Pairing: Tristan/Aran, Tristan/Fey, Aran/Cole
Rating: E
Summary:
Youth is a tangle.
For Aran and Tristan, this is the beginning of their first year at Ostwick University, the first time they’ve both been truly on their own, and the struggle of trying to understand themselves and each other. A decade of fast friendship, first loves, heartbreaks and separations have led them to this place: the precipice of adulthood and an uncertain world ahead.
Aaaand we’re back with a new chapter of Never Let Me Go, a Dragon Age-inspired Modern AU with lots of original elements and characters, written collaboratively by @oftachancer and @johaerys-writes! Kink, polyamory and character exploration, paired with tons of feels. So. Many. Feels. We hope you enjoy! <3
Chapter 24: Reeds in a Storm (Ao3 link)
Aran groaned, lapping the sour dust from Loranil’s upturned arse in the moonlight. Hours, they’d been fucking and fingering and fondling on the forest floor- at least it felt like hours. The mushrooms and herbs muddled time, made Aran feel electric and the taste of skin something akin to ambrosia. The feel of it beneath his lips. He spread Nil’s cheeks and lapped at him, drawing deep groans from the man before him.
Loranil’s tiger mask was askew, his long sunset hair braided back from his face to trail down his spine, the glitter and color on his face and shoulders streaked with sweat and other fluids as he bobbed on another man’s cock, sharing it with the woman he was furiously fucking, while Aran feasted on his arse.
He tasted like sweat and fresh baked bread and mushroom dust. Open and soft and practically begging to be fucked. Everything about Nil begged to be fucked. The bend of his spine. The shiver of his lips. The arc of his elbows.
The trees bent away to allow the moonshine through. The grove was filled with starlit bodies in motion, rambling music wafting over them from speakers set about the trees. Protected torches and sizzling rods of incense cast flickering lights and shimmering smoke.
Aran caught his breath as a firm cock brushed his cheek. A wolf mask above him. A line of musky powder on the darkened head of his dick. Aran lapped at the powder, feeling it soak into his tongue along with the taste of sweat and musk and weeping precome. Gods, he was aching. He sat up, taking the stranger’s cock into his palm and his mouth, rubbing himself at Nil’s prepared entrance.
“Fuck me-“
He wasn’t sure who said it and it didn’t really matter. It was a gathering of the willing and the wanton. Birch-shadowed and moss-mattressed, writhing with abandon in the fairy circle of the grove and the gentle slopes around it. Aran moaned, allowing his head to be dragged forward onto the wolf’s cock as he pumped into Loranil beat by beat, the drums circling them all, the rhythms driving every body in the moon’s light into a slow motion frenzy.
The woman beneath Loranil was wearing a feathered mask, like an owl, her flaxen hair poured out across the blanket on the ground like spilled corn silk. Powerful; undulating like waves, moaning like the earth herself. She rose up in his arms, her hands flexing at Aran’s hips, and they held each other’s gaze as Loranil rocked between them. Filling her, filled by him.
Aran kissed her lips: wine and root, cock and come, salt, brine, slick- She moaned, drawing them both in to the movement of her hips. Drowning them. The wolf had fallen on a woman in a panther mask, rutting splendidly a few feet away. The mongoose poured himself into Loranil’s mouth, come dripping over his lip, and Aran and the owl lapped it from his chin and lip and tongue as they fucked him. As the mongoose knelt beside them, hands sliding over their skin like wind. Like branches in a breeze.
Weren’t they all? Reeds in a storm, whipping each other into frenzies and fading into soft relief. The moans of wind and wonder becoming the music around them as they in turn unraveled and became sound and earth, moss and leaves, touching the sky and each other as they became what life could be...
He woke pillowed on a set of broad, hairy shoulders with a very soft, very warm woman curled against his back. The scent of the bonfire still wafted around the grove. Aran eased up, padding naked but for his boots through the woods, following the sound of wheels on gravel and distant music. Loranil was perched atop the van, headphones on, guitar in his lap, scribbling into a notebook. Aran tied a sarong around his waist and drank juice from a carton, laying out in the back of Loranil’s van. His knees were scuffed. His jaw was sore. His arse-
“How’s the head?”
His head ached, too, Aran squinted over the top of the orange juice carton, though none of it was bad, per se. Only… used. Well used. Thoroughly. It was a good feeling, though he wouldn’t have said no to a toothbrush. Loranil offered him a half-smoked blunt instead; he looked like a peacock on fire. Lean and lithe, thick dark violet hair caught up into a braid like a twisting mohawk, streaks of orange, blue, yellow, and red poured through his mane, his mask resting above his brows. His eyes - one speckled red, one deep blue - gleamed as he climbed down to straddle Aran’s lap. “I feel like I ate a dead raccoon while it’s kin fucked me.”
Loranil laughed, lilting and light. “Deep mushrooms are an acquired taste.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Did you take the willowbark last night?”
“Aye.”
“Good, that’ll sort you out. I promised Cole I’d return you in good order.” He smiled slyly, sitting back. “Am I? Returning you in good order?”
Aran slid his hands up Loranil’s sides. Fennec fur, Cole always said. And he was right. Fuck, he was right. Aran felt stretched and raw and used- and soft and warm as fur on the inside. “Aye. Well enough,” he murmured.
“Good.” Loranil nudged him back, setting the carton to the side. “I’ll check for good measure, shall I, oinun ?”
“Hm,” Aran sighed beneath him, grinning as the elf lifted his sarong and stroked him, heedless of the couples and groups milling about the campsite. “I didn’t- with a woman- did I?”
“I don’t think so.” Loranil kissed his collarbone, the scrape of his unshaven chin juxtaposed with the softness of his lips. “Would it be terrible if you had?”
Would it? he wondered, stretching beneath the Dale’s roaming hands. He’d been in several situations where he’d watched Loranil rolling around with women in various states of undress. Anders, as well.
“If you enjoy it-“ And, Maker’s breath, did he enjoy Loranil’s lips and his tongue and the dexterity of his fingers stroking him in the morning sun- His deep red robe sliding off of his shoulders, revealing the intricacies of his vallaslin down his chest and arms- The flint of the morning sun on his piercings, his pale skin, his nipples hard with morning chill and want- “Does it matter who it’s with? What they’re shaped like? We’re all the same on the inside.”
“Not- Not exactly the same-“ Aran breathed. “Ah, Nil-“
“Did you have an awakening, though?”
“Transcendental,” Aran thrust into his grip, groaning as Loranil lapped at his nipple. “Really, really bloody brilliant.”
“As did I,” the elf sighed. “So many thoughts, so many songs drifting from the trees and the night-“
“Brilliant,” Aran repeated, sighing as Loranil shifted forward and began circling his hips down- down- tight- fuck-
“Ah, oinun , you are,” the man moaned, posting Aran deeper with every roll of his hips. “You are, you are.” His head fell back as his fingers traced up Aran’s chest, his neck, stroking his ears as he rode him.
Shivers beneath his skin. Relaxing and winding him up at once. Beads of sweat glistening down Loranil’s chest. Aran was vaguely aware of the people who’d paused to watch them, but it didn’t matter. Not like they hadn’t seen them like this only hours before. Not like he hadn’t seen them. All one, he thought, losing himself to the rhythm of Loranil’s heart and hips. All of them were one, part of the same whole, part of- “Nil-“
“Aran-“ He squeezed Aran’s earlobes, sinking all the way down onto him. “We’re going to stay here a while longer before we return to the city. Alright?”
“Fuck, yes,” Aran laughed, thrusting up into him to draw a rough shudder from the man.
“Down and to the left,” Loranil murmured, shifting his hips to match his instructions, then sighed log and loud and low. “There. Just- Ah, just there.”
Read the rest on AO3!