Meadow

Like sinking his teeth into a crisp, fresh apple- bursting sweetness all along his tongue chased by a prickling blood-like tang that made his whole mouth water for more- but it was his whole body that was feasting on Fearghas, and the sweetness of his unspoken acceptance, and the metallic, mouth-watering tang of his teeth fumbling fiercely for any part of Varanduil he could reach, gripping and dragging with an adoration that bruised what it touched. Fearghas, who took his orders with a pliant shudder and a strained sound, as if they were sacred, as if they were desirable, and obeyed them, but only after making them his own, so what he freely offered Varanduil was smeared with himself like a pact signed in blood. Not broken. Not stripped of his choice. Nothing of Varanduil was strong enough to make Fearghas bend to him; he bowed when he did because he was willing, and it was an adrenaline rush of delight so swift it burned Varanduil’s veins and arteries as it coursed his body. It was a tenuous shared power that slid between them, like tides connecting different shores; something belonging to both of them; something he didn’t need to snap up like a starving stray stealing scraps of someone else’s kill, but could luxuriate in freely and then offer back, and know it was as precious and intimate a gift to give as it was to receive. And oh, he did enjoy receiving it, as Fearghas squirmed under him, trying clumsily to embrace him; trying with sultry elegance to slide more of his powerful body beneath him, and Varanduil accepted both his bruising teeth and his rolling hip, melting over him, molten gold pooling along Fearghas’ bittersweet body, his whole weight draped across his proud dark shoulders like a glittering suit of armour as he nipped a crown of jewel-bruises along his brow.

“Mine, V. Yer mine,” gushing from Fearghas’ soft mouth like bursting cherries, dark and rich and sweet and lusciously gory, his sinfully lovely mouth smearing the words roughly into Varanduil’s flesh.

“Mmm,” Varanduil agreed into the wrinkling hollow behind the jaw Fearghas was so generously leaving in his reach, less any sort of word than a visceral purr from deep in his churning body. Fearghas twisted further- and though it was Varanduil who was lazing across him like an indolent leopard, flexing his claws into him, Fearghas was so contorted in the struggle to reach him; to touch him; to leave no flesh bare of him that the sight sent a flaming flush of delight through him, and the laugh he muffled into Fearghas’ straining throat was one of unadulterated adoration before he compliantly devoted his full attention to his brother’s beautiful face. The look he wore was so serious, almost desperate, and Varanduil had to dredge himself back a long way from the vast darkness of his wide-blown pupils to focus on his words, though the distracted licking of his own lips- and then Fearghas’, just because they were right there, wet and waiting- was perhaps proof he had not entirely escaped that desire-drunk stare.

“I want- I need you.

“Please.”

Something in the gravel of his tone made him pause, studying him carefully, because this didn’t seem like just another general plea- not when he couldn’t miss how Varanduil wanted him back- so this was something specific. ...-Was he really asking- no, was he really begging for what he thought he was..? ‘Of course he is,’ Varanduil reminded himself before he could grow too starstruck by the idea, ‘I want him to.’ Just a dream. His Fearghas. The real one never needed to know. He hissed out a low, tempering breath, fitting his teeth along the bridge of his dark, darling nose before pressing his forehead none too gently against his brother’s, crushing them, hard, brow to brow, as if he could pass right through the barrier of Fearghas’ lovely skull and into the secrets he knew he didn’t have.

“...I like it when you beg,” he admitted breathlessly, guiltily, despite that it was a dream; despite that Fearghas couldn’t avoid knowing just how much he liked it. “I like your voice, and your accent- like you’re singing to me all the time. I like everything you do. You’re so radiant that it’s frustrating.” This close, he couldn’t make his eyes focus on his brother’s- they were just star-studded black velvet pits into which he could sink down, down, down, warm and deep.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he murmured, though it was his own heart that was nervously stuttering. “I won’t do anything you don’t want, Fear,” and what should have been an unpleasant word became so soft and tender and comfortable (‘Familiar,’ he thought, and oh how dangerous that thought was) on his tongue when it transformed into Fearghas’ name that it gave him courage, and he tilted to work Fearghas’ lower lip between his teeth. He may have been inexperienced, but he had enthusiasm and attentiveness enough to make up for it, and a dream wouldn’t judge. “-But if you tell me what you want, I’ll unmake you.” Not a threat- perhaps a warning, though, because Varanduil did want so very badly to unravel this perfect vision of Fearghas at his seams and make a mess of him. Too sweet, too noble, too beautiful, too strong and too careful with his strength (too caring in general)- he was so proud and jealous of him that it was boiling under his skin and making all of him hot, and nothing would quench that ugly fire of twisting desires quite like seeing Fearghas undone at his touch, melted and helpless and sheltered in Varanduil’s dark, protective shadow as he lazily pieced himself back together after, safe and free.

—

Waking up was... Warm, which he hadn’t expected, and heavy, which he expected even less, and suddenly he thought of Cullen, standing over him, the proud, beaten shapes of his hooves raised and ready to crush- he jolted where he lay, panicking for a moment when he realized he couldn’t move. Panicking more when he realized it was because there was a large, live shape he was cradled around and under. Twitchily, he raised his head from where it had been pillowed on- on a muscled dark shoulder, streaked with tiny white speckles (streaked more with dried sweat- He swallowed and eased himself back enough to uneasily glance at the rest of him (no simple feat- he was nestled so snugly with F- with the body that he was partially underneath it, and he tried very hard not to think about how all of hi- of its soft muscles were melting over his bones like they belonged there).

“-Ah,” he murmured, his voice all dumb surprise tangled with a reverent sort of panicked awe, “shit.”

Swallowing again (his mouth was so dry, it didn’t seem to be doing anything), he spoke a little louder, trying not to sound as uncertain and raw as he felt (he didn’t think he succeeded, not least of all because he was aching all over, and he could feel bruises he knew he shouldn’t have had). “...Fearghas?”

-No, don’t panic. Maybe he had found Varanduil sleeping and just- he was just waiting for him to wake up and dozed off. Fearghas was soft and affectionate, it wasn’t so strange that he would lie with him. Wasn’t so strange that Varanduil might curl around him in his sleep. -He was so big, too big, the real one wasn’t like this- but how long ago was it since Varanduil had seen him..? A gangly youth whose joints were full grown but whose body hadn’t caught up yet. A little brother, even if he’d been a little taller. Not someone who could nearly lift Varanduil off the ground with his teeth (his withers ached).

Not someone who would.

“Fearghas,” he repeated, whispering now, nervous and trying desperately not to sound like it, because the dark mane by his head was tangled and matted to the ruffled fur of his thick, curving neck, and the compulsion to put his mouth on it felt so natural (as if he’d done it many times already; as if it was him that had disheveled it this way; as if he could remember, with hot, dizzying clarity, having done it).

-It wouldn’t... Be so strange to touch him, right? Even if it was the real one? No teeth, nothing that could give away the vile things he’d wanted of him (the viler things he’d done to him, and, worst of all, made Fearghas enjoy) in the- ...Dream. Just innocent touch. It had been so long, maybe Fearghas didn’t remember how Varanduil had recoiled from him back then, frightened of his softness and his goodness; terrified that he would leave some horrible taint on him if he touched-

He crushed that thought and, stubbornly, very carefully not trembling, despite that every muscle in his body was tensing up, he pressed his closed, tight mouth to Fearghas’ shoulder.