Even if he’d been completely healed, no broken ribs or bruised eye to carefully navigate around, he hadn’t believe his body was still made for something like this. He’s damaged, missing limbs and scarred all to hell; there’s never been a time when out on the ice that he imagined himself with someone. A lonely man being lonely for the rest of his life - pathetic, but it was his reality, his bed would always remain empty.
Because he’d never dreamed or imagined - and when he thoughts did stray it was always in the past, never the present - he’d never thought about things like logistics or how he was supposed to please another person being as he is. When his mind started to drift to thoughts of Rama he didn’t let himself consider how things might unfold, because they wouldn’t, of course, but if they did he assumed he’d be altogether lost.
It’s not the case at all. The two of them, even like this, the hurried, frenzied nature of this coupling on a goddamned chair of all places, seem to move together as though they’ve been doing this for years. They ask and softly plead or command, and there’s no part of himself that feels wrong or out of place. He was made for this, for whatever that’s worth.
Crozier tips his head slightly to kiss along his jaw, feeling Rama’s fingers work his trousers open just for him. There’s the first layer, then the second, and Crozier’s hand slips down to feel the final layer of fabric with a quiet shudder. It’s a shame he can’t see him properly; he knows he must be absolutely stunning, but at least he can feel him. His hand slides underneath the drawers to take Rama, neglected and aching, into his hand, palm feeling smooth skin and the arch of his length.
no subject
Even if he’d been completely healed, no broken ribs or bruised eye to carefully navigate around, he hadn’t believe his body was still made for something like this. He’s damaged, missing limbs and scarred all to hell; there’s never been a time when out on the ice that he imagined himself with someone. A lonely man being lonely for the rest of his life - pathetic, but it was his reality, his bed would always remain empty.
Because he’d never dreamed or imagined - and when he thoughts did stray it was always in the past, never the present - he’d never thought about things like logistics or how he was supposed to please another person being as he is. When his mind started to drift to thoughts of Rama he didn’t let himself consider how things might unfold, because they wouldn’t, of course, but if they did he assumed he’d be altogether lost.
It’s not the case at all. The two of them, even like this, the hurried, frenzied nature of this coupling on a goddamned chair of all places, seem to move together as though they’ve been doing this for years. They ask and softly plead or command, and there’s no part of himself that feels wrong or out of place. He was made for this, for whatever that’s worth.
Crozier tips his head slightly to kiss along his jaw, feeling Rama’s fingers work his trousers open just for him. There’s the first layer, then the second, and Crozier’s hand slips down to feel the final layer of fabric with a quiet shudder. It’s a shame he can’t see him properly; he knows he must be absolutely stunning, but at least he can feel him. His hand slides underneath the drawers to take Rama, neglected and aching, into his hand, palm feeling smooth skin and the arch of his length.