Meadow

fearghas

Together they tremble, locked in the prisons of their own making, furtively touching between imaginary bars. His golden friend trembles beneath his touch, as if the aftershocks of an earthquake are not quite done rearranging the landscape they have come to know. Something fundamental has shifted, their tectonic plates grating against each other until a new continent has been defined; a fresh chain of mountains erected in the wake of their collision, beautiful enough to define the horizon.

Varanduil melts against him, gold mixing with cocoa until the line that separated them was as muddled as Fearghas' thoughts. Where the smaller stallion was fluid and pliant, willing to conform to the figure to cradles him tenderly, the spotted stallion was insistent, tucking his chin more firmly over V's withers, hooking him closer. This Varanduil was Cullen's making. This soft, agreeable, spineless wraith of a man was what had drawn in the Lagoon boss, and Fearghas would not have only this surface part of Varanduil, not anymore. Whether V wanted to see it or not, Fearghas knew that somewhere in him something good and precious lurked. Something worth saving, something that he wanted all to himself to grow and nurture and protect.

The deeper truth, the one that fed this fire of need and want and lust and drive, was less benign. The real truth was that Fearghas didn't care. He didn't care if Varanduil was only this. If he was destined to be nothing more than a pawn caught between power and promise, unable to choose one for fear of losing the other. It didn't matter in the end. No matter what form his golden brother too, Fearghas would take him.

Even when Varanduil's teeth scrape across the pale swell of his hip, Fearghas does not move away but leans in instead, a low growl emanating from his throat before his lips find the words that they want to say. Eyes closed, moving by touch and sense - how often had he measured the distance from croup to shoulder in his memory? - he returns the favor, his teeth not as forgiving as Varanduil's own. In truth, Fearghas does not know what release he seeks. Varanduil's adoration or absolution would both be worthy prizes. Clumsy with his want, he rakes his blunted ivory teeth across the golden swath of Varanduil's rump, only to rake back over the same trail with kisses to seal it away.

He might have continued in this vein except for the pleas that his companion utters. Anger swells in his chest and he hooks his head back over Varanduil's body to growl against his skin. "Enough," he growls, his voice rough with gritty anger. Enough being afraid. Enough thinking less of yourself. Enough pretending. Fearghas would not blame his brother, even if he had been the one to tell Cullen everything. It was a terrible position to put him in, and Fearghas had known it from the beginning, when the first tendrils of Varanduil's goodness had begun to gleam through the murky veil that hid it. "Yer not his anymore." Lost in the moment he trails against the grain of Varanduil's fur to grasp at the plane of his withers only to roughly shake him, not caring if it caused him pain, only that it would be jarring enough to make him see the truth of his pleas. "You don't belong to him."

Emboldened by the press of gold to cocoa-colored skin, he trails his lips against the skin he'd just roughened. "Yer mine V, d'ye hear me?" Like flame touched to alcohol, it burns hot and fast and intense, uncontrollable but beautiful to behold. Almost as quickly as the fire had quickened, it dims from a flambé to a simmer, allowing just enough roon for his doubts to creep in. As much as Fearghas would like to demand Varanduil's obedience and adoration, he is not a creature of force; as much as he desires the adoration of the halcyon figure at his side, he would not take it unless it came with his consent.

Fearghas draws in a shuddering breath against V's skin, his brow pleated with his conflicting desires. "If ye'll have me," he asks, his voice almost plaintive, a mere hair's breadth away from pleading. Please.