Charles kisses Haytham again, slower and more tenderly this time. He's well aware that Haytham would rather this be rougher, more forceful, but he's the one in charge this time, and Haytham is a bloody tease even at the best of times. He sets the book on a corner of the desk, putting his hands to better use exploring Haytham.
His hands wander slowly, and there's a certain thrill of feeling the fabrics and embroidery he's so used to wearing on another's body. The weight of Haytham's cloak across his shoulders is a reminder that he is trusted, he is wanted, he is loved, and the sensation of Haytham's fingers curling into the velvet on his back spurs him into spinning them around, so Haytham's back is against the desk. Haytham tries to grip Charles' hair, as he is used to, but succeeds only in knocking his hat off.
"Careful," Charles chastises, between kisses. "I like that hat."
Haytham mumbles an apology, and grinds against him hopefully. Charles lets out another breathless chuckle and turns him round, meaningfully placing a hand between his shoulder blades. Haytham understands, and allows Charles to press him against the desk. He grips the edge in anticipation, as Charles' hand wander down his coat.
Charles leans over him, and slides his hands underneath Haytham. Charles nips at his neck as he unbuttons his breeches deftly, tugging them down Haytham's thighs. He takes a small jar from a pouch on the belt slung around his hips and flicks the coat up, exposing Haytham's skin.
Haytham gives a small grunt when Charles starts preparing him, and arches his back slightly.
"This would be easier if you'd simply relax," Charles drawls, lubricating his fingers a little more.
"Apologies, sir," Haytham murmurs, fingers curling and uncurling around the wood. He opens his mouth, presumably to ask if Charles couldn't possibly try to stroke one particular spot, and chokes as Charles pushes another finger inside and starts kissing the bite mark from earlier, worrying it.
"Better?" Charles asks, and his voice trembles slightly. Very unlike Haytham. He winces, but Haytham doesn't seem to have noticed the slip-up, concentrating on his own behaviour instead.
"Oh, very," Haytham gasps in reply. He balls his hands into fists with the effort of staying still, flexing his arms, and accidentally knocks the ink pot on the desk over. Charles freezes when he sees that one cuff on his coat is stained, though thankfully the rest of his coat is fine. He pulls his fingers out, and sets the ink pot back up.
"Bollocks," Haytham groans, breaking character for a moment. "I am so, so sorry--"
This is his best coat, he'll never get the stain out and the coat'll never be the same if he asks a tailor to make a new cuff. At least Haytham has the common decency to move so the ink is no longer in danger of staining the rest of his coat.
"It's just a coat," Charles says. His favourite coat. His favourite bloody coat. Still, he can't be angry with Haytham for very long, he never could be. "We'll sort something out."
Haytham glances up at him, obviously somewhat confused. Charles sighs, and slicks up his fingers again. He uses his other hand to toss some blotting paper over the mess. They can try to clean it up later. If he has to live with his favourite coat being ruined irreparably, Haytham can live with a slightly stained desk.
Not even the delicious moans escaping Haytham's throat seem to be able to lighten Charles' mood. It's a coat. Just a coat. But it's his coat, his favourite coat, the coat he'd spent a fair few hundred pounds on.
"As much as I enjoy this, sir," Haytham manages, between hitched breaths. "I was under the impression that this was for your benefit, sir. Meaning, I was wondering exactly how much longer you'd continue with this?"
Charles shakes his head, and clears his throat. How can he be hung up on some ink on some fabric when Haytham is writhing underneath him, all but begging for more?
"I shall continue until I see fit," he answers smoothly. "You ought to know by now, my dear, I prefer it when you speak unambiguously."
He rubs at one particular spot for emphasis, enjoying the half-pleasured, half-shocked yelp Haytham lets out.
"Please, sir," Haytham moans.
"Please… what, exactly?" Another stroke, and another wonderfully erotic groan.
Haytham hesitates, still trying to keep what little dignity remains intact. Charles starts to move his fingers again, slower this time, and Haytham gives in.
"Please, for the love of God, sir, fuck me!"
Charles withdraws his hand slowly.
"That's a rather capital idea," he says thoughtfully, undoing his own breeches this time.
Costume 2/?
His hands wander slowly, and there's a certain thrill of feeling the fabrics and embroidery he's so used to wearing on another's body. The weight of Haytham's cloak across his shoulders is a reminder that he is trusted, he is wanted, he is loved, and the sensation of Haytham's fingers curling into the velvet on his back spurs him into spinning them around, so Haytham's back is against the desk. Haytham tries to grip Charles' hair, as he is used to, but succeeds only in knocking his hat off.
"Careful," Charles chastises, between kisses. "I like that hat."
Haytham mumbles an apology, and grinds against him hopefully. Charles lets out another breathless chuckle and turns him round, meaningfully placing a hand between his shoulder blades. Haytham understands, and allows Charles to press him against the desk. He grips the edge in anticipation, as Charles' hand wander down his coat.
Charles leans over him, and slides his hands underneath Haytham. Charles nips at his neck as he unbuttons his breeches deftly, tugging them down Haytham's thighs. He takes a small jar from a pouch on the belt slung around his hips and flicks the coat up, exposing Haytham's skin.
Haytham gives a small grunt when Charles starts preparing him, and arches his back slightly.
"This would be easier if you'd simply relax," Charles drawls, lubricating his fingers a little more.
"Apologies, sir," Haytham murmurs, fingers curling and uncurling around the wood. He opens his mouth, presumably to ask if Charles couldn't possibly try to stroke one particular spot, and chokes as Charles pushes another finger inside and starts kissing the bite mark from earlier, worrying it.
"Better?" Charles asks, and his voice trembles slightly. Very unlike Haytham. He winces, but Haytham doesn't seem to have noticed the slip-up, concentrating on his own behaviour instead.
"Oh, very," Haytham gasps in reply. He balls his hands into fists with the effort of staying still, flexing his arms, and accidentally knocks the ink pot on the desk over. Charles freezes when he sees that one cuff on his coat is stained, though thankfully the rest of his coat is fine. He pulls his fingers out, and sets the ink pot back up.
"Bollocks," Haytham groans, breaking character for a moment. "I am so, so sorry--"
This is his best coat, he'll never get the stain out and the coat'll never be the same if he asks a tailor to make a new cuff. At least Haytham has the common decency to move so the ink is no longer in danger of staining the rest of his coat.
"It's just a coat," Charles says. His favourite coat. His favourite bloody coat. Still, he can't be angry with Haytham for very long, he never could be. "We'll sort something out."
Haytham glances up at him, obviously somewhat confused. Charles sighs, and slicks up his fingers again. He uses his other hand to toss some blotting paper over the mess. They can try to clean it up later. If he has to live with his favourite coat being ruined irreparably, Haytham can live with a slightly stained desk.
Not even the delicious moans escaping Haytham's throat seem to be able to lighten Charles' mood. It's a coat. Just a coat. But it's his coat, his favourite coat, the coat he'd spent a fair few hundred pounds on.
"As much as I enjoy this, sir," Haytham manages, between hitched breaths. "I was under the impression that this was for your benefit, sir. Meaning, I was wondering exactly how much longer you'd continue with this?"
Charles shakes his head, and clears his throat. How can he be hung up on some ink on some fabric when Haytham is writhing underneath him, all but begging for more?
"I shall continue until I see fit," he answers smoothly. "You ought to know by now, my dear, I prefer it when you speak unambiguously."
He rubs at one particular spot for emphasis, enjoying the half-pleasured, half-shocked yelp Haytham lets out.
"Please, sir," Haytham moans.
"Please… what, exactly?" Another stroke, and another wonderfully erotic groan.
Haytham hesitates, still trying to keep what little dignity remains intact. Charles starts to move his fingers again, slower this time, and Haytham gives in.
"Please, for the love of God, sir, fuck me!"
Charles withdraws his hand slowly.
"That's a rather capital idea," he says thoughtfully, undoing his own breeches this time.