in which a book does not function as book
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Summary
Texts appeared on Kaveh's body one day, and Alhaitham never missed out a day to be enlightened.
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The evening light spilled across Kaveh’s shoulders, illuminating entire paragraphs that had migrated there, dense scholarly prose flowing along the elegant line of his spine, footnotes curling teasingly just above the dimples at his lower back.
Alhaitham’s breath hitched, barely audible.
“…This is ridiculous,” Kaveh mumbled into his arms, voice muffled and embarrassed. His ears burned. “You’re literally treating me like an open book. I can feel you staring.”
“Because the text is clearest here,” Alhaitham replied. He leaned down, one hand bracing beside Kaveh’s ribcage while the other traced slowly along a line of text near his shoulder blade. The touch was feather-light, impersonal in intent, yet the way his fingertips followed the curve of muscle made it feel anything but.
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Alhaitham froze.
He stared at Kaveh’s wrecked expression and then down at his own finger still wedged between the pages. Slowly, he slid the finger a little deeper into the fold, rubbing along the inner seam.
Kaveh cried out, hips bucking as the invisible finger crooked inside him, pressing firmly against his inner walls.
“…I see,” Alhaitham murmured. The pieces clicked together behind those eyes. “So that’s what this has been about. Every time I trace the pages… every time I press into the spine or between the folds…”
He experimentally slid his finger back and forth in the crease again.
OR
A completely innocent touch on pages directly translates to a sensual one.
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