[The groan he releases could blend with a scoff, probably carries half of its dismissal.]
No… [He presses his mouth to his ear, tilting away just enough to clear his throat, and attempt at filtering the breaks of his voice.] You've never—[so much for that. That almost sounds like a wheeze.
He wants to tell him, wants to tell Kaveh that he's never once seen him being selfish or too selfish ever, that was Alhaitham's idiosyncrasy, not his. Kaveh who delivers himself over and over until he's scattered too thin for the sake of kindness and rightness, finding purpose in others but never within himself. Maybe he should tell him to be selfish for once in his life, to do of Alhaitham what he well-pleased, to tell him finally, taunt him into action once more. But Alhaitham feels heated, his mouth fumbles on the number of things he could say, even more so because of the alcohol, his mind quicker than his body, and Kaveh's hand—and he's always, always been good with his hands and—
Kaveh does end up having his kiss, with Alhaitham's throat releasing what is almost gravel rolling across flooring as protest for his own lack of eloquence. Even if he wants this, he never really expected that he'd be this quickly affected, so taken into the riptide of their heated whispers, the warmth of Kaveh's eyes; there's a crease between his brows deepening as he nips on his roommate's lower lip. The Scribe has wanted this for years, though he rarely ventured into the possibility of the what ifs and what could be's, for his own sake, for the sake of the (apparently elusive to everyone else) heart thrumming underneath his ribs. It should figure, that his tendency to be relatively unphased would be shattered with the delighted hum of Kaveh's throat when he plays with his ear, with the scrape of his nails on his scalp.
A thought comes to mind, within the syrup sweetness of their bodies pressed together, and it spurs him into action. He's not really being selfish, is he?
His fingers cross the threshold of Kaveh's waistband, and wrap around his erection. It takes a bit of surveying, checking length, girth, the surprising softness of that thin skin, the weight of it in the circle of his digits, but when he does shape his hand into a grip, it's firm, determined, and he begins stroking it straight away.]
Then I should catch up, too. [He purses his mouth chastely against the corner of Kaveh's mouth.] Right, Senior?
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No… [He presses his mouth to his ear, tilting away just enough to clear his throat, and attempt at filtering the breaks of his voice.] You've never—[so much for that. That almost sounds like a wheeze.
He wants to tell him, wants to tell Kaveh that he's never once seen him being selfish or too selfish ever, that was Alhaitham's idiosyncrasy, not his. Kaveh who delivers himself over and over until he's scattered too thin for the sake of kindness and rightness, finding purpose in others but never within himself. Maybe he should tell him to be selfish for once in his life, to do of Alhaitham what he well-pleased, to tell him finally, taunt him into action once more. But Alhaitham feels heated, his mouth fumbles on the number of things he could say, even more so because of the alcohol, his mind quicker than his body, and Kaveh's hand—and he's always, always been good with his hands and—
Kaveh does end up having his kiss, with Alhaitham's throat releasing what is almost gravel rolling across flooring as protest for his own lack of eloquence. Even if he wants this, he never really expected that he'd be this quickly affected, so taken into the riptide of their heated whispers, the warmth of Kaveh's eyes; there's a crease between his brows deepening as he nips on his roommate's lower lip. The Scribe has wanted this for years, though he rarely ventured into the possibility of the what ifs and what could be's, for his own sake, for the sake of the (apparently elusive to everyone else) heart thrumming underneath his ribs. It should figure, that his tendency to be relatively unphased would be shattered with the delighted hum of Kaveh's throat when he plays with his ear, with the scrape of his nails on his scalp.
A thought comes to mind, within the syrup sweetness of their bodies pressed together, and it spurs him into action. He's not really being selfish, is he?
His fingers cross the threshold of Kaveh's waistband, and wrap around his erection. It takes a bit of surveying, checking length, girth, the surprising softness of that thin skin, the weight of it in the circle of his digits, but when he does shape his hand into a grip, it's firm, determined, and he begins stroking it straight away.]
Then I should catch up, too. [He purses his mouth chastely against the corner of Kaveh's mouth.] Right, Senior?