dream a little dream of me | Glowfic Constellation

The entire Camillo collapsed on top of him may slightly interfere with this process.

(Pulling the furs over them without moving or taking his dick out is a challenge, but Camillo is stubborn.)

of-the-west

He helps.

If he was intending to move or pull out at any time, though, that opportunity has passed. He is immediately firmly trapped by all four of Anatole’s limbs.

This is ideal actually.

Camillo kisses the sweaty back of Anatole's neck and finds a relatively comfortable position for his less conveniently placed arm and near-instantly falls asleep.

of-the-west

If he wakes up in the middle of the night, he’ll still be stuck.

He might move just a little bit. Just because it's hot and tight and feels so good.

of-the-west

He makes a soft sound in his sleep, doesn’t wake just yet.

Camillo pets his hair soothingly, kisses his temple.

He also keeps on fucking him, slow and gentle. Just one more thrust. Just one more. He'll stop and go back to sleep after just -- one -- more.

of-the-west

He moans, softly — his eyes flutter open.

He still looks a little disoriented.

Camillo makes soft hushing noises at him, without once pausing in his rhythmic motion.

(He'll just be quick. He'll just make his little problem here go away and then he can go right back to sleep.)

of-the-west

And now he’s awake. What is this shushing.

“I was. mm. Asleep,” he grouses, still squirming a little.

"'sfine. Go back to sleep."

He's still fucking him.

of-the-west

“That’s now how — mmph.”

His desire to point out the obvious clashes with the inevitable results of rubbing against Camillo all night. He twitches palpably.

"I'll just be -- a minute--"

Especially if he keeps twitching like that.

of-the-west

That, he cannot abide.

He makes a move to flip them over.

Camillo is still at least half asleep and not at all prepared to put up resistance.

of-the-west

He plants one hand in the center of Camillo’s chest and sinks all the way down on his dick.

“If you come before me I’ll smother you with a pillow.”

That is not helping his situation at all.

(Two thousand and four is two times one thousand and two...)

Camillo grabs Anatole's hips and tries to hold them still, buy himself a second to recover.

(Anatole lying on the bed and spreading his legs -- no -- one thousand and two is two times five hundred and one...)

of-the-west

Luckily for him, Anatole holds his hips still. Mostly.

Perhaps less luckily, he leans back and spreads his knees a little so he can rub himself unobstructed.

It’s dark, but there’s still moonlight coming in through the tent walls, illuminating him faintly in blue.

Oh, christ. Camillo shuts his eyes.

Five hundred and one is a multiple of three. Three goes into three hundred a hundred times, and ninety-nine thirty-three times twice over, and then one more is a hundred and sixty-seven.

His willpower runs out and he has to look again, and then fight himself to shut his eyes and stop looking, stop staring at Anatole impaled on his cock and --

-- one hundred sixty-seven isn't a multiple of two, or three, or five -- seven goes into a hundred and forty and leaves twenty-seven --

of-the-west

He’s moaning, quietly, now, and he’s started to rock his hips slowly as he jerks himself off between two fingers.

Eleven doesn't go into, into, into one hundred sixty seven -- "fuck you fuck you hold still" -- where was he -- thirteen goes into a hundred and thirty and leaves -- something --

of-the-west

“No — just — don’t come, just don’t—”

He leans forward again, pins Camillo’s chest down while he rubs himself frantically, starts to bounce on his cock.

-- come.

Oh.

Oops.

of-the-west

He’s true to his word.

Camillo finds a pillow pressed down over his face as Anatole rides him through it, gasping, still stroking himself.