[ There's a singular smug thread of pleasure tugged in Kaveh's spine at the way Alhaitham inhales and putsβ thumps?β his headphones down on his own desk. He's pissed off? Good. He should be, after the way heβ
βis storming across the room with feet thumping in a rhythm a lot more violent than usual, a heated contrast to the cold of his voice only emphasized by the slam of his hand over the top of Kaveh's work. There's a visible twitch in his fingers that has the architect's gaze following the length of hisβ long, muscled, strongβ arms and up to his face, to the cold fury in his emerald eyes.
Kaveh's stomach does another awkward little flip, and something like panic settles in the back of his mind because he's not sure he's ever seen Alhaitham this angry, not ever, and if he gets kicked out now he's got nowhere else to go, and maybe he should have considered that before actively trying to worm his way so deeply under the scribe's skin.
(But also he looks frighteningly good, another little part of his brain says, that part of course being the one burned indelibly with the memory of the filthy fucking dream responsible for all this mess.)
For a moment, Alhaitham's verbal jab leaves him feeling like he's been backhanded across the face. Whether it's because he's implying cowardice yet again or judging him for the marks across his skin, there's something about it that stings, and it's nearly enough to break through the aloofness he's wearing like a shield. But it's followed by another smug little thread, one of realization that something about the whole thing has bothered him in a way Kaveh has never bothered him before. A small realization, but one that is enough to keep his gaze cool and steady as it locks with the other's. ]
I try not to work with people I've fucked, [ he says, and his voice is cold, the words blunt. ] It's not usually good for rapport.
[ So much for being worried about getting himself kicked out. ]
no subject
βis storming across the room with feet thumping in a rhythm a lot more violent than usual, a heated contrast to the cold of his voice only emphasized by the slam of his hand over the top of Kaveh's work. There's a visible twitch in his fingers that has the architect's gaze following the length of hisβ long, muscled, strongβ arms and up to his face, to the cold fury in his emerald eyes.
Kaveh's stomach does another awkward little flip, and something like panic settles in the back of his mind because he's not sure he's ever seen Alhaitham this angry, not ever, and if he gets kicked out now he's got nowhere else to go, and maybe he should have considered that before actively trying to worm his way so deeply under the scribe's skin.
(But also he looks frighteningly good, another little part of his brain says, that part of course being the one burned indelibly with the memory of the filthy fucking dream responsible for all this mess.)
For a moment, Alhaitham's verbal jab leaves him feeling like he's been backhanded across the face. Whether it's because he's implying cowardice yet again or judging him for the marks across his skin, there's something about it that stings, and it's nearly enough to break through the aloofness he's wearing like a shield. But it's followed by another smug little thread, one of realization that something about the whole thing has bothered him in a way Kaveh has never bothered him before. A small realization, but one that is enough to keep his gaze cool and steady as it locks with the other's. ]
I try not to work with people I've fucked, [ he says, and his voice is cold, the words blunt. ] It's not usually good for rapport.
[ So much for being worried about getting himself kicked out. ]