"This is crazy," Bez is saying, won't stop saying, clammy palms everywhere. Cele would like it better, maybe, if he were putting his mouth to work elsewhere. On Celestino's body instead spouting off about how crazy this is over and over and over.
Cele says, "Sure," for about the fifth time. Because sure, yes, it's pretty crazy, tucked into a dark corner at a dark house party with Bez's dark, dark eyes just barely shining out from behind his mask. Cele had laughed at first, when he'd seen it. Lacy and sparkling to match the bralette, the panties, the garters. Laughed, because as Bez had been visibly having a heart attack, Cele had had to say, "Well one of us is going to have to change."
A coincidence, mostly, that Celestino's in a nearly identical outfit. Different patterns in the lace, more coverage across the ass because as much as Bez seems to like flossing with his underwear Cele's not that kind of experienced just yet. A coincidence and a joke, because Cele had known—always knows—what Marco is going to wear to a masquerade if he's given the opportunity.
"Celin," Bez says. His face is pressed into Celestino's neck, both hands clutching at Cele's waist. The mask is prickly against the underside of Cele's jaw. "This—you—"
"If you say this is crazy again," Cele pants, finally, "I'm going to go home."
Bez makes a noise against Cele's skin that could be a moan or a groan or maybe a laugh, because—yeah, Celestino doesn't just leave parties, not until he has to. But he's looking to mess around tonight. If Marco's version of messing around is descending into madness while he palms vaguely at all of the least interesting parts of Cele's body then Celestino is happy to look elsewhere.
"Fuck," Bez says, gasps. He finds Cele's chest with both hands, runs both thumbs over his nipples. Celestino reaches between them to pinch Bez's nipple, retaliatory, tugging on the piercing until Bez makes a noise so shrill that it's a miracle no one comes looking for them. At this point they'd deserve it, Cele thinks, if they were found.
"Go," Cele says abruptly, winding a hand into the back of Bez's hair to pull him away from where he'd just about been tonguing at Cele's collarbone. He likes licking him there, mapping out the topography of scarring.
Bez makes a noise that is not confused; he knows exactly what Celestino means, and he follows easily under the pressure of Cele's hand when he's pushed down. In kneeling, Marco's cock has made itself visible. The head pops out of the waistband of his panties—Celin has seen these ones before, a scrap of lace and ribbon definitely not made to contain a dick-and-balls—shiny and pink and rubbing against the flatness of his belly before he lurches forward, open-mouthed, to groan against the outline of Celestino's dick through a layer of lace. Cele went all in on his underwear. He hasn't told Marco yet, but he will, after. Show him the site of lingerie that looks like it's for women but is designed for exactly this. For holding Celestino's cock all the way in even as he thickens up, fully-hard under Bez's mouth.
Bez makes another noise. Frustrated, maybe, that he's only got a mouthful of silky fabric instead of Cele's dick. Cele laughs, fisting his hand in Bez's hair again to haul him away—Marco's tongue lolls out mournfully—and then fishes his dick out of his underwear.
Marco sits still enough to let Celestino rub the tip of his dick over his lips. Sits, quivering on his knees when Celestino slaps his cock against Marco's cheek and then his outstretched tongue.
"Good boy," Cele says dimly, because that seems like the right thing to say.
Bez makes a noise that sounds a little like he's just creamed himself. Cele is too busy shoving his dick down his throat to pay all that much attention.
8 & 14 with bez and whoever you're liking most with him right now?
personalized kink prompt list ✨
drunk - omorashi - bezzetti
⤷read on ao3
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It starts, as most things do, with about five too many drinks at the bar.
It can't be later than midnight when Celestino starts to notice Marco fading. He's tucked himself into a booth with his phone and he's scrolling idly, face pulling steadily tighter, like someone's reeling it in. He's vague and pale under the dim lights, a little sweaty just at the edges of his hairline.
Cele slides in next to him with their new round of drinks. Marco leans into him the second he's close enough to touch—like always—but it's noticeably stiff.
"You good?" Cele shouts in his ear. It's not all that loud, but they've both got awful hearing.
Marco hums, which is pretty ambiguous, and then nods and shrugs at the same time. Which is also kind of ambiguous.
"You look kind of sick."
Marco picks up his fresh beer and downs about half of it. Celestino eyes him warily. If he throws up all over his lap trying to prove to Cele that he's not feeling sick, well. It wouldn't be the first time. Not like Cele hasn't done the same thing himself.
"I'm so fine," Marco says, and then squirms in the booth, the uneven line of his body hot against Celestino's. "Just—I have to pee."
Cele eyes him some more. "Okay," he says slowly. "Then—pee?"
This has the alarming result of turning Marco's face extremely, vividly red.
"Haven't, uhh, broken the seal yet," Marco says. He won't meet Cele's eye this time. He's gone back to scrolling, but he's squeezing his legs together now. "Go dance, I'll, uh. Come find you in a bit."
Normally, Cele would protest. He's more than happy to keep Marco company over basically anyone else. But someone's waving him over to the floor anyway, and Marco is nudging him with his elbow, and realistically Marco is a grown ass man who can take care of himself without Celestino holding his hand about it, so. Fine.
-
At something like one in the morning, Celestino pours himself back into the booth. He has had three shots and two more beers in the last hour. The room is swimming like a school of fish.
"Marco," he says, scooting close. "Marcooooo. You aren't dancing."
Marco, alarmingly, says nothing. He doesn't even lean into Cele this time. He's sitting all weird and stiff in the booth like he's been shocked, even with his face lax in the way it only is when he is well and truly blitzed.
"Marco," Cele says again. Like, yes, he's wasted. But he's also so ready to haul Marco out of here or at least hold his hair back—metaphorically—while he pukes his guts out. "Are you okay?"
Marco's jaw works, visibly, like he's chewing on his words. "Yeah," he says after a long, very damning pause. So, no then.
"If you want to leave," Cele starts.
Marco shakes his head. "I don't—"
"If you need to hurl—"
"No, I'm—"
"Do you still need to piss?"
It comes out harsher than Celestino means it to. Accusatory, almost, which is a weird thing. Even weirder—Marco's reaction to it. Marco's face, brilliantly red, his glassy eyes staring more through than at Cele. His body is drawn up bow-string tight. He doesn't even have his phone in his hands, just has them both squeezed between his thighs.
"Yeah," Marco says. Breathlessly.
Celestino's brain runs through the options with impressive efficiency, given the sad state of his blood alcohol level. Option one: Bez is just straight up too drunk to move, and has paralyzed himself into piss purgatory. Option two: he has some sort of UTI or something, and he has pissed, but he needs to go again.
Because Cele is a man of a certain age with access to the internet, he settles pretty rapidly on option three: Marco likes this.
You little freak, Celestino thinks, but does not say, because it would be deeply hypocritical of him.
"When was the last time you went," Cele asks, suddenly very interested, slumping in close to Marco. It's a role swap; Celestino plastering his body against Marco's, getting so close he can feel Marco's rabbit-fast heartbeat against his skin.
Marco makes a strangled noise. When he shudders Cele feels it in his teeth.
"I don't—like, some hours," Marco says, strained. Now that Cele's looking for it, he sees it everywhere. The wild-eyed look on Marco's face, the sweat on his forehead, the tight pull of his body going tighter by the second.
Celestino, who is very drunk, and admittedly sometimes very unkind, slings one hand across Marco's stomach. His abs are tight, hard under Cele's palm. He groan, snatching at Cele's wrist and then changing his mind partway through; he just leaves it there, rests his hand over Celestino's and holds it against the lowest part of his belly.
"If I—" Cele nudges inward, very gently, like a threat. "—you'd—you would—"
Marco, panting now, says, "Yeah."
"Right here in the booth," Cele says.
"Yeah."
Marco's voice is knife-thin, frayed like a split end.
More than anything in the world Celestino finds that he wants to push, and push hard. He wants to dig the heel of his palm into Marco's bladder. He wants Marco to fucking piss himself in the middle of the bar, and Celestino wants to watch.
