Raju's tentative hand is drifting toward his hair, now. It's a different kind of shock from the rest, to find it neatly swept back and held there. He thinks he keeps himself as neat as he can, here, but there's only so much you can do with scissors, a comb, and wet hair. But it wouldn't do, would it, wearing the rest of this without looking neat. Neat enough to show respect for the uniform. For what it represents.
He takes a slow, bracing breath, gaze finally moving up to Francis as his hand drifts down again. He tucks the hard helmet under his elbow, an automatic gesture, and his gaze slides off Francis' eyes and toward the floor. "I haven't worn this one before," he says quietly, tone bare of anything much. "It's the one I... wanted."
He lifts his arms a little, palms up, studying the sleeves. "It fits." He doesn't know why that seems notable. As if he'd outgrown it, here.
It says so much about the world Rama left behind, his entire life wrapped up in the pursuit of goddamned red jacket. He hasn’t even worn it yet, this well-tailored, shiny reminder of the people who murdered his family.
He doesn’t know what to make of it, seeing Rama like this. Seeing him in the outfit of the people who would have never seen him as an equal (and god, does he knows how that feels, that overwhelming sense of being an imposter, a fake wearing those clothes) makes him feel strange. His Ram deserves more than what that uniform could ever be - but it’s a disguise, it’s a disguise he reminds himself. It’s not Rama’s heart, it’s not who he truly is, even if he gave his entire life to it.
He’s torn between wanting to admire him, because the tailoring is spectacular, and also wanting to tear the uniform right off of his body.
“Your beard is gone…”
That seems strange too. This place dressed and shaved him!
Raju blinks as he looks up again, actually focusing on Francis for the first time since walking inside. A smile flickers over his face and starts fading away again as soon as it's there.
"What do you think?" He regrets the question nearly as soon as it's out of his mouth, and isn't sure why. "More or less strange than when I shaved yours?"
Raju's gaze follows Francis' fingers, frown twitching at the corners of his mouth as his attention's drawn down to the medals. "I'll grow it out again and you can shave it after," he tries, attention still drawn by Francis' exploration, in spite of himself. "Then we'll be even."
He's quiet a moment, looking down at himself. Then he sighs, tugging straight the already-straight jacket. "It feels strange," he confesses, quietly. "Wearing this, I feel like I should be taking orders from someone." He hears what he's just said, and the frown spreads to his eyebrows, deepens at his mouth. His fingers curl, thumbs trying to rub against them before they tighten into fists. He wishes he could take the words back. But they're true.
His fingers find their way to the golden braid, like the pocket watch chain that used to drape across his waistcoat but absurd, and tugs on it. The idea of giving orders is sticking in his brain; the idea of giving Rama orders, of him just taking what he’s given in that signature bloody coat, is tempting. Very tempting.
“We could be even now,” he replies, flicking at one of the golden buttons. It opens slightly, ruining that pretty and perfect sight. “You know I’m well-practiced in giving orders, and you, currently, have an undone button.”
Raju looks at him, surprised out of some small portion of his frown. He's quiet a moment, studying Francis. It's less that he can't follow where Francis is leading, and more the time it takes to match this particular man to it. And it's hard, a little, to move there from where he is: the uniform is an important one, and he's never worn any uniform at home for anything that wasn't serious.
But he trusts Francis. And it isn't as if he knows what to do with wearing the damned thing here. "I'm... sorry, sir," he tries, frowning at Francis, not convinced but following anyway. "It won't happen again."
He doesn’t know if Ram wants to play, but Crozier can sense when he’s struck on a personal weakness. He wants him, just like this, in that neat little uniform that symbolizes everything he hated most in the world. He hates the uniform, but he loves Ram. He adores Ram, handsome creature that he is, filling that uniform like no Englishman ever could.
Would it be better if he was wearing the uniform too? Maybe not. It would be a distraction, and lord knows he would rip that thing off as soon as he found himself in it.
“Fix it,” he growls, palm on Ram’s chest. He pushes at him insistently.
It's obvious the uniform strikes some kind of note inside Francis, too; Raju realises that, belatedly. He'd been fascinated as soon as he'd seen it, hadn't he, and then this now. It's a role, Raju understands that, but a role Francis had suggested, and suggested it right away. The growl, the push — Raju doesn't hide the way he's studying Francis, trying to figure him out, not the way he'd hid everything back home. But he doesn't stumble back either, has fallen back into the stance he'd used to stand in without even noticing he'd been doing it. And if a superior officer wants you to move back, they'll tell you. Raju stays where he is.
"Right away sir," he says briskly, reaching up to re-fasten the one button. His movements, he realises as he does it, are a little like his stance, fallen into something else while he wasn't noticing. The way he reaches up, moves his arms and fingers, is only graceful if grace can be assembled one piece at a time: bend the arms pull the button fasten it, three separate precise motions linked stiltedly together instead of one complete motion working toward one end. He'd never noticed that before, that he moves differently.
But he's lingered, noticing. He would have been expected to move back to attention right away before and does it now, late, dropping his arms to his sides and looking straight ahead. But where he wouldn't allow his gaze to rest on any officer giving orders at home that impulse doesn't last here and his gaze focuses again quickly, frowning at Francis to see what else he's going to do.
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.
It's odd, the way he notices everything now. As if he hadn't noticed anything before. As Francis, in that faux-commander's tone details the perfections of Raju's uniform pride is glowing faintly in his chest, even though Francis isn't an authority of any kind, won't be reporting what's done well here to anyone. Not that anything's actually been done well at all. It's there even knowing this is a game. Feeling its warm glow makes Raju as uneasy as the uniform itself, but thankfully Francis is unhappy with him, and there's that instead to deal with. Or should he think of him as Crozier now, through whatever game it is Francis is playing? Or Captain?
Raju moves his gaze from Francis' face to the air in front of him. His fingers are curled tight at his sides, in the way they always were; the one at his thigh, the other holding his helmet in place, both likely to move and twitch and fidget unacceptably if he doesn't keep them clenched at least a little. And then the strategy of figuring out what to say: always a strategy when one of the ranking officers speaks to craft exactly the right response, regardless of how likely this particular line of inquiry would have been back then.
"It gives the men something to look up to," he says to the wall in front of him, his voice lower as it is in uniform, hard confidence filling out every syllable. "Captain."
It’s almost as though someone else is using his mouth to speak, a darker side of himself that still desires control and the tiniest level of power. That man who hit the bottle, demanded respect without earning it, the one who was wrathful and envious and secretly wanted others to fail. Of course this is a silly thought; there’s no separate man, it’s just him and his baser urges at the sight of Rama in this fetching uniform.
He takes a step forward, directly into him, foot physically separating Rama’s legs as he uses his slightly taller form to intimidate him. His hand slides down his coat slowly, dropping down his waist and then even further still. “Do you think you’re so above all the others that you won’t crumple? Do you think you’ll still be the picture of a perfect officer if I have my way with you?”
His smirk is soft but wicked, and he drops his hand even further to cup between his legs. “Are you perfect here too?”
Raju's expression doesn't so much as flicker when Francis cups between his legs, not with all the warning those questions had given. A neat way to illustrate the game for him, and if those are the rules, Raju is going to win.
Or at least make Francis fight for it. Francis wants victory here and so Raju wants him to have it, but showing nothing is a skill Raju's spent a large part of his life developing, and a recent part of it practising almost constantly. But Francis hasn't seen that, has he? Francis has seen more of him than any one person, but has he ever seen this part of him?
It hardly matters now; by starting this, Francis has already asked to see it.
"Sir," he says evenly. It's the only answer he can give, in the roles set: an acknowledgement without protesting, or anything that might be taken for back talk. A response without a response at all. He doesn't step back, or move, or look anywhere.
He’s good, but then again, he would have to be, wouldn’t he? Crozier smiles even wider, impressed but not relenting. It’s already too much fun.
“You are,” he declares, forefinger and thumb searching for the outline of his cock. “You’ve got a nice, fat prick between your legs.”
As though he hasn’t touched him before.
He keeps his hand exactly where it is, cupping between his legs and then pushes forward, forcefully walking Rama backwards until his back hits the door.
Francis' fingers search, and find, and the outline they trace begins to stir as soon as he feels that much-loved hand moving there. His breath in, feeling it, is a little deeper than normal, but very quiet. His nostrils flare a little.
Then Francis begins walking him back but once he gets close enough there's nothing to do with it but move, and so that at least hardly counts as a response. But he keeps his gaze carefully unfocused and carefully off Francis while he does it, so there's no doubt he isn't giving in, only responding.
"Sir," he says again, determinedly neutral. Of all the conversations he's had with any officer before there isn't exactly a script for this one.
“Sir,” he repeats with a touch of a snarl. He takes his hand off of him only to press it, palm outstretched flat, against the chest of his chest. He pushes hard, making sure Ram is nice and boxed in against the door, and then kisses him hard.
It’s less about catching Rama off guard and having him break, and more the overwhelming need to possess him and have him all for himself. This very beautiful man with self-control that would intimidate a Royal Marine is his and no one else’s, and he both wants the world to know and to keep him for himself like a precious secret. He kisses him with all that hunger, consuming him utterly with his hand still pressed against that blood red coat.
Francis kisses him hard and Raju's eyes snap closed. He finds himself kissing back, breathing hard through his nose and moving his lips against Francis', and one hand lifts, and then snaps down to his side again, clenching itself into a fist. The hand holding his helmet curls its fingers tightly around its edge. His chest heaves harder rhythmically against the force of Francis' hand with his breathing, and won't stop even after the kiss is done, while Raju's staring straight ahead again with the muscles of his jaw tight.
He’d hoped Rama would kiss him back, but as he ends the kiss with a sharp bite to his lower lip he sees those stiff limbs and that disciplined stare. It’s hard not to be impressed by that level of determination, but he can work with it.
Crozier laughs quietly and takes the helmet out from under from Rama’s arm, setting it onto the nearby hook by the door. “You won’t be needing that,” he tells him. “Arms up over your head, and bring those hands together. Now.”
He does look to Francis' eyes then, studying him again, thoughtful and confused and frowning. It'd taken his hand an instant to make itself relax its grip when Francis had started taking his helmet and that — or something like it, for some more likely reason — might have been a disaster at home, seeming to refuse a ranking officer anything, even by pure reaction, even for a fraction of a second. But that, and the order, and the threat in the order, sits starkly against everything he feels whenever he thinks of Francis, or looks at him, like bright sun rising in him behind deep shadow. And all that sits oddly next to being told something like this without it being a fight, trusting the other man to make this something good, because that man is Francis.
Easier to stop thinking about how any of it feels, and only do. Only follow Francis' orders, and nevermind the what or why.
Raju's gaze fixes itself back to the wall in the distance ahead of him, holding his wrists next to one another and raising his arms, his knuckles hitting the door above his head. "The handcuffs on my belt are new, sir," he says, tone very neutral, apropos of nothing. Certainly not because a navy captain who hardly used his weapon might not know the things were there, heavy in the pouch at his waist and ready to be used. "I haven't had time to prepare them for inspection."
He’d been planning on pinning his wrists above his head with his hand, but cuffs are so much more efficient, and it’s a ringing endorsement from Rama himself to proceed. He looks through the bag at his waist and finds the handcuffs, as shiny and pristine as the buttons on his coat or medals pinned to his chest, and ‘inspects’ them closely to understand the locking mechanism. They’re different than what he’s used to, more intricate but clearly easier to operate.
“A practical inspection then,” he nods, snapping them around both wrists easily. “Keep your hands up. If they drop…”
He has to think of a threat, but when one doesn’t come to mind he settles for a stern Look. His hand goes to Rama’s trousers again, this time the buttons and then his drawers, stepping close to him as he pushes both pieces down his hips. He growls low in his throat and kisses along that bare jaw.
Keep his arms up. An order, and a challenge. It's a relief, the one certain goal in the middle of everything else. He keeps them up when the chill air hits his thighs, and when Francis' lips start moving over his jaw. The metal is cold over his skin and heavy on his arms, and presses into his wrists where they press against the door. It's a bit of a surprise, that something like this would be the first time he feels them put around his wrists, instead of putting them around someone else's. It doesn't feel the way he'd thought it would. But of course it doesn't, considering.
His heart is beating harder — as much, he realises, from ruining the uniform leaving the trousers on the floor as from Francis' lips. After a moment, he turns his head; he didn't get an order to but it gives Francis more room, and he likes feeling his teeth there.
Ram willingly presenting his neck is something Crozier won’t pass up. His lips move along that strong jawline and up to the spot just under Rama’s ear, where he sucks and bites as his hand finds Ram’s prick underneath his jacket. His fingers wrap around him and begin to stroke along his length from base to tip; he wants him hard and aching, there’ll be no mercy.
Wrists cuffed, neck assaulted by teeth and tongue, cock being stroked by fingers that have been quick to learn him, Crozier knows he’s performing an all-out attack on Rama’s resolve. But it’s a game, and he knows he can take it. He’d say otherwise.
Raju doesn't quite keep his breathing steady. Quite becomes more of a generous description as the moments go on: his arms grow heavier, Francis' mouth is warm, and his blood is rapidly rushing south. The lowered trousers trap him just as surely as the handcuffs do, making it impossible for him to move away gracefully if he'd wanted to, and keeping his arms this way means he can't touch Francis back.
He presses his arms a little harder back against the door, watching the ceiling with his head tipped to the side, feeling everything.
As he sucks a deep, purple spot into Ram’s skin he starts to think about other things he might want to touch with his mouth. He’s almost certain he can get Rama to groan if he goes a certain route, even if he hasn’t exactly done anything like it before. He’s a clever man though, not above trying something new and facing potential embarrassment. He can probably figure it out as he goes.
With that willingness to endeavor he places one more bite to his neck and then lets himself drop down to his knees in front of Rama. He has to pluck open a few of the golden buttons on Ram’s glorious coat for easier access, pushing and then tucking aside the half draped under the impossibly big belt so that it doesn’t look like he’s ducking underneath a skirt. He wants to see Rama while he’s doing this - and Rama to see him.
He’s eye-level with Ram’s prick now, and he takes him back into his hand with a soft smile, appreciative and fond despite the game. “Much more impressive from this angle,” he remarks casually.
Francis moves, and Raju frowns. Raju risks a glance down and his eyes widen, and he stares. Francis compliments him casually as if this were any other day, smiling, and Raju opens his mouth to say—
"...Sir," he manages, voice betraying only a little bit of surprise, a little bit of tension, and he looks forward again, bracing the back of his head against the door for a sensation to focus on. There's no room, here, for are you sure. In Francis' play at giving orders he wouldn't have knelt there in the first place if he wasn't, anyway, so Raju supposes that he must be.
Raju remembers it, suddenly: his feet hurting in a way they never had before, Francis kneeling in front of him to tend to them. To his shoes. He'd thought of this then, hadn't he? Has Francis thought of something like this too, before now? And how many times has he actually done it? What was it he'd said, when Raju had asked about his lovers an eternity ago?
There's nothing he's able to ask, within the outlines of their game, so there's nothing worth wondering about. The only question he needs to concern himself with is how to keep himself still.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-07-31 12:40 pm (UTC)He takes a slow, bracing breath, gaze finally moving up to Francis as his hand drifts down again. He tucks the hard helmet under his elbow, an automatic gesture, and his gaze slides off Francis' eyes and toward the floor. "I haven't worn this one before," he says quietly, tone bare of anything much. "It's the one I... wanted."
He lifts his arms a little, palms up, studying the sleeves. "It fits." He doesn't know why that seems notable. As if he'd outgrown it, here.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-31 11:33 pm (UTC)It says so much about the world Rama left behind, his entire life wrapped up in the pursuit of goddamned red jacket. He hasn’t even worn it yet, this well-tailored, shiny reminder of the people who murdered his family.
He doesn’t know what to make of it, seeing Rama like this. Seeing him in the outfit of the people who would have never seen him as an equal (and god, does he knows how that feels, that overwhelming sense of being an imposter, a fake wearing those clothes) makes him feel strange. His Ram deserves more than what that uniform could ever be - but it’s a disguise, it’s a disguise he reminds himself. It’s not Rama’s heart, it’s not who he truly is, even if he gave his entire life to it.
He’s torn between wanting to admire him, because the tailoring is spectacular, and also wanting to tear the uniform right off of his body.
“Your beard is gone…”
That seems strange too. This place dressed and shaved him!
no subject
Date: 2024-08-01 12:21 am (UTC)"What do you think?" He regrets the question nearly as soon as it's out of his mouth, and isn't sure why. "More or less strange than when I shaved yours?"
no subject
Date: 2024-08-01 01:30 am (UTC)What does he think? He thinks...
He thinks he's handsome as all hell, is what he thinks. Stunning even. Put together and strong, but still frail for some reason.
"More," he says definitively. "More, because I assume you didn't do this yourself."
Crozier steps forward, getting close enough to reach out and brush his fingers across one of the medals.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-01 08:56 pm (UTC)He's quiet a moment, looking down at himself. Then he sighs, tugging straight the already-straight jacket. "It feels strange," he confesses, quietly. "Wearing this, I feel like I should be taking orders from someone." He hears what he's just said, and the frown spreads to his eyebrows, deepens at his mouth. His fingers curl, thumbs trying to rub against them before they tighten into fists. He wishes he could take the words back. But they're true.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-02 12:20 am (UTC)His fingers find their way to the golden braid, like the pocket watch chain that used to drape across his waistcoat but absurd, and tugs on it. The idea of giving orders is sticking in his brain; the idea of giving Rama orders, of him just taking what he’s given in that signature bloody coat, is tempting. Very tempting.
“We could be even now,” he replies, flicking at one of the golden buttons. It opens slightly, ruining that pretty and perfect sight. “You know I’m well-practiced in giving orders, and you, currently, have an undone button.”
no subject
Date: 2024-08-02 01:15 am (UTC)But he trusts Francis. And it isn't as if he knows what to do with wearing the damned thing here. "I'm... sorry, sir," he tries, frowning at Francis, not convinced but following anyway. "It won't happen again."
no subject
Date: 2024-08-02 02:00 am (UTC)He doesn’t know if Ram wants to play, but Crozier can sense when he’s struck on a personal weakness. He wants him, just like this, in that neat little uniform that symbolizes everything he hated most in the world. He hates the uniform, but he loves Ram. He adores Ram, handsome creature that he is, filling that uniform like no Englishman ever could.
Would it be better if he was wearing the uniform too? Maybe not. It would be a distraction, and lord knows he would rip that thing off as soon as he found himself in it.
“Fix it,” he growls, palm on Ram’s chest. He pushes at him insistently.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-02 02:44 am (UTC)"Right away sir," he says briskly, reaching up to re-fasten the one button. His movements, he realises as he does it, are a little like his stance, fallen into something else while he wasn't noticing. The way he reaches up, moves his arms and fingers, is only graceful if grace can be assembled one piece at a time: bend the arms pull the button fasten it, three separate precise motions linked stiltedly together instead of one complete motion working toward one end. He'd never noticed that before, that he moves differently.
But he's lingered, noticing. He would have been expected to move back to attention right away before and does it now, late, dropping his arms to his sides and looking straight ahead. But where he wouldn't allow his gaze to rest on any officer giving orders at home that impulse doesn't last here and his gaze focuses again quickly, frowning at Francis to see what else he's going to do.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-02 04:57 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2024-08-02 05:28 pm (UTC)Raju moves his gaze from Francis' face to the air in front of him. His fingers are curled tight at his sides, in the way they always were; the one at his thigh, the other holding his helmet in place, both likely to move and twitch and fidget unacceptably if he doesn't keep them clenched at least a little. And then the strategy of figuring out what to say: always a strategy when one of the ranking officers speaks to craft exactly the right response, regardless of how likely this particular line of inquiry would have been back then.
"It gives the men something to look up to," he says to the wall in front of him, his voice lower as it is in uniform, hard confidence filling out every syllable. "Captain."
no subject
Date: 2024-08-02 10:54 pm (UTC)“And what if I want you to squirm, mn?”
It’s almost as though someone else is using his mouth to speak, a darker side of himself that still desires control and the tiniest level of power. That man who hit the bottle, demanded respect without earning it, the one who was wrathful and envious and secretly wanted others to fail. Of course this is a silly thought; there’s no separate man, it’s just him and his baser urges at the sight of Rama in this fetching uniform.
He takes a step forward, directly into him, foot physically separating Rama’s legs as he uses his slightly taller form to intimidate him. His hand slides down his coat slowly, dropping down his waist and then even further still. “Do you think you’re so above all the others that you won’t crumple? Do you think you’ll still be the picture of a perfect officer if I have my way with you?”
His smirk is soft but wicked, and he drops his hand even further to cup between his legs. “Are you perfect here too?”
no subject
Date: 2024-08-02 11:27 pm (UTC)Or at least make Francis fight for it. Francis wants victory here and so Raju wants him to have it, but showing nothing is a skill Raju's spent a large part of his life developing, and a recent part of it practising almost constantly. But Francis hasn't seen that, has he? Francis has seen more of him than any one person, but has he ever seen this part of him?
It hardly matters now; by starting this, Francis has already asked to see it.
"Sir," he says evenly. It's the only answer he can give, in the roles set: an acknowledgement without protesting, or anything that might be taken for back talk. A response without a response at all. He doesn't step back, or move, or look anywhere.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 12:13 am (UTC)He’s good, but then again, he would have to be, wouldn’t he? Crozier smiles even wider, impressed but not relenting. It’s already too much fun.
“You are,” he declares, forefinger and thumb searching for the outline of his cock. “You’ve got a nice, fat prick between your legs.”
As though he hasn’t touched him before.
He keeps his hand exactly where it is, cupping between his legs and then pushes forward, forcefully walking Rama backwards until his back hits the door.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 12:59 am (UTC)Then Francis begins walking him back but once he gets close enough there's nothing to do with it but move, and so that at least hardly counts as a response. But he keeps his gaze carefully unfocused and carefully off Francis while he does it, so there's no doubt he isn't giving in, only responding.
"Sir," he says again, determinedly neutral. Of all the conversations he's had with any officer before there isn't exactly a script for this one.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 12:49 pm (UTC)“Sir,” he repeats with a touch of a snarl. He takes his hand off of him only to press it, palm outstretched flat, against the chest of his chest. He pushes hard, making sure Ram is nice and boxed in against the door, and then kisses him hard.
It’s less about catching Rama off guard and having him break, and more the overwhelming need to possess him and have him all for himself. This very beautiful man with self-control that would intimidate a Royal Marine is his and no one else’s, and he both wants the world to know and to keep him for himself like a precious secret. He kisses him with all that hunger, consuming him utterly with his hand still pressed against that blood red coat.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 01:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 03:10 pm (UTC)He’d hoped Rama would kiss him back, but as he ends the kiss with a sharp bite to his lower lip he sees those stiff limbs and that disciplined stare. It’s hard not to be impressed by that level of determination, but he can work with it.
Crozier laughs quietly and takes the helmet out from under from Rama’s arm, setting it onto the nearby hook by the door. “You won’t be needing that,” he tells him. “Arms up over your head, and bring those hands together. Now.”
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 03:59 pm (UTC)Easier to stop thinking about how any of it feels, and only do. Only follow Francis' orders, and nevermind the what or why.
Raju's gaze fixes itself back to the wall in the distance ahead of him, holding his wrists next to one another and raising his arms, his knuckles hitting the door above his head. "The handcuffs on my belt are new, sir," he says, tone very neutral, apropos of nothing. Certainly not because a navy captain who hardly used his weapon might not know the things were there, heavy in the pouch at his waist and ready to be used. "I haven't had time to prepare them for inspection."
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 07:39 pm (UTC)He’d been planning on pinning his wrists above his head with his hand, but cuffs are so much more efficient, and it’s a ringing endorsement from Rama himself to proceed. He looks through the bag at his waist and finds the handcuffs, as shiny and pristine as the buttons on his coat or medals pinned to his chest, and ‘inspects’ them closely to understand the locking mechanism. They’re different than what he’s used to, more intricate but clearly easier to operate.
“A practical inspection then,” he nods, snapping them around both wrists easily. “Keep your hands up. If they drop…”
He has to think of a threat, but when one doesn’t come to mind he settles for a stern Look. His hand goes to Rama’s trousers again, this time the buttons and then his drawers, stepping close to him as he pushes both pieces down his hips. He growls low in his throat and kisses along that bare jaw.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 08:46 pm (UTC)His heart is beating harder — as much, he realises, from ruining the uniform leaving the trousers on the floor as from Francis' lips. After a moment, he turns his head; he didn't get an order to but it gives Francis more room, and he likes feeling his teeth there.
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Date: 2024-08-03 09:49 pm (UTC)Ram willingly presenting his neck is something Crozier won’t pass up. His lips move along that strong jawline and up to the spot just under Rama’s ear, where he sucks and bites as his hand finds Ram’s prick underneath his jacket. His fingers wrap around him and begin to stroke along his length from base to tip; he wants him hard and aching, there’ll be no mercy.
Wrists cuffed, neck assaulted by teeth and tongue, cock being stroked by fingers that have been quick to learn him, Crozier knows he’s performing an all-out attack on Rama’s resolve. But it’s a game, and he knows he can take it. He’d say otherwise.
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Date: 2024-08-04 02:07 am (UTC)He presses his arms a little harder back against the door, watching the ceiling with his head tipped to the side, feeling everything.
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Date: 2024-08-04 03:31 pm (UTC)As he sucks a deep, purple spot into Ram’s skin he starts to think about other things he might want to touch with his mouth. He’s almost certain he can get Rama to groan if he goes a certain route, even if he hasn’t exactly done anything like it before. He’s a clever man though, not above trying something new and facing potential embarrassment. He can probably figure it out as he goes.
With that willingness to endeavor he places one more bite to his neck and then lets himself drop down to his knees in front of Rama. He has to pluck open a few of the golden buttons on Ram’s glorious coat for easier access, pushing and then tucking aside the half draped under the impossibly big belt so that it doesn’t look like he’s ducking underneath a skirt. He wants to see Rama while he’s doing this - and Rama to see him.
He’s eye-level with Ram’s prick now, and he takes him back into his hand with a soft smile, appreciative and fond despite the game. “Much more impressive from this angle,” he remarks casually.
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Date: 2024-08-04 04:26 pm (UTC)"...Sir," he manages, voice betraying only a little bit of surprise, a little bit of tension, and he looks forward again, bracing the back of his head against the door for a sensation to focus on. There's no room, here, for are you sure. In Francis' play at giving orders he wouldn't have knelt there in the first place if he wasn't, anyway, so Raju supposes that he must be.
Raju remembers it, suddenly: his feet hurting in a way they never had before, Francis kneeling in front of him to tend to them. To his shoes. He'd thought of this then, hadn't he? Has Francis thought of something like this too, before now? And how many times has he actually done it? What was it he'd said, when Raju had asked about his lovers an eternity ago?
There's nothing he's able to ask, within the outlines of their game, so there's nothing worth wondering about. The only question he needs to concern himself with is how to keep himself still.
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