It isn’t so much the places Francis is tickling that eat at his resolve but the unrelenting nature of it. But certain places do get more of a stifled, choked-off reaction than others: His nipples, of course. His armpits, the insides of his elbows, his sides, the skin between his hips. The tops of his thighs. If Francis risks lower, behind his knees, the sensitive skin there and Francis’ persistence, and the smirk in Francis’ voice will win him a burst of laughter, sharp and delighted, before Raju wrests his voice under control again. His legs twitch hard and then still, and fall open wider.

“Everything else?” he wheezes, feet scrabbling at the blanket more to ease the part of him that wants to squirm away from Francis’ fingers than to try and get any real distance. “It’s not that important.”

Then, mostly to add another protest and a little just for the pleasure of feeling it inside his mouth: “Francis!” he says again.