so back in like april or something @celineile came into the dms like hey i had this dream. and because she always has the best most unhinged dreams i was immediately seated. anyway she spun me a dream yarn about enea being like, not a human, and being cursed into a heat cycle but it's an egg situation. and pecco is there, and he decides he should help, and offers to do so without knowing what he's getting himself into and so enea stuffs him full of fuckin eggs. that's the tl;dr of it
conveniently at the time i had been like man i want to write pecconea!! and b knew this was the correct moment to burst in and say FILL HIM TO THE BRIM. and i knew i had no choice but to write it
i'll just drop some bits of it under the cut since genuinely the whole thing is just hefty ovipositing
When Pecco climbs into the driver’s seat, Enea looks—not more calm, exactly, but more present. He keeps his eyes down, staring at his hands in his lap. He’s not fidgeting, not moving at all.
“Should we go to the hospital?” Pecco asks, nervous. Part of it is because Enea does look a bit like he’s about to puke in the rental car, which wouldn’t be all that big of a deal but Pecco is a sympathetic puker. The other part of it is that Enea looks really, really sick.
But Enea shakes his head. He’s hunching further and further into himself, making himself smaller and smaller.
“Can you take me to my hotel,” Enea says, voice tiny. “Please.”
Pecco starts the car. He can absolutely do that.
The drive isn’t very long but it feels it. That cherry-stink is back, gone sickly sweet and cloying, and Enea isn’t moving except to haul in breaths that sound like they really, really hurt. Pecco wants to reach across the centre console. He wants to pull Enea’s hand out of his lap and wind their fingers together, like that could offer any sort of comfort.
What little Pecco knows about what Enea is could explain away the smell. The stillness. He knows that Enea isn’t—he’s not human, not exactly. But he’s never known Enea to be anything else. He’s never known Enea to drop off like this, sweaty and still.
When they pull up to the hotel, Enea still hasn’t moved. He doesn’t even seem to register that they’ve stopped until Pecco says his name, and even then he just blinks. Pecco can’t be sure he’s blinked the entire ride over.
Pecco reaches for him. Enea’s wrist is fever-hot under Pecco’s fingers, and Enea jerks, full-body, but doesn’t pull away.
“We’re here,” Pecco offers lamely.
“Right,” Enea says to the floor. His pulse is pounding wildly against Pecco’s fingertips, offbeat, arrhythmic in a way that would probably be dangerous if he were anything else. “Okay. Thanks. Thank you.”
And he just… goes to leave. Fumbles with his seatbelt and only barely gets it undone, paws at a spot on the door like he can’t see the handle a foot away.
“Let me walk you up,” Pecco says. “I’ll—just hold on.”
Enea says, “But—”
Pecco climbs out of the car. The fresh air feels crazy after being packed into such a small space with that smell, going sweeter with every second, a timelapse of fruit ripening under the hot sun. He breathes deep. Clears his head enough to think for half a second about how many times he’s wanted to do this—let me walk you up, the version of himself in his head says, smiling, Enea smiling back, shy and wanting—and then cracks open Enea’s door without digging himself too deep.
“Francesco,” Enea says. “You don’t have—”
“I do,” Pecco laughs, offering up his hand, helping Enea stand on shaky legs. “You can barely walk, Enea, let me do this.”
He’s doing better than he normally would. Smoother, less awkward because he really is concerned. The most logical course of action, he knows, would be to get Enea to a clinic of some sort. Even if it’s not a specialist, surely someone would be more trained than Pecco to deal with this. But…
Enea tips against him briefly. He squeezes Pecco’s hand with his sweaty, hot fingers.
Was chatting with @michalonmars about the thriving tabloid-rag-economy in bicameral that rosquez is responsible for keeping afloat based on their antics and couldn’t resist mocking up some of them (and some other tidbits)
Bicameral
(Rough) Timeline in order of pictures:
1 - 4: Midterms // 5 - 6: Flashpoint // 7: Party Whip // 8: Lex Ferenda // 9 - 10: Lex Lata
"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.
titsay
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yousharknotpass
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annaxmalina
