That's not a very surprising admission, given what he knows about Rama. His compartmentalizes and squirrels away real emotion just to get himself through the day; desire would never factor into it, even with his fiancé at home waiting for him.
He pulls himself away from thoughts of Rama's fiancé, reassuring himself that here he is mine, there he is hers. Here Rama is his. Right now Rama has his hands on him, and they're kissing and whispering to each other like proper lovers, and battered and bruised as he is he feels so goddamned alive it almost hurts worse than his lungs.
"I...uhn." His head dips slightly, a laugh catching at the back of his throat. "God, you touch me like you love me."
Which he knows he does, he just needed him to know, to have it said. It feels like love. He can't imagine anything wouldn't at this point though.
"A little firmer," he decides. "I'm not broken down there. Anything...anything else. Anything you wish to give me, I'll adore."
Raju listens to Francis’ direction, his smile warm and gentle, feeling full of the soft thing he’d felt when Francis had said his name.
“I do,” he says, voice quiet and steady, confident. The loose circle of his hand tightens just enough to remind him he doesn’t have anything to slick the sensitive skin there with, but not so much that Francis’ skin pulls against his hand, only brushes it. As he keeps speaking his hand’s new grip moves upward.
“I do love you,” he goes on, never wanting to be any further from Francis’ face than he is right now, his thumb moving up to trace the edge of the head underneath it.
He growls quietly and bucks into Rama’s hand. He loves him- it shouldn’t be such a marvel, especially when he has a gentle hand stroking him underneath his trousers, but it hits as strangely and as wonderfully as it had the first time he’d come to realize it. Rama loves him.
Crozier slides his own hand out from Rama’s waistband and brings it between them, caressing and cupping Rama outside his trousers rather than in. He can’t be as graceful as Rama in his movements, but he doesn’t want to be the only one feeling as good as he does, and he wants him terribly. All of him.
His breath shakes as he traces along his length, finding the base through the layers of cloth and following up until his fingers brush over the tip. The feeling might be dulled this way, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t really have the ability to think it through, all the blood rushing elsewhere.
Raju's smile grows a little when Francis' hips jerk. At the movement or the words, or probably both. It fills something deep inside him, knowing his love can effect someone that way. Francis isn't crying or waiting or hoping and desperate without any word at all. Raju loves him and that love isn't something to be endured. It adds to Francis' life, it makes Francis feel like this, and doesn't take anything away.
Whatever Raju's love makes Francis feel, Francis wants to give the feeling back. Or so Raju gathers by the hand against his trousers. Raju's hips roll, trying to grind into it. "Use your fingernails," he orders, half-breathless, then remembers to move his own hand again. "Trousers are too thick. I'll feel you better." Over the head, feeling the shape of it. The foreskin is just there; he runs the side of his thumb over its edge.
“You need thinner trousers,” he says with a slight lilt, attempting to tease but follow-through failing with a quiet groan.
He must be lying. Rama’s absolutely touched a man before, how could it feel this good, be this perfect the first time otherwise? He finds himself letting out a strangled laugh, the idea of the little command hitting his ears and wrapping itself firmly around his heart. He’d jump through fire for him - they might be a perfect match here in this wretched wilderness.
He curls his hand and rakes his nails, trying again to make Rama feeling something. He’d give anything to undo those trousers and take him out, maybe devour him instead of merely touching. These thoughts once more drive his hips up into Rama’s hands, stomach muscles starting to tense, legs shaking ever-so-slightly.
“Rama…Rama…” he gasps, dropping his head down against his shoulder. He abandons his attempts to touch him, for the moment anyway, grabbing onto his thigh and then up to his arm to hold. There’s the creeping desperation, the inability to control himself, he feels it building and building. “Rama, I won’t…Rama.”
Francis' laugh is a strangled, beautiful noise, and Raju catches his own moan in his throat, jerks his hips closer to Francis at the nails raking over his trousers to try and get more pressure, more sensation, and feels the movement bump against the hand he's got around Francis, then the breath in Raju's taken turns from an amused noise into a sharp gasp. Rama. Rama, in that tone, and Francis' head on his shoulder, his hand moving desperately over any part of Raju that it can grab. Raju turns his head to feel his cheek against Francis' hair, the damp of it chill against his skin and perfect, Francis' desperation, the way he's turning to Raju for shelter in the face of it, all perfect.
"I have you," he breathes, grip tightening just a little, thumb moving over the head and then the rest of his fingers moving up over it as well, and then gently back down again. "You can let go. Let go for me Francis, let me feel you. I have you."
He didn’t know he craved permission as much as he did when it was finally granted. Rama’s touch doesn’t ease off, he’s steady and reassuring, and between the encouraging words and the sturdy, absurdly muscular body holding him closely, there isn’t much of a chance of reeling in that need to just release. Rama’s got him. When all is said and done, Rama will still have him.
He grasps and twists Rama’s shirt as the trembling gives way to a very quiet, barely audible but for the gasp and slightly muffled moan, release of tension and beautiful agony and pain and any need to stop and think-
It all goes away, washed way away by the attention of a man with eyes that spark like fire and a smile that could make mountains bend. There’s just a calming static in his head from everything dimming that remains, his body still humming in those moments after he’s spent himself. His head stays pressed against his shoulder, and then he remembers to breathe.
Francis is relaxed against him, still leaning forward into him and softening in Raju’s hand. Raju shifts on the arm he’s leaning against to put more of the weight on the forearm and twist it around, spreading his hand across Francis’ upper back and the base of his neck, helping to hold him up. Raju himself is still breathing hard, his drawers absurdly soft like everything else in this place but too tight, and part of him wants to squirm and grind down onto anything that might find him pressure and friction and relief. But as that kind of urge has started waking up more and more often Raju’s gotten better at ignoring it, and there’s a deep satisfaction in ignoring it now. If Raju ignores it now he can keep holding himself still and steady, he can keep holding Francis relaxed and secure against him and know that he’s strong enough to keep him here, safe. That Francis trusts him with himself in a moment like this one, and that Francis is right to.
He feels Francis’ back against one hand, sturdy and solid, and in the other he feels Francis soft and vulnerable, and that hand lays him down gently, moves fond fingertips over the length of the soft skin, runs his hand in a trail over Francis’ skin up to his hip. Raju’s breaths are deep and fast, but steady. The fire banked inside him isn’t burning, only warming itself there, and its heat pushes him to kiss the side of Francis’ head once, then again, then a third time. His hair tastes a little, still, like soap, and it couldn’t matter less; Raju turns his face against Francis’ hair and breathes him in.
Soft kisses suddenly don’t seem nearly enough. Once his lungs are filled he raises his head and finds Rama’s lips for himself, sucking and kissing and biting, mind still blank yet somehow filled with thoughts of only this man. He’s ravenous, kissing him like it’s the first and maybe the last time.
Once he finds his bones have returned to their rightful place, he returns his hand between them, hand finding Rama’s straining cock beneath the layers once more. “Can you undo these?” he growls softly, kissing the side of his mouth. “I’ll keep you warm…”
Francis kisses fiercely, very hungry for a man who'd just been boneless and breathless in the aftermath of what they've done together. Raju's happy for it — would have been happy to stay that way for five minutes, or half an hour, or the rest of the night if Francis had wanted it, and he's happy for this too, to feel the lips and the passion of the man who loves him, who's happy to love him, somehow.
At the pressure of Francis' hand a noise makes it out of Raju's mouth and sounds like a plea when it escapes, half into the open air and half into Francis' mouth when Raju turns his head, chasing that kiss at the side of his mouth and wanting Francis' lips squarely on his. As he kisses Francis, as he feels the pressure over him, he squirms, and turns his head to breathe out hard against Francis' cheek, and shifts his weight, hand on Francis' hip moving to press against the chair behind him and his other hand moving down. He shifts himself more to one side to reach his trousers better, ignoring the stiffness of an arm held in one place for too long to flick open the first layer of his trousers. His fingers feel in danger of being clumsy but they aren't, they're moving quick and sure and one layer is open, and he starts work on the next.
I'll keep you warm. Raju shivers, and he doesn't know why. "You do," he breathes out hard, pressing his forehead against Francis' temple. The second layer is halfway done, and in a couple seconds it'll be open, too. Then his drawers underneath, but those will be easy to bypass, in one way or another. Francis will figure it out. Raju trusts him to. "You do keep me warm. All the time."
He doesn't know what he's saying. He does know what he's saying. He's saying more than one thing at once. There's the fire Francis has lit inside him now, and then there's the literal, and the metaphorical: the cold is awful here, and it's awful all the time, and Francis doesn't need it kept away, not in the way that Raju does, but he always tries. He tries for Raju.
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.
The feeling of Francis' hand is a hard shock that punches a strange noise out of Raju, one that starts life as a gasp, then grows into a low groan that keeps trading space with the whine it can't decide whether to turn into. The reality of wanting was one thing: stray thoughts, sensitive skin, accidental friction and tension hot inside him, cravings unmet, Francis' body lax and trusting against him, those are all manageable. Manageable and, in a way, familiar, the wanting only valuable in the chance it gives him to hold himself back. The reality of getting is something else, something Raju is completely unprepared for, hadn't known how unprepared until he couldn't not know it, until he's having to lock his hips to keep them from twitching again as he locks down the rest of his body, holding himself tense in every muscle but still, holding his breath for a moment before he speaks.
"I..." he starts, as much a drawn out, shaking noise as a word. He realises he's hiding his face against Francis' shoulder, that the hand that'd been unbuttoning his trousers is gripping Francis' thigh. He tries to loosen his grip, and manages it just a little. He realises he can't quiet his gasping breath. That noise he's hearing is the fire somewhere, now louder. He can barely manage his body, suddenly; there's nothing he can do about it. "I won't... It won't be... long. I can't..."
He thought he might feel him melt against him, yield just for the briefest of moments and let himself be cared for, but of course it was never going to be that easy. He has to coax those moments out of him, but lucky for Rama he’s a very patient man.
“Easy,” he murmurs, “easy. Relax, Rama, try to breathe for me”
He shushes him gently again as he slides his hand slowly up, velvet skin under his palm, slick pooling at the head that he smears with his thumb. “Breathe, can you do that? You’re so tense, I want you to feel what I felt. I know you can, you’ll do that for me, I know. Just for me.”
Crozier turns and nuzzles against his head against his, trying to be solid for him, something to cling to. It puts pressure on his chest, just a little, but nothing aches or pains him. It’s worth a little discomfort for this man.
When Francis first tells him to breathe Raju's already doing it, has to so the pained noise he makes at Rama can make it out. But he stops again as Francis' hand moves, not able to stop his shuddering but controlling himself, chest tight with it, but Francis tells him again. Tells Raju — Rama — tells him to breathe, for Francis. Raju nods against Francis' shoulder, his neck, feels Francis' head moving against his and tries, letting his held breath out in a gust and pulling it back in again.
His hand is trying to clutch at what he realises by touch must be Francis' chest, gets so far as to brush against his shirt there but Raju moves it, presses it flat against the fabric of the chair behind him. He can't let go, can't move, or this is going to end too soon, but he needs to move, some of this needs to go somewhere so he slaps his hand against the chair, feeling the heat over and underneath his skin. But Francis is here. Francis is here, hurt, so the thing inside him can't let loose right here. Around him instead, a circle around the chair. A safe distance away. He feels Francis against him, and around him, and his breath shakes. Only them. The two of them, and Raju's self control. That's all that exists now.
There’s a fire in the cabin, a small rise of flame moving in a slow circle around their chair. The heat doesn’t touch Crozier, not the heat of the flames at least. Rama is the fire, and he burns against him.
He brings his hand down, makes a loose fist, and applies a soft pressure as he works his way along his length. Slow, careful, aware that Rama is sensitive and anything more might hurt him. He shudders as he strokes along back to the head; by touch alone he can tell Ram is as perfect as he’d imagined in his daydreaming.
The fire roars and Rama holds on, muscles so rigid Crozier thinks he could bounce a coin off of them. “Let go,” he urges him, gentle yet just a touch of sternness behind it. He quickly brings his hand up to his lips and sucks his thumb and forefinger, then pushes back into his drawers to use the added slick to massage and trace the tip while his palm squeezes and draws upwards.
Raju's breath comes in fits and starts and little gasps as Francis' hand moves, throat too locked down to make noise so he can hold on through the first time in this long that any hand has touched him this way. His forearm takes his weight against the chair so that hand can curl into a fist as tightly as he can hold it and let go that wonderful voice says, orders him, and Francis' hand is gone and just as quickly it's back and over him, moving, and it's too much, the hitched gasping of his breath tenses and tightens—
But let go Francis had said and with a stuttering, pained noise Raju does, and the noise sounds like a sob as Raju shakes against him. He wants to be touching the man who loves him, who was stern with him, let go, wants to be touching him more than he is, and his one hand moves toward Francis' side again, knows he can't be gentle enough now and moves down, trying to grab hard onto something that feels like a stomach, a hip, a thigh. His panting sounds like moaning and his breaths slow, and he feels wetness between his face and Francis' neck. He feels the heat of his own breath. The crackling of the flames is quieter. Raju still wants to be closer, to touch Francis more, and kisses his neck, then up to kiss his jaw, and then the side of his face, and then his mouth. Then he leans his forehead against Francis', panting, realises that his heart is beating fast when he feels it starting to slow.
"Francis," he says, voice raw. There's nothing in his head to follow it up with. He only wants to say the name, to feel the man and the love of him inside of his mouth.
He's shaking a little. That's alright. That's alright. Francis won't mind.
Rama tastes salty-sweet, Crozier meeting the kisses with reverence and soft awe. Each shuddering gasp answered with a quiet exhale of his own; he sighs as Rama presses their foreheads together.
He leans forward slightly, nose brushing against his cheek. His hand slides out from Rama’s drawers, mindful of how sensitive he must be because he feels the same, hand wrapping tightly around his back to hold him close. To keep him close. He’d hate for him to leave now, for this to end too soon, for them to go back to not being completely tangled up in each other.
“Rama.” He holds him, trembling and sore ribs and all, wanting him more and again (though his body says absolutely not, not for some time). He feels intoxicated by him, wanting every part for himself, strength and vulnerability and joy and pain, all the parts that make him the wonderful man he adores. He wants it for himself, selfishly, forever if possible.
He tips his head up and kisses him softly. “You’re a beautiful man when you fall apart, Rama,” he says quietly, slightly slurring his words as the adrenaline begins to fade.
Francis withdrawing his hand makes Raju whine quietly and squirm a little, and the arm around him, keeping him in place, gets a relieved sigh. Francis says his name — that's not the right way to think of it, that isn't enough, Francis says his name — and Raju's trembling is stronger for a moment, he shivers. What Francis says next after that next kiss, soft, easing him into the lassitude his body wants, makes less sense; the noise that Raju makes on hearing it is wordless and confused. He feels Francis' skin against his as he shakes his head, and he shifts onto one side, trying to lean half of himself against the armrest. It's a small space and most of it is space that Francis needs, but Raju's muscles are loose and weak just now and he won't risk leaning any of his weight on Francis and hurting him.
"You're not making any sense," he manages in a murmur, slurring a little bit himself in the fight against the pull to be too relaxed just now to speak. He breathes against Francis' face. His hand moves from Francis' thigh, feeling its way blindly and very carefully up him, up hip and stomach and over chest, neck, up to the side of Francis' head. His thumb rubs back and forth over Francis' temple and the arm that'd been holding Raju up moves idly down and up again under Francis' shirt and Raju lets out a long, slow sigh, satisfied.
“Yes, I do,” Crozier replies, shivering as Rama’s hand eventually finds its way up into his soft shirt. “Beautiful how you are now.”
Maybe he doesn’t make sense. God knows he feels more wrung out (in the best way) than he ever has before. That’s fine, it makes sense in his mind. He’s beautiful when all that tension floods out of him, beautiful now all boneless and seeking warmth and comfort. He’s beautiful this way, vulnerable only for him. He’s just…he’s beautiful, inside and out, and Crozier is overcome with love for him.
Crozier lays his head against the back of the chair with a low sigh of his own, hand smoothing up and down Rama’s spine, flirting with the very top of his very enticing arse. He smirks a little, snaking his hand back under his waistband to give that perfectly round rump a good pinch.
Raju wants to protest again, even if he can't figure out just how — the loss of control is part of it, has to be part of this sometimes, but Raju needs to keep Francis clean and dry, has to get up to get a new rag and the water, find them both new trousers, clean both of them off, finally dry Francis' hair, and the way that he is now is between him and getting any of those necessary things done, but those are a lot of words for a mouth that has to be coaxed into moving — but Francis moves his hand over Raju's spine and Raju shivers, and then he—
—he's pinched Raju's arse. That's what that feeling was. Raju's so unprepared for it that his whole body twitches and he takes a sharp, shocked breath and looks at Francis with parted lips and wide, surprised eyes. Then he begins to laugh. His body is too relaxed for a proper laugh so it comes out half breath and Raju curls forward with it, laugh progressing into almost a giggle as the hand on Francis' temple slides down to cup his head, and the hand underneath Francis' shirt curls fondly over his chest. "Who does that?" he manages. "Is that how you'll be winning arguments now?"
He’s tempted to ‘shoe’s on the other foot’ him, but dear god, the look in Rama’s eyes. First as they stare up at him, undoubtedly in shock that Crozier would deign stoop to such a level, then they crinkle in delight and amusement and he’s absolutely swooning from the sight of it.
“Next time I’ll just give you a nice slap on the arse, would that be better?” he teases, sweetly rubbing the spot he’d just abused. “But if it gets you to laugh like that, absolutely.”
Anything to make him laugh.
They should move; he’s sore and wants to fall asleep in Rama’s arms, but he also wants to stay like this for as long as possible. Freeze the moment, as it were.
It's strange to feel a hand rubbing him that way, to have anyone in his life who'd touch him there so casually. Strange to have anyone in his life who would do any of the things Francis has done tonight, strange that someone's made it a goal to make him laugh. Maybe when he isn't so relaxed, when this feeling isn't humming through him any more and leaving him tingling and light even as his limbs feel too heavy to lift without work, maybe then he'll puzzle over it. For now he's only happy, is touching him every place that he can while Francis is too injured to plaster their bodies against one another, and he loves Francis, who has his hand on Raju's arse, who wants to make him laugh again. Raju leans forward to kiss him, as passionate as he can be when Raju's hand is on one side of Francis' injured skull and his lips are on the other and it's more important than anything in this world to be gentle. Raju exchanges the idea of pressure for biting and sucking on Francis' lips instead, laughing low and breathless into his mouth.
"It's only going to surprise me the first time," he murmurs. "You'll have to work harder."
“I’ve got the rest of my life to work on my approach,” he murmurs back, pressing his slightly kiss-bitten smile against Rama’s mouth. “You’ll allow for missteps now and again, mn?”
Of the many ideas that cross a man’s mind when suddenly trapped in a world that wants them dead, ‘the rest of one’s life’ seems a bleak concept. Not so for Crozier. There’s a far different life to be had here for him, where the dead have risen and there’s companionship and love. And if his life is only extended for mere months or a few years, he knows his purpose. He will make Rama happy, and he won’t fear or despair, but live a life that has some spark of joy in it.
He presses forward to kiss him back, slow and deep, sighing quietly into his mouth before he pulls back once more. They really need to get off this chair.
Raju turns his head away from the kiss to press his face into Francis' neck. This isn't the way he'd usually hide his expression when he needed to, but the impulse to hide it comes easily, and he's glad. The rest of Francis' life. Once he'd had the calluses built up to endure it, the need to keep disappointing the people who love him. Those calluses must have worn away when he wasn't looking, because it hurts.
A moment later Francis is pulling away, and Raju's smile at him is a little less relaxed and a little more polite, but it's still there; Francis is in front of him and happy, he's happy now, and Raju is trapped in this place anyway. It's like having Francis' arm around him, when he couldn't have pulled back if he'd tried to. He takes a breath deep enough to pull at his chest and holds it, lets it slowly out, studies the way Francis is sitting as he pulls back from him. The hand over Francis' head starts running itself down over it, smoothing down his hair, and the feeling soothes the tension inside Raju's chest a little. His other hand runs fondly down over Francis' chest. Raju can do that now, as much as he likes, and the new possibilities there are enough, nearly, to distract him the way he wanted them to.
He doesn’t see the change in Rama’s smile; the touch feels the same, the affection just as genuine as it was before. “A little,” he admits quietly, hand moving to Rama’s waist. “As much as I’d hate to move, we can’t stay like this.”
They need to settle in for the night, prepare for the chill that will set in by changing clothes and fixing their bed. He needs his bandages put back on before he sleeps, or else he’ll actually do some damage rather than merely risking it.
Crozier reaches for the hand on his chest and brings it up to his lips, brushing a kiss to his knuckles. “But maybe worry about my hair at a later date, mn? Save something for tomorrow.”
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That's not a very surprising admission, given what he knows about Rama. His compartmentalizes and squirrels away real emotion just to get himself through the day; desire would never factor into it, even with his fiancé at home waiting for him.
He pulls himself away from thoughts of Rama's fiancé, reassuring himself that here he is mine, there he is hers. Here Rama is his. Right now Rama has his hands on him, and they're kissing and whispering to each other like proper lovers, and battered and bruised as he is he feels so goddamned alive it almost hurts worse than his lungs.
"I...uhn." His head dips slightly, a laugh catching at the back of his throat. "God, you touch me like you love me."
Which he knows he does, he just needed him to know, to have it said. It feels like love. He can't imagine anything wouldn't at this point though.
"A little firmer," he decides. "I'm not broken down there. Anything...anything else. Anything you wish to give me, I'll adore."
no subject
“I do,” he says, voice quiet and steady, confident. The loose circle of his hand tightens just enough to remind him he doesn’t have anything to slick the sensitive skin there with, but not so much that Francis’ skin pulls against his hand, only brushes it. As he keeps speaking his hand’s new grip moves upward.
“I do love you,” he goes on, never wanting to be any further from Francis’ face than he is right now, his thumb moving up to trace the edge of the head underneath it.
no subject
He growls quietly and bucks into Rama’s hand. He loves him- it shouldn’t be such a marvel, especially when he has a gentle hand stroking him underneath his trousers, but it hits as strangely and as wonderfully as it had the first time he’d come to realize it. Rama loves him.
Crozier slides his own hand out from Rama’s waistband and brings it between them, caressing and cupping Rama outside his trousers rather than in. He can’t be as graceful as Rama in his movements, but he doesn’t want to be the only one feeling as good as he does, and he wants him terribly. All of him.
His breath shakes as he traces along his length, finding the base through the layers of cloth and following up until his fingers brush over the tip. The feeling might be dulled this way, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t really have the ability to think it through, all the blood rushing elsewhere.
no subject
Whatever Raju's love makes Francis feel, Francis wants to give the feeling back. Or so Raju gathers by the hand against his trousers. Raju's hips roll, trying to grind into it. "Use your fingernails," he orders, half-breathless, then remembers to move his own hand again. "Trousers are too thick. I'll feel you better." Over the head, feeling the shape of it. The foreskin is just there; he runs the side of his thumb over its edge.
no subject
“You need thinner trousers,” he says with a slight lilt, attempting to tease but follow-through failing with a quiet groan.
He must be lying. Rama’s absolutely touched a man before, how could it feel this good, be this perfect the first time otherwise? He finds himself letting out a strangled laugh, the idea of the little command hitting his ears and wrapping itself firmly around his heart. He’d jump through fire for him - they might be a perfect match here in this wretched wilderness.
He curls his hand and rakes his nails, trying again to make Rama feeling something. He’d give anything to undo those trousers and take him out, maybe devour him instead of merely touching. These thoughts once more drive his hips up into Rama’s hands, stomach muscles starting to tense, legs shaking ever-so-slightly.
“Rama…Rama…” he gasps, dropping his head down against his shoulder. He abandons his attempts to touch him, for the moment anyway, grabbing onto his thigh and then up to his arm to hold. There’s the creeping desperation, the inability to control himself, he feels it building and building. “Rama, I won’t…Rama.”
no subject
"I have you," he breathes, grip tightening just a little, thumb moving over the head and then the rest of his fingers moving up over it as well, and then gently back down again. "You can let go. Let go for me Francis, let me feel you. I have you."
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He didn’t know he craved permission as much as he did when it was finally granted. Rama’s touch doesn’t ease off, he’s steady and reassuring, and between the encouraging words and the sturdy, absurdly muscular body holding him closely, there isn’t much of a chance of reeling in that need to just release. Rama’s got him. When all is said and done, Rama will still have him.
He grasps and twists Rama’s shirt as the trembling gives way to a very quiet, barely audible but for the gasp and slightly muffled moan, release of tension and beautiful agony and pain and any need to stop and think-
It all goes away, washed way away by the attention of a man with eyes that spark like fire and a smile that could make mountains bend. There’s just a calming static in his head from everything dimming that remains, his body still humming in those moments after he’s spent himself. His head stays pressed against his shoulder, and then he remembers to breathe.
no subject
He feels Francis’ back against one hand, sturdy and solid, and in the other he feels Francis soft and vulnerable, and that hand lays him down gently, moves fond fingertips over the length of the soft skin, runs his hand in a trail over Francis’ skin up to his hip. Raju’s breaths are deep and fast, but steady. The fire banked inside him isn’t burning, only warming itself there, and its heat pushes him to kiss the side of Francis’ head once, then again, then a third time. His hair tastes a little, still, like soap, and it couldn’t matter less; Raju turns his face against Francis’ hair and breathes him in.
no subject
Soft kisses suddenly don’t seem nearly enough. Once his lungs are filled he raises his head and finds Rama’s lips for himself, sucking and kissing and biting, mind still blank yet somehow filled with thoughts of only this man. He’s ravenous, kissing him like it’s the first and maybe the last time.
Once he finds his bones have returned to their rightful place, he returns his hand between them, hand finding Rama’s straining cock beneath the layers once more. “Can you undo these?” he growls softly, kissing the side of his mouth. “I’ll keep you warm…”
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At the pressure of Francis' hand a noise makes it out of Raju's mouth and sounds like a plea when it escapes, half into the open air and half into Francis' mouth when Raju turns his head, chasing that kiss at the side of his mouth and wanting Francis' lips squarely on his. As he kisses Francis, as he feels the pressure over him, he squirms, and turns his head to breathe out hard against Francis' cheek, and shifts his weight, hand on Francis' hip moving to press against the chair behind him and his other hand moving down. He shifts himself more to one side to reach his trousers better, ignoring the stiffness of an arm held in one place for too long to flick open the first layer of his trousers. His fingers feel in danger of being clumsy but they aren't, they're moving quick and sure and one layer is open, and he starts work on the next.
I'll keep you warm. Raju shivers, and he doesn't know why. "You do," he breathes out hard, pressing his forehead against Francis' temple. The second layer is halfway done, and in a couple seconds it'll be open, too. Then his drawers underneath, but those will be easy to bypass, in one way or another. Francis will figure it out. Raju trusts him to. "You do keep me warm. All the time."
He doesn't know what he's saying. He does know what he's saying. He's saying more than one thing at once. There's the fire Francis has lit inside him now, and then there's the literal, and the metaphorical: the cold is awful here, and it's awful all the time, and Francis doesn't need it kept away, not in the way that Raju does, but he always tries. He tries for Raju.
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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.
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"I..." he starts, as much a drawn out, shaking noise as a word. He realises he's hiding his face against Francis' shoulder, that the hand that'd been unbuttoning his trousers is gripping Francis' thigh. He tries to loosen his grip, and manages it just a little. He realises he can't quiet his gasping breath. That noise he's hearing is the fire somewhere, now louder. He can barely manage his body, suddenly; there's nothing he can do about it. "I won't... It won't be... long. I can't..."
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He thought he might feel him melt against him, yield just for the briefest of moments and let himself be cared for, but of course it was never going to be that easy. He has to coax those moments out of him, but lucky for Rama he’s a very patient man.
“Easy,” he murmurs, “easy. Relax, Rama, try to breathe for me”
He shushes him gently again as he slides his hand slowly up, velvet skin under his palm, slick pooling at the head that he smears with his thumb. “Breathe, can you do that? You’re so tense, I want you to feel what I felt. I know you can, you’ll do that for me, I know. Just for me.”
Crozier turns and nuzzles against his head against his, trying to be solid for him, something to cling to. It puts pressure on his chest, just a little, but nothing aches or pains him. It’s worth a little discomfort for this man.
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His hand is trying to clutch at what he realises by touch must be Francis' chest, gets so far as to brush against his shirt there but Raju moves it, presses it flat against the fabric of the chair behind him. He can't let go, can't move, or this is going to end too soon, but he needs to move, some of this needs to go somewhere so he slaps his hand against the chair, feeling the heat over and underneath his skin. But Francis is here. Francis is here, hurt, so the thing inside him can't let loose right here. Around him instead, a circle around the chair. A safe distance away. He feels Francis against him, and around him, and his breath shakes. Only them. The two of them, and Raju's self control. That's all that exists now.
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There’s a fire in the cabin, a small rise of flame moving in a slow circle around their chair. The heat doesn’t touch Crozier, not the heat of the flames at least. Rama is the fire, and he burns against him.
He brings his hand down, makes a loose fist, and applies a soft pressure as he works his way along his length. Slow, careful, aware that Rama is sensitive and anything more might hurt him. He shudders as he strokes along back to the head; by touch alone he can tell Ram is as perfect as he’d imagined in his daydreaming.
The fire roars and Rama holds on, muscles so rigid Crozier thinks he could bounce a coin off of them. “Let go,” he urges him, gentle yet just a touch of sternness behind it. He quickly brings his hand up to his lips and sucks his thumb and forefinger, then pushes back into his drawers to use the added slick to massage and trace the tip while his palm squeezes and draws upwards.
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But let go Francis had said and with a stuttering, pained noise Raju does, and the noise sounds like a sob as Raju shakes against him. He wants to be touching the man who loves him, who was stern with him, let go, wants to be touching him more than he is, and his one hand moves toward Francis' side again, knows he can't be gentle enough now and moves down, trying to grab hard onto something that feels like a stomach, a hip, a thigh. His panting sounds like moaning and his breaths slow, and he feels wetness between his face and Francis' neck. He feels the heat of his own breath. The crackling of the flames is quieter. Raju still wants to be closer, to touch Francis more, and kisses his neck, then up to kiss his jaw, and then the side of his face, and then his mouth. Then he leans his forehead against Francis', panting, realises that his heart is beating fast when he feels it starting to slow.
"Francis," he says, voice raw. There's nothing in his head to follow it up with. He only wants to say the name, to feel the man and the love of him inside of his mouth.
He's shaking a little. That's alright. That's alright. Francis won't mind.
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Rama tastes salty-sweet, Crozier meeting the kisses with reverence and soft awe. Each shuddering gasp answered with a quiet exhale of his own; he sighs as Rama presses their foreheads together.
He leans forward slightly, nose brushing against his cheek. His hand slides out from Rama’s drawers, mindful of how sensitive he must be because he feels the same, hand wrapping tightly around his back to hold him close. To keep him close. He’d hate for him to leave now, for this to end too soon, for them to go back to not being completely tangled up in each other.
“Rama.” He holds him, trembling and sore ribs and all, wanting him more and again (though his body says absolutely not, not for some time). He feels intoxicated by him, wanting every part for himself, strength and vulnerability and joy and pain, all the parts that make him the wonderful man he adores. He wants it for himself, selfishly, forever if possible.
He tips his head up and kisses him softly. “You’re a beautiful man when you fall apart, Rama,” he says quietly, slightly slurring his words as the adrenaline begins to fade.
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"You're not making any sense," he manages in a murmur, slurring a little bit himself in the fight against the pull to be too relaxed just now to speak. He breathes against Francis' face. His hand moves from Francis' thigh, feeling its way blindly and very carefully up him, up hip and stomach and over chest, neck, up to the side of Francis' head. His thumb rubs back and forth over Francis' temple and the arm that'd been holding Raju up moves idly down and up again under Francis' shirt and Raju lets out a long, slow sigh, satisfied.
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“Yes, I do,” Crozier replies, shivering as Rama’s hand eventually finds its way up into his soft shirt. “Beautiful how you are now.”
Maybe he doesn’t make sense. God knows he feels more wrung out (in the best way) than he ever has before. That’s fine, it makes sense in his mind. He’s beautiful when all that tension floods out of him, beautiful now all boneless and seeking warmth and comfort. He’s beautiful this way, vulnerable only for him. He’s just…he’s beautiful, inside and out, and Crozier is overcome with love for him.
Crozier lays his head against the back of the chair with a low sigh of his own, hand smoothing up and down Rama’s spine, flirting with the very top of his very enticing arse. He smirks a little, snaking his hand back under his waistband to give that perfectly round rump a good pinch.
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—he's pinched Raju's arse. That's what that feeling was. Raju's so unprepared for it that his whole body twitches and he takes a sharp, shocked breath and looks at Francis with parted lips and wide, surprised eyes. Then he begins to laugh. His body is too relaxed for a proper laugh so it comes out half breath and Raju curls forward with it, laugh progressing into almost a giggle as the hand on Francis' temple slides down to cup his head, and the hand underneath Francis' shirt curls fondly over his chest. "Who does that?" he manages. "Is that how you'll be winning arguments now?"
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He’s tempted to ‘shoe’s on the other foot’ him, but dear god, the look in Rama’s eyes. First as they stare up at him, undoubtedly in shock that Crozier would deign stoop to such a level, then they crinkle in delight and amusement and he’s absolutely swooning from the sight of it.
“Next time I’ll just give you a nice slap on the arse, would that be better?” he teases, sweetly rubbing the spot he’d just abused. “But if it gets you to laugh like that, absolutely.”
Anything to make him laugh.
They should move; he’s sore and wants to fall asleep in Rama’s arms, but he also wants to stay like this for as long as possible. Freeze the moment, as it were.
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"It's only going to surprise me the first time," he murmurs. "You'll have to work harder."
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“I’ve got the rest of my life to work on my approach,” he murmurs back, pressing his slightly kiss-bitten smile against Rama’s mouth. “You’ll allow for missteps now and again, mn?”
Of the many ideas that cross a man’s mind when suddenly trapped in a world that wants them dead, ‘the rest of one’s life’ seems a bleak concept. Not so for Crozier. There’s a far different life to be had here for him, where the dead have risen and there’s companionship and love. And if his life is only extended for mere months or a few years, he knows his purpose. He will make Rama happy, and he won’t fear or despair, but live a life that has some spark of joy in it.
He presses forward to kiss him back, slow and deep, sighing quietly into his mouth before he pulls back once more. They really need to get off this chair.
He hates that they need to get off this chair.
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A moment later Francis is pulling away, and Raju's smile at him is a little less relaxed and a little more polite, but it's still there; Francis is in front of him and happy, he's happy now, and Raju is trapped in this place anyway. It's like having Francis' arm around him, when he couldn't have pulled back if he'd tried to. He takes a breath deep enough to pull at his chest and holds it, lets it slowly out, studies the way Francis is sitting as he pulls back from him. The hand over Francis' head starts running itself down over it, smoothing down his hair, and the feeling soothes the tension inside Raju's chest a little. His other hand runs fondly down over Francis' chest. Raju can do that now, as much as he likes, and the new possibilities there are enough, nearly, to distract him the way he wanted them to.
"What is it?" he murmurs. "Uncomfortable?"
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He doesn’t see the change in Rama’s smile; the touch feels the same, the affection just as genuine as it was before. “A little,” he admits quietly, hand moving to Rama’s waist. “As much as I’d hate to move, we can’t stay like this.”
They need to settle in for the night, prepare for the chill that will set in by changing clothes and fixing their bed. He needs his bandages put back on before he sleeps, or else he’ll actually do some damage rather than merely risking it.
Crozier reaches for the hand on his chest and brings it up to his lips, brushing a kiss to his knuckles. “But maybe worry about my hair at a later date, mn? Save something for tomorrow.”
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