Work Text:
it's no secret that cyno has scars littered all across his body; from battle and fights mostly, however an occasional one remnant of a domestic injury. each one has a little memory behind it that the general mahamatra sleepily recounts- a messy fight with a group of eremites, an accident that happened while he was preparing tachin, his careless getting the best of him when he travelled to the rainforest- each one lulling al haitham’s eyes close, his body lying beside the other’s in their tent in the middle of the desert, the flame in an oil lamp flickering as the moon reaches its highest.
each night together, haitham makes sure to gently lay his chapped lips on each scar he finds, trailing from cyno’s nape all the way to his arms; upon his collarbone and shoulders, a peck finding its way to his chest, to the wide scars beneath cyno’s breasts. the general mahamatra does not need to tell its story to the scribe, for the taller has already known it and pressed countless kisses upon it, tilting his head to face the reddened face of his beloved.
his majestic general, his handsome husband, his stunning love. he leaves him in awe with a desperate thirst to drown him with sweet nothings that elicit quiet giggles from his general.
prayers he wishes to recite before his feet, fleeting touches that communicate how his worship yearns for the holy veneration for the electro user that softly smiles at him, so private and intimate. only for him, haitham selfishly thinks, only for me.
only he shall ever hold cyno in his arms like this.
calloused fingers dig into tan skin, al haitham’s lips trail down towards the centre of cyno’s torso, tracing every curve of muscle and making sure nothing escapes from his silent admiration. daringly, he lightly suckles and bites, leaving behind a mark that makes cyno quietly groan under haitham’s touches that start to leave a lingering burn.
he reaches where skin ends, hidden under dark purple fabric that has faded over time. he teases, busying himself as he leaves bites and marks on cyno’s abdomen, lips caressing the lines that dive under his pants with a teasing lick.
(al haitham does not miss how the general’s hips flinch, stilling with a tremble.)
“haitham,” cyno pleads, breathless, a hand over his mouth as his cheeks flush scarlet. “please.”
and who is al haitham to not fulfil his request?
his teeth bite the edge of the fabric and pulls-
(like a blossoming prickly pear, something blooms between the general mahamatra and the grand scribe of the akademiya.)