The snap of Francis' hips gets a hard, happy noise out of Raju and then with Francis' movement more start making it out of him between his panting and he's clinging to Francis, free hand gripping Francis' shoulder and the other Francis' hand, and his hips are pumping in time with Francis' thrusts, and when the angle of their movements hits that spot Francis discovered before the noises Raju is making become more noise than breath. A moment later when the pleasure in him tips over and he spills onto Francis' stomach it's with a noise of surprise and a rush of heat into their linked hands, and he presses his forehead against Francis' neck and his shoulder. Then he starts kissing the skin there over and over, panting, but his hips are struggling to keep the pace they had been now and their movement stutters, and Raju has to lay back.
He's trying to move with Francis still but it's harder, he's loose and he's tired, and the kind of contentment moving through him is one he's only very seldom known. He can't express it by kissing the rest of Francis' skin any more; he contents himself with turning his head and kissing the hand linked with his instead, keeping his gaze turned upward, onto Francis' eyes. No matter what else has changed about Francis his eyes are the same shade of blue, the same tan ring around their inner edge. Like looking down into a riverbed. Or, up into one. The thought might not make sense; the only thing that does is the skin and warmth against him, the two of them, connected everywhere.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-10-05 12:09 am (UTC)He's trying to move with Francis still but it's harder, he's loose and he's tired, and the kind of contentment moving through him is one he's only very seldom known. He can't express it by kissing the rest of Francis' skin any more; he contents himself with turning his head and kissing the hand linked with his instead, keeping his gaze turned upward, onto Francis' eyes. No matter what else has changed about Francis his eyes are the same shade of blue, the same tan ring around their inner edge. Like looking down into a riverbed. Or, up into one. The thought might not make sense; the only thing that does is the skin and warmth against him, the two of them, connected everywhere.