"--oh--"

He's flushed when he meets Anatole's eyes, and then he's coming.

He kisses him, just once, as he comes, as his hand closes around the tip of his cock.

Then he pulls back, and wipes his dripping fingers on Camillo’s face.

"--hey! What!"

He wipes his face on the inside of his elbow, too pleased to be really annoyed.

He catches his arm.

“You wanted evidence, didn’t you?”

So he's getting hard again right now immediately.

“…I’ll assume this is a ‘yes’.”

This time, he isn’t quite as lucky right away. He gets two fingers rubbing the head of his cock.

"You're -- ah -- you're such an asshole, did you know that?"

“So I’ve heard.”

And now he’s been downgraded to one finger.

Camillo makes an exasperated whining noise and looks up to the sky for assistance and bucks up against his hand, none of which does much to improve his situation.

When he bucks his hips Anatole takes his hand away entirely, lets him suffer for a moment before he starts to rub him again.

"Nooo--ooo," he protests, and then bites the back of his own wrist because that was a higher pitch than he generally likes his voice to attain.

He isn't a terribly quick learner. Or possibly he just has poor impulse control. Regardless, he does keep trying to fuck Anatole's hand, every ten seconds or so.

He’ll keep having a very frustrating time, then.

“You know, you can always—”

Nope. Hand away, letting his hips thrust in the air, until they’re down.

“—give up, and walk home.”

It is a spectacularly frustrating time. He chokes and whines in agony every time Anatole takes his hand away.

"Come on. Please. Asshole. Please."

“I thought you wanted me to enjoy myself.”

He at least gets all five fingertips, now.

"Surely -- there are -- other -- ways!"

This is only sort of better. Now it's understimulating and overstimulating all at once, and he's not entirely sure whether to squirm into the touch or away from it.

“Plenty.”

This next particular way is his thumb and forefinger, formed into a circle.

This is a great way to get him to fuck the circle while alternately gasping "fucker" and "please" under his breath.

He relents, for just a moment, gives him a few firm strokes with his whole hand, and then goes right back to tormenting him.

Camillo is feeling extremely incentivized to say please a lot. Even (once, quietly) pretty please.

Every other please gets him a few good strokes.

Pretty please gets him to switch and not stop.

This is almost worse than if it hadn't worked, he doesn't think, because he's not thinking about anything at all except coming over Anatole's hand.

He lets it splatter uselessly on the leaf litter under their feet.

Camillo slumps against him.

"Such an asshole," he mutters, but there's no bite to it.

“Harsh words from a man who came twice.”