With a noise of deep satisfaction Raju does move, feeling his thighs tighten as Francis grabs his arse — both hands — and resisting the urge to buck his hips, all the rest of his muscles tightening briefly with the need to keep himself still. His hands need the room to work. His one moves, quickly again, up and over the both of them, around, down again, while his other tickles Francis' sack fondly before moving for his perineum. Francis had mentioned this, hadn't he? Before his ribs had healed, when they'd been...

Raju doesn't have it in him to look back at the memory. Everything is focused on the now, on the way Francis' skin feels against his in his hand, the way it feels under his fingertip as Raju pushes and scrapes carefully, experimentally. His eyes have fixed themselves on Francis', his lips stay parted, panting out warm air, and he is all sensation, all joy, Francis' joy.