“You didn’t exactly look like you didn’t like each other,” Eridan said dryly.
Warrehn sighed, running a hand over his face. “It’s not real,” he said, and then he explained what had happened.
By the time he was done, Eridan was frowning deeply. He didn’t speak for a while.
“I don’t think it’s Dalatteya’s doing,” he said at last. “She loves her son very much—I can sense her fierce love for him every time they’re in the same room.”
Warrehn couldn’t deny it. He might not have been as strong an empath as his brother, but even he could tell that Dalatteya truly cared for Samir. It really didn’t make any sense why she would put her beloved son into such a predicament.
“I’ll look into it,” Eridan said absently before his gaze trained on Warrehn again. “So the toxic possessiveness I just witnessed was the drug’s doing, too?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Warrehn said, looking away.
His brother snorted. “Please, War. You literally forbade his guest from entering the palace and then basically went all caveman on him: my palace, my rules, my territory!”
“I did no such thing,” he said stiffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But even if I did, it’s the drug’s doing.”
“Right,” Eridan said. There was a great deal of skepticism in his voice, but thankfully he dropped the subject.
They spoke for a while, talking about what little Eridan remembered of their family. It wasn’t much, and soon they lapsed into silence again—silence that was a little too awkward for Warrehn’s liking. It frustrated him endlessly that his brother was still a stranger to him in a lot of ways. Twenty years apart would do that, and no matter how hard they both tried, the awkwardness lingered. It didn’t help that part of Warrehn still resented Eridan’s decision to return to the High Hronthar: he had accepted it, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
But it was his own fault. He wasn’t good at being a big brother. Not only had he failed to make his little brother feel at home in their palace, but Eridan was now a witness to his inability to stay away from the son of their parents’ murderer.
Warrehn grimaced. His attempt to stay away from Samir and spend time with Eridan had only made everything worse: he’d become so worked up that he had ended up kissing Samir in front of Eridan, like a green boy who couldn’t help himself.
The memory of Samir’s plush, eager lips sent a new wave of want through him, and Warrehn sighed inwardly. “I have to go.”
Eridan gave him a long, assessing look, but thankfully didn’t say anything.
Warrehn strode away.
Maybe it was for the best. Now that Eridan knew, he didn’t have to hide his meetings with Samir. Why shouldn’t he indulge himself for once?
For once? You’ve done enough of indulging already. Fucking Samir’s mouth was the definition of self-indulgence. If Warrehn could blame his possessiveness on the alien drug and the mating instincts it caused, he didn’t have an excuse for fucking Samir’s mouth—or kissing him. Getting a blowjob wasn’t exactly conducive to mating and procreating. Then again, fucking a man usually wasn’t, either, but fucking Samir for real and coming in his ass made him feel such visceral relief and satisfaction Warrehn could only attribute it to the alien mating instincts.
Maybe that was why he didn’t feel fully satisfied even after the blowjob. His body still ached with the urge to be balls deep in Samir, with the desire to take him. It was frankly disturbing how much he kept fixating on the concept of taking him. He wanted to take. And take. And take.
There was something heady about the way Samir gave himself to him, the way he was so pliant and eager for his touch, for his cock, for his mouth. Warrehn might hate what was done to them, but lately, when he was taking Samir, everything felt right—a feeling he’d rarely achieved ever since returning to Calluvia—and he craved the feeling, no matter how messed up it was. Nothing was fucking right about this situation, where consent was dubious at best. Warrehn knew that. But he couldn’t change the way he seemed to have become addicted to the feeling. When he was touching Samir, the world made sense.
Once or twice, he had a disturbing thought that it was no longer the alien drug pushing him back into Samir’s arms and willing body, but his own addiction. His own weakness.
No. He refused to believe that.
And yet here he was, standing in front of Samir’s door, once again.
He glared at it, his throat working, as he tried to convince himself to walk away.
But before he could do it, the door opened, and there stood the bane of his existence, half-naked, plush lips bitten red and dark blue eyes fixed on Warrehn hungrily, burning with need.