Francis' voice is soft and fervent, and even with the storm of... of everything that's inside him, it puts a small, tender smile onto Raju's face. My Rama is still echoing softly around the walls of his mind, repeating here and there quietly in his thoughts as if not sure what to be doing with itself. His fingers creep down further and find what can only be what they're looking for, all stiff solidity and soft skin. He doesn't grab carelessly the way he had with himself, in the days pleasure had made enough of a difference to touch himself at all; this is Francis, and Raju's hand is gentle. Fingertips brush around the width of it, and his palm brushes after.
"I've never touched a man this way," he murmurs. His throat is a little sore; that means he'd have been crying, he realises, if crying was easier. Was it the name, hearing it again? He tries to figure it out, to call the feeling up again, and only feels a wash of softness and warmth easing through him, and some powerful wave of something underneath that. My Rama, the thought comes again.
"My Francis," he answers it, and his thumb moves down the skin on the other side, very slowly, to settle his hand in a very loose grip. His fingers curl, brushing fingertips over the base, through wiry hair.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-07-02 02:45 am (UTC)"I've never touched a man this way," he murmurs. His throat is a little sore; that means he'd have been crying, he realises, if crying was easier. Was it the name, hearing it again? He tries to figure it out, to call the feeling up again, and only feels a wash of softness and warmth easing through him, and some powerful wave of something underneath that. My Rama, the thought comes again.
"My Francis," he answers it, and his thumb moves down the skin on the other side, very slowly, to settle his hand in a very loose grip. His fingers curl, brushing fingertips over the base, through wiry hair.