, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as he pulls away. There’s still something of an uncertain look in them.
“Hey.” You stroke his cheek, and this time he doesn’t flinch away. “Niflheim or not, you’re still my boyfriend, my Prompto Argentum, my Quicksilver, and I will always love you and that is never going to change. Alright?”
“Alright.” He kisses you again, nuzzles your face, and settles back with a hefty sigh as you cuddle up to his side.
“Still can’t believe of all the great cartoon characters ever to exist on this glorious planet, you chose to quote Sixdamned Mewtwo. So cliché…”