Sir. Why does that do things to him? He's been called 'sir' a thousand times - not an exaggeration - in his life. Why is it that Rama doing the same, addressing him by title, golden buttons gleaming in the soft light of their fireplace, makes him feel like he can't control himself? But any further introspection is a luxury that his brain can't afford, not with the way Rama stares back at him expectantly.
"You're handsome in red," he says, not letting the commander's tone drop, though the sentiment is coming from him directly and not some facade. He is handsome in red; it just might not be the ideal shade or cut of cloth. "Boots polished, medals shining, well tailored coat and trimmed beard. Other than that button how could I find fault with you?"
Well. He can absolutely find fault with him, that's the game, isn't it? Find a little fault and maybe...offer a little correction?
Crozier brings his hand up to Rama's chest again, running his fingers over the medals they both never actually received, dragging his fingers over the curve of his large pectorals tugged over the jacket, the sling of the golden braid dangling across his chest like a decorative little rope tying him in. "You're too perfect," he tuts.
no subject
Sir. Why does that do things to him? He's been called 'sir' a thousand times - not an exaggeration - in his life. Why is it that Rama doing the same, addressing him by title, golden buttons gleaming in the soft light of their fireplace, makes him feel like he can't control himself? But any further introspection is a luxury that his brain can't afford, not with the way Rama stares back at him expectantly.
"You're handsome in red," he says, not letting the commander's tone drop, though the sentiment is coming from him directly and not some facade. He is handsome in red; it just might not be the ideal shade or cut of cloth. "Boots polished, medals shining, well tailored coat and trimmed beard. Other than that button how could I find fault with you?"
Well. He can absolutely find fault with him, that's the game, isn't it? Find a little fault and maybe...offer a little correction?
Crozier brings his hand up to Rama's chest again, running his fingers over the medals they both never actually received, dragging his fingers over the curve of his large pectorals tugged over the jacket, the sling of the golden braid dangling across his chest like a decorative little rope tying him in. "You're too perfect," he tuts.