“What’s the point of having the God-forsaken thing if not so you can fuck it?”

He climbs into the bed and runs his hand down Anatole's body, collarbone to navel.

"Ask nicely, then."

He shivers a little.

“I didn’t bring you here to play with me.”

"Okay."

He kisses the side of Anatole's neck, presses his warm body along Anatole's.

"I'm going to fuck your ass. But you can beg for the other thing, if you like."

“I didn’t drink myself — drunk — for this!”

He presses his body up against Camillo’s, tries to wrap his legs around him to keep him in place.

"Too bad."

He really really really wants to fuck Anatole. But he's not actually picky about how, and one of the options makes babies and definitely isn't something Anatole would do sober.

Under other circumstances Camillo might put his fingers in Anatole's mouth. Tonight that seems likely to get him bitten. So he sucks on his own fingers before he slides them down between Anatole's legs, further than Anatole would prefer.

As much as he’s been protesting, he still gasps and rocks into the touch.

“Who raised you—”

That's a complicated question they don't need to get into the answer to. "Someone who would be very disappointed if I put a baby in you."

(He does get a little harder at the thought, though. Or maybe at the feeling of slipping his finger inside Anatole. It's hard to tell.)

“Like you — ah —”

He twitches and clenches around his finger.

“Like you could...”

It's cute, watching him try to be a smug bitch while he's flat on his back angling to get fucked.

Also, really hot.

"Well. If at first you don't succeed."

This has him fucking himself on Camillo’s fingers, a little.

Also, trying to grab his head.

This seems like it calls for kissing and fingering Anatole for a really extended period of time.

This is legally torture.

He kisses back desperately, hand in Camillo’s hair and nails digging into his back, legs grabbing for his waist.  He gets wet enough to leave his hand shiny if it happens to brush him (and swollen and sensitive enough that a brush leaves him gasping).

He would insult his martial prowess or his height or something, but this would require his mouth to be free.

Camillo will do better than brush against him. Camillo will rub against him, over and over, never quite going inside but making both of them gasp.

Every time he gets too close he pulls back a little, fingers Anatole for a while without rubbing off on him. Every time Anatole's fingernails get too sharp he bites his soft lips until he backs off. Every time Anatole gasps he kisses him harder and deeper.

He grinds against him and moans and pants into his mouth, twitches and drips against his cock, curls his nails after a while against his palms so he can grab Camillo harder.

When he can’t take it anymore he pulls his head back and buries it in Camillo’s shoulder, mumbling into it, trying desperately to impale himself on his cock.

“Please. Please. Please. God damn you to Hell. Please.”

Camillo spits in his hand and strokes his own cock once and then impales Anatole. Though not precisely as he might want.

"Fuck."

He'll need to hold still for a second.

He makes an incredible noise in his throat and spasms around Camillo’s cock.

“God — fuck — you son of a bitch — ”

He gasps every word, trembling in place.

Two thousand and one is three times six hundred and sixty-seven. Six hundred and sixty-seven is not divisible by two or three or five or seven or eleven. Thirteen goes into six hundred fifty leaving seventeen so it's not a factor of six hundred sixty-seven. Seventeen goes into six hundred eighty leaving negative thirteen so it's not a factor of six hundred sixty-seven. Nineteen goes into five hundred seventy leaving ninety-seven, so it's not a factor of six hundred sixty-seven. Twenty-three goes into six hundred ninety leaving negative twenty-three, so twenty-three times twenty-nine is six hundred sixty-seven. Two thousand and one is three times twenty-three times twenty-nine.

Okay. Okay.

He can start moving now.

He’d almost caught his breath, lying there in the furs with his blond hair pooling behind him, when Camillo starts moving.

“Ohh — I’ll — kill you — I’ll kill you —”

He’s gasping for air, moaning between phrases.

(He’s warm and tight and he clenches every time Camillo’s torso touches his exposed cunt.)

Two thousand and two is two times one thousand and one.

"No you won't."

One thousand and one isn't divisible by two or three or five.

"You like my cock too much."

Seven goes into nine hundred ten leaving ninety-one, so seven times one hundred forty-three is one thousand one.

"You need it in your mouth and your ass and your cunt."

 One hundred forty three is thirteen times eleven.

"You want to kill someone else with me and show me how wet it makes you."

Two thousand and two is two times seven times eleven times thirteen.

“God — God — bastard — yes — harder —”

One hand tightens in Camillo’s hair, another in the furs.

Two thousand and three is -- oh, to hell with it.

He pushes Anatole's knees up against his chest and fucks him as hard and fast as he can, gasping in the chilly air.

It's not something he can sustain for very long.

Luckily, he wasn’t the only one hovering on the edge for all that time.

Anatole comes hard around his cock and howls so loudly they might hear it back in the hall.

Camillo pulls Anatole's hair -- tweaks his nipple -- shoves two fingers into his cunt and comes like that, feeling the thrusting of his own cock.

The fingers inside him fix the problem where he was very rudely about to stop coming before Camillo had his turn.

As the aftershocks subside, he tries to catch his breath, shivering and twitching.