[ The scolding, delivered on the tail of that breathy chuckle, makes Kaveh grumble— of course he's impatient, he's been waiting for this for far too long— even as the amused sound sends a delightful sensation tripping down his spine. And it's an impatience that only grows as Alhaitham's kisses rain down on his throat, his collarbones, paired with a grazing of teeth that makes him twitch, has him arching every part of him into the ministrations as heat pools between his legs.
He's going to go crazy, he thinks, wants to complain about it too but there's something so deliberate in the scribe's actions that Kaveh can tell it's a struggle for him too, can see the effort with which he's holding himself back from simply throwing the architect down and having his way with him—
(although, oh, that's a nice thought too, isn't it?) ]
No— [ Is the soft-voiced protest when Alhaitham pulls back, the corners of his lips folding into a pout even though he understands the practicality of the movement; a breathless groan parts them when hips press flush to his, and Kaveh's hands reach once more, a new grip on either side of his partner's hips, holding him steady— and maybe tugging him a little closer— as the other's hands travel down over his body.
And there's a part of him tempted to lie back and enjoy it, to let Alhaitham take him to pieces the way he has in the past, to allow himself to indulge in sensations he's wanted for too long. But Kaveh has the reputation he does for a reason, and even with that instinct burning in his gut, the greater desire is to take the other man to pieces too, to show in actions the feelings he's spoken in words. To leave proof that Alhaitham is his.
He leans, arches, head canting to find an angle that allows him to slot his head under his partner's jaw, mouth finding purchase on his throat and bullying the skin with tongue and teeth. First one, then another, red blooming to the surface of the other's pale skin in a way he knows will purple delightfully later.
Even with those stupidly high collars you wear— [ he mumbles, not entirely realizing he's speaking aloud, ] —people are gonna see this. They'll know you're mine.
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He's going to go crazy, he thinks, wants to complain about it too but there's something so deliberate in the scribe's actions that Kaveh can tell it's a struggle for him too, can see the effort with which he's holding himself back from simply throwing the architect down and having his way with him—
(although, oh, that's a nice thought too, isn't it?) ]
No— [ Is the soft-voiced protest when Alhaitham pulls back, the corners of his lips folding into a pout even though he understands the practicality of the movement; a breathless groan parts them when hips press flush to his, and Kaveh's hands reach once more, a new grip on either side of his partner's hips, holding him steady— and maybe tugging him a little closer— as the other's hands travel down over his body.
And there's a part of him tempted to lie back and enjoy it, to let Alhaitham take him to pieces the way he has in the past, to allow himself to indulge in sensations he's wanted for too long. But Kaveh has the reputation he does for a reason, and even with that instinct burning in his gut, the greater desire is to take the other man to pieces too, to show in actions the feelings he's spoken in words. To leave proof that Alhaitham is his.
He leans, arches, head canting to find an angle that allows him to slot his head under his partner's jaw, mouth finding purchase on his throat and bullying the skin with tongue and teeth. First one, then another, red blooming to the surface of the other's pale skin in a way he knows will purple delightfully later.
Even with those stupidly high collars you wear— [ he mumbles, not entirely realizing he's speaking aloud, ] —people are gonna see this. They'll know you're mine.