Anatomy is a strange thing, indeed. Claude knows his body's workings better than he knows any other aspect of his own self, but any addition of limbs (like now as Vincent lies sprawled out on top of him, all weight and pressure and heat against his skin from head to where their feet are grazing as well, Claude's thighs spread and trembling around Vincent's hips) requires double work to uphold the necessary smoothness. Halfway preoccupied with the sound of Vincent's mumbling close to his ear, Claude shifts beneath him to allow the other man's hand better access to the destination he's strongly expecting it's headed towards. He's already breaking out in a slight sweat, the fire blazing within the constraints of the brick wall and his arousal seeming no less all-consuming. At the feel of Vincent's palm sliding over the length of his fingers and the rise of his knuckles, he manages a comfortable sigh, withdrawing his hand without a second thought. He knows what Vincent's fingers look like, after all. They're better suited to the task than -- than --
Reaching up with both hands now, he buries all ten of his own fingers into Vincent's hair, gently tugging his head into an angle that'll allow Claude to kiss him, his lips feeling smooth and hot and slick when Claude claims them back. It's a blind journey, the way his mouth slides over the contours of Vincent's face, their noses bumping and their breaths mingling like melting fog. The groan isn't even a conscious sound. It escapes him before he has realised that it was waiting in the wings of his throat, perhaps all along. When he rocks his pelvis up against the underside of Vincent's cock again, into the grip of Vincent's fingers, the words finally come. Naturally. As if the way Vincent talks is addressing something deep within, luring it out at long last. "I can feel you," he mutters, drawing back from the kiss only long enough not to get the clarity drowned in their mixing saliva and the dark, dark depths along Vincent's tongue. Pushes up just a tiny bit harder against Vincent's body, his muscles working almost angrily to support the motion. "I can feel you," pant, pant, pant, "you feel like Heaven on Earth, like this..."
And one hand slips down to Vincent's shoulder once more, ventures down his chest with no final goal beyond the exploration itself, fingertips ghosting over the outline of muscle mass, over one nipple and lingering there for the sheer pleasure of it. Vincent's, yes. As well as his own.
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Reaching up with both hands now, he buries all ten of his own fingers into Vincent's hair, gently tugging his head into an angle that'll allow Claude to kiss him, his lips feeling smooth and hot and slick when Claude claims them back. It's a blind journey, the way his mouth slides over the contours of Vincent's face, their noses bumping and their breaths mingling like melting fog. The groan isn't even a conscious sound. It escapes him before he has realised that it was waiting in the wings of his throat, perhaps all along. When he rocks his pelvis up against the underside of Vincent's cock again, into the grip of Vincent's fingers, the words finally come. Naturally. As if the way Vincent talks is addressing something deep within, luring it out at long last. "I can feel you," he mutters, drawing back from the kiss only long enough not to get the clarity drowned in their mixing saliva and the dark, dark depths along Vincent's tongue. Pushes up just a tiny bit harder against Vincent's body, his muscles working almost angrily to support the motion. "I can feel you," pant, pant, pant, "you feel like Heaven on Earth, like this..."
And one hand slips down to Vincent's shoulder once more, ventures down his chest with no final goal beyond the exploration itself, fingertips ghosting over the outline of muscle mass, over one nipple and lingering there for the sheer pleasure of it. Vincent's, yes. As well as his own.