[ Between shifting to the bed and then breaking away in concern, the lancing heat of arousal between Kaveh's legs has waxed and waned somewhat— until Alhaitham's words shatter into a breathy moan, that is, the sound bringing that feeling rushing back with a vengeance, the blonde's hips tensing and shuddering a little against air. It's made even worse when the press of his teeth is answered with another graveled sound, and gasp of his name, the lock of the scribe's mouth to his shoulder in return— and this time it's Kaveh's turn to cry out, his fingers lifting, tangling in locks of green-tipped silver to hold him close.
But even through the whited-out cloud of bliss in his head, there's a pulsing black seed of doubt, something awakened by the thought from just a moment before. Even if Alhaitham never wants to lay hands on him again after this— Alhaitham is drunk, and if he doesn't want this when he's sober, isn't Kaveh taking advantage of him? What if that rejection from before was real, and it's only as the inebriation has taken hold that the scribe has caved to the idea of this being good?
That foot locks, pulling him close, pressing until their bodies are flush, and he's shaken momentarily from the thought by the feel of his quickly-burgeoning arousal rutting accidentally into the other's hips; a groan surfaces on his lips when he finds that Alhaitham is hard too, the press of their hips lancing pleasure through his veins. ]
Alhaitham—
[ He could just ignore it, couldn't he? He's drunk too, and the scribe's voice sounds wonderful, and they're both hard—
But what if, sober—
His hands drop between them, bracing hard, lifting him up and off the other man. His eyes are wide, staring even as he tries not to meet the other's eyes, breath short and sharp over kiss-bruised lips. ]
We shouldn't— You're drunk—
[ You don't want me, Alhaitham, you just think you do. ]
no subject
But even through the whited-out cloud of bliss in his head, there's a pulsing black seed of doubt, something awakened by the thought from just a moment before. Even if Alhaitham never wants to lay hands on him again after this— Alhaitham is drunk, and if he doesn't want this when he's sober, isn't Kaveh taking advantage of him? What if that rejection from before was real, and it's only as the inebriation has taken hold that the scribe has caved to the idea of this being good?
That foot locks, pulling him close, pressing until their bodies are flush, and he's shaken momentarily from the thought by the feel of his quickly-burgeoning arousal rutting accidentally into the other's hips; a groan surfaces on his lips when he finds that Alhaitham is hard too, the press of their hips lancing pleasure through his veins. ]
Alhaitham—
[ He could just ignore it, couldn't he? He's drunk too, and the scribe's voice sounds wonderful, and they're both hard—
But what if, sober—
His hands drop between them, bracing hard, lifting him up and off the other man. His eyes are wide, staring even as he tries not to meet the other's eyes, breath short and sharp over kiss-bruised lips. ]
We shouldn't— You're drunk—
[ You don't want me, Alhaitham, you just think you do. ]