fic: The seeker and the sought
So this happened. I liked it a lot better last night than I do now, but it's written so it might as well be posted, yes?
Title: The seeker and the sought
Pairing(s): Dean/Oberon, Dean/Alastair
Warnings: torture, dub-con, bloodplay, asphyxiation, manhandling, exhibitionism…
Spoilers: Season 6, including 6.09
Rating: NC-17
Notes: ~2000 words. second-person pov. I know nothing of Oberon other than what Wikipedia told me and the little bit of Midsummer Night’s Dream I recall. Really I just made my own version, I think.
Summary: It's his hands that first get you, long and lithe like Alastair's were. He speaks softly and calmly, demanding but without malice. He's soft edges and strong muscle, where Alastair was sharp bones and whip-thin.
It's his hands that first get you, long and lithe like Alastair's were. He speaks softly and calmly, demanding but without malice. He's soft edges and strong muscle, where Alastair was sharp bones and whip-thin. But his hands...
You try not to think about it too much.
"Bow," Oberon says as you're thrown at him. You'd like to retort, but since you're already face down on the floor it seems a little counter-productive. Instead, you just sigh and work on pulling yourself up to a more respectable position, all the while doing your best to hold onto cool, calm, and collected.
You can hear his robes move as he moves, leaning down to get a better look at you. He grabs you by the hair and pulls your head up as you're still struggling for a more comfortable way to kneel. There's a look of disgust on his face at first, like he can't believe he's stooping to your level just to examine you, like it's not something he does every day and you're something special. You've never liked being something special. It gets tiring.
He stares at you for a bit that way, like he's cataloguing your every freckle, his hand fisted in what little length of hair you have, and your scalp burns right along with your legs. He pulls at your skin with his hands - warm, smooth, and efficient - judging you. Your eyes widen when he wraps his fingers around your neck, each one settling calmly before applying just the slightest bit of pressure, and suddenly Oberon's countenance is fading and you're panicking, Alastair's cold, hard eyes staring into yours.
"Stand," Oberon says, and so you try, staggering like a new-born colt to get your legs under you, only to fall back down as the blood starts flowing again. You feel a tug on your hair after you land, legs sprawled in every direction, but he isn't forceful so much as reminding you to submit.
You're still clothed but it doesn't matter as he runs his hands over you, poking at you and feeling your muscles ripple at his touch. All you see is Alastair and his cruel smile, sizing you up for the next trial to put you through, already estimating the time it'll take you to break. Oberon's touch is feather-light as he skates his hands down your stomach and to your groin. You flinch when he presses harder and his motion ceases. His head cocks as he looks at you, as though he's confused, and you wonder how it is he's been forcing folk to submit to him for centuries without having them flinch as he violates them.
"You are afraid of me," Oberon says, and you want to respond, want to scream and shout, 'no shit Sherlock,' but you're afraid and you can't get the words to come out. You nod, and his laughter in response booms throughout the entire hall. You struggle not to compare his boisterous laughter to Alastair's weak cackling as his hands start moving again, firm and demanding.
There are others here, like you, brought through the realm for Oberon's pleasure. You can see them in your peripheral, kneeling in submission at the feet of their handlers, eyes wide and watching, like they're taking note of what's to come. Alastair always liked an audience too, pounding into you as he choked you with your small intestine, his own twisted version of auto-erotic asphyxiation. Some days he'd say that was his favorite way to see you, eyes rolled back into your head and neck bloody as you came.
Oberon jerks you forward by the neck, smashing your mouth into his. It's forceful and vile, you think, the way his tongue assaults you and his fingers dig into your skin. Two of his personal guards begin stripping you of your clothes, quick and efficient, but your hands are still bound behind you and jerking and twisting against Oberon gets you nowhere, his hand a vice grip around your neck. The air is cold when it hits your skin and you shiver automatically.
"Don't be shy," Oberon says, and you can feel his leering smile against your lips. You've never been shy about sex, but this isn't just sex, you feel that with every bone in your body. There's magic in the air, the kind that expects you to submit to it, no questions asked, and you can't even begin to know how to fight it, only that you must. You remember watching Alastair working blood magic, hanging upside down with tiny slices all over, watching as your blood dripped down into an intricate pattern he'd designed for the occasion. He'd fuck you afterward, every time, and you'd last for hours right on the edge between pleasure and pain, begging and screaming for release.
Oberon runs his free hand down your body, his other still gripping your neck tightly. You flinch again as he twists a nipple, rubs it harshly between his fingertips. The court has gone completely silent, watching you and your reactions to their king. You can feel all their eyes on you and suddenly you know without a doubt that you will submit to him whether you want to or not. His hand trails down your stomach before he wraps it around you, and you're hard by the time he looks you in the eye again. You stare back, resolute, as his hand starts to move. Alastair had this thing he was proud of, this little twist with each finger that would have you screaming in five seconds flat as he opened you up, and you'd be panting and begging for him by the time he was done gyrating his fingers inside you. There was a time when you'd deny being a slave for Alastair's affections, but every time he chose sex as a form of torture, you knew that one day you'd beg for it.
Oberon doesn't need to command you to your knees, you know what happens next and you're pretty sure he can see it in your eyes at this point, but he says it anyway. "Submit." Your vision's muddled as you turn around and kneel, all the members of the court in their royal robes and dress twisting and melting into a demon audience, cackling and jeering, a sea of floating black shadows as you fall upon your shoulders, unable to maintain your balance with your hands behind your back. You shudder as one of Oberon's long fingers breaches you, but you can at least be grateful he's bothered with oil of some sort. You feel it warming with the friction, your body adjusting to the intrusion. Old hat, you think wryly.
You feel the moment he gives up worrying about your pleasure and is overcome by his own, and it hurts when he pushes in, like you were expecting anything else, but it's nothing like your first time with Alastair. You're trying not to compare the two, you're not, but it's inevitable, Oberon's pace quickening, audience forgotten. His breath is heavy in your ear as you feel your insides start to tear. Alastair didn't even bother with you at all the first time, just lined up and pressed in, ripping through the tight rings of muscles like they were nothing. "This is only a taste of what's to come," he'd whispered in your ear as he came, his fluids mixing with your blood, and you could feel it seeping out of you for days after, laying in a sticky red mess on hell's floor.
With the pressure of his weight on top of you as well as your own, your shoulders ache something fierce and you try to shift slightly. "Submit," Oberon growls in your ear, raising his voice for the first time. As he says it however, you feel the bonds around your wrists loosen and you struggle to get your arms under you as the feeling in them returns. Alastair always enjoyed you better when you struggled, and you wonder if Oberon would like it if you struggled more against him, but then he places one of his hands around your neck, pulls your face up close to his and kisses you violently. You feel each finger as it tightens, bruising your windpipe. That's a no, then. You haven't said a word the entire time you've been in the land of Sidhe and now it's clear you aren't going to be able to.
His rhythm stutters twice before he freezes above you, and you feel him come inside you. ‘Decorating you’, as Alastair would've said, like your asshole was some sort of canvas and he was a great artist using blood and semen and ash as his paint. Alastair said a lot of things, though, and the one phrase he never said for as long as you knew him was 'thank you,' which is what Oberon whispers into your ear as he slowly slides out and takes his weight off of you. You collapse onto the floor, assuming that since no one is touching you you're free to do as you please. It's the wrong assumption of course, his hands on you the moment you fall, but they're gentle, rolling you onto your back.
"Don't flinch," Oberon says, cupping your cheek with one long, slender hand. His other hand wraps around you and your audience - with their leering eyes and weighted breaths - fades away. The only thing that matters is the motion of his hand - strong, commanding, powerful. He keeps his one hand on your face the entire time he strokes you through, his thumb drawing a little line back and forth on your cheekbone. It would be comforting if his eyes weren't boring into you, down into your soul, like every thrust you make up into his hand is one more piece of the damn thing he owns. You think about what Alastair said about leaving a bit of yourself in the pit, and you know it's truer than you'll ever admit out loud. It's a bad idea to be leaving more of yourself in this world as well. Oberon's staring intently again as he coaxes you to your orgasm and you watch as his face morphs into Alastair's. "There's already one Winchester without a soul, eh, what's one more," you can hear Alastair saying in your mind.
"Everything," you want to say. You think perhaps you said it out loud when Oberon's hand freezes on your cock. You focus and Alastair's face turns back into Oberon's, his bright green eyes sparkling at you, like this is a game, something he doesn't do every day. You hear a quiet whisper from onlookers when he slides down beside you - none of the disdain he had earlier written on his face - and a startled gasp from the audience when he wraps his lips around you and sinks his fingertips into your hipbones. You come almost instantaneously then, flooding his mouth as he bruises your hips. Any modicum of decency you had is long gone, lost in this fairie king's every touch. It's only after he swallows and stands up and away from you do you hear the gallery quiet, and you watch from the floor as he silently regains control over his court.
"Take him back," Oberon commands, his voice breaking the silence, and you lay there stunned for moment before two sets of hands start pulling you away from him. The court fades away again as he calls for another to submit in front of him, but it's you he's looking at while his guards strip the man of his clothes. Without a doubt, you know by the look in his eyes that one day, you'll find yourself the center of his court's attention once again. He smiles at you and it's damn near identical to the one Alastair gave the moment you said yes. You're left wondering if Oberon and Alastair really all are that different as the fairie world disappears around you.
Title: The seeker and the sought
Pairing(s): Dean/Oberon, Dean/Alastair
Warnings: torture, dub-con, bloodplay, asphyxiation, manhandling, exhibitionism…
Spoilers: Season 6, including 6.09
Rating: NC-17
Notes: ~2000 words. second-person pov. I know nothing of Oberon other than what Wikipedia told me and the little bit of Midsummer Night’s Dream I recall. Really I just made my own version, I think.
Summary: It's his hands that first get you, long and lithe like Alastair's were. He speaks softly and calmly, demanding but without malice. He's soft edges and strong muscle, where Alastair was sharp bones and whip-thin.
It's his hands that first get you, long and lithe like Alastair's were. He speaks softly and calmly, demanding but without malice. He's soft edges and strong muscle, where Alastair was sharp bones and whip-thin. But his hands...
You try not to think about it too much.
"Bow," Oberon says as you're thrown at him. You'd like to retort, but since you're already face down on the floor it seems a little counter-productive. Instead, you just sigh and work on pulling yourself up to a more respectable position, all the while doing your best to hold onto cool, calm, and collected.
You can hear his robes move as he moves, leaning down to get a better look at you. He grabs you by the hair and pulls your head up as you're still struggling for a more comfortable way to kneel. There's a look of disgust on his face at first, like he can't believe he's stooping to your level just to examine you, like it's not something he does every day and you're something special. You've never liked being something special. It gets tiring.
He stares at you for a bit that way, like he's cataloguing your every freckle, his hand fisted in what little length of hair you have, and your scalp burns right along with your legs. He pulls at your skin with his hands - warm, smooth, and efficient - judging you. Your eyes widen when he wraps his fingers around your neck, each one settling calmly before applying just the slightest bit of pressure, and suddenly Oberon's countenance is fading and you're panicking, Alastair's cold, hard eyes staring into yours.
"Stand," Oberon says, and so you try, staggering like a new-born colt to get your legs under you, only to fall back down as the blood starts flowing again. You feel a tug on your hair after you land, legs sprawled in every direction, but he isn't forceful so much as reminding you to submit.
You're still clothed but it doesn't matter as he runs his hands over you, poking at you and feeling your muscles ripple at his touch. All you see is Alastair and his cruel smile, sizing you up for the next trial to put you through, already estimating the time it'll take you to break. Oberon's touch is feather-light as he skates his hands down your stomach and to your groin. You flinch when he presses harder and his motion ceases. His head cocks as he looks at you, as though he's confused, and you wonder how it is he's been forcing folk to submit to him for centuries without having them flinch as he violates them.
"You are afraid of me," Oberon says, and you want to respond, want to scream and shout, 'no shit Sherlock,' but you're afraid and you can't get the words to come out. You nod, and his laughter in response booms throughout the entire hall. You struggle not to compare his boisterous laughter to Alastair's weak cackling as his hands start moving again, firm and demanding.
There are others here, like you, brought through the realm for Oberon's pleasure. You can see them in your peripheral, kneeling in submission at the feet of their handlers, eyes wide and watching, like they're taking note of what's to come. Alastair always liked an audience too, pounding into you as he choked you with your small intestine, his own twisted version of auto-erotic asphyxiation. Some days he'd say that was his favorite way to see you, eyes rolled back into your head and neck bloody as you came.
Oberon jerks you forward by the neck, smashing your mouth into his. It's forceful and vile, you think, the way his tongue assaults you and his fingers dig into your skin. Two of his personal guards begin stripping you of your clothes, quick and efficient, but your hands are still bound behind you and jerking and twisting against Oberon gets you nowhere, his hand a vice grip around your neck. The air is cold when it hits your skin and you shiver automatically.
"Don't be shy," Oberon says, and you can feel his leering smile against your lips. You've never been shy about sex, but this isn't just sex, you feel that with every bone in your body. There's magic in the air, the kind that expects you to submit to it, no questions asked, and you can't even begin to know how to fight it, only that you must. You remember watching Alastair working blood magic, hanging upside down with tiny slices all over, watching as your blood dripped down into an intricate pattern he'd designed for the occasion. He'd fuck you afterward, every time, and you'd last for hours right on the edge between pleasure and pain, begging and screaming for release.
Oberon runs his free hand down your body, his other still gripping your neck tightly. You flinch again as he twists a nipple, rubs it harshly between his fingertips. The court has gone completely silent, watching you and your reactions to their king. You can feel all their eyes on you and suddenly you know without a doubt that you will submit to him whether you want to or not. His hand trails down your stomach before he wraps it around you, and you're hard by the time he looks you in the eye again. You stare back, resolute, as his hand starts to move. Alastair had this thing he was proud of, this little twist with each finger that would have you screaming in five seconds flat as he opened you up, and you'd be panting and begging for him by the time he was done gyrating his fingers inside you. There was a time when you'd deny being a slave for Alastair's affections, but every time he chose sex as a form of torture, you knew that one day you'd beg for it.
Oberon doesn't need to command you to your knees, you know what happens next and you're pretty sure he can see it in your eyes at this point, but he says it anyway. "Submit." Your vision's muddled as you turn around and kneel, all the members of the court in their royal robes and dress twisting and melting into a demon audience, cackling and jeering, a sea of floating black shadows as you fall upon your shoulders, unable to maintain your balance with your hands behind your back. You shudder as one of Oberon's long fingers breaches you, but you can at least be grateful he's bothered with oil of some sort. You feel it warming with the friction, your body adjusting to the intrusion. Old hat, you think wryly.
You feel the moment he gives up worrying about your pleasure and is overcome by his own, and it hurts when he pushes in, like you were expecting anything else, but it's nothing like your first time with Alastair. You're trying not to compare the two, you're not, but it's inevitable, Oberon's pace quickening, audience forgotten. His breath is heavy in your ear as you feel your insides start to tear. Alastair didn't even bother with you at all the first time, just lined up and pressed in, ripping through the tight rings of muscles like they were nothing. "This is only a taste of what's to come," he'd whispered in your ear as he came, his fluids mixing with your blood, and you could feel it seeping out of you for days after, laying in a sticky red mess on hell's floor.
With the pressure of his weight on top of you as well as your own, your shoulders ache something fierce and you try to shift slightly. "Submit," Oberon growls in your ear, raising his voice for the first time. As he says it however, you feel the bonds around your wrists loosen and you struggle to get your arms under you as the feeling in them returns. Alastair always enjoyed you better when you struggled, and you wonder if Oberon would like it if you struggled more against him, but then he places one of his hands around your neck, pulls your face up close to his and kisses you violently. You feel each finger as it tightens, bruising your windpipe. That's a no, then. You haven't said a word the entire time you've been in the land of Sidhe and now it's clear you aren't going to be able to.
His rhythm stutters twice before he freezes above you, and you feel him come inside you. ‘Decorating you’, as Alastair would've said, like your asshole was some sort of canvas and he was a great artist using blood and semen and ash as his paint. Alastair said a lot of things, though, and the one phrase he never said for as long as you knew him was 'thank you,' which is what Oberon whispers into your ear as he slowly slides out and takes his weight off of you. You collapse onto the floor, assuming that since no one is touching you you're free to do as you please. It's the wrong assumption of course, his hands on you the moment you fall, but they're gentle, rolling you onto your back.
"Don't flinch," Oberon says, cupping your cheek with one long, slender hand. His other hand wraps around you and your audience - with their leering eyes and weighted breaths - fades away. The only thing that matters is the motion of his hand - strong, commanding, powerful. He keeps his one hand on your face the entire time he strokes you through, his thumb drawing a little line back and forth on your cheekbone. It would be comforting if his eyes weren't boring into you, down into your soul, like every thrust you make up into his hand is one more piece of the damn thing he owns. You think about what Alastair said about leaving a bit of yourself in the pit, and you know it's truer than you'll ever admit out loud. It's a bad idea to be leaving more of yourself in this world as well. Oberon's staring intently again as he coaxes you to your orgasm and you watch as his face morphs into Alastair's. "There's already one Winchester without a soul, eh, what's one more," you can hear Alastair saying in your mind.
"Everything," you want to say. You think perhaps you said it out loud when Oberon's hand freezes on your cock. You focus and Alastair's face turns back into Oberon's, his bright green eyes sparkling at you, like this is a game, something he doesn't do every day. You hear a quiet whisper from onlookers when he slides down beside you - none of the disdain he had earlier written on his face - and a startled gasp from the audience when he wraps his lips around you and sinks his fingertips into your hipbones. You come almost instantaneously then, flooding his mouth as he bruises your hips. Any modicum of decency you had is long gone, lost in this fairie king's every touch. It's only after he swallows and stands up and away from you do you hear the gallery quiet, and you watch from the floor as he silently regains control over his court.
"Take him back," Oberon commands, his voice breaking the silence, and you lay there stunned for moment before two sets of hands start pulling you away from him. The court fades away again as he calls for another to submit in front of him, but it's you he's looking at while his guards strip the man of his clothes. Without a doubt, you know by the look in his eyes that one day, you'll find yourself the center of his court's attention once again. He smiles at you and it's damn near identical to the one Alastair gave the moment you said yes. You're left wondering if Oberon and Alastair really all are that different as the fairie world disappears around you.