Meadow

fearghas

Somewhere, outside of this small bubble of lust and desire, life continued. Somewhere in the Savannah, Seri nursed at the side of her beautiful mother, and chased the colorful butterflies that made their land home. Somewhere, Rade turned so that the sun warmed his back rather than his face and groaned as his joints protested against the movement. Somewhere Cullen spilled poison into the ears of a new recruit, spinning tales of glory and power if only they would compromise their soul. Somewhere closer, a pair of strangers navigated the awkward first moments of greeting, and somewhere deeper in, someone mourned for what they had lost.

Somewhere life existed outside of Varanduil, but not here.

Here, all he could think about was the heat of the man at his side and the all-consuming want of him that made his mouth go dry. The way the only way he could think of to slake his thirst was to run his mouth against him again, and again. He has no room to consider the ways in which this choice, and the acts that were likely to follow in the moments to come, could tear apart the fabric of his reality. How they might rewrite his concept of himself entirely, and jeopardize everything that he held dear. Fearghas doesn't feel the splitting of his heart into this new direction, for it had been sent down this path before he'd ever had a chance to fight it.

As much as Fearghas might later come to blame the stress he was under or the heat of the moment, he'd known this moment was coming. Perhaps not the first time Varanduil reached out to him, nor even the second truly. It was only when his beautiful brother had risked everything to come find him. To warn him. To keep him safe. The spark had been lit then, and had flared to life when their blood and sweat had mingled after their battle. Fed by a steady diet of longing and frustration in the days since, it now blazed hot and ferocious, as different to that which he shared with Ally as night was to day. Ally was soft and gentle, even when angry. Her love was a balm crafted to soothe the wounds her sharp words caused on occasion. Even with Arkana, there was a sweet gentleness to the way that they had found each other.

There were no soft or sweet or gentle parts to Varanduil.

Even the parts that were pliant beneath his tongue and teeth were firm with promise. He did not have to be careful with V in the same way that he did with Ally. He had been, on the battleground, but he had vowed in the wake of the almost-hurt in Varanduil's eyes that he would do so never again. Fearghas wanted to save his brother, and he had come to learn that hope alone would not be enough. Leading V to water would not force him to drink it and so the spotted stallion had resorted to gentle force, attempting with gentle insistence to plunge his brother's muzzle into the water so that he might taste the sweetness of redemption.

But Fearghas' thoughts are not on redemption, or saving, or sweetness. He thinks only of the way that the golden serpent shudders beneath his teeth and bucks closer, as if seeking some sort of chastisement. The way his brother's laugh contorted in the space between them, growing so large he can barely hear it over the desperate heaving of his own lungs. As Varanduil rises to pull him closer, threatening to offer exactly what it was that the spotted stallion blindly sought, even these thoughts disintegrate into the void and his thoughts narrow. Hot, wet breath on his nape. The pressure of a foreleg slung across his back. A subtle sliver of pain where the edge of his forehoof has broken the skin of his chest. The dual drumbeats of hearts only inches of malleable flesh apart. The way he wants, and he wants, and he wants. He wants all of Varanduil, in any way that he can have him.

His golden brother pulls him close and he obliges, easily transferring the power of the moment back to the stallion he has come to trust without tangible reason. Call me that again, Varanduil commands and renders Fearghas wordless in the wake of his authority. He groans against the piece of flesh that he holds. The spotted stallion obliges V's unspoken request, bowing his neck until it presses tautly against V's lips. He trails his own muzzle up the muscles of his brother's forearm, curling his neck possessively over what little of the golden form he can touch. Unafraid of hurting him, only of leaving this moment still wanting, Fearghas' teeth engulf the skin he can find, impatient for something. The rounded swell of his hips shift closer to V's body, seeking to support and hold him more securely upright, while bringing him as close as he possibly can.

He can't name what it is that he wants, only that Varanduil has it, somewhere. It's different from what he shared with Aallotar so many months ago and yet not so different. Both filled him with elation and tingles that raced up and down his spine but with Ally it had been sweet and easy, a coming together that had been a long time in it's coming. But there was nothing sweet now. Only raw need and frantic lust.

Ask me anything, Fearghas, he says and the spotted boy's eyes squeeze closed. Like an ache deep inside of him, he can tell there is something almost, not quite, nearly there. Nearly in his grasp, but he's clumsy with the feeling, awkwardly fumbling but no less sure of what it is that he wants, only that he does not yet know how to explain, or how to ask.

If you call me that, I'll say yes. The air he'd been holding without conscious thought in his chest explodes in an eager burst as the first thing that comes to mind slips out, deep and full of need. "Mine, V. Yer mine."

He drags in a ragged breath and tears his lips off from the succulent skin of his brother for the sole purpose of craning his head so that their eyes can meet again. With pupils dark and wide his eyes appear black, Fearghas turns to meet V's gaze, attempting to convey what he does not know how to say. "I want- I need you."

"Please."

stallion . 4 years . 16.1 hands . smoky black blanket . loveinspired . credit