AN: Heads up, this is a fluffy slash fic. It's not explicit, but it isn't exactly kid friendly either. The major alert is the language. Sometimes, there will be naughty words. Apparently I use expletives in my writing. Alot. So yeah, if you are not a fan of male-male relationships, then unfortunately you might not have a good time. Otherwise, read on and Enjoy! ~~~

xxx

Blodhgarm dropped onto the branch like a leaf, the old oak one of many in Du Weldenvarden. The tree hummed underneath his claws, padded feet caked in mud and grass from his run through the forest. His prey tittered below him, wandering through the small group of elves that were meandering through the small glade. The circlet of tree-houses around the edge of the glade glowed in the dark, warm lights from the erisdar framing their doorways.

His prey talked and chattered with the elves in his path; every now and then the fluttery creatures would look up at Blodhgarm. Some would shake their heads and smile, others would laugh, and then some would frown. He didn't care. He kept playing the game. His eyes turned to slits and they locked onto the oblivious prey.

The thin frame disappeared between two houses, and then started running through the brush like a ghost. Blodhgarm followed. The tree branches easily parted for the elf, and he almost ran straight past where the ghost stopped. He easily cleared the entire river, landing like a feather in a pine across from where the phantom had slowed to a trot. From there, his eyes could see it all. The dark hair, slender white throat, lean hands, lithe thighs, the bright eyes. He felt his mouth dry out.

Blodhgarm almost wondered whether he had been spotted, the ghost faltered, but the spectre carried on; stopping by the river. It rolled its shoulder's back, cracking its spine and bending at its hips. Then it lurched forwards, bringing its arms behind its back and bending over to press its face against its knees. Then it stood, and with an easy movement unbuckled its belt. Blodhgarm shuffled closer on the branch, sitting back to press his back against the trunk.

The ghost pulled off each boot, pressing his toes into the river sand. Blodhgarm could even hear the boy's sigh, petering off into a tiny groan. Then he pulled his tunic up, the elfin fabric coming away easily. The boy's pale stomach was revealed, his narrow hips, and the sharp v shape that framed the dark line of a happy trail; stark and inviting against the vivid contrast of his delicious belly. The supple creamy skin carried on up, and Blodhgarm felt his breath hitch as Eragon's breeches slipped down a little from the movement.

Blodhgarm found himself leaning far forwards, even far enough that he had to brace himself on the branch, and tuck his head down to stop it from being visible through the branches. The tunic slipped over Eragon's ribs, up further to reveal dusky nipples and over his head. The movement had obviously caught his face; his nose and mouth were slightly redder from the friction. Then he did something that Blodhgarm hadn't seen an elf do. Not even when they were perceivably alone. He smiled, closed his eyes and roughly rubbed his hands through his hair. He threw his head back and moaned at the relaxing feeling, and took a few mores steps into the river, especially sure to push his toes into the river bed. He stretched again, arching his back deliciously before letting his arms fall.

Then he did something that really surprised Blodhgarm. He threw himself backwards onto the sand, arms spread. He pushed his head into the sand, arching his throat, rolling his shoulders up and eventually slumping into a relaxed position. One of his legs came up, bent at the knee, and the other stretched lazily, the river water soothing his toes.

Blodhgarm made his move when Eragon's fingers stopped twitching.

He slipped, silently down the tree trunk, eyes perpetually on Eragon's lounging form. The boy never moved. Blodhgarm settled onto his haunches at the base of the tree, arms spread around the trunk on either side, back pressed to the comforting bark. He leisurely moved forwards onto his hands, keeping low and deftly crawling forwards. He was on his hands and feet, legs and arms bent so they were parallel to the ground, coiled like a wildcat ready to pounce.

He padded delicately into the water, fully aware that if he jumped across the river again, the noise would alert his quarry. Then the boy would freak and run, and the plan would fail. That was not something that Blodhgarm was willing to risk, so swamp slogging it was. Well, the river was beautiful, but the elf had acquired more than just fur with his wildcat pelt. He had also gained abhorrence for water. Similarly, the fur had granted him an infuriating stench that attracted women to him. Irony in its finest form. Women attracted to a gay elf. He snickered, and the water bubbled around his nose. Eragon twitched, but didn't wake up.

Blodhgarm was already on the other bank, thumb by the tip of Eragon's big toe. Another animalistic urge, he snapped his teeth and opened his maw. The growling purr that shuddered out of his chest had a strange effect on the sleeping human; the boy hummed back and tucked an arm behind his head. He rolled his hips up, and his other leg came up to bend at the knee, almost tucking his legs against his chest. Then he settled, and the legs hung rather limply and settled on the beach again.

Blodhgarm moved again. He crawled up the human's body, padded hands careful to not touch, trying to keep his breathing low. It was hard when the inside of one of Eragon's knees brushed his flank. Lots of strange thoughts flooded the elf's mind, clouding it for an instant. Then he felt the heat build under his fur. He settled when his hands were on either side of Eragon's head, the boy's arm had slipped from underneath him and spread over the sand again.

Then, ever so slowly, he eased himself lower, settling so he was propped up on his elbows, framing Eragon's head while a knee was buried deep in the sand on either side of the boy's thighs. When he woke up from his sleep, Aiedail was already gone and the sun was heating his back. Blodhgarm purred, low in his chest and snuggled back into the warmth underneath him. He almost wouldn't have caught the quiet "ahem."

He glanced up, and Eragon was mildly amused, to be quite fair.

Blodhgarm leapt up onto his feet, almost awake enough to get away. but Eragon was more coherent, he managed to get a fist clamped around Blodhgarm's wrist. "Wait, don't be embarrassed! It's a part of the whole animal nature thing, right?"

Blodhgarm shrugged, "I have a tendency to act on my animal instincts more, yes. But it is no excuse."

Eragon shrugged, "You took a nap on me. No harm done."

Blodhgarm shifted on his feet.

"Come, want to get some breakfast?"

Blodhgarm didn't know when it started.

He had spent centuries rolling into and out of beds, and only recently had found himself in a bit of a lull. Not because of dysfunction, or because of lack of interest, but simply because there's only so many birds you can shag before you get mighty bored. You can only lick the same ice cream so many times before you decide you need a new favourite. Still, no matter how he tried to rationalise the new type of hunger that roiled in his maw, it was still mightily strange to want another man.

He hadn't the slightest idea when it started.

He would watch. The tiniest things he filed away into little folders in his kitty brain, keeping the information safe and sound. Like he did with women, he would watch first, then court, and show them how much he liked them by noticing the small things. They would build it up, and then he would take what he wanted and leave. Another reason why he had a rather luscious fur pelt; it was a magnificent disguise. The women had no clue he was that dashing young ass that had left them high and dry three decades ago. Well. He would sometimes try pretty hard, do the whole fairytale prince shtick. Stick around, play the whole thing out, and then leave. But now? That fur that saved him from being neutered was his downfall. His own fault, he supposed.

Maybe it was a sign.

Now he found women boring, because he had turned pulling into an art form. It became easy, especially with his aroma. There wasn't even a spell to counter it. He tried, and failed every time. Maybe it was meant to be, his revoking of the fairer sex. Men looked at him twice because it's hard to miss a huge blue cat-man, not because of his pulling power. They looked at him for artillery expertise if a Varden warrior, looked to him for magical lecturing if a member of Du Vrangr Gata. They looked to him on how to skin a mountain lion or which tree wouldn't gut them if they tried to chop it down. They didn't look to him for a roll in the sheets.

They were a challenge, a conquest for him.

He smirked, and Eragon noticed the movement. The elf shook his head and waved Eragon's attention away, the boy shrugging and returning to his whittling. He was quite the artist, and would create an entire menagerie of animals and people, only the Blood Oath Celebration was able to enhance the boy's gift more. If he still lived in his little village, he may have grown old like Brom and told stories, made wooden toys for children and drank tea on hillocks. Right then, he was sitting in an Elvin wood with a pick-n-mix elf carving little people from sticks. But who it could have been that he was carving was a mystery. The boy hadn't cut in a face yet.

Eragon was a challenge. He was the forbidden fruit. The prince in the tower already betrothed to a princess in a kingdom away. It was almost borderline insane for Blodhgarm to nurse an attraction to him, not only because of the age difference, but because of the whole destiny garbage. It would be like a tragic romance, the boy would run off and get mauled by Galbatorix, and Blodhgarm would run in after him and go out in a blaze of glory. It would be a sad-sack of a story.

That and Arya would castrate him for touching the Rider.

Still, no matter how he thought about it or tried to stop himself, he was still sitting on a rotting log in the middle of nowhere eating breakfast at night. They had been wandering the whole day, talking, chattering about nothing, but neither seemed to find a reason to leave. So here they were, eating berries in the twilight.

Then the smell came.

Blodhgarm stiffened. His hackles froze in place, and the only movement was the barest brush of the wind against his fur. The smell was faint, but still discernable amongst the pinecones and moss of the forest. It was sharp, musky like old whiskey, and had a hint of mountainous snow about it. It filled his mouth, his nose, his throat. It even completely filled up his lungs with its freshness. Then he gulped.

"What's wrong my friend?"

Blodhgarm shook the scent from his face and held his breath adamantly, looking over to Eragon. The boy had stopped whittling. He was sat on a log opposite Blodhgarm, elbow propped on his knee and knife dangling from his fingers. He had a curious frown across his features, but the rest was lost as the wind blew again. The scent filled Blodhgarm's throat and chest, and then the world blurred.

His mouth found the boy's with ease, and the clawed hands encircled the pale white wrists that were almost completely hidden by the hems of the bright green elfin tunic. The growl filled Blodhgarm's throat, the sound met by a breathy gasp as the two met in a needy open mouthed kiss. Absently, Eragon felt the knife slip free of his fingers, but Blodhgarm had let his hands go and roughly tore his padded hands through his hair and across his pointy ears, making the boy whine and throw both arms around the elf's waist. The hands slid, unused to the soft fur of the wildcat's belly, a texture that made Eragon groan when he ran his hands upwards and under a light undershirt.

Eragon pushed up, pressing his tender belly against Blodhgarm's fur, the wildcat long since tearing the front of his tunic to shreds. But exactly when Blodhgarm had pushed him to floor, he didn't know. But the heavy weight that pressed down against his chest, between his legs, across his mouth, it kept him happy enough to let the minor details slide. Blodhgarm finished their kiss by tentatively biting Eragon's lower lip, before he leant back, propping himself on his elbows, staring down at Eragon with eyes that were almost pinpricks in his mauve eyes, and then the world lost all coherency as the elf rolled his hips into Eragon's centre.

Blodhgarm sank his fangs into Eragon's throat, and the boy bucked. The claws on his hands slid down his arched back, making Eragon push his head back into the soft mossy ground, baring his throat as Blodhgarm slipped lower to lick down the boy's sternum. "Let me take care of this, Drottningu." The cat looked up, fangs sparkling, as he slid a hand between Eragon's thighs. The boy smirked, and Blodhgarm felt his stomach coil into the familiar form of arousal. He expected a blushing virgin, not to be squared up to by the young rider.

"It would be most selfish of me to take instead of give, Konungr."

Eragon threw his arm up, and Blodhgarm yowled as the boy coiled his legs around the elf's waist and threw his weight into rolling them over, switching positions and stopping to look down smugly at Blodhgarm's bewildered gaze as Eragon knelt between his spread legs. Eragon's face brightened. Plan successful.

"Blodhgarm, are you really okay?"

The elf shivered, and his sight returned. He was still sitting on that damned log, and Eragon was still sitting next to him whittling away at that stupid wooden carving. They hadn't had steamy make-outs on the mossy forest floor, and they weren't following it up with steamy forest sex. The cat sagged, but he gave Eragon no answer. He was just too disappointed.

The scent wafted past again, and he felt himself growl.

"Yes, Shadeslayer. I am terrific."

His hung face completely missed the grin that slit the boy's face. Eragon had always loved playing with cats.