It’s a messy kiss, proximate more than anything else – the sort that leaves you gasping for air and with no room for intermissions. He runs his tongue across Claude’s lips and reaches down between them, hand closing around their cocks and pressing them close. Vincent isn’t a stranger to most things so long as they aren’t extreme and while this particular type of sex – masturbation, really, in a different form – is something he rarely does, he does enjoy it. Especially with Claude’s body a steady, unapologetic weight across his thighs, his hand running through his hair and sending shivers down his spine. He hasn’t felt this grounded during sex for years and years; even a simple thing like frot is making him feel dizzy from arousal. Shit.

“So you want to fuck me, huh.” Drawing his hand slowly upwards, he breathes out shakily at the feel of hot skin sliding against his, cock against cock. The stimulation is pushing him quickly beyond the state of warm-up. Starting to make him feel increasingly desperate for relief. “Better treat you nice, then, right? How does it feel?”

He’s not a moron; the question is wholly rhetorical, what with Claude’s breathing having grown as erratic as his own, his cock completely hard in his grip. Vincent has never known how to shut up, though. It's just a thing. He jerks them off, rhythm uneven, without much purpose except the addition of touch. Multiplying sensations. More.