dream a little dream of me | Glowfic Constellation

FOR THE ALIBI FOR THE ALIBI FOR THE ALIBI

Camillo tries very very hard not to enjoy it too much, and fails very very badly.

(He's okay at kissing. The first guy he tried to kiss in high school was straight, and the boyfriend he eventually obtained for most of junior year in high school didn't like tongues and spit, but Z gave him a crash course one slumber party in the wee hours and he has a grasp of the general principles.)

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Anatole has — some experience, apparently, but less than you might expect given he lives here specifically.

He kisses him, keeping an ear open,

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and when the voices have gotten a little louder he slides a hand into the front of Camillo’s pants.

“And now,” he says, a half-voiced murmur next to his ear, “you’re going to need to be a little loud.”

Outside of the odd weekend home alone while Valentine took Cato to an out-of-state gymnastics competition, he's never not had to be quiet.

Also: an incredibly hot guy is touching him and whispering in his ear and wants everyone to know they're fucking and nothing is real and none of it matters.

Camillo makes a series of inelegant strangled noises, and says "fuck" several times, and thrusts into Anatole's hand with ragged desperation.

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“You can do better than that—”

He leans to the side and bites down on his neck.

That gets him a cut-off shriek of surprise, followed by a long and shaky moan that breaks up into frantic whimpering.

Camillo puts his hands in Anatole's hair -- pulls them away -- compromises on Anatole's ass.

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“That’s it.”

The footfalls of whoever’s looking for them get very rapid, all of the sudden — and then silent.

Camillo has another go at kissing him. To solidify their alibi.

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The alibi is very important.

After a minute, the footfalls resume, retreating.

After another few seconds:

"--um -- I--"

"-- these aren't actually my pants..."

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He gives him a few more slow strokes, then pulls back his hand.

“Pity.”

"--I could, take them, off...?"

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“What happened to your chastity?”

He unlaces the front obligingly.

Camillo is deeply unsure where his chastity came into this, but apparently this is the track they're on and he'll be damned if he's going to derail it.

"...hands don't count?"

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“Very convincing.”

He will graciously return his hand.

"...mouths don't count either?" he suggests, hopefully.

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