There isn't much thought put into his next actions. Not the removal of his clothes, not the placement of his hand on his cock, not the hard, rough strokes he gives himself, or the bucking of his hips upwards into his hand. It's just something he does, and he doesn't feel much in the way of regret for starting this. He imagines his hand is the Dai's, that the callouses on his hand are the callouses on Malik's, and the image of the older man touching him like that makes this feel ten times better. He is slow at first - he doesn't want to finish too soon - and it takes all he has to keep himself quite, to swallow the moans that threaten to escape. His pace is torturous and he is torn between loving it and needing more. He bucks his hips up, jerking in such a way that would bring even a little more friction. He runs a thumb over the head, fails to keep a whine of pleasure quite, but pays no mind to it. His pumps get faster now, faster and faster and faster and oh god it's never fast enough, never enough friction, but god does it feel good. He squeezes, once softly, the next time harder and it's the latter that gets a loud, throaty moan out of him. It isn't much longer until he's done, his climax hitting hard, his hand urging it on with a few more strokes and a jerk of his hips upward into it in a desperate attempt to get all the sensation he can.
His fingers are sticky with his own seed, but he can't be bothered to clean it up right away, can't be bothered to move, or open his eyes that had been squeezed shut as he rode out his orgasm. He simply lies there, shameless, with his legs spread, and - without even realizing it - whispering the name of the man he'd been imagining as he worked - a man who does not happen to be deaf. Malik hears the moans, the sound of his name on Darim's lips, but he does not approach the room. He is not stupid and he can tell what the Grand Master's son was doing, but decides not to say anything until the next morning. The boy had already been embarrassed enough tonight at having been the only one in his group to come back with an injury, Malik would spare him further embarrassment for now.
The next morning is relatively uneventful, with few words being spoken until Darim is ready to leave.
"I will be going back to Masyaf now. Thank you for helping me last night."
"Are you referring to your wound or for providing something for you to fantasize about?"
Darim freezes where he stood, his face heating up and becoming noticeably flushed. In the moment he hadn't realized that the sounds he hadn't managed to keep to himself were loud enough for Malik to hear, and he certainly hadn't realized that Malik had heard him say his name. He's glad to be facing away from the man, though he knows that he probably isn't facing him, either. He stands there for what feels like years, but must have only been seconds before Malik speaks again. He's grateful for the continued talking at least, for he has no answer to the previous comments and perhaps this will be about something unrelated, something much less embarrassing.
"Since your mission was a success, you will no longer be a novice, will you?" Darim almost breathes a sigh of relief - this isn't about what he'd been doing last night, he won't have to think about it any more - but his reason for thinking that way doesn't last long. Not with the following words. "You will want to work being more discreet. If your moaning was any indication, it is no wonder that your target heard you before you were able to stick your blade through his throat."
He swallows hard, clenching and unclenching his fists, and his feet still frozen in their spot. If it were really possible, he is inclined to believe his death would be one of embarrassment rather than old age or a mission gone wrong.
"Well? I thought you were going back. If you are hoping for me to teach you how to keep yourself quiet it will have to wait. I am busy at the moment."
Darim nearly falls over when Malik says that.
"W-what?"
Malik is looking at him with a quirked eyebrow, but other than that his face lacks any telling expression. Darim prays that he is telling some sort of terrible joke.
"Did I stutter? Now go on. Altair will be waiting for you. I will be returning to Masyaf tomorrow."
He nearly trips over his own feet on his way out. Apparently it was not a joke.
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This hasn't been beta'd so it isn't the best it can be, but I hope it's liked by whoever reads it.
Fill: A Little More Than Admiration 2/2
His fingers are sticky with his own seed, but he can't be bothered to clean it up right away, can't be bothered to move, or open his eyes that had been squeezed shut as he rode out his orgasm. He simply lies there, shameless, with his legs spread, and - without even realizing it - whispering the name of the man he'd been imagining as he worked - a man who does not happen to be deaf. Malik hears the moans, the sound of his name on Darim's lips, but he does not approach the room. He is not stupid and he can tell what the Grand Master's son was doing, but decides not to say anything until the next morning. The boy had already been embarrassed enough tonight at having been the only one in his group to come back with an injury, Malik would spare him further embarrassment for now.
The next morning is relatively uneventful, with few words being spoken until Darim is ready to leave.
"I will be going back to Masyaf now. Thank you for helping me last night."
"Are you referring to your wound or for providing something for you to fantasize about?"
Darim freezes where he stood, his face heating up and becoming noticeably flushed. In the moment he hadn't realized that the sounds he hadn't managed to keep to himself were loud enough for Malik to hear, and he certainly hadn't realized that Malik had heard him say his name. He's glad to be facing away from the man, though he knows that he probably isn't facing him, either. He stands there for what feels like years, but must have only been seconds before Malik speaks again. He's grateful for the continued talking at least, for he has no answer to the previous comments and perhaps this will be about something unrelated, something much less embarrassing.
"Since your mission was a success, you will no longer be a novice, will you?" Darim almost breathes a sigh of relief - this isn't about what he'd been doing last night, he won't have to think about it any more - but his reason for thinking that way doesn't last long. Not with the following words. "You will want to work being more discreet. If your moaning was any indication, it is no wonder that your target heard you before you were able to stick your blade through his throat."
He swallows hard, clenching and unclenching his fists, and his feet still frozen in their spot. If it were really possible, he is inclined to believe his death would be one of embarrassment rather than old age or a mission gone wrong.
"Well? I thought you were going back. If you are hoping for me to teach you how to keep yourself quiet it will have to wait. I am busy at the moment."
Darim nearly falls over when Malik says that.
"W-what?"
Malik is looking at him with a quirked eyebrow, but other than that his face lacks any telling expression. Darim prays that he is telling some sort of terrible joke.
"Did I stutter? Now go on. Altair will be waiting for you. I will be returning to Masyaf tomorrow."
He nearly trips over his own feet on his way out. Apparently it was not a joke.
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This hasn't been beta'd so it isn't the best it can be, but I hope it's liked by whoever reads it.