[ If Kaveh's sense hadn't already been stretched thin by the dream and the ruin that immediately followed it, he might have something to say about the concept of fairness. Not only is the scribe immaculately presented in comparison to his own shattered, debauched appearance, but Alhaitham, fully clothed, maps hands over skin entirely bared to him, replete as it is with scattered patches of flushed red and the slow-fading bruises left days ago by an exploring mouth.
And then Alhaitham's passion takes him by surprise yet again, landing him on his back under the other and locked under the press of his legs (and Archons it sounds like the bed is going to give out under them if they're not careful), and the slow rake of emerald over his nakedness has Kaveh almost forgetting to breathe, let alone think of abstract concepts like equity.
Is it just his imagination, or is he smiling?
There might just be a whine on the architect's voice when those lips bypass his, although it's a sound that becomes a low moan at the exploration of that sensitive skin, a sharp exhale at the feel of the scribe's breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. Fuck, he wonders wildly, maybe those stupid rumors around the campus back then were true, and Alhaitham's not human but homunculus, one programmed with all the right things to do to make someone fall apart under him—
what
Color floods to Kaveh's cheeks in response to the words at his ear, lips parting in a surprised stutter, trying for a moment to find an answer for a question that doesn't require answering, and the dull ache in his abdomen throbs and tightens even as a cold hand grips around his heart. There's no possible way that Alhaitham means it the way he wants him to; it's just his way, the architect is sure, of giving him the whole experience or something, of solidifying the "benefits" part of "friends with benefits" into something more than just sex.
It doesn't stop him from immediately breaking the promise he made not to fall further for him, though, nor from shuddering in response to the deep gravel of the other's voice. ]
Alhaitham—
[ He doesn't know what to say other than a lyrical murmur of his name; reaches instead to bury a hand in the scribe's immaculate silver hair, his own head canting back against the pillows as if to offer more skin for the other to explore, like he isn't an entire platter laid out under him already. His other hand goes back to the front of the other's shirt, tugging at the fabric in a pitiful, half-hearted attempt— he's still very much distracted by Alhaitham's lips and words, after all— to get it off him and level the playing field even slightly. ]
no subject
And then Alhaitham's passion takes him by surprise yet again, landing him on his back under the other and locked under the press of his legs (and Archons it sounds like the bed is going to give out under them if they're not careful), and the slow rake of emerald over his nakedness has Kaveh almost forgetting to breathe, let alone think of abstract concepts like equity.
Is it just his imagination, or is he smiling?
There might just be a whine on the architect's voice when those lips bypass his, although it's a sound that becomes a low moan at the exploration of that sensitive skin, a sharp exhale at the feel of the scribe's breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. Fuck, he wonders wildly, maybe those stupid rumors around the campus back then were true, and Alhaitham's not human but homunculus, one programmed with all the right things to do to make someone fall apart under him—
what
Color floods to Kaveh's cheeks in response to the words at his ear, lips parting in a surprised stutter, trying for a moment to find an answer for a question that doesn't require answering, and the dull ache in his abdomen throbs and tightens even as a cold hand grips around his heart. There's no possible way that Alhaitham means it the way he wants him to; it's just his way, the architect is sure, of giving him the whole experience or something, of solidifying the "benefits" part of "friends with benefits" into something more than just sex.
It doesn't stop him from immediately breaking the promise he made not to fall further for him, though, nor from shuddering in response to the deep gravel of the other's voice. ]
Alhaitham—
[ He doesn't know what to say other than a lyrical murmur of his name; reaches instead to bury a hand in the scribe's immaculate silver hair, his own head canting back against the pillows as if to offer more skin for the other to explore, like he isn't an entire platter laid out under him already. His other hand goes back to the front of the other's shirt, tugging at the fabric in a pitiful, half-hearted attempt— he's still very much distracted by Alhaitham's lips and words, after all— to get it off him and level the playing field even slightly. ]