indigently | 𝒪𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉 🏛️

[The contortions of Alhaitham's torso under the sharp nips and the warmth of Kaveh's mouth surprise the Scribe, as he had been blind to be ready for it. They elicit a gasp, though it is stifled by the fabric. Suddenly Alhaitham becomes very aware of what they're doing, or he should be, the energy they're slowly building between them albeit clumsily and ambiguously.

He looks down after his top is removed, sees Kaveh. His expression is akin to that of a cat who accomplished its mission. Despite his stoic exterior, a hint of shame flickers within him at his response and he frowns, unused to it.] I didn't think you'd get me while I'm distracted.

[ He's so busy being content that he almost misses the look on Alhaitham's face— but when he spies it, everything screeches to a hold both physically and mentally, the blonde's fingers stilling against the scribe's chest as he pushes himself slightly up and back from the other man. ]

What's wrong? [ he asks, right as Alhaitham says something about being distracted, and he finds a smile on his lips again, a softening of his expression as his hand lifts to cup the other man's cheek instead.

The scribe is... embarrassed? Ashamed? Something like that—

But he's not about to accuse him of that fact, and so instead he skims his thumb over the other's lower lip once more, red eyes soft, gaze tender. ]

Talk to me.

[He's already unused to feeling embarrassed about anything, much more so when he's called out on it. His eyes flicker to Kaveh's worry, how some hint of sweetness seems to draw the way they're shaped.

Alhaitham shakes his head, weaving his feelings into rationality. He's embarrassed because he was shocked, which stemmed from how he's never really thought of how Kaveh's mouth on his stomach would feel.

Instead of answering, he opens his mouth, captures the architect's thumb between his lips, trapping it gently between his teeth. The feel of his teeth' enamel against his fingernail's enamel is new. A little strange. And so is the pad's texture against his tongue as he swipes it gently there.

It's all so very new. And he can't help but be excited about it.]

[ Kaveh, as it stands, is somewhat less embarrassed than Alhaitham. The sensations he's feeling aren't unfamiliar, just stronger, far more pleasurable than anything he can remember— but given how long he's waited for the other, how long he's wanted, that on its own isn't much of a surprise. Later, he might think to remember all the noises he's made and will likely continue to make, be a little ashamed of that— especially after complaining so stridently about Tighnari and Cyno— but for now he just smiles at the shake of Alhaitham's head, hums in response to the teeth and tongue against his thumb. The pad of his thumb is surprisingly sensitive, sending shivers down his spine— ]

Mm, shit— why have we waited so long to do this, [ he mumbles, fingers running lightly from where his hand is trapped, exploring the skin around Alhaitham's lips, feather-light on his jaw. Without waiting for the other to answer, he leans in to bury his face into the curve of his throat, a sudden urge overtaking him— and Kaveh licks and nips and sucks at the skin, bullying it until it turns a pretty flushed red under his ministrations.

Even if it's hidden by the collar of Alhaitham's sinfully-tight shirt, even if the other never wants to lay hands on him again after tonight, Kaveh will know it was there, he'll remember this for himself— ]

I assume it's because we a—h... [The hypocrisy shouldn't escape him, really. How they've been shocked at the lack of boundaries both Cyno and Tighnari (Tighnari, of all people!) to start drunkenly making out under Alhaitham's roof, being loud about it while they're at it, and how hiding themselves from the debauchery only started something that may influence the forever of their relationship. The Mahamatra and the Forest Ranger have been in a relationship for a long time; Kaveh and Alhaitham were still teetering on the balance of their own, without a side to push and pull out of both the avoidance and acceptance of their own past. Alhaitham lets out a sound that's more breath than voice when Kaveh's teeth seize the sensitive skin above his pulse, and when he finds his fingers tangled in gold he doesn't pull away, merely steadies him there.]

Kaveh… [He wonders at the weight of the air, at how heavy his eyelids feel, how restless he's becoming, that he holds no qualms with shifting his weight and legs around, tangling them again, hooking his foot to lock one of them close, rolling his body until he's pressed against the architect above him, his other hand feeling at each indent and slope of his spine.

He raises his head to lock his own bites on his roommate's shoulder, his tongue darting straight away to taste at his skin.]

[ Between shifting to the bed and then breaking away in concern, the lancing heat of arousal between Kaveh's legs has waxed and waned somewhat— until Alhaitham's words shatter into a breathy moan, that is, the sound bringing that feeling rushing back with a vengeance, the blonde's hips tensing and shuddering a little against air. It's made even worse when the press of his teeth is answered with another graveled sound, and gasp of his name, the lock of the scribe's mouth to his shoulder in return— and this time it's Kaveh's turn to cry out, his fingers lifting, tangling in locks of green-tipped silver to hold him close.

But even through the whited-out cloud of bliss in his head, there's a pulsing black seed of doubt, something awakened by the thought from just a moment before. Even if Alhaitham never wants to lay hands on him again after this— Alhaitham is drunk, and if he doesn't want this when he's sober, isn't Kaveh taking advantage of him? What if that rejection from before was real, and it's only as the inebriation has taken hold that the scribe has caved to the idea of this being good?

That foot locks, pulling him close, pressing until their bodies are flush, and he's shaken momentarily from the thought by the feel of his quickly-burgeoning arousal rutting accidentally into the other's hips; a groan surfaces on his lips when he finds that Alhaitham is hard too, the press of their hips lancing pleasure through his veins. ]

Alhaitham—

[ He could just ignore it, couldn't he? He's drunk too, and the scribe's voice sounds wonderful, and they're both hard—

But what if, sober—

His hands drop between them, bracing hard, lifting him up and off the other man. His eyes are wide, staring even as he tries not to meet the other's eyes, breath short and sharp over kiss-bruised lips. ]

We shouldn't— You're drunk—

[ You don't want me, Alhaitham, you just think you do. ]

[It's whiplash, the spark of pleasure through his spine, his eyes fluttering closed to really hone in on the sensation while also the feeling lending weight to his eyelids, to his chin, making his mouth part. And then the sudden shift of weight on him, a shadow cast on him, and cold air on his chest when the other lifts.

He opens his eyes to find Kaveh looking down at him, flushed and swollen and flustered on his own arousal and the beginnings of panic. There's a mark on the place his teeth had been, glistening and still wet, and a part of Alhaitham realizes that his belief about hickeys and bruises being just something immature and insecure people do may need revision. The light overhead casts behind his roommate, his hair bearing a halo. He looks divine, Alhaitham can't help but reach towards a strand and brush it with his fingers.

They shouldn't, he says. He knows the weight of this. Their own relationship keeps teetering on the edge of a cision, on the back and forth of whatever connects them. Like energy, it's a relentless and restless thing, feeding out of its own fears, fickleness, and obsessions alike.

The hand on Kaveh's spine pushes him just slightly lower so he can press him back down. There's no ice in Sumeru, and yet now the bed feels like it's made of Cryo, and if Alhaitham does one wrong move, everything will be crumbling down.

So he pries one hand from his chest, presses a kiss to a knuckle, and starts talking. In all these years living together and the occasional moments where Alhaitham does allow himself to get truly drunk, Kaveh should know that he becomes quiet, receptive, but very passive. Never takes the initiative for anything. If he's leaned against, he'll allow it, even lean back. If he's asked a question, he'll make a sound or hum in reply and not much else. If someone tells him to do something, he ignores the request until the person does it themselves.

With his eyes still fixed on the architect, Alhaitham mutters against the skin between Kaveh's fingers.] 'Yours the blood and the tears, The eternal strife, horrible and magnificent, Yours the lure and the beauty.'

[He moves to the next knuckle as he keeps reciting. Things he read, things he heard, even the words he saw Kaveh lingering on in the House of Daena every now and then when he stumbled into the works of a different Darshan.]

'Battered and wrecked, I come to you, you first—' [he whispers as he mouths along the side of his hand, the one that supports his fingers when Kaveh draws, which is always stained with charcoal and ink.]

'—my own sunset-skinned heart waiting to be held and peeled—' [as he moves to Kaveh's palm, pressing a kiss there, libation for the tools of a passion, a trade.]

'So it is if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams all the way to the grave,' [said against the round of the base of a thumb, nuzzling on the finger, eyes still fixated on Kaveh's. His other hand still pressing the small of his back close to him like they're waiting in a ball for the music to start.

Alhaitham nips at his wrist, finally.] 'My mouth, without the other’s: useless. I long to fill it like a grave.

[ The words having tripped their way out over his lips, Kaveh is preparing to push himself off Alhaitham for good when fingers interrupt his intent by brushing through his hair, by pressing lowly at his spine to pull him back in. And then his hand is caught in the other man's, lips pressed to the knuckle, and the blonde's eyes widen in a shock that would perhaps be comical if the moment weren't steeped in an odd kind of beauty. Alhaitham, who is perhaps the single most passive drunk he knows, is reciting poetry, verses he's never heard and some he has, words murmured into his skin in synchronicity with a litany of soft, sweet kisses.

What little breath Kaveh has left is caught in his throat, eyes wide as he watches, listens, and his teeth press into his own lip to try in desperation to stop its trembling. His own movement comes before he even realizes he's making it, hand freeing itself from that gentle hold to join his other against the slope of Alhaitham's jaw, fingers soft and eyes fond as he leans in, a sweet press of his lips to the other's own.

Perhaps later, sober, he'll remember to be terrified: poetry though they may be, Alhaitham's words speak of something deep and genuine and real—

Battered and wrecked—
—waiting to be held—
—without the other's: useless.

Who gave him the right to speak such? Kaveh's heart feels like it's going a thousand miles a minute in his chest. And perhaps it's just that he's drunk, but at least to him it feels like the only viable answer to the other's poetry is a truth long kept secret, held deliberately out of reach lest one of them accidentally fall into it. ]

Do you know, [ he murmurs against Alhaitham's lips, ] that I'm in love with you?

[Ah, now that.

That is a very dangerous question.

So Alhaitham cups the back of Kaveh's head, and nuzzles his nose in a up and down motion, and maybe it's a nod, an affirmation, but he doesn't confirm it with his voice, nor denies it. Alhaitham knows that if he does reply that he knows, has always known, it'll be somewhat infuriating for Kaveh. He doesn't deny the flurry of irrational feelings thrumming his ribcage, making him antsy, the rush that goes through him when he's kissed and whispered their well-kept secret.

Because it is well-kept, so very tight and foolproofed. But what a rounded, well-assumed hypothesis would answer everything about them, the intimate decibels in their voices, the manoeuvres within their house. The ease with which the air slips between them, be it between their throats, or their bodies, weaves through their hair like Alhaitham often fixes Kaveh's pins and Kaveh arranges the cable from his headphones. It explains them, it justifies them—their moments, good or terrible. It lends reason to the long, leisured purse of Alhaitham's lips against Kaveh's, the sigh in the scribe's lungs as he kisses him meaningfully.]

Do you know? ['That I am? He tilts his head.]

[ The sigh he leaves against Alhaitham's lips is shaky; he recognizes the affirmation for what it is, appreciates somewhere deep inside him the scribe's decision to confirm his answer without words when they both know how easily his words tend to rile Kaveh up. Perhaps the alcohol has softened him, or perhaps both of them, or maybe it has simply given them the bridge they've needed to close the gap that has existed between them for so long, keeping them apart even as they've lived together in an odd kind of domesticity.

And then Alhaitham speaks, and Kaveh's heart sings in his chest. ]

I do now, [ he whispers, a softness to his laugh that's half-relieved, half-embarrassed at his apparent blindness to something for which the other has been waiting;

His arms tighten, pulling the scribe close to him, heart burning hot in his chest as he chases Alhaitham's mouth with kisses. He hoped, he yearned, but he never let himself believe until now— and now he doesn't want to let the other man go. ]

I take it back, then. [ It's a soft laugh against the other's lips, an afterthought to the giddy joy in his chest as one of his hands drops and slides between them, bracing on Alhaitham's thigh. ] I don't care that you're drunk. I want to, and we should.

[Alhaitham does the unthinkable.

Because it is, in a way, an unthinkable act, and a manifestation of something that is not so much about rational thought, but of joy and delight.

He laughs, the corners of his lips tugging at him, folding the skin of his cheeks, unrelenting and unstoppable. Although the last of his row of low chuckles against Kaveh's mouth stops at a hitch, his body automatically responding to the span of the architect's fingers on him, the lock of their tangled legs tightening now that they're not fighting the inevitable gravity between them.]

Trying to make up for lost time? [Oh, he sounds breathless, and it's intriguing enough to make his eyebrows twitch for half a moment; he's never heard himself like this except when using or training with his swords, and even so, it's not the same.]

[ Kaveh's breath catches in response to that laugh, an answering chuckle of his own as his fingers press tighter, as a delightful shudder trips its way down his spine. Alhaitham sounds happy in a way that makes Kaveh giddy, has him pull back just enough that he can press kisses to the corners of that curved mouth, to the creases in Alhaitham's cheek. ]

Maybe, [ he confesses in answer to the question, nudging nose and lips against the other's cheek, another soft laugh on his lips before he finds his way back to Alhaitham's mouth, catching it in a soft kiss. ] Can you blame me?

[ After all, he's wanted this for so long— they've wanted this for so long; and now that they have it, he doesn't want to wait even for a moment. His hand shifts, fingers no longer anchoring against Alhaitham's thigh but spreading, cupping over his arousal and massaging him through the fabric, a low sound of pleasure on his lips as he does.

Oh, but he's dreamed of this. ]

[Perhaps the one thing that Alhaitham would refrain from ever admitting would be how surprised he is with how affectionate Kaveh is when kissing, searching for the little things on him as an excuse to press his lips to.

(and yet, and yet)

The Scribe shakes his head gently, eyes fond when they open just enough to look at the elation on his cheeks, on the softness of his eyes as he gasps for another laugh. There are no stars in Kaveh's eyes like literature claims there to be when one finds the truth about their feelings being reciprocated, and yet, here he is, still dazed when he finds them, the shade of red to his irises the most stunning he's seen them.

They did say that all artists tend to be in love.

It's enough for him to be distracted until the heel of Kaveh's palm is unmistakable, rubbing through already tight fabric and making his both his hips and his Adam's apple jolt with the sudden realization, his knee canting sideways to give the architect more room, his mouth opening but no sound coming out.

After a second, he leans in to capture Kaveh's ear between his lips, teasing the lobe between his teeth, the edges of his fingers slowly seeping down the waist of his pajamas.] We have time to spare.

[ There's just enough space between them when Kaveh's hand anchors between Alhaitham's legs that he's able to see the way his face moves in time with his hips, lips parting in a silent answer to the touch. It sends a delightful shudder down the blonde's spine, a smile finding his lips that he presses to Alhaitham's chin just as the younger turns his head away to catch his ear in a teasing bite.

Time to spare... sounds so luxurious to his mind after months— years— of pining. And yet— ]

I know. [ Despite the softness of agreement on his lips, the motion of his hand doesn't stop or even slow; Kaveh's head cants back with a sigh of pleasure as he continues rubbing his hand into Alhaitham's arousal. ] I know we have time, I'm gonna take advantage of that, but— mm.

[ His free hand reaches, tangles into the other's hair to hold him close, tongue darting out over lips that feel too dry. He wants to kiss him again, but right now he's enjoying the attention to his earlobe too, enough that it keeps him in place for a few moments more. ]

But right now I want to catch up. [ He chuckles, palm pressing in a little more firmly. ] Am I being too selfish?

[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?

[ They are fated, it seems, to undo one another. Kaveh delights in the sound of Alhaitham's words falling to pieces under the swell that engulfs them, in the husky sound that rolls from his throat into their kiss in response to the frustration, in the drumming of the scribe's heart against the press of their chests. When it comes down to it, it doesn't matter what exactly Alhaitham was going to say; Kaveh understands his intent, glows with it, answers it with each soft press of his lips into their kiss. The idea that all he needed, this whole time, was something already within his power—

Archons, it's intoxicating. Alhaitham is intoxicating. Kaveh intends to tell him as much— but then it's his turn to dissolve under the other's affection, the words catching on naught but air as his roommate's— lover's?— hand slips under his waistband and curls around him, stroking with a firm kind of determination that has the blonde's eyes roll back in his head, makes a trembling curse word trip from his mouth.

His own hand stutters to a temporary halt, the fingers in the other's hair tightening, and he answers the question— disarming as it is— with a series of quick, hungry kisses. ]

Gods, Alhaitham... this is when you finally decide to call me senior?

[ Ah, but— fuck, how is he meant to focus like this?

With a shuddering moan, he breaks free of their kiss, heated cheeks pressing into the crook of Alhaitham's neck, tongue laving over the mark he's left there as if it will ground him; as he does, both hands unwind, mimicking his younger partner's moves in finding the waistband of his pants, displacing it enough that one hand might slide beneath, taking a firm hold of his erection in turn. ]

Consider this... mm, a reward for paying due respect.

[ His hand trembles, the overwhelming feeling of his own pleasure distracting him somewhat, but his grip remains solid as he answers Alhaitham's rhythm in kind, moaning lowly into his throat. The scribe isn't the only one who's wanted this for years; Kaveh has thought about this too often, dreamed of it, and he's not about to let himself be swallowed up whole by the sensations. ]

[It's the flutter of his nerves like hummingbird wings under his lungs that makes his breath hitch, almost close to a laugh, his lips twitching against that golden silky hair, and he releases a slow, stuttering exhale when Kaveh finally grabs his length and begins stroking him in kind, a reciprocal motion rather than his own and yet perfect.

Alhaitham knows what he knows, what he doesn't know, he knows that there's an even wider extent of what he doesn't know that he doesn't know, and this…

… he's not sure where it falls into. He's not sure he wants to categorize it yet.

All he does know, is that Kaveh's weight over him makes him feel grounded, attuned to the present and the material, the palpable, in a way that he's never once been. His warmth seeps into his own, and he wonders if the other hears his heartbeat, with how strongly it seems to beat he hears it in his temples.]

Should I, ah, call you Light of Kshahrewar, instead? [He's insufferable, still, a slight edge of a smile to his teeth as he groans into the side of his head, above his ear. He squeezes the grip on him just slightly when the architect's palm brushes a spot on his underside, and he presses his thumb to mirror on Kaveh's.] Do you like hearing that?

Alhaitham—!

[ It's a sound half-cry of shock and embarrassment, half-moan, and Kaveh punctuates it with a sharp, punishing nip to the scribe's skin even as his hips stutter unbidden upwards into the other's touch. The idea of being called "Light of the Kshahrewar" is embarrassing at the best of times, much less from the man currently atop his bed with him, it invites admiration on a level the blonde is never fully okay with, much less ready to hear.

(And yet— and yet— something about the way Alhaitham says it, voice edged with a smile and punctuated with a groan, fingers squeezing slightly as they caress and stroke his erection—) ]

F-Fuck. [ Kaveh whimpers, the movements of his hand stuttering in the same rhythm as his own hips, and for a moment he pauses, breathes hard into the other man's skin as he tries to find his bearings again. It's too, too easy to get overwhelmed by something as simple as words, as a touch, especially when those words, those touches, come from someone for whom Kaveh has been waiting— ]

If you're going to call me that, you have to understand that I'm going to call you Grand Sage, [ he adds after a moment, and if he deliberately leaves off the "Acting" part on purpose when he references the job Alhaitham has already quit (and he does leave it off on purpose), he'll never confess to it. He laughs into the other's neck, and being the source of the teasing this time gives him back enough wherewithal to start moving his hand once more; this time, he works a little fasters, twisting his hand around the other's arousal as it moves in quickened strokes, and there's another moan on Kaveh's lips at the heat of it in his grip. ]

[It's a marvel, really, the utterance of his name half aghast. The slickness wetting and smearing his palm and fingers, the sweet ache in his skin when enamel sinks deeper into it. Alhaitham keeps his eyes open for all of it, capturing the blush on Kaveh's ear, the stutters of his hand and the heavy breathing raising his shoulders and pressing further against his chest.

The curse. It's yet another wonder, that Alhaitham would cause him to react like this. And not out of anger, not out of shock, but of utter delight and not knowing what to do with it.

His breath hitches once the pace increases, and Alhaitham does gasp, unable to stop his lungs from trying to reach for more air. Enough that his chest pangs softly. He's truly never felt like this before.] Wait—

[He scoots himself higher, pulls Kaveh into another kiss as he grabs the back of his thigh, pulls him with him as he sets his shoulders on the headboard. It feels cold on his heated back. He's probably flushed. He feels flushed. He doesn't care.

He nudges their lips apart as he finalizes a kiss, and then another, and another.] I'm not a Sage. [He shakes his head, squeezes the round of the architect's rear before sliding his hand up his back.]

[ The movement gives Kaveh space to breathe, a soft sound on his lips as he's pulled further up the bed with Alhaitham, answering the squeeze of the other's hands on the fullness of his backside with a low groan, with kisses eager and wanting pressed in kind into the scribe's mouth. And for a singular moment, he thinks about turning it into an argument— not one just for the sake of arguing, but to tell the other man that he's of more importance than he allows others to see him, that maybe he's not a sage but he could be—

Yet, as much as Kaveh those things, wants Alhaitham to see himself the way Kaveh sees him, there's a part of him motivated (selfishly, despite the other's belief that the blonde has not a self-serving bone in his body) by the pleasure of what they're doing, the fear of ruining it by saying all the wrong things.

And so he chuckles instead as answer to the other's objection, a sound kiss and a hum of acquiescence, hand slipping back into its previous position now that they're secured against the headboard. Fingers press over the tip of his arousal, a low moan into the other's mouth at the leaking wetness he feels on his fingers, and—

Mm.

Kaveh breaks the kiss and unwinds his grip on the other, pushing himself away enough that he can curl fingers around the waistband of Alhaitham's pants, tugging them over his hips— and he tries, genuinely, not to stare, but he can't quite help himself. ]

Alhaitham, [ he murmurs, voice rough with lust, and his crimson eyes dark with the same as they lift back to the other's face. ] Will you tell me what you like? Where you prefer to go— what you prefer to do?

[ A strange question, perhaps, when their first kiss led Kaveh to wonder after the other's level of experience— but more than anything he wants them to be on the same page, especially with this. ]

[Had Kaveh started to tell him how much of a Sage he could be, Alhaitham would know how to reply. It's not that he doesn't know that he could be a Sage, that he has the skills, the knowledge, the ethos and the reputation for it. But he doesn't want to, not when Acting as one in the interim was a thankless job, but it was more than what he wanted, and more trouble than he could care for. He knows that Kaveh, himself, would be able to become one, possibly even find some sort of fulfilment with it. But there's also the risk of him spreading himself too thin, like the way he keeps kissing him, moans into him, touching Alhaitham and then promptly moving his hands away to draw his trousers low, away from the Scribe and asking silly little questions.

He doesn't answer, not immediately. He merely cradles Kaveh's jaw and kisses that roughness away from his voice, wanting those darkened eyes to flutter closed. He doesn't even wonder if he's looking the same, if his pupils are blown wide, if his voice sounds thick. Merely lets his tongue do the talking as it leisurely curls on the architect's, traces the edge of his teeth.

(He's a very fast learner.)

Eventually, though, even if dazed, he does draw back and shifts his hips to let those pants be tugged off. He doesn't really know what he prefers, he's never really done this with anyone.]

I don't know… I prefer you with no clothes, too. [Drunkenness, perhaps, makes him allow for this, tugging at those pajama pants as well. They're a lot easier to move than his own.]

[ It's not quite what he meant, and he's pretty sure Alhaitham knows as much, but Kaveh is in no position to complain when the words are being kissed out of his mouth, when the scribe is reaching for him to remove his pants in turn. Of the two of them, the blonde has a more difficult job ahead of him, but he's nothing if not stubborn, and between that and the shift of Alhaitham's hips he has the tools he needs to do it.

Of course, it's hardly fair that "no clothes" for Kaveh literally means naked, where Alhaitham at least is still in his underwear once the architect finally works his pants over his hips. And so without giving himself time to pause and admire the outline of the other's arousal pushing against his underclothes, or to get too distracted by the feeling of the other's hands working at his own remaining clothing, he reaches to pull at those too, watching as the scribe's arousal is freed from its confines.

A fast learner Alhaitham indeed is, and it gives Kaveh a thought, the blonde's carmine eyes lifting languidly to meet his junior's, a lazy smile curving the corners of his mouth as he takes the scribe in hand once more, a smooth rhythm of strokes punctuating his words. ]

If you don't know... looks like I need to figure it out. [ It's said with a smile, and Kaveh darts in to press one quick kiss against Alhaitham's lips before pulling away again, further this time unless the other tries to stop him, intent on hunching over his lap and showing him one way he can bring him pleasure. ]

[Kaveh's skin under his fingers keeps changing its texture, from warm and soft to cool and smooth to something he doesn't have the chance to really parse, and he does let out a noise of complaint, wanting to feel more of that under his fingers, moving in only to be interrupted by a few tugs on his erection that do a wonderful job of getting him to gasp, Kaveh looking like the cat that got the cream, and—

Archons, the breath he draws in makes his teeth snap with how rattling it is at the sight of his roommate leaning over to take him into his mouth, and he needs to cover his mouth even if he goes perfectly still, perfectly quiet as though he's afraid of ruining the moment, ruining the heat of Kaveh's breath on his own skin, the way he brackets himself in the cradle of his hips.

He does reach out, eventually, his fingers stroking his hair away from his eyes, tracing the shell of his ear and down his neck, with a whisper.] Kaveh…

[ There's a slight smile on Kaveh's lips at the sound Alhaitham makes as his breath ghosts over the end of his arousal, at the way the other man tenses up as if afraid to move; with a sweet sound on his tongue he takes him into his mouth, starting with the tip alone before drawing him in deeper, one hand bracing against the other's thighs. A shudder dances through his veins when fingers reach to sweep his hair back from his face, to brush and caress over his skin, and Kaveh rewards him with a lowering of his head, drawing more of the other between his lips.

His tongue curls, dragging against the skin as he starts to move in a slow but steady rhythm, a low hum of pleasure on his lips. And what gag reflex won't allow him to take right now, he cups with the hand not helping him balance, stroking him in a counterrhythm.

Like this, he can't talk, but his eyes flick up, trying to catch what he can of the other's expression, something like a question in his eyes— was it worth the momentary complaint, he wonders, humming lowly again. ]

[He almost doesn't answer, his core is tight as a vice, his legs sitting very still. The back of Alhaitham's head bumps the headboard of the bed, but he doesn't care, not when he's trying his best not to fist his fingers into the bedsheets, not to roll his hips further into the warmth of Kaveh's mouth.

The humming, doesn't help, and the Scribe swallows down something that could may as well be his heart—that's ridiculous, that's no way humanly impossible.

It's only when Kaveh hums again in questioning that he realizes that he had scrunched his eyes shut, and the view from his angle is—

He's not coming back from this. Kaveh's lips glisten in the low light. His dark eyelashes fan over the highs of his flushed cheeks and they're not coming back from this.

All he can think of is the words he once read when Kaveh's mother sent him books from Fontaine:

'Aprés moi, le déluge.'

He cradles Kaveh's cheek and lets his thumb touch the corner of Kaveh's lips, his own parting with a hiss as he touches along his length being engulfed again. Feels the hollowing of his cheeks as he pulls back. He's mesmerizing. No one should look this beautiful with a dick in their mouth.

The tension easily stretches so thin it's threatening to break.] Kaveh—don't overdo it.

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