He doesn’t look down when Claude starts unbuttoning his shirt, much more focused on the way he breaks the kiss, feeling just a bit bereft. Well, alright. They do need to move beyond snogging but he just. Really fucking likes kissing. Actually no, he’s not gonna give it up just yet. Quenching down a smirk, he reaches out and pulls Claude in for another kiss, pressing his tongue in between his lips hungrily, uncaring that Claude’s still-working hands gets trapped between their bodies. There’s room. He’ll just have to get nimble and won’t that be lovely.

Slipping his hand from the front of Claude’s trousers and back (simultaneously losing his hold on what has got to be the greatest cock he’s touched for a long while), he grabs onto his arse. Firmly. He doesn’t truly think ahead right now, not when he’s on the verge of having sex. Actually, sex is one of those few things in life where words mean preciously little, unless you’re fatally stupid and ridiculous. As such, he doesn’t guard his words at all when he breaks the kiss, quickly and sloppily, voice entirely breathless and hoarse:

“You’ve got a great fucking arse, Claude. A great fucking everything.” Fingers slipping upwards, he gives a quick tug on the trouser hem because who the hell even cares about shirt buttons at this point?