[ Between the sensation of suction and the scraping of teeth against the sensitive skin along the crook of his neck, Kaveh knows exactly what Alhaitham is doing, and there's a moment where he wonders if he knows why— although admittedly it seems unlikely to him that the scribe's annoyance over the existing marks came hand in hand with jealousy, even if he otherwise might like to think so.
He doesn't have room to think about it for long, though, because shortly after the thoughts surface, the scribe breaks away and peels off that too-tight shirt, revealing in full the twin lines of hard muscle that make up his torso, and Kaveh stops moving under him entirely to stare, unabashed and open; when the other man's body shifts down to kiss him once more, his hands both lift to touch and explore, charting the other's body with slender fingers as he returns the kiss with an eager kind of hunger.
Fuck, he feels so unfairly good that Kaveh's not sure dreams will ever be enough again— Especially when dreams have thus far failed to capture that look Alhaitham's eyes wear when he breaks their kiss, the architect's petulant whine quickly stuttering into soft moans and gasps of pleasure as the other's traveling mouth leaves more bites in its wake— and there's another wandering, wondering thought quickly shot down— before lowering further still—
Crimson eyes widen, lips parting in silent shock as he clues in to what's about to happen, as the scribe's eyes meet his, the look in his eyes so fiery compared to the relaxed way he takes Kaveh into his mouth, and there's a lot of things the architect has dared think about but never this. His fingers scrabble, searching out the sheet that lines his mattress and grabbing handfuls hard enough to tear, fighting the desperate urge to buck against those lips, a litany of soft curses falling as gasps from his lips.
And he hates, hates how sensitive he is, because it feels like he's already frighteningly close to tipping over the edge and he doesn't want that (even if he knows that the scribe is doing this largely to hasten his exit from the house); he finds himself clutching the sheets harder and trying to channel his mind toward something unsexy but all he knows is Alhaitham and his body and his scent and his mouth and fuck but none of this is fair.
(Also unfair is the fact that like this he can't touch the other man unless he wants to grab handfuls of his hair the way he's grabbing at the sheets, and he'd rather not rip the silver strands right from the other's scalp.) ]
no subject
He doesn't have room to think about it for long, though, because shortly after the thoughts surface, the scribe breaks away and peels off that too-tight shirt, revealing in full the twin lines of hard muscle that make up his torso, and Kaveh stops moving under him entirely to stare, unabashed and open; when the other man's body shifts down to kiss him once more, his hands both lift to touch and explore, charting the other's body with slender fingers as he returns the kiss with an eager kind of hunger.
Fuck, he feels so unfairly good that Kaveh's not sure dreams will ever be enough again— Especially when dreams have thus far failed to capture that look Alhaitham's eyes wear when he breaks their kiss, the architect's petulant whine quickly stuttering into soft moans and gasps of pleasure as the other's traveling mouth leaves more bites in its wake— and there's another wandering, wondering thought quickly shot down— before lowering further still—
Crimson eyes widen, lips parting in silent shock as he clues in to what's about to happen, as the scribe's eyes meet his, the look in his eyes so fiery compared to the relaxed way he takes Kaveh into his mouth, and there's a lot of things the architect has dared think about but never this. His fingers scrabble, searching out the sheet that lines his mattress and grabbing handfuls hard enough to tear, fighting the desperate urge to buck against those lips, a litany of soft curses falling as gasps from his lips.
And he hates, hates how sensitive he is, because it feels like he's already frighteningly close to tipping over the edge and he doesn't want that (even if he knows that the scribe is doing this largely to hasten his exit from the house); he finds himself clutching the sheets harder and trying to channel his mind toward something unsexy but all he knows is Alhaitham and his body and his scent and his mouth and fuck but none of this is fair.
(Also unfair is the fact that like this he can't touch the other man unless he wants to grab handfuls of his hair the way he's grabbing at the sheets, and he'd rather not rip the silver strands right from the other's scalp.) ]