[ The last few days have been difficult to say the least. Since the punch that nearly got him kicked out and the kiss that (also) nearly got him kicked out, Kaveh has been trying to keep his nose to the grindstone, to generally stay out of Alhaitham's way. Between the guilt and the discomfort— and the unstoppable, unshakeable feeling of rejection— it's been hard to look at the scribe for too long without getting upset or embarrassed over what happened.
The one and only upside, perhaps, is that he hasn't gotten cripplingly drunk since that night, but that's mostly due to the fact that he hasn't had the funds to do so, nor does he dare right now to steal any of his roommate's booze when things are so tense between them. And despite it technically being an upside, it doesn't feel like one when it means he has to deal with all the awkwardness and unhappiness while sober.
Because at least as far as he's concerned, things have been incredibly awkward between them.
He's not exactly sure, then, how they got here, tangled together on top of Alhaitham's bed, all long limbs and sweaty skin and not a lick of clothing between them. The scribe's muscled figure is dotted with the same dark bruises that highlight his own skin, an arm thrown haphazardly across his face as he voices sharp, unvoiced gasps to the air, the fingers of his other hand tangled in Kaveh's blonde hair and pulling him closer to the buck of his hips until the architect nearly chokes on him. The blonde himself is aching, heavy and hard with his own arousal, but every attempt to reach between his own legs is thwarted— he doesn't know how exactly, only that it is— as the scribe's voice breaks from its gasping to offer a sound of disapproval, voice edged with a teasing amusement unlike anything he's ever heard.
Maybe, if he stopped to think about it for even a second, he would realize that there's no way it can be real... but there's no room for thinking between the sensations of touch and feeling and pleasure. And so it's not until he wakes with a start that he realizes that it was just a dream, that he's alone in his bed, the dull grey light of morning peeking through the window and illuminating the mess he's made: the sheets tangled up around him and stained with the same translucent color that beads across his abdomen, his skin flushed and his lips half-open in a panting rhythm that matches the pounding beat of his heart.
To make matters worse, he's still half-hard, as if the untouched release inspired by the dream wasn't enough, and the images are printed on his brain like photographs that he can not only see but feel, leaving his hips arching against empty air.
With a low groan, Kaveh takes himself in hand— a hiss as his fingers touch feather-light against his own skin— and starts to stroke along his own length, head canting back with closed eyes as he sinks into his bed, chasing his release. ]
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The one and only upside, perhaps, is that he hasn't gotten cripplingly drunk since that night, but that's mostly due to the fact that he hasn't had the funds to do so, nor does he dare right now to steal any of his roommate's booze when things are so tense between them. And despite it technically being an upside, it doesn't feel like one when it means he has to deal with all the awkwardness and unhappiness while sober.
Because at least as far as he's concerned, things have been incredibly awkward between them.
He's not exactly sure, then, how they got here, tangled together on top of Alhaitham's bed, all long limbs and sweaty skin and not a lick of clothing between them. The scribe's muscled figure is dotted with the same dark bruises that highlight his own skin, an arm thrown haphazardly across his face as he voices sharp, unvoiced gasps to the air, the fingers of his other hand tangled in Kaveh's blonde hair and pulling him closer to the buck of his hips until the architect nearly chokes on him. The blonde himself is aching, heavy and hard with his own arousal, but every attempt to reach between his own legs is thwarted— he doesn't know how exactly, only that it is— as the scribe's voice breaks from its gasping to offer a sound of disapproval, voice edged with a teasing amusement unlike anything he's ever heard.
Maybe, if he stopped to think about it for even a second, he would realize that there's no way it can be real... but there's no room for thinking between the sensations of touch and feeling and pleasure. And so it's not until he wakes with a start that he realizes that it was just a dream, that he's alone in his bed, the dull grey light of morning peeking through the window and illuminating the mess he's made: the sheets tangled up around him and stained with the same translucent color that beads across his abdomen, his skin flushed and his lips half-open in a panting rhythm that matches the pounding beat of his heart.
To make matters worse, he's still half-hard, as if the untouched release inspired by the dream wasn't enough, and the images are printed on his brain like photographs that he can not only see but feel, leaving his hips arching against empty air.
With a low groan, Kaveh takes himself in hand— a hiss as his fingers touch feather-light against his own skin— and starts to stroke along his own length, head canting back with closed eyes as he sinks into his bed, chasing his release. ]