Meadow

The growl stilled him, as much as his spasming muscles and heaving ribs could be stilled, because it was low but not soft, deep and cavernous and vibrating, and Fearghas was so big that, leaning against him, it felt as if the earth beneath him was growling at him; as if the thick spring air, turned humid with body heat and sweat and heavy, desperate breaths, was growling at him. Every faculty he had left was focused intensely upon Fearghas- his every little twitch and shift and every texture in the sound of his deep breathing, examining him for signs of attack- and attack he did, with a slow intensity that made Varanduil's head swim, the whole of his great body rippling possessively against him; around him. Where Cullen was power compacted to the point of being hard (nothing penetrated him, things merely washed over him and away, and Varanduil's adoration had surged over his immovable muscle and flesh more times than he could count, hunting hungrily for a soft place to burrow into to no avail), Fearghas was vast and his padding of musculature was malleable in comparison, and as he dragged Varanduil deeper into his embrace, all of his soft dark body seemed to be accepting Varanduil's wretched snakelike shapes into itself.

Deliriously, Varanduil wondered if this tender and powerful body could swallow him whole- and if it could, was this gentle, all-encompassing structure hardy enough to survive his venom? ...He wanted to know. It was a thought he'd never have allowed himself to have of the real one, but now that he'd had it of this perfect dream, could he ever look at his sweet little brother without remembering it? Could he truly look his beloved, gentle, hopeful Fearghas in his tragic eyes again and not shiver with the memory of this pulsing, steaming shade who he'd made too large, too hungry, too yielding and too overpowering all at once?

'Filth,' he thought desperately, even as this vile, delicious dream slid and grated and dug harsh, toothy kisses down his wanting body and then back up. 'You wanted this, you miserable filth.'

"Enough," rumbled a voice too deep, too dark, too thick and heavy with a want so palpable Varanduil could feel the weight of it in the shuddering hollow cage of his own body, dragging him down into this delectable, dirty mire of his own making, and his mumbled, nonsensical prayers into Fearghas' spine stuttered into a groan like a sinking ship.

"Yer not his anymore."

That jolted him- did he... Want that, too? To be free of Cullen... What an alien concept. He'd wanted Cullen for so long, so desperately, that even to think the word 'free' felt awkward, like it didn't fit. Cullen had owned him (his golden master; a marble and gold temple at which he worshiped constantly), and when he'd left so insultingly; so cravenly; too weak to even say it to his face... He'd thought, for rage alone, Cullen would chase him down to reclaim his trinket. He'd looked forward to it. It had excited him, the idea of being wanted enough, even if as disobedient property, to be hunted by his ruthless idol.

-But month after month after month had slowly hollowed out of him that smug, selfish idea that he'd been anything worth the effort. Not even worth the trouble of punishing. Certainly not worth the trouble of retrieving. He thought of Fearghas- the real one, the one with awkward bony joints and an easy, practiced acceptance, tarnished only a little by his Lagoon brothers' disinterest- who had reached for him; asked for him; called him brother in vulnerable earnest (the guilt-blade, tipped with a poison of self-disgust, twisted, and he groaned again, squirming but not moving from his luxuriant place pressed deep into his perfect fake). He thought of how he'd pushed himself away, so assured of his own importance that he had the gall to be afraid that his presence would have any effect on the Savanna's fortunes. Thought of that little flicker in Fearghas' warm-coals face that made him swiftly look away-

The dream's teeth were suddenly fitting themselves over his bony shoulder blades, gripping, teeth on flesh on bone, painful, and he gasped and writhed, a squirming serpent in his powerful jaws as he shook him- not even trying to get away, not really, because there was something delicious about this, too, and as he bucked and thrashed, it was not down or away but up, into his hot mouth, pressure against pressure, eager to be consumed in whatever way this brutish desire of a dream wanted to consume him. He let go far too soon, and Varanduil moaned in disappointment and then frustration as that same hot mouth grazed tauntingly along the aching imprints of its own teeth in his flesh.

"Yer mine V, d'ye hear me?"

He stilled again, silent; chastised, because- yes, this was what he'd wanted- this violent, mutual desperation, slow and gorily passionate, strung through with his brother's aching sweet hope; carried redly on Fearghas' soft tongue, which was meant for kinder things than this; sparking heatedly, hunger a half-step from rage, in gentle eyes that should've creased with laughter rather than the contortion of vile things Varanduil's filthy desires wanted to see in them- was seeing in them, because this was Varanduil's Fearghas, dark and deep and dulcet on his tongue, and if he could never look his precious brother in the eyes again, let him at least look at this one every night. ("If ye'll have me," and it was low and vulnerable and Varanduil could hurt him, he realized with wonder.) And look he was; drinking in every imaginary inch of his speckled, snow-and-coals body, hot and heady against his flesh- he hadn't memorized the real one, but he would know this one when he woke; he would remember the ache of his bones and the malleable luxury of his plush muscle and the thin fragility of his flesh, and every speck and spot; every crystal of salt he was now laving jealously from his darksome throat with his tongue would still have him thirsty when he woke, he knew.

His laugh was a snarl- not angry but tangled; contorted with the delicious freedom of not caring anymore. So he was filth- that was no revelation. He had walked this moral tightrope before and his balance was fine-tuned and his reflexes swift. His darling brother never needed to know that this was how his mind's eye saw him, or that ("He referred to both myself and Ally as property, Varanduil," his tender, naive mouth had said once, wounded and righteous), here, now, he was truly and utterly Varanduil's, and he could taint every inch of his churning flesh with his teeth if he wanted, or step back and watch him to his heart's content, until this Fearghas was squirming so prettily, or simply hold him, hot and his, until he woke. -And when he woke, he would swim back to the Savanna and submissively beg his gentle brother to take him in; tell him that he was useless and had failed to do anything at all for him, and Fearghas would probably forgive him. Probably let him stay. Probably never notice that Varanduil couldn't touch him or meet his gaze.

So much for never lying to him, but the guilt-blade wasn't a blade anymore, it was part of him, a pulsing organ, and as he rose up to rest his forelegs against His Fearghas' muscled shoulder to fit his hungry little mouth around the luxurious thickness of his crest and squeeze (his sharp little right hoof coming to nest, ever so gently, in the hollow of his brother's dark brown breast), that organ throbbed thirstily just like the rest of his vile viscera was, a fluid and eager machine of desire.

"Call me that again," he ordered softly, selfishly, tugging lightly on mouthfuls of his red-faded mane, shifting daintily closer on his hind legs, so awkwardly close he could barely keep his balance without wrapping his forelegs around Fearghas' neck and shoulders, but he wouldn't, because he wanted only the tenderest of threats and most vulnerable of villainies for his beloved brother, so that it was always a choice to accept them. So that if he accepted them, it was a sign that he wanted him. The tip of His Fearghas' poll, where the muscle was leanest, looked so fragile from up here, crowned by the elegant shapes of his shifting ears, and he touched his open mouth to it, not quite biting, and viciously pressed and dragged the whole flat of his poisonous tongue along it, tangling his thick hair into wet tendrils.

"Ask me anything, Fearghas," he murmured into the pulse behind his fragile ear, wielding his brother's name with shameless heat, "and if you call me that, I'll say yes."