Skeet skeet

[justformemes]

Inspired by the plurk meme: Your character is minding their own business (or maybe not), when another shoves them up against a wall. To kiss them, fuck them, or fight them. What happens next is up to you.

1. Tag with your character's name, fandom, and preferences in the subject
2. Tag out to others, don't be shy
3. Profit

Comments

[dadiolus]

( look, you said it yourself, kiddo — he's kind of a jerk, but he's not a bad guy, even if he might take just a bit too much pleasure in teasing you sometimes. ( a lot of the time. ) for all it had been a false accusation, he likes to think he's known the younger long enough to separate the times when he's genuinely pissed off from those in which he simply wants to pick a fight, and while both have a tendency to be few and far between, add a little bit of booze into the mix and you've got a hot-headed, freckled little blond on your hands that is too busy trying to backpedal as quickly as he can to notice that you're just … having a bit more fun with it. because sometimes, the reactions of one ( 1 ) prompto argentum are priceless.

gladio shrugs, just enough to have the motion count for as much as he watches the other all but slither down the wall to the floor, one of those dark brow quirked upward so sharply that it risks disturbing the line of the scar that stretches across the expanse of his forehead. ( prompto, r u ok. r u ok prompto. ) and for all he might be just a tiny bit worried that the other is about to toss his cookies ( and his liquor ) all over the floor, he's not going to take credit away until there's something that merits as much. ) I know I've got a temper. ( understatement of the year, much? he's just as likely to mouth off to noct about any damned thing under the sun as he is to suggest camping for the night instead of allowing them the luxury of a motel room, just as liable to pick the tiniest bone when he finds one —

but he's just not feeling the ire that would make for a good fight. not tonight. blame the booze on his own part, or maybe he's feeling particularly forgiving, or. whatever you wanna blame it on. ) Don't mean I'm gonna beat the crap outta you when you're probably not even gonna remember why in the mornin'. ( yeah, dude. he knows you're pretty damned wasted. this is your one free pass.

he's close to asking just what he'd said to the others when prompto tries to get back to his feet, fails rather spectacularly and ends up sliding back down to the floor in a heap of a mess, little more than thin limbs and a tuft of blond hair, and gladio isn't going to laugh — because that's rude, and he's not that much of an inconsiderate asshole — but he is going to lean over and offer the stability of one of his own hands for the other to grab onto. so he can hoist him up and help him keep his balance. ) Air'll do you some good. Up you get, I got you.

( and it isn't until they're turtle-walking toward the nearest exit that he peers down at the other, still with that brow quirked, but not quite as sharply. it no longer threatens a disturbance to the scar that nearly bisects his forehead. ain't that something. ) So … what'd you say to them? If you're so convinced they're gonna kill you?

[pictograph]

Maybe you should reconsider that? But, yeah, I appreciate you not beating me up, too. I might ... hurl.

[ Hurl, he says, on the faulty, half-staggered premonition that he'll be heaving his guts out on the linoleum. Prompto might as well cut out the middleman and go for the quick slice right across the abdomen — his stomach lining on tile, pulling up his intestines like streamers bursting out of confetti. It's a horrifyingly conciliatory thought in his deranged mind, one that careens back and forth in his head when he's hauled up from where he's crumpled on the ground (so hell could swallow him up all the more easily), reconciling with the same hand he'd shaken off not too long ago.

Forgiveness shouldn't come that easy, but the hurdle of social finesse is successfully vaulted. Left with just an emotionally distraught tremors for it (jittery from the alcohol, spasms running rampant down his hands), Prompto hobbles along with as much humility as he can muster up while supported by the manifestation of hyper-masculinity preserving him from an ungainly topple. His legs manage to hold steady through their weak foundation, the Jenga blocks of his balance seesawing with each step. ]

I went and insulted Iggy's cooking. Which is terrible, because I love his cooking. Why'd I go and say that? I've never even had food that nice before. I think I was nitpicking his toast. Kept begging him for steak, too? Something dumb ... [ Lost forever to the annals of short-term memory, laughter erupting from the center of him — effusive, welling up, melancholic in all the ways remorse can be when stripped of pretense. ] And Noct's gonna' kill me, man. I don't know if he can forgive me for this one. This might be the last day I travel with you guys, because I blew it with my big, lame mouth.

[ In the onslaught of the evening, the frigid chill of the air licks up his face as it does shudder through his nerves, and Prompto hangs his head. Gladio likely wouldn't begrudge him if he didn't officiate his guilt with a proper confession, but it's kind of cathartic — out there in the cold, the last of his insobriety coming to a shallow repose in him. ]

'Course he'd ... 'course everyone would like him. He's a good-looking guy, y'know? And he's the prince. I mean, I like him, too? Wouldn't want to be his friend so much if I didn't think he was cool. ... Hope that didn't come out weird, by the way. Didn't mean it like that. [ Wuffling noises now, tucked up against his collar. Waiting for the nausea to negotiate its escape out of his pores, Prompto's dubiety fills in the lines of his face, his other arm swinging slack by his side, all up until the point he crushes it into a fist — knuckles bleached whiter than his ghastly pallor. ] And then I insulted him over nothing. ... I was just a little bothered? A little bit? It's not like I have a bunch of people waiting to kiss me, or anything. ... Not that anyone should want to. Ever. I'm kind of a mess.

[ A hot-and-cold mess with a partiality for waxing poetic. Prompto casts his gaze sidelong, eyes averted for those little pinpricks of anxiety crawling their way up his vertebrae where he's slouched onto him. ]

But I was so mean. Kept asking him why he turned down all those girls in high school, even though they just wanted to get to know him better. Like, I know he didn't want to date them. You shouldn't force anything you don't feel, either. Plus, he's gonna' get hitched with Lady Lunafreya any day now. ... I guess it just kinda' got to me a bit.

[ Understatement of the century, if not the outright millennium. Prompto coughs, blotchy in the face, which is more telling of personal disgrace than desecration. Some things go unsaid, but Gladio keeps the peace. He's always been good like that, nonjudgmental for this pastoral diatribe and how his mouth won't stop chattering on and on, like if he doesn't fill the silence he'll be seen through (made transparent). ]

Just having one of my moments, don't mind me. I wish I didn't say anything.