Supernatural, The Sky Was Full of Wings, 2/5
Title: The Sky Was Full of Wings 2/5
Author:
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/character: Dean/OFC, Dean/OMC. Sam/Dean/OFC, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 33,794
Kink: Primary: Age Regression
Notes/Warnings: incest, graphic het sex, graphic M/M sex, dub-con, incest, threesomes, moresomes, voyeurism, oral sex (het & M/M), abduction, rimming, barebacking, blood play, bondage, collaring, orgasm denial, knife play, light D's, submission, marking, biting, first time, bonding. SPECIAL THANKS: to my betas, who were awesome to take this on tru_faith_lost & twivamp92 Any remaining errors are mine.
Summary: While working a case Dean is stolen by the Autumn Queen of the Fae to be her consort. During his time there he is aged regressed, loses his memories, and is a sexual bargaining chip. Sam must rescue him before the ritual sacrifice. He must offer boons to the court for Dean's release. Sam makes a bargain that he must fulfill or both Dean and he will be lost to the Fae. Neither Sam or Dean will leave fairy unchanged.
Artist: Thanks to last minute pinch hit artist musingdarkly & thanks to lightthesparks for additional art work. See all her pieces here.
PART 1 :: PART 2 :: PART 3 :: PART 4 :: PART 5
Dean heard the song on the breeze, curling wildly and shuffling through his hair, across his face and through the grass beneath him, ‘rest, child.’ He fell to his knees in the loam, the fall leaves crackling under his weight. Dean vaguely wondered where Sam was, but it didn’t seem important.
He rested back on his haunches and let the breeze speak, telling him that his work was done, to close his eyes. There was peace resting on his heart and he felt no desire to move, until he heard her voice.
“Welcome, pretty child.” Dean had been called pretty more times than he could count, but any resentment that word would normally spark disappeared when he saw her eyes. They were hazel, the green of forest firs, sprinkled with flecks of dirt and sparks of orange pumpkin, wider than human. Her face was too sharp and alien to be pretty, but structured in a way that was striking and stole his breath. Her best feature was her hair, crinkled and curled and all the shades of an autumn forest, held back by a gold circlet, set with amber.
Her fingers were warm against his skin and Dean realized that without volition he had turned his cheek into her palm, subconsciously seeking her heat. When she spoke it was like the voice in the wind, but firm and deep, “I’ve waited for you, Dean. Will you come dwell with me.” Her lips didn’t move. He didn’t answer, sure that there was a reason for him to say no, but he couldn’t remember it.
“Come play with me, Dean.” She leaned in and lightly passed her carnelian colored lips against his. Her kiss was scalding, rushing into his mouth, down his back and pooling in his loins. Dean felt himself filled with the desire to please her. He forced his focus from her face, but looking at her attire was hardly better. Her form was pleasing, all curves and fit musculature, covered in sheer and opaque drapes of fabric that seemed to slither and hug against her peach kissed skin. He was sure that the withered brown stick figured creatures gibbering in her skirt were only in his mind.
“Aren’t you tired, Dean?” she asked, drawing his eyes back to her face.
He was. He had been for what felt like forever. He gazed again into her eyes and felt as ancient as he knew her to be. Tired was such an inadequate word, and he heard the, “Yes,” that slipped past his lips.
She asked again, “Come dwell with me, Dean?” He tightened his lips against the yes that tried to escape. The word ‘Sammy’ tickled at the back of his head. Dean wanted to rest, to shed the tired and close his eyes. Her obvious desire for him pushed back the constant nagging ache of not good enough. In her eyes he saw his burdens lifted for all time.
“Please, pretty boy, come play with me.” Dean was sure her eyes had not been the wide brown puppy dog eyes, which he saw now. Those eyes had never looked at him with such worship, never seen him as hero, companion, lover, rolled into one, never promised that he wouldn’t have to be alone. They were soft and pleading, and his Pavlovian response to this vision had always been yes.
When she put out her hand, he laid his in hers and rose to go where she led. Her pleased laughter and soft smile brought a feeling to Dean’s heart, which he knew was something akin to joy.
Sam stopped and looked over his shoulder. Wait, where’d Dean go? Sam stopped, thinking, wasn’t Dean just here. He felt a little like the needle on the record in his head skipped, but he was standing right where he had been, except Dean wasn’t there. Oh fuck, Dean wasn’t there.
Sam called for Dean, his voice echoing back to empty in the afternoon warmth. Something tickled in Sam’s chest, something that felt a little bit like panic. He called for Dean again. No answer. Calling over and over relentlessly, until his voice was hoarse. He took several deep breaths, forcing thought, god damn it think.
He mentally divided the area into a grid and started methodically searching each square concentrically from the point where he lost Dean. The blood pulsed in his temples, and the muscles at his neck were hard and tight. He needed to find Dean. He couldn’t, anymore, without Dean. Inside his head, ‘Dean, Dean, Dean,’ repetitive drumming urging him to find his center.
Finally, almost a quarter of a mile from where he started, he found Dean’s clothes, dropped as if he had just stood and stripped. Nearby were Dean’s weapons, the vial of holy water, his wallet, everything that Dean had, but no sign of Dean. Sam circled the area looking carefully, no tracks, no signs, nothing. As if Dean had just vanished.
Sam robotically catalogued what Dean left behind, stuffing it into his backpack. He gripped the keys to the Impala hard enough to leave impressions in the soft flesh of his hand. He used the compass to check the location of the fairy ring. Dean’s things were at the exact spot, but no mushrooms, no ring.
Sam could feel the panic welling up inside. Fear niggled at the back of his head, whispering that the fairies had what they wanted and had pulled up stakes, closed shop, and left town. He didn’t have the luxury of caving to hysteria, not if he wanted to get his brother back.
Sam headed out of the preserve, one foot in front of the other. As he walked, he stretched his strides as far as possible, pace quick as possible. He put the worry, panic, crazy, ‘God no, not Dean, can’t, not alone,’ thoughts behind a door in his mind and slammed it shut. He named the colors of the leaves: orange, ruse, red, umber, green, lime, amber. He catalogued the genus of grasses, trees and weeds. He counted paces and re-calculated the distances into feet and meters and yards. He thought about anything but what was behind that door. Finally he reached the Impala and slid behind the wheel, ‘wrong, don’t fit, not mine.’
Sam didn’t drive too much over the speed limit getting back to the motel and studiously ignored the second bed still rumpled where Dean had slept just hours before. He called Bobby with all the details of what happened. Bobby promised to call back shortly after doing some research.
Sam thought about calling Ruby. It was tempting to lean on her, let her guide him through this, but he wanted desperately to honor his word to Dean about not using his powers anymore, not see her anymore. Sam got busy on the laptop with his own research, thoughts of Dean gamboling in his mind.
The phone rang and Sam nearly dropped it in his haste to answer.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah Sam.”
“Anything?”
“I think so. The fairy ring probably disappeared because the Fae hid it. You can call it back with a spell and an offering.”
Sam wrote down the spell and asked, “What kind of offering?”
“You’re going to want two. The first can be any kind of pretty bauble. Something that makes music, is sparkly or shiny. This offering will get the Fae’s attention. If that works, and it’s definitely an ‘if,’ Sam, then you need to ask for an audience with the Queen. Write this down and memorize it. It’s a formal request for audience. You will present the second offering then. The second offering needs to be something nice. I don’t know if you can find something nice enough locally. It should be gold and ornate. Wouldn’t hurt for it to be nature or fall themed. You will be offering it as a gift for the Queen as a token of appreciation for her audience.”
“Will this work, Bobby?”
“Don’t know, Sam. Between my research and my source in New York, we think it’s your best shot. There’s just not a lot of information from anyone who has succeeded. It’s mostly folklore.”
“Any pointers?”
“The Fae are tricky. Use all your wits. Don’t get distracted, and make sure if you bargain you know what the terms are. Don’t say ‘yes’ to anything until you know what you’re agreein’ to. You’ll wanna say yes. It’s part of their glamour.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“You be careful, Sam.”
Dean stumbled as everything shifted and his eyes tried to adjust to the differences surrounding him. He became aware of his hand clutching the woman’s much smaller one, and he relaxed the death tight grip he had on her hand. They stood in a clearing, lush with tall grasses and bordered in tress all the colors of fall.
Where was he? Not in Kansas, that was for sure. Not anywhere that looked remotely like anyplace he knew. The largest felled tree he had ever seen dominated a clearing the size of several houses. The tree was sheared across the topside, finished to reflect like glass, and covering it was the most food Dean had ever seen in one place. It brought to mind mythic Thanksgiving feasts for families that Dean had never been a part of.
The woman at his side spoke. “This is my family, Dean, and if you choose to join us, they will be yours, too.”
Dean thought he’d have the weirdest fucking family in the universe. He couldn’t begin to catalog the creatures in the forested area. A few he recognized from hunting: goblins, brownies, bean-nighe, dryads, fauns, and many more that Dean was at a loss to name.
Dean felt a little dizzy and turned to the woman at his side. He thought of Sammy for a minute, then his eyes met hers, and he was pulled in again, just like the first time. She reached into his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. As his tongue mated with hers, all other thoughts but exploring the soft lushness of her mouth disappeared. He pulled her small form to his, noting that she barely came up to his collarbone.
Dean let his hand glide down her back. The fabric under his hands was crinkled and silky. Her ass, when he cupped it, was firm and round in his palm. She wiggled against him and his dick twitched with arousal.
Dean felt her hands pushing gently at his chest, and he pulled back to see her mouth curled in a mischievous grin, bracketed by dimples that could compete with Sam’s. Something in Dean woke up at the name, but he couldn’t remember why it was important.
Gwenoch snapped her fingers and two knee-high gray and wrinkled creatures ran forward, carrying a glittering length of cloth. Gwenoch wrapped it around his waist, tucking and folding faster than he could follow, turning the cloth into a knee length skirt. The extra length she pulled up and over his shoulder.
“It suits you Dean.” Her hand grazed over the skin at his belly, causing gooseflesh to rise.
“What’s your name?” Dean thought that maybe he should have asked her earlier.
“I am called Gwenoch in your tongue, and these are my people. She swept her arm to encompass the area. Dean came to the conclusion that her use of ‘people’ was being used in the royal sense.
“Are you hungry, Dean?” His stomach grumbled, and her grin deepened at the unspoken answer. She took Dean’s hand and led him to the table. As they got closer, the aromas assaulted Dean’s nose: charred meat, baked bread, cinnamon apples, mingled together with other exotic scents, giving his hunger a sharp aching edge. Everything looked even better than it smelled, as if every food commercial he ever seen on TV had been dropped on top of that table. Dean couldn’t decide which was more alluring, the food or the woman at his side.
He sat next to Gwenoch as a small creature, which mostly looked like a bundle of twigs, raced up and down the table dumping various foods on Dean and Gwenoch’s platters. Despite the sensory overload, Dean didn’t dig in. There was something in his head telling him that eating or drinking here might be a very bad idea.
Gwenoch laid a hand on Dean’s arm drawing his attention. “You may dine with us without fear. You have my word, nothing you eat or drink at this table will bind you to stay.”
“Word is given and witnessed,” rang from those assembled at the table.
Dean guessed this formalized the process, and the smells were almost overwhelming. He realized he was starved, his hunger having seemed to multiply exponentially since his arrival. Dean dug in. His goblet was filled with something spicy and potent. He couldn’t help but ogle the very pretty female that filled it. She was all sensuous curves, with full hips and thighs, hair laced with flowers and a diaphanous dress that left little to the imagination.
A sharp sting under his chin diverted Dean’s attention. He tilted his head back, trying to get away from the knife and the hand that held it, but the pressure didn’t let up. Gwenoch moved her arm, forcing Dean to face her or risk being stabbed by the sharp dinner knife pressing against his flesh. When he saw her eyes he swallowed. They glowed a sullen orange, no whites, and he felt the first sense of trepidation since entering this place.
“You are my guest, Dean. You may look, but not touch without my permission. When I ask you a question you will answer with ‘Your Grace’ or Your Highness.’ Are we clear?”
The smile that she gave him was less reassuring than her anger, feral, almost as if she hoped he would give her an excuse to use the knife. He answered, “Yes, Your Highness.”
This time her smile was full and pleased as she removed the knife. “I think you’ll do well here, Dean.” Something warm made a space for itself inside Dean at the approval in her voice. Gwenoch leaned in and ran her tongue across the place she had just pricked. Dean couldn’t help the groan that he let slip. His arousal, however, couldn’t completely wipe away the image of his blood glistening on her lips.
The rest of the meal passed in a haze. Gwenoch fed him from her knife, and Dean consented and was rewarded with soft smiles and tender kisses. It made him feel cared for, special, wanted, which settled on him unfamiliar and heavy. Dean ate until he was stuffed and couldn’t keep track of how often his cup had been refilled. He knew he’d never consumed so much, yet he felt as if he could continue to eat and never really grow full.
Soon darkness settled, and paper lanterns began to glow. There were swarms of small winged creatures that gave off a wan light. The area appeared enchanted, and Dean couldn’t remember when he’d last been so relaxed. Some of the goat-legged men played various instruments, and the night air was filled with sound, music that was unfamiliar to Dean’s ears but wound into him, making him even more lax and sated.
“C’mon, pretty.”
Dean felt drunk, senses clouded, as she pulled him from the table. His head spun, and her hands wrapped around both of his as she tugged, dragged, and pulled, seemingly dancing him away from the odd banquet of creatures,
Gwenoch tugged him down a path, lined with trees, laced overhead like entwined fingers and into a meadow that stretched as far as he could see. Around them dozens of the small fairies flitted, their colors bright and drenched under the light of what he realized were two suns, one pulsed bright and the other glowed orange. Apparently, time was flexible here.
Gwenoch’s hands pulled the cloth at his waist and it fell to the ground. Little hands were on his skin, touching, stroking, as the smaller fairies surrounded them both. The light caresses of dozens of hands and wings glided over his exposed skin. Gwenoch’s garments fell from her shoulders and slithered down to a puddle at her feet. She pushed him back onto the ground, naked, and straddled his hips, laughing, as the smaller wings beat a musical tune in the air. The perfume of blooming flowers wafted around them, and the scratch of the grass made Dean conscious of every inch of his backside. Watching her face bright with happiness, Dean felt his own smile answering. At the back of his head there was a buzzing that maybe he needed to be somewhere else. He ignored it. Most of him wanted to be right here, especially his dick, which was hard and throbbing.
As he lay there, Gwenoch ran her hands up his chest, her touch warm like clothes fresh from the dryer. The smaller fairies lighted on him, tiny, feet and hands touching him everywhere. Brushing touches to his neck, across his thighs and feet, like fluffy topped cattails dragging every inch of skin. The small Fae rubbed over him, pawing and licking, fluttering wings raising gooseflesh on places he didn’t even know he had. Delirious and breathless, he arched into them, moaning.
“Oh Dean, we’re going to have such a good time.” Dean wondered how she did that, since her tongue was in his mouth, but when it did this twisty thing that made him moan, it didn’t seem important. She kissed him like there was all the time in the world, and maybe there was. Her tongue stroked across the roof of his mouth, and he tried to chase it. She tasted like wine and cinnamon. She twined her tongue with his, licked at the corners of his mouth and over his bottom lip, possessing his mouth with hers, owning it.
Gwenoch sat up and grabbed a nearby goblet. She poured the wine over his chest, letting it trickle wetly over his sternum and belly, around his ribs, seeping into the forest floor beneath them. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn that it was actually seeping into his skin, making him far higher than he had been just seconds before. Then Gwenoch eased between his legs, her tongue daintily licking at his hipbone, into the belly button, and almost tickled as it slid down his ribs, touches firm enough to tease but not to satisfy.
Her tongue licked every inch of wine-coated skin until Dean was senseless and writhing beneath her. She moved up his chest and laved over first one nipple then the other, bringing them to a peaked hardness, then bit down with white, sharp teeth until Dean gasped with the mixed pain pleasure. She licked the last of the spiced mead from the hollow at his throat, bit his jawbone and was back at his mouth.
Dean was alive with pleasure. Gwenoch had moved up and was straddling his chest and the breeze was blowing over his cock, but it wasn’t only air. The smaller fairies had moved down his body, and minute caresses were fluttering on his dick, in the skin crease at the apex of his thigh, down his legs, and small licks at the arches of his feet. Every inch of Dean’s skin was being assaulted, leaving him completely incapable of thought.
Gwenoch wrapped one hand around his throat, and she brought the other from his chest to his mouth, brushed across his lower lip, following the caress with nipping teeth. Dean moaned, moving his hands over the soft flesh of her hips, which moved in slow circles over him, her wetness slick and hot against his chest. Dean could smell the scent of her arousal.
“Tell me pretty can that mouth do more than just look delicious?”
Dean gave her his best, patented, cocky grin. His blood surged in anticipation. This was something he was good at and loved to do. He gripped her hips and moved her over his mouth. This close, the scent of cinnamon was pungent, and when he ran his tongue down Gwenoch’s wet center, he could taste the flavor and wondered if it was a Fae thing. She was holding herself up, so Dean pulled until her full weight was riding his face and began to use his tongue in earnest. Stroking over the folds of her flesh and circling her clit. He went slow at first, gentle strokes and lazy circles as Gwenoch’s mewls and moans drifted down to him, her hips rocking, her head thrown back, her wetness covering his lips and chin.
He gradually increased the pace, stabbing into her flesh with his tongue and scraped across her with his teeth, growled into her heat, and she squirmed over him, the sounds from her mouth increasing in pitch and volume. Dean could still feel those other hands and bodies moving over his flesh as he brought her higher and higher above him. He moved one hand to cup the curve of her ass and slid one finger against the tight ring of muscle there, circling, and she fell apart over him. Her hips bucked as her dripping pussy pulsated and clenched around his tongue, and he lipped tenderly over the sensitized flesh as she came down from her orgasm.
“God, Dean.”
Gwenoch slid herself down Dean’s chest, her wetness trailing down his skin and finally sliding and clinging over his cock. Dean thrust up, and the whimper from Gwenoch made Dean moan as well. Gwenoch lifted herself up on her knees and reached her hand down grasping his throbbing erection in her hand, smoothing her thumb over the head, smearing the pre-come around and using it to slide her hand up and down his hardness.
“Please…” Dean grunted out.
“Uh uh, Pretty. You get what I give you. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”
Gwenoch’s lips curled up, her enjoyment of teasing Dean clear. She moved the crown of his cock and circled her clit with it, head thrown back, taking her own pleasure. Dean held himself still, wanting to thrust but he’d heard the threat in her command and suspected she might be perfectly capable of just leaving him like this.
Slowly she pushed over him, just encasing the head of his cock, then she clenched around him and he thought he was going to come but was pretty sure that would be against the rules, even if it hadn’t been verbalized. Inch by excruciating inch, she lowered herself, then pulled back up to tease and torment in every thrust, hips circling, muscles fluttering. Dean catalogued the parts of a gun in his head and curled his nails into the soft earth under his hands, the only part of him that moved. Finally, his cock was completely sheathed inside her.
As she raked her nails down his chest, she commanded, “Move, Dean.”
Dean let himself go, gave himself up to pleasure and sensation. Every cell of his skin was alive, his back against the grass, the air on his body, the hundreds of small touches of winged fairies, and the mantle of autumn hair where Gwenoch’s head bent over him. Everything boiled together narrowing down to the place between his legs. Her tight warmth contracted around him, and they set a furious pace, point and counterpoint. She arched above him, and Dean scraped his nails over her nipples, the color of blood under the suns. He pressed the heel of his palms to her clit and felt her spasm around him, rocking and keening her pleasure.
She fell into him pressed her lips over his and whispered, “Come for me, Dean.” He did, hard pumping thrusts as he dug thumbprints into her hips. His hips pumped through aftershocks and his come slicked between them. The field was quiet in the aftermath, the small fairies having departed unnoticed and Gwenoch hummed her contentment against his chest.
Gwenoch eventually arose. Sleep was attempting to take Dean under, but he came alert when she pinched him below his ribs. He lifted his lashes, seeing her gazing intently at him through their shadowed curtain.
“Would you stay here and be my consort, Dean?”
In that moment, ensnared in the magic, sated and drugged, no other answer even occurred to Dean and he said, “Yes.”
A thousand voices whispered into the sun-drenched meadow, “Promise given and witnessed.”
Dean was aware that, at some point, Gwenoch had dragged him from the meadow, and they had bathed. He was dressed again in the kilt, knotted and clasped at his hip and spun through with gold threads. A haze filled his head, cotton thick, and his thoughts were unordered. His feet were leaden. Sleep called to him, but he followed as Gwenoch pulled him into yet another clearing.
Tall grasses and patches of wildflowers bordered the meadow. A single sun burned hot overhead, and thirst filled Dean’s mouth, leaving it dry. More creatures than at the dinner lined either side of the area, creating a promenade up the center of the field, leading to a large chair carved from wood. As Gwenoch and Dean moved closer, Dean could see the throne was a dark redwood, and dimensional carvings of the fair folk covered the surface. All the figures were unclothed and contorted into acts that would shame the pages of a skin magazine.
When they reached the foot of the throne, Gwenoch positioned herself to face her vassals and moved Dean so that he was facing her.
“Kneel.” Dean had heard a lot of commands in his life, but none had been firmer than this. He fell to his knees without thought.
The court began to make noise around him, sibilant, slithering sounds, the same sounds falling concurrently from Gwenoch’s mouth. As suddenly as it began, the odd chanting ended, and utter silence descended in the glade. Gwenoch bent low in front of him, her hand cupped to the ground, and Dean watched as a small golden-green snake crossed the clearing, slithered into her palm, and wrapped itself around her wrist like an elaborate bracelet.
She turned to Dean and began to speak. Her voice rang and reverberated, louder than she should have been able to project. “Let it be know across the courts, that Gwenoch, Queen of the Autumn Court and Strategist to the Golden Horde, has chosen a consort. The Goddess Mother herself has blessed the union and sent a sign of her approval”
At this pronouncement Gwenoch raised the arm with the snake, spun around and displayed the small creature. The assemblage raised a joyous cry, and a word in their language was repeated three times.
“This human mortal has agreed to become my consort, to grace my bed in the hopes of producing an heir, to leave behind his mortal existence and to fulfill the duties required. Do you agree, Dean?”
A slow, sluggish part of his brain was battling against affirmation. Dryness coated his tongue and sleep coated his sluggish thoughts. His will to fight was failing under the onslaught and the words came. “I agree.”
Gwenoch shouted, “It is witnessed and agreed.”
The throng stamped their feet and shouted, “It is witnessed and agreed.”
“Dean, would you do one more thing for me?”
Again, he wanted to wait, think, but exhaustion washed over him, accompanied by the desire to please. Something , a voice, chanted 'no' in his head, but when he opened his mouth, what he said was, “Yes.” The expression on her face was voracious, and trepidation moved into Dean. It still wasn’t enough to make him offer a protest.
Gwenoch wrapped her hand around Dean’s neck, and the snake slithered from her hand and coiled around his neck. Gwenoch chanted, “Three times I bind thee to me. Forget the before. There is only the now. As I will. So mote it be.” She repeated it three times, and he felt the cool living flesh harden against his neck.
He was on his knees, and a beautiful woman stood over him. Her voice filled his head leaving room for nothing else. She put her fingers beneath his chin, tilting his head so he could look into her golden flecked eyes.
“Hello, pretty. Your name is Dean. I am your liege, Gwenoch. This is our home.”
Dean. He rolled the sound in his head, but it had no meaning for him. Her small, pale hand reached out for him, and he rose. When she smiled at his obedience, his heart swelled with the desire to please this creature.
Gwenoch led Dean through a thickly wooded area that opened up into a tree-covered bower, mostly occupied by a large bed.
She took Dean’s hand and guided him to stand in front of a large wall next to the bed. She passed her hand across the wall and the surface became reflective, and Dean observed the two of them naked. Gwenoch stood behind him, her hair reaching over his shoulder and around his hip with a mind of its own. It was tantalizing and creepy, and his skin tingled where it touched him.
Dean moved his hand to the gold collar at his neck. It was the shape of a snake and accurate in every detail. The head was biting the tail and Dean could make out the small fangs, eyes that were chips of amber. The collar shimmered like the sheen of oil on the surface of a rain puddle, iridescent reflection on each scale.
“I want to make you one of us, Dean.” Her arm reached around to a scar on his belly. It couldn’t be too old, still pink at the edges. “I want to remove this and the others like them.”
Gwenoch moved her hand to the palm mark that appeared burned into his shoulder. “This, too.”
Her hand moved to the corner of his eyes. “I want to take away the stains of age and make you new again. Besides, you will have stamina, increasing the odds that I will conceive.” Gwenoch’s mouth was curved in a smirk, and her eyes were full of filthy promises.
The hand at the small of his back glided down over the curve of his ass, and a finger slid down his crack, pushing lightly at the circle of muscle there. “If you agree, you will become young and untouched, for as long as you dwell among us.” Her finger depressed, and Dean shivered.
Dean met Gwenoch’s eyes, uncertain of how to answer. He was unsure about agreeing, yet wanted to do whatever would please her.
“I want my consort to be the prettiest jewel in my court. It would please me greatly to show you at your very best, and it would strike envy in the hearts of many to know that you would give this to me.”
Finally, Dean nodded, and the smile that Gwenoch bestowed on him literally made the room glow. The pride and joy on her face hit Dean, filling him with warmth, comfort, and purpose. Dean knew he could become addicted to the sensation.
Gwenoch turned Dean to her, cupped his face in her hands, and said, “I am very happy with you Dean. You are a perfect consort.” Her words washed over Dean, acceptance and haven against all his jagged bits.
Dean didn’t think he could feel any better until she added, “You are reborn among us, Dean, and no other could fulfill your purpose here. You are special.” Dean didn’t know if he’d ever felt better, but he did know he felt damn good and couldn’t imagine anything he wouldn’t do to keep feeling this way.
Gwenoch pushed and pulled Dean until he was sprawled on his back, in the center of the large bed. Gwenoch sat cross-legged by his hips. He started to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips. She spoke in a language he didn’t understand her face pure concentration. She moved her hands in the air, and he could see light being pulled to her fingertips as she wove it into complicated knots and patterns.
The air above his body filled with the weavings, and her words died. Then, Gwenoch moved her hands over his body, smearing the designs until they glowed against his skin. Dean could feel them, feel them crawling and wrapping around every inch of skin. He raised his hands and saw his hands covered in the strange golden designs like a second skin.
Gwenoch brought both hands down against his ribs and said, “This is going to hurt.”
Dean screamed until he passed out.
When Dean woke, he ached, but the mouth wrapped around his dick was making up for it. It wasn’t until Gwencoh was straddling him, that Dean noticed something was different. He wasn’t sure what is was and when Gwenoch did this little swivel thing with her hips and tightened around him, he pretty much gave up trying to figure it out.
They lay side by side on the bed, breaths short and skin cooling, and she asked him, “Do you want to see?” Dean turned to look at her and nodded.
Gwenoch led him from the bed and over to the wall mirror. It was disconcerting. The first thing his mind registered was a handsome young man and an unearthly female, neither of whom seemed quite real. Then, his conscious thought caught up, and he realized he was looking at himself.
The first thing he noted was the difference in height. He thought he must be about 5’9” now. Where Gwenoch had barely come up to his collarbone before, her head now topped his shoulder. He was a little smaller overall, but still broad and muscled and much younger than the last time he’d stood here, maybe sixteen or seventeen.
There wasn’t a blemish on him, nothing-- no scars, no wrinkles. The only thing left that he recognized from the time when he stood here before were the freckles that were pretty much everywhere and the black inked tattoo over his heart. He lifted his finger tracing the mark. ‘Sammy,’ reverberated in his head, but there was nothing tangible he could attach the name with. He was a blank slate wiped clean, mind and body.
When Gwenoch pushed him to his knees, he quit thinking about his transformation.
Gwenoch held court every day, and Dean sat at her feet, her collar around his neck, draped in a kilt slightly fancier than the males at court wore. Sometimes Gwenoch’s hand would stretch out, fingers twining into his hair or caressing the skin at his collar. Dean knew he was on display, a symbol of the power Gwenoch wielded here. She commanded, and Dean complied. Had he always been so quick to follow orders? He had no way of knowing.
Fionnbhair stood before the throne vibrating with triumph. To look at Gwenoch, you would think she was completely at ease, but Dean could feel her muscles, tense under his hands, her nails digging into his scalp. He forced himself to remain relaxed. Dean knew it was expected.
Fionnbhair was large, broad shouldered, and covered in blood, not spattered but dripping, wet and red from boot to neck. The stench was enough to make Dean’s head ache. Clasped in Fionnbhair’s hand was a head, flesh at the neck ragged and dripping. Fionnbhair tossed the head at the queen’s feet, splattering Dean and the hem of Gwenoch’s robes in gobbets of flesh, spotted with dots of crimson.
“Hefeydd’s head, as requested - my Queen.” There was a pause before the title was added, but Fionnbhair’s voice was careful, neutral without being disrespectful. Dean could tell from the court’s reaction of muffled whispers and gasps that the warrior was treading a fine line. Then Fionnbhair sunk to one knee and bowed to his sovereign.
“Congratulations, Fionnbhair. You’re service is noted and a reasonable boon will be granted.”
Fionnbhair’s eyes played over Dean, dark with lust and something manic. Dean’s skin crawled. Nothing in the look suggested the Fae had anything pleasant in mind.
“Your consort is very appealing your majesty.”
The quiet from the assembly was more ominous than the previous whispers. It was as if the entire court held their breath. The request must have pushed the boundaries of the warrior’s service.
“Your request is noted and will be considered.”
The court sighed, and Dean with them. He was under no illusion that Gwenoch could have granted the request outright.
Dean spent most of his time stoned out of his head, high on fairy food, glamour, and sex. Eating, drinking, and fucking had been the sole purpose of his existence for the last several days. Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Fairy time changed to suit Gwenoch’s preferences, and he was with her nearly all the time, so it could be sun one second and twilight in the next instant. She reminded him more than once his name was Dean, especially at first. Mostly she called him Pretty. He didn’t mind, much. He couldn’t remember the before time, and when he’d asked her, she’d said it was better like this, the not remembering. The name Sammy wouldn’t leave his head, more familiar than his own. He didn’t remember who Sammy was. When he asked about Sammy, she told him that he would see him soon.
Dean didn’t notice a lot of what went on at court, and Gwenoch refused to discuss court politics with him, but even Dean couldn’t miss what was being said about Fionnbhair. Several days had gone by since his request was made, and Dean had plenty of opportunity to pick up the court gossip.
Apparently Fionnbhair was a Fae noble previously aligned with Summer court. His proclivities were unwelcome there. Translated, that meant he’d run out of bed partners willing to indulge his particular tastes. When he’d defected, he had brought a contingent of warriors with him. Warriors vital to Gwenoch, who was expanding her power base and needed help protecting it.
The court was in agreement that granting Fionnbhair’s request would be in her best interest. Dean suspected the rumors did not reach his ears accidentally.
The morning of his seventh waking in fairy, he caught Gwenoch turning away from him with pale peach tears on her cheeks. When he inquired, she informed him that the healer had informed her she had not conceived. The healer also told her that it was unlikely that further couplings would change the results.
Dean knew he was being played, but it didn’t decrease his desire to help. He desperately wanted to take her pain away, pain the he was certain was not faked, just useful. Dean took her hand and asked if there was anything he could do.
Gwenoch brought up Fionnbhair’s request assured him she wouldn’t force him. Dean wasn’t as certain, but it didn’t matter. The desire to please her, even if it meant something unpleasant for him, was insistent and compelling.
Gwenoch used the mirror on the wall to contact Fionnbhair.
Fionnbhair liked to hurt him and sometimes Dean got off on it. If he behaved and gave Fionnbhair what he wanted. the sex was good. Besides, a healer was sent to him afterwards, mainly so he was able to perform the same way the next day. They never healed him completely, because Fionnbhair liked to see the old scars and bruises under the new ones he would make.
Mostly, Dean was happy he could help Gwenoch. She never failed to tell him how well he was taking care of her, how good he was. Something inside Dean melted every time he heard it.
Fionnbhair was tall and good looking, like all the fey. He was more muscular than most and had told Dean he was a warrior. Dean could believe it, there wasn’t a muscle on him that wasn’t cut. His skin was the color of midnight, and his silver hair was cut military short, much like Dean’s. Dean couldn’t remember if he’d been with men in the before time, but he suspected he might have, since it didn’t seem to put him off at all.
Dean’s arms were held apart and held down by twined vines that were wrapped around them. He’d eaten about an hour ago and was pleasantly high from food and wine. The silk sheets under him were deep green. Fionnbhair delighted in telling Dean how pretty he looked on green, describing every single one of Dean’s features, while he stroked Dean’s cock, until Dean was flushed from head to toe. Dean couldn’t truthfully decide if it was from shame, anger or that part of him actually liked it.
Fionnbhair entered the room and scanned Dean with his eyes, the colors in them shifting from blue flecked with silver to almost solid silver with clouds of blue, the color Dean had come to recognize as lust. Fionnbhair wasted no time. The fairy grabbed a pot from the table and straddled Dean’s hips. Dean was half-hard, and Fionnbhair grabbed, him stroking him until pre-come was leaking from the tip.
“So pretty, Dean, all your tender skin, just waiting for me to mark it up.” Fionnbhair traced his fingers over the yellow bruises and faint scratches that he had made on Dean the day before. Fionnbhair pressed against the mark and Dean’s grunt of pain brought a feral smile to his face. Fionnbhair reached for a small pot of cream and coated his hands in it, before returning his attention to Dean. He put both hands to the flat of Dean’s belly, and Dean writhed beneath it. He didn’t know what the hell was in the cream, but it was like being touched with ice and hot wax at the same time, and even through clenched teeth, Dean was unable to hold back the painful cries. Fionnbhair laughed, “We’re just getting started, Dean,”
Fionnbhair dipped his thumbs back into the cream and moved his hands up Dean’s chest until he had covered Dean’s nipples. Dean held back the scream this time but felt the tears leak from the corners of his eyes. Satisfaction gleamed in Fionnbhair’s eyes. He leaned over Dean, close enough Dean could smell the slight peppermint scent of his breath, and said, “So pretty when you cry for me, Dean. I’ve never seen anything so lovely.” He scraped his nails against Dean’s far too sensitive nipples, and Dean couldn’t stop the additional tears that leaked down his cheeks. Fionnbhair lapped at them, smiling wide as if he’d won a prize.
Fionnbhair caressed up Dean’s arms, setting the flesh on fire, telling Dean how lovely all his freckles looked as they burned under the Fae’s touch. The sensations from the cream lessened as Fionnbhair moved up and wrapped his hands around Dean’s neck. The fairy ran his hands over Dean’s collarbone, and, shaping his hands to claws, moved down Dean’s chest. Fionnbhair’s thumbs traveled downward over Dean’s nipples. They puckered, and Fionnbhair pinched them both. Dean pushed into the touch, which was mostly good now. Fionnbhair wiped the remains of the cream over Dean’s sides and leaned back to get the last of it along Dean’s legs. Dean’s skin tingled, ant bites pinpricking along his skin.
Fionnbhair wrapped a hand back around Dean’s cock, stroking slowly over it and raised the other long, lean hand to hover over Dean’s chest. Dean helplessly rose to meet it, the man’s dark laughter curdling into him. The fairy brought one silver nail down and flicked it over the curve where Dean’s chest rose, shallow and stinging, blood rose from the cut. Simultaneously, Fionnbhair moved his hand on Dean’s shaft. Dean tossed his head, the sensation of his throbbing cock beating in time with each shallow cut as the man progressed down his chest to his waist, flick, then stroke, cut, then beat.
Dean couldn’t separate the pain from the pleasure, didn’t even know if he wanted to anymore. The shallow cuts made the blood rush to his cock, unbearably harder each time. Fionnbhair leaned over and licked across the cuts, settling between Dean’s legs. The pain was sharp, just countered by Fionnbhair’s hard length pulsing against his own. The man’s hips thrusting in time with flick of his tongue. Dean didn’t even recognize the cries coming from his mouth, just mindless syllables, completely out of his head, veins pulsing with lust and adrenaline.
Fionnbhair slid down between his legs, head nestled between Dean’s thighs. “Spread your self for me,”
Dean flushed with humiliation but grabbed his knees and did as he was told. Fionnbhair would not hesitate to punish him brutally, pushing away the pleasure and leaving Dean with nothing but pain. Positioning himself left him vulnerable, embarrassed, and aroused, all jumbled together in one confusing mix.
Fionnbhair spoke from between his legs, “Oh baby, you look so beautiful.” Dean almost came unglued when Fionnbhair’s tongue stroked across his hole, once, then several more times, as Dean held back his orgasm. He wasn’t allowed to come until Fionnbhair told him to.
Fionnbhair pulled away again and ran his thumb around Dean’s clenching muscle. “Want so bad to shove my cock right here, feel you clench around me, tight and hot. You’d like that wouldn’t, you beautiful boy?” Fionnbhair hummed against the muscle, and Dean mewled, bucking, and didn’t try to deny what his body was clearly begging for. He did want it, bad enough that he felt hollow, empty, unfulfilled.
Fionnbhair went back to licking Dean, pushing inside with his tongue every few strokes. Then Fionnbhair grabbed hold of Dean’s cock, wringing it hard, tongue as far inside Dean as he could get. Dean whimpered under the onslaught, completely strung out. Fionnbhair pulled back, blew against Dean’s pucker, and told him, “Come.” Dean did, stripes of milky white striping his chest. Fionnbhair watched him, pulling on Dean’s dick until he was sore from being touched.
Fionnbhair told him, “You look so good covered in come. You’re going to look even better in mine. Since I’ve been forbidden from fucking your pretty little hole, I guess seeing you stretched around my mouth will do.” As Fionnbhair climbed up from between Dean's legs to his chest, the vines loosened on his wrists. Fionnbhair grabbed Dean’s arms, pushed them to his sides, and the vines rearranged themselves to keep his arms tight again his ribs. Dean gasped where they rubbed open the cuts, making them bleed anew as they slithered and gripped.
Fionnbhair splayed his legs over Dean’s shoulders and rubbed his hard cock against Dean’s lips. “Your lips are sinful. I’ve never seen the like in all my centuries. They shame even the Fae, pretty.” Dean flicked his tongue out across the tip of the man’s cock, knowing good and well that would shut Fionnbhair up. Fionnbhair rose up on his knees and gripped the trees over Dean’s head and pushed his hips forward. Dean opened his mouth around the crown and rolled his tongue over the head, flicking across the slit, and Fionnbhair groaned above him. Dean thought the Fae really had an unfair advantage because Fionnbhair actually tasted like peppermint. It was mind blowing and wrong.
“Open your mouth and relax, pretty,” Fionnbhair said as he caressed Dean’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. Dean did and felt that slick heat slipping further into his mouth. Fionnbhair made slow shallow thrusts past his lips, increasing his strokes until he bumped up against the back of Dean’s throat. Dean forced himself to relax against his gag reflex. Spit came out the side of his mouth, but Fionnbhair wiped it away and kept pumping into Dean’s mouth. It was messy and slick, wet and fucking hot as Dean watched the Fae coming apart above him. Dean hummed against the thick length in his mouth, and Fionnbhair was coming down his throat. Dean worked his throat, swallowing, and drifted on the satisfaction winding into his gut.
Part 3
Author:
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/character: Dean/OFC, Dean/OMC. Sam/Dean/OFC, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 33,794
Kink: Primary: Age Regression
Notes/Warnings: incest, graphic het sex, graphic M/M sex, dub-con, incest, threesomes, moresomes, voyeurism, oral sex (het & M/M), abduction, rimming, barebacking, blood play, bondage, collaring, orgasm denial, knife play, light D's, submission, marking, biting, first time, bonding. SPECIAL THANKS: to my betas, who were awesome to take this on tru_faith_lost & twivamp92 Any remaining errors are mine.
Summary: While working a case Dean is stolen by the Autumn Queen of the Fae to be her consort. During his time there he is aged regressed, loses his memories, and is a sexual bargaining chip. Sam must rescue him before the ritual sacrifice. He must offer boons to the court for Dean's release. Sam makes a bargain that he must fulfill or both Dean and he will be lost to the Fae. Neither Sam or Dean will leave fairy unchanged.
Artist: Thanks to last minute pinch hit artist musingdarkly & thanks to lightthesparks for additional art work. See all her pieces here.
PART 1 :: PART 2 :: PART 3 :: PART 4 :: PART 5
Dean heard the song on the breeze, curling wildly and shuffling through his hair, across his face and through the grass beneath him, ‘rest, child.’ He fell to his knees in the loam, the fall leaves crackling under his weight. Dean vaguely wondered where Sam was, but it didn’t seem important.
He rested back on his haunches and let the breeze speak, telling him that his work was done, to close his eyes. There was peace resting on his heart and he felt no desire to move, until he heard her voice.
“Welcome, pretty child.” Dean had been called pretty more times than he could count, but any resentment that word would normally spark disappeared when he saw her eyes. They were hazel, the green of forest firs, sprinkled with flecks of dirt and sparks of orange pumpkin, wider than human. Her face was too sharp and alien to be pretty, but structured in a way that was striking and stole his breath. Her best feature was her hair, crinkled and curled and all the shades of an autumn forest, held back by a gold circlet, set with amber.
Her fingers were warm against his skin and Dean realized that without volition he had turned his cheek into her palm, subconsciously seeking her heat. When she spoke it was like the voice in the wind, but firm and deep, “I’ve waited for you, Dean. Will you come dwell with me.” Her lips didn’t move. He didn’t answer, sure that there was a reason for him to say no, but he couldn’t remember it.
“Come play with me, Dean.” She leaned in and lightly passed her carnelian colored lips against his. Her kiss was scalding, rushing into his mouth, down his back and pooling in his loins. Dean felt himself filled with the desire to please her. He forced his focus from her face, but looking at her attire was hardly better. Her form was pleasing, all curves and fit musculature, covered in sheer and opaque drapes of fabric that seemed to slither and hug against her peach kissed skin. He was sure that the withered brown stick figured creatures gibbering in her skirt were only in his mind.
“Aren’t you tired, Dean?” she asked, drawing his eyes back to her face.
He was. He had been for what felt like forever. He gazed again into her eyes and felt as ancient as he knew her to be. Tired was such an inadequate word, and he heard the, “Yes,” that slipped past his lips.
She asked again, “Come dwell with me, Dean?” He tightened his lips against the yes that tried to escape. The word ‘Sammy’ tickled at the back of his head. Dean wanted to rest, to shed the tired and close his eyes. Her obvious desire for him pushed back the constant nagging ache of not good enough. In her eyes he saw his burdens lifted for all time.
“Please, pretty boy, come play with me.” Dean was sure her eyes had not been the wide brown puppy dog eyes, which he saw now. Those eyes had never looked at him with such worship, never seen him as hero, companion, lover, rolled into one, never promised that he wouldn’t have to be alone. They were soft and pleading, and his Pavlovian response to this vision had always been yes.
When she put out her hand, he laid his in hers and rose to go where she led. Her pleased laughter and soft smile brought a feeling to Dean’s heart, which he knew was something akin to joy.
Sam stopped and looked over his shoulder. Wait, where’d Dean go? Sam stopped, thinking, wasn’t Dean just here. He felt a little like the needle on the record in his head skipped, but he was standing right where he had been, except Dean wasn’t there. Oh fuck, Dean wasn’t there.
Sam called for Dean, his voice echoing back to empty in the afternoon warmth. Something tickled in Sam’s chest, something that felt a little bit like panic. He called for Dean again. No answer. Calling over and over relentlessly, until his voice was hoarse. He took several deep breaths, forcing thought, god damn it think.
He mentally divided the area into a grid and started methodically searching each square concentrically from the point where he lost Dean. The blood pulsed in his temples, and the muscles at his neck were hard and tight. He needed to find Dean. He couldn’t, anymore, without Dean. Inside his head, ‘Dean, Dean, Dean,’ repetitive drumming urging him to find his center.
Finally, almost a quarter of a mile from where he started, he found Dean’s clothes, dropped as if he had just stood and stripped. Nearby were Dean’s weapons, the vial of holy water, his wallet, everything that Dean had, but no sign of Dean. Sam circled the area looking carefully, no tracks, no signs, nothing. As if Dean had just vanished.
Sam robotically catalogued what Dean left behind, stuffing it into his backpack. He gripped the keys to the Impala hard enough to leave impressions in the soft flesh of his hand. He used the compass to check the location of the fairy ring. Dean’s things were at the exact spot, but no mushrooms, no ring.
Sam could feel the panic welling up inside. Fear niggled at the back of his head, whispering that the fairies had what they wanted and had pulled up stakes, closed shop, and left town. He didn’t have the luxury of caving to hysteria, not if he wanted to get his brother back.
Sam headed out of the preserve, one foot in front of the other. As he walked, he stretched his strides as far as possible, pace quick as possible. He put the worry, panic, crazy, ‘God no, not Dean, can’t, not alone,’ thoughts behind a door in his mind and slammed it shut. He named the colors of the leaves: orange, ruse, red, umber, green, lime, amber. He catalogued the genus of grasses, trees and weeds. He counted paces and re-calculated the distances into feet and meters and yards. He thought about anything but what was behind that door. Finally he reached the Impala and slid behind the wheel, ‘wrong, don’t fit, not mine.’
Sam didn’t drive too much over the speed limit getting back to the motel and studiously ignored the second bed still rumpled where Dean had slept just hours before. He called Bobby with all the details of what happened. Bobby promised to call back shortly after doing some research.
Sam thought about calling Ruby. It was tempting to lean on her, let her guide him through this, but he wanted desperately to honor his word to Dean about not using his powers anymore, not see her anymore. Sam got busy on the laptop with his own research, thoughts of Dean gamboling in his mind.
The phone rang and Sam nearly dropped it in his haste to answer.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah Sam.”
“Anything?”
“I think so. The fairy ring probably disappeared because the Fae hid it. You can call it back with a spell and an offering.”
Sam wrote down the spell and asked, “What kind of offering?”
“You’re going to want two. The first can be any kind of pretty bauble. Something that makes music, is sparkly or shiny. This offering will get the Fae’s attention. If that works, and it’s definitely an ‘if,’ Sam, then you need to ask for an audience with the Queen. Write this down and memorize it. It’s a formal request for audience. You will present the second offering then. The second offering needs to be something nice. I don’t know if you can find something nice enough locally. It should be gold and ornate. Wouldn’t hurt for it to be nature or fall themed. You will be offering it as a gift for the Queen as a token of appreciation for her audience.”
“Will this work, Bobby?”
“Don’t know, Sam. Between my research and my source in New York, we think it’s your best shot. There’s just not a lot of information from anyone who has succeeded. It’s mostly folklore.”
“Any pointers?”
“The Fae are tricky. Use all your wits. Don’t get distracted, and make sure if you bargain you know what the terms are. Don’t say ‘yes’ to anything until you know what you’re agreein’ to. You’ll wanna say yes. It’s part of their glamour.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“You be careful, Sam.”
Dean stumbled as everything shifted and his eyes tried to adjust to the differences surrounding him. He became aware of his hand clutching the woman’s much smaller one, and he relaxed the death tight grip he had on her hand. They stood in a clearing, lush with tall grasses and bordered in tress all the colors of fall.
Where was he? Not in Kansas, that was for sure. Not anywhere that looked remotely like anyplace he knew. The largest felled tree he had ever seen dominated a clearing the size of several houses. The tree was sheared across the topside, finished to reflect like glass, and covering it was the most food Dean had ever seen in one place. It brought to mind mythic Thanksgiving feasts for families that Dean had never been a part of.
The woman at his side spoke. “This is my family, Dean, and if you choose to join us, they will be yours, too.”
Dean thought he’d have the weirdest fucking family in the universe. He couldn’t begin to catalog the creatures in the forested area. A few he recognized from hunting: goblins, brownies, bean-nighe, dryads, fauns, and many more that Dean was at a loss to name.
Dean felt a little dizzy and turned to the woman at his side. He thought of Sammy for a minute, then his eyes met hers, and he was pulled in again, just like the first time. She reached into his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. As his tongue mated with hers, all other thoughts but exploring the soft lushness of her mouth disappeared. He pulled her small form to his, noting that she barely came up to his collarbone.
Dean let his hand glide down her back. The fabric under his hands was crinkled and silky. Her ass, when he cupped it, was firm and round in his palm. She wiggled against him and his dick twitched with arousal.
Dean felt her hands pushing gently at his chest, and he pulled back to see her mouth curled in a mischievous grin, bracketed by dimples that could compete with Sam’s. Something in Dean woke up at the name, but he couldn’t remember why it was important.
Gwenoch snapped her fingers and two knee-high gray and wrinkled creatures ran forward, carrying a glittering length of cloth. Gwenoch wrapped it around his waist, tucking and folding faster than he could follow, turning the cloth into a knee length skirt. The extra length she pulled up and over his shoulder.
“It suits you Dean.” Her hand grazed over the skin at his belly, causing gooseflesh to rise.
“What’s your name?” Dean thought that maybe he should have asked her earlier.
“I am called Gwenoch in your tongue, and these are my people. She swept her arm to encompass the area. Dean came to the conclusion that her use of ‘people’ was being used in the royal sense.
“Are you hungry, Dean?” His stomach grumbled, and her grin deepened at the unspoken answer. She took Dean’s hand and led him to the table. As they got closer, the aromas assaulted Dean’s nose: charred meat, baked bread, cinnamon apples, mingled together with other exotic scents, giving his hunger a sharp aching edge. Everything looked even better than it smelled, as if every food commercial he ever seen on TV had been dropped on top of that table. Dean couldn’t decide which was more alluring, the food or the woman at his side.
He sat next to Gwenoch as a small creature, which mostly looked like a bundle of twigs, raced up and down the table dumping various foods on Dean and Gwenoch’s platters. Despite the sensory overload, Dean didn’t dig in. There was something in his head telling him that eating or drinking here might be a very bad idea.
Gwenoch laid a hand on Dean’s arm drawing his attention. “You may dine with us without fear. You have my word, nothing you eat or drink at this table will bind you to stay.”
“Word is given and witnessed,” rang from those assembled at the table.
Dean guessed this formalized the process, and the smells were almost overwhelming. He realized he was starved, his hunger having seemed to multiply exponentially since his arrival. Dean dug in. His goblet was filled with something spicy and potent. He couldn’t help but ogle the very pretty female that filled it. She was all sensuous curves, with full hips and thighs, hair laced with flowers and a diaphanous dress that left little to the imagination.
A sharp sting under his chin diverted Dean’s attention. He tilted his head back, trying to get away from the knife and the hand that held it, but the pressure didn’t let up. Gwenoch moved her arm, forcing Dean to face her or risk being stabbed by the sharp dinner knife pressing against his flesh. When he saw her eyes he swallowed. They glowed a sullen orange, no whites, and he felt the first sense of trepidation since entering this place.
“You are my guest, Dean. You may look, but not touch without my permission. When I ask you a question you will answer with ‘Your Grace’ or Your Highness.’ Are we clear?”
The smile that she gave him was less reassuring than her anger, feral, almost as if she hoped he would give her an excuse to use the knife. He answered, “Yes, Your Highness.”
This time her smile was full and pleased as she removed the knife. “I think you’ll do well here, Dean.” Something warm made a space for itself inside Dean at the approval in her voice. Gwenoch leaned in and ran her tongue across the place she had just pricked. Dean couldn’t help the groan that he let slip. His arousal, however, couldn’t completely wipe away the image of his blood glistening on her lips.
The rest of the meal passed in a haze. Gwenoch fed him from her knife, and Dean consented and was rewarded with soft smiles and tender kisses. It made him feel cared for, special, wanted, which settled on him unfamiliar and heavy. Dean ate until he was stuffed and couldn’t keep track of how often his cup had been refilled. He knew he’d never consumed so much, yet he felt as if he could continue to eat and never really grow full.
Soon darkness settled, and paper lanterns began to glow. There were swarms of small winged creatures that gave off a wan light. The area appeared enchanted, and Dean couldn’t remember when he’d last been so relaxed. Some of the goat-legged men played various instruments, and the night air was filled with sound, music that was unfamiliar to Dean’s ears but wound into him, making him even more lax and sated.
“C’mon, pretty.”
Dean felt drunk, senses clouded, as she pulled him from the table. His head spun, and her hands wrapped around both of his as she tugged, dragged, and pulled, seemingly dancing him away from the odd banquet of creatures,
Gwenoch tugged him down a path, lined with trees, laced overhead like entwined fingers and into a meadow that stretched as far as he could see. Around them dozens of the small fairies flitted, their colors bright and drenched under the light of what he realized were two suns, one pulsed bright and the other glowed orange. Apparently, time was flexible here.
Gwenoch’s hands pulled the cloth at his waist and it fell to the ground. Little hands were on his skin, touching, stroking, as the smaller fairies surrounded them both. The light caresses of dozens of hands and wings glided over his exposed skin. Gwenoch’s garments fell from her shoulders and slithered down to a puddle at her feet. She pushed him back onto the ground, naked, and straddled his hips, laughing, as the smaller wings beat a musical tune in the air. The perfume of blooming flowers wafted around them, and the scratch of the grass made Dean conscious of every inch of his backside. Watching her face bright with happiness, Dean felt his own smile answering. At the back of his head there was a buzzing that maybe he needed to be somewhere else. He ignored it. Most of him wanted to be right here, especially his dick, which was hard and throbbing.
As he lay there, Gwenoch ran her hands up his chest, her touch warm like clothes fresh from the dryer. The smaller fairies lighted on him, tiny, feet and hands touching him everywhere. Brushing touches to his neck, across his thighs and feet, like fluffy topped cattails dragging every inch of skin. The small Fae rubbed over him, pawing and licking, fluttering wings raising gooseflesh on places he didn’t even know he had. Delirious and breathless, he arched into them, moaning.
“Oh Dean, we’re going to have such a good time.” Dean wondered how she did that, since her tongue was in his mouth, but when it did this twisty thing that made him moan, it didn’t seem important. She kissed him like there was all the time in the world, and maybe there was. Her tongue stroked across the roof of his mouth, and he tried to chase it. She tasted like wine and cinnamon. She twined her tongue with his, licked at the corners of his mouth and over his bottom lip, possessing his mouth with hers, owning it.
Gwenoch sat up and grabbed a nearby goblet. She poured the wine over his chest, letting it trickle wetly over his sternum and belly, around his ribs, seeping into the forest floor beneath them. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn that it was actually seeping into his skin, making him far higher than he had been just seconds before. Then Gwenoch eased between his legs, her tongue daintily licking at his hipbone, into the belly button, and almost tickled as it slid down his ribs, touches firm enough to tease but not to satisfy.
Her tongue licked every inch of wine-coated skin until Dean was senseless and writhing beneath her. She moved up his chest and laved over first one nipple then the other, bringing them to a peaked hardness, then bit down with white, sharp teeth until Dean gasped with the mixed pain pleasure. She licked the last of the spiced mead from the hollow at his throat, bit his jawbone and was back at his mouth.
Dean was alive with pleasure. Gwenoch had moved up and was straddling his chest and the breeze was blowing over his cock, but it wasn’t only air. The smaller fairies had moved down his body, and minute caresses were fluttering on his dick, in the skin crease at the apex of his thigh, down his legs, and small licks at the arches of his feet. Every inch of Dean’s skin was being assaulted, leaving him completely incapable of thought.
Gwenoch wrapped one hand around his throat, and she brought the other from his chest to his mouth, brushed across his lower lip, following the caress with nipping teeth. Dean moaned, moving his hands over the soft flesh of her hips, which moved in slow circles over him, her wetness slick and hot against his chest. Dean could smell the scent of her arousal.
“Tell me pretty can that mouth do more than just look delicious?”
Dean gave her his best, patented, cocky grin. His blood surged in anticipation. This was something he was good at and loved to do. He gripped her hips and moved her over his mouth. This close, the scent of cinnamon was pungent, and when he ran his tongue down Gwenoch’s wet center, he could taste the flavor and wondered if it was a Fae thing. She was holding herself up, so Dean pulled until her full weight was riding his face and began to use his tongue in earnest. Stroking over the folds of her flesh and circling her clit. He went slow at first, gentle strokes and lazy circles as Gwenoch’s mewls and moans drifted down to him, her hips rocking, her head thrown back, her wetness covering his lips and chin.
He gradually increased the pace, stabbing into her flesh with his tongue and scraped across her with his teeth, growled into her heat, and she squirmed over him, the sounds from her mouth increasing in pitch and volume. Dean could still feel those other hands and bodies moving over his flesh as he brought her higher and higher above him. He moved one hand to cup the curve of her ass and slid one finger against the tight ring of muscle there, circling, and she fell apart over him. Her hips bucked as her dripping pussy pulsated and clenched around his tongue, and he lipped tenderly over the sensitized flesh as she came down from her orgasm.
“God, Dean.”
Gwenoch slid herself down Dean’s chest, her wetness trailing down his skin and finally sliding and clinging over his cock. Dean thrust up, and the whimper from Gwenoch made Dean moan as well. Gwenoch lifted herself up on her knees and reached her hand down grasping his throbbing erection in her hand, smoothing her thumb over the head, smearing the pre-come around and using it to slide her hand up and down his hardness.
“Please…” Dean grunted out.
“Uh uh, Pretty. You get what I give you. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”
Gwenoch’s lips curled up, her enjoyment of teasing Dean clear. She moved the crown of his cock and circled her clit with it, head thrown back, taking her own pleasure. Dean held himself still, wanting to thrust but he’d heard the threat in her command and suspected she might be perfectly capable of just leaving him like this.
Slowly she pushed over him, just encasing the head of his cock, then she clenched around him and he thought he was going to come but was pretty sure that would be against the rules, even if it hadn’t been verbalized. Inch by excruciating inch, she lowered herself, then pulled back up to tease and torment in every thrust, hips circling, muscles fluttering. Dean catalogued the parts of a gun in his head and curled his nails into the soft earth under his hands, the only part of him that moved. Finally, his cock was completely sheathed inside her.
As she raked her nails down his chest, she commanded, “Move, Dean.”
Dean let himself go, gave himself up to pleasure and sensation. Every cell of his skin was alive, his back against the grass, the air on his body, the hundreds of small touches of winged fairies, and the mantle of autumn hair where Gwenoch’s head bent over him. Everything boiled together narrowing down to the place between his legs. Her tight warmth contracted around him, and they set a furious pace, point and counterpoint. She arched above him, and Dean scraped his nails over her nipples, the color of blood under the suns. He pressed the heel of his palms to her clit and felt her spasm around him, rocking and keening her pleasure.
She fell into him pressed her lips over his and whispered, “Come for me, Dean.” He did, hard pumping thrusts as he dug thumbprints into her hips. His hips pumped through aftershocks and his come slicked between them. The field was quiet in the aftermath, the small fairies having departed unnoticed and Gwenoch hummed her contentment against his chest.
Gwenoch eventually arose. Sleep was attempting to take Dean under, but he came alert when she pinched him below his ribs. He lifted his lashes, seeing her gazing intently at him through their shadowed curtain.
“Would you stay here and be my consort, Dean?”
In that moment, ensnared in the magic, sated and drugged, no other answer even occurred to Dean and he said, “Yes.”
A thousand voices whispered into the sun-drenched meadow, “Promise given and witnessed.”
Dean was aware that, at some point, Gwenoch had dragged him from the meadow, and they had bathed. He was dressed again in the kilt, knotted and clasped at his hip and spun through with gold threads. A haze filled his head, cotton thick, and his thoughts were unordered. His feet were leaden. Sleep called to him, but he followed as Gwenoch pulled him into yet another clearing.
Tall grasses and patches of wildflowers bordered the meadow. A single sun burned hot overhead, and thirst filled Dean’s mouth, leaving it dry. More creatures than at the dinner lined either side of the area, creating a promenade up the center of the field, leading to a large chair carved from wood. As Gwenoch and Dean moved closer, Dean could see the throne was a dark redwood, and dimensional carvings of the fair folk covered the surface. All the figures were unclothed and contorted into acts that would shame the pages of a skin magazine.
When they reached the foot of the throne, Gwenoch positioned herself to face her vassals and moved Dean so that he was facing her.
“Kneel.” Dean had heard a lot of commands in his life, but none had been firmer than this. He fell to his knees without thought.
The court began to make noise around him, sibilant, slithering sounds, the same sounds falling concurrently from Gwenoch’s mouth. As suddenly as it began, the odd chanting ended, and utter silence descended in the glade. Gwenoch bent low in front of him, her hand cupped to the ground, and Dean watched as a small golden-green snake crossed the clearing, slithered into her palm, and wrapped itself around her wrist like an elaborate bracelet.
She turned to Dean and began to speak. Her voice rang and reverberated, louder than she should have been able to project. “Let it be know across the courts, that Gwenoch, Queen of the Autumn Court and Strategist to the Golden Horde, has chosen a consort. The Goddess Mother herself has blessed the union and sent a sign of her approval”
At this pronouncement Gwenoch raised the arm with the snake, spun around and displayed the small creature. The assemblage raised a joyous cry, and a word in their language was repeated three times.
“This human mortal has agreed to become my consort, to grace my bed in the hopes of producing an heir, to leave behind his mortal existence and to fulfill the duties required. Do you agree, Dean?”
A slow, sluggish part of his brain was battling against affirmation. Dryness coated his tongue and sleep coated his sluggish thoughts. His will to fight was failing under the onslaught and the words came. “I agree.”
Gwenoch shouted, “It is witnessed and agreed.”
The throng stamped their feet and shouted, “It is witnessed and agreed.”
“Dean, would you do one more thing for me?”
Again, he wanted to wait, think, but exhaustion washed over him, accompanied by the desire to please. Something , a voice, chanted 'no' in his head, but when he opened his mouth, what he said was, “Yes.” The expression on her face was voracious, and trepidation moved into Dean. It still wasn’t enough to make him offer a protest.
Gwenoch wrapped her hand around Dean’s neck, and the snake slithered from her hand and coiled around his neck. Gwenoch chanted, “Three times I bind thee to me. Forget the before. There is only the now. As I will. So mote it be.” She repeated it three times, and he felt the cool living flesh harden against his neck.
He was on his knees, and a beautiful woman stood over him. Her voice filled his head leaving room for nothing else. She put her fingers beneath his chin, tilting his head so he could look into her golden flecked eyes.
“Hello, pretty. Your name is Dean. I am your liege, Gwenoch. This is our home.”
Dean. He rolled the sound in his head, but it had no meaning for him. Her small, pale hand reached out for him, and he rose. When she smiled at his obedience, his heart swelled with the desire to please this creature.
Gwenoch led Dean through a thickly wooded area that opened up into a tree-covered bower, mostly occupied by a large bed.
She took Dean’s hand and guided him to stand in front of a large wall next to the bed. She passed her hand across the wall and the surface became reflective, and Dean observed the two of them naked. Gwenoch stood behind him, her hair reaching over his shoulder and around his hip with a mind of its own. It was tantalizing and creepy, and his skin tingled where it touched him.
Dean moved his hand to the gold collar at his neck. It was the shape of a snake and accurate in every detail. The head was biting the tail and Dean could make out the small fangs, eyes that were chips of amber. The collar shimmered like the sheen of oil on the surface of a rain puddle, iridescent reflection on each scale.
“I want to make you one of us, Dean.” Her arm reached around to a scar on his belly. It couldn’t be too old, still pink at the edges. “I want to remove this and the others like them.”
Gwenoch moved her hand to the palm mark that appeared burned into his shoulder. “This, too.”
Her hand moved to the corner of his eyes. “I want to take away the stains of age and make you new again. Besides, you will have stamina, increasing the odds that I will conceive.” Gwenoch’s mouth was curved in a smirk, and her eyes were full of filthy promises.
The hand at the small of his back glided down over the curve of his ass, and a finger slid down his crack, pushing lightly at the circle of muscle there. “If you agree, you will become young and untouched, for as long as you dwell among us.” Her finger depressed, and Dean shivered.
Dean met Gwenoch’s eyes, uncertain of how to answer. He was unsure about agreeing, yet wanted to do whatever would please her.
“I want my consort to be the prettiest jewel in my court. It would please me greatly to show you at your very best, and it would strike envy in the hearts of many to know that you would give this to me.”
Finally, Dean nodded, and the smile that Gwenoch bestowed on him literally made the room glow. The pride and joy on her face hit Dean, filling him with warmth, comfort, and purpose. Dean knew he could become addicted to the sensation.
Gwenoch turned Dean to her, cupped his face in her hands, and said, “I am very happy with you Dean. You are a perfect consort.” Her words washed over Dean, acceptance and haven against all his jagged bits.
Dean didn’t think he could feel any better until she added, “You are reborn among us, Dean, and no other could fulfill your purpose here. You are special.” Dean didn’t know if he’d ever felt better, but he did know he felt damn good and couldn’t imagine anything he wouldn’t do to keep feeling this way.
Gwenoch pushed and pulled Dean until he was sprawled on his back, in the center of the large bed. Gwenoch sat cross-legged by his hips. He started to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips. She spoke in a language he didn’t understand her face pure concentration. She moved her hands in the air, and he could see light being pulled to her fingertips as she wove it into complicated knots and patterns.
The air above his body filled with the weavings, and her words died. Then, Gwenoch moved her hands over his body, smearing the designs until they glowed against his skin. Dean could feel them, feel them crawling and wrapping around every inch of skin. He raised his hands and saw his hands covered in the strange golden designs like a second skin.
Gwenoch brought both hands down against his ribs and said, “This is going to hurt.”
Dean screamed until he passed out.
When Dean woke, he ached, but the mouth wrapped around his dick was making up for it. It wasn’t until Gwencoh was straddling him, that Dean noticed something was different. He wasn’t sure what is was and when Gwenoch did this little swivel thing with her hips and tightened around him, he pretty much gave up trying to figure it out.
They lay side by side on the bed, breaths short and skin cooling, and she asked him, “Do you want to see?” Dean turned to look at her and nodded.
Gwenoch led him from the bed and over to the wall mirror. It was disconcerting. The first thing his mind registered was a handsome young man and an unearthly female, neither of whom seemed quite real. Then, his conscious thought caught up, and he realized he was looking at himself.
The first thing he noted was the difference in height. He thought he must be about 5’9” now. Where Gwenoch had barely come up to his collarbone before, her head now topped his shoulder. He was a little smaller overall, but still broad and muscled and much younger than the last time he’d stood here, maybe sixteen or seventeen.
There wasn’t a blemish on him, nothing-- no scars, no wrinkles. The only thing left that he recognized from the time when he stood here before were the freckles that were pretty much everywhere and the black inked tattoo over his heart. He lifted his finger tracing the mark. ‘Sammy,’ reverberated in his head, but there was nothing tangible he could attach the name with. He was a blank slate wiped clean, mind and body.
When Gwenoch pushed him to his knees, he quit thinking about his transformation.
Gwenoch held court every day, and Dean sat at her feet, her collar around his neck, draped in a kilt slightly fancier than the males at court wore. Sometimes Gwenoch’s hand would stretch out, fingers twining into his hair or caressing the skin at his collar. Dean knew he was on display, a symbol of the power Gwenoch wielded here. She commanded, and Dean complied. Had he always been so quick to follow orders? He had no way of knowing.
Fionnbhair stood before the throne vibrating with triumph. To look at Gwenoch, you would think she was completely at ease, but Dean could feel her muscles, tense under his hands, her nails digging into his scalp. He forced himself to remain relaxed. Dean knew it was expected.
Fionnbhair was large, broad shouldered, and covered in blood, not spattered but dripping, wet and red from boot to neck. The stench was enough to make Dean’s head ache. Clasped in Fionnbhair’s hand was a head, flesh at the neck ragged and dripping. Fionnbhair tossed the head at the queen’s feet, splattering Dean and the hem of Gwenoch’s robes in gobbets of flesh, spotted with dots of crimson.
“Hefeydd’s head, as requested - my Queen.” There was a pause before the title was added, but Fionnbhair’s voice was careful, neutral without being disrespectful. Dean could tell from the court’s reaction of muffled whispers and gasps that the warrior was treading a fine line. Then Fionnbhair sunk to one knee and bowed to his sovereign.
“Congratulations, Fionnbhair. You’re service is noted and a reasonable boon will be granted.”
Fionnbhair’s eyes played over Dean, dark with lust and something manic. Dean’s skin crawled. Nothing in the look suggested the Fae had anything pleasant in mind.
“Your consort is very appealing your majesty.”
The quiet from the assembly was more ominous than the previous whispers. It was as if the entire court held their breath. The request must have pushed the boundaries of the warrior’s service.
“Your request is noted and will be considered.”
The court sighed, and Dean with them. He was under no illusion that Gwenoch could have granted the request outright.
Dean spent most of his time stoned out of his head, high on fairy food, glamour, and sex. Eating, drinking, and fucking had been the sole purpose of his existence for the last several days. Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Fairy time changed to suit Gwenoch’s preferences, and he was with her nearly all the time, so it could be sun one second and twilight in the next instant. She reminded him more than once his name was Dean, especially at first. Mostly she called him Pretty. He didn’t mind, much. He couldn’t remember the before time, and when he’d asked her, she’d said it was better like this, the not remembering. The name Sammy wouldn’t leave his head, more familiar than his own. He didn’t remember who Sammy was. When he asked about Sammy, she told him that he would see him soon.
Dean didn’t notice a lot of what went on at court, and Gwenoch refused to discuss court politics with him, but even Dean couldn’t miss what was being said about Fionnbhair. Several days had gone by since his request was made, and Dean had plenty of opportunity to pick up the court gossip.
Apparently Fionnbhair was a Fae noble previously aligned with Summer court. His proclivities were unwelcome there. Translated, that meant he’d run out of bed partners willing to indulge his particular tastes. When he’d defected, he had brought a contingent of warriors with him. Warriors vital to Gwenoch, who was expanding her power base and needed help protecting it.
The court was in agreement that granting Fionnbhair’s request would be in her best interest. Dean suspected the rumors did not reach his ears accidentally.
The morning of his seventh waking in fairy, he caught Gwenoch turning away from him with pale peach tears on her cheeks. When he inquired, she informed him that the healer had informed her she had not conceived. The healer also told her that it was unlikely that further couplings would change the results.
Dean knew he was being played, but it didn’t decrease his desire to help. He desperately wanted to take her pain away, pain the he was certain was not faked, just useful. Dean took her hand and asked if there was anything he could do.
Gwenoch brought up Fionnbhair’s request assured him she wouldn’t force him. Dean wasn’t as certain, but it didn’t matter. The desire to please her, even if it meant something unpleasant for him, was insistent and compelling.
Gwenoch used the mirror on the wall to contact Fionnbhair.
Fionnbhair liked to hurt him and sometimes Dean got off on it. If he behaved and gave Fionnbhair what he wanted. the sex was good. Besides, a healer was sent to him afterwards, mainly so he was able to perform the same way the next day. They never healed him completely, because Fionnbhair liked to see the old scars and bruises under the new ones he would make.
Mostly, Dean was happy he could help Gwenoch. She never failed to tell him how well he was taking care of her, how good he was. Something inside Dean melted every time he heard it.
Fionnbhair was tall and good looking, like all the fey. He was more muscular than most and had told Dean he was a warrior. Dean could believe it, there wasn’t a muscle on him that wasn’t cut. His skin was the color of midnight, and his silver hair was cut military short, much like Dean’s. Dean couldn’t remember if he’d been with men in the before time, but he suspected he might have, since it didn’t seem to put him off at all.
Dean’s arms were held apart and held down by twined vines that were wrapped around them. He’d eaten about an hour ago and was pleasantly high from food and wine. The silk sheets under him were deep green. Fionnbhair delighted in telling Dean how pretty he looked on green, describing every single one of Dean’s features, while he stroked Dean’s cock, until Dean was flushed from head to toe. Dean couldn’t truthfully decide if it was from shame, anger or that part of him actually liked it.
Fionnbhair entered the room and scanned Dean with his eyes, the colors in them shifting from blue flecked with silver to almost solid silver with clouds of blue, the color Dean had come to recognize as lust. Fionnbhair wasted no time. The fairy grabbed a pot from the table and straddled Dean’s hips. Dean was half-hard, and Fionnbhair grabbed, him stroking him until pre-come was leaking from the tip.
“So pretty, Dean, all your tender skin, just waiting for me to mark it up.” Fionnbhair traced his fingers over the yellow bruises and faint scratches that he had made on Dean the day before. Fionnbhair pressed against the mark and Dean’s grunt of pain brought a feral smile to his face. Fionnbhair reached for a small pot of cream and coated his hands in it, before returning his attention to Dean. He put both hands to the flat of Dean’s belly, and Dean writhed beneath it. He didn’t know what the hell was in the cream, but it was like being touched with ice and hot wax at the same time, and even through clenched teeth, Dean was unable to hold back the painful cries. Fionnbhair laughed, “We’re just getting started, Dean,”
Fionnbhair dipped his thumbs back into the cream and moved his hands up Dean’s chest until he had covered Dean’s nipples. Dean held back the scream this time but felt the tears leak from the corners of his eyes. Satisfaction gleamed in Fionnbhair’s eyes. He leaned over Dean, close enough Dean could smell the slight peppermint scent of his breath, and said, “So pretty when you cry for me, Dean. I’ve never seen anything so lovely.” He scraped his nails against Dean’s far too sensitive nipples, and Dean couldn’t stop the additional tears that leaked down his cheeks. Fionnbhair lapped at them, smiling wide as if he’d won a prize.
Fionnbhair caressed up Dean’s arms, setting the flesh on fire, telling Dean how lovely all his freckles looked as they burned under the Fae’s touch. The sensations from the cream lessened as Fionnbhair moved up and wrapped his hands around Dean’s neck. The fairy ran his hands over Dean’s collarbone, and, shaping his hands to claws, moved down Dean’s chest. Fionnbhair’s thumbs traveled downward over Dean’s nipples. They puckered, and Fionnbhair pinched them both. Dean pushed into the touch, which was mostly good now. Fionnbhair wiped the remains of the cream over Dean’s sides and leaned back to get the last of it along Dean’s legs. Dean’s skin tingled, ant bites pinpricking along his skin.
Fionnbhair wrapped a hand back around Dean’s cock, stroking slowly over it and raised the other long, lean hand to hover over Dean’s chest. Dean helplessly rose to meet it, the man’s dark laughter curdling into him. The fairy brought one silver nail down and flicked it over the curve where Dean’s chest rose, shallow and stinging, blood rose from the cut. Simultaneously, Fionnbhair moved his hand on Dean’s shaft. Dean tossed his head, the sensation of his throbbing cock beating in time with each shallow cut as the man progressed down his chest to his waist, flick, then stroke, cut, then beat.
Dean couldn’t separate the pain from the pleasure, didn’t even know if he wanted to anymore. The shallow cuts made the blood rush to his cock, unbearably harder each time. Fionnbhair leaned over and licked across the cuts, settling between Dean’s legs. The pain was sharp, just countered by Fionnbhair’s hard length pulsing against his own. The man’s hips thrusting in time with flick of his tongue. Dean didn’t even recognize the cries coming from his mouth, just mindless syllables, completely out of his head, veins pulsing with lust and adrenaline.
Fionnbhair slid down between his legs, head nestled between Dean’s thighs. “Spread your self for me,”
Dean flushed with humiliation but grabbed his knees and did as he was told. Fionnbhair would not hesitate to punish him brutally, pushing away the pleasure and leaving Dean with nothing but pain. Positioning himself left him vulnerable, embarrassed, and aroused, all jumbled together in one confusing mix.
Fionnbhair spoke from between his legs, “Oh baby, you look so beautiful.” Dean almost came unglued when Fionnbhair’s tongue stroked across his hole, once, then several more times, as Dean held back his orgasm. He wasn’t allowed to come until Fionnbhair told him to.
Fionnbhair pulled away again and ran his thumb around Dean’s clenching muscle. “Want so bad to shove my cock right here, feel you clench around me, tight and hot. You’d like that wouldn’t, you beautiful boy?” Fionnbhair hummed against the muscle, and Dean mewled, bucking, and didn’t try to deny what his body was clearly begging for. He did want it, bad enough that he felt hollow, empty, unfulfilled.
Fionnbhair went back to licking Dean, pushing inside with his tongue every few strokes. Then Fionnbhair grabbed hold of Dean’s cock, wringing it hard, tongue as far inside Dean as he could get. Dean whimpered under the onslaught, completely strung out. Fionnbhair pulled back, blew against Dean’s pucker, and told him, “Come.” Dean did, stripes of milky white striping his chest. Fionnbhair watched him, pulling on Dean’s dick until he was sore from being touched.
Fionnbhair told him, “You look so good covered in come. You’re going to look even better in mine. Since I’ve been forbidden from fucking your pretty little hole, I guess seeing you stretched around my mouth will do.” As Fionnbhair climbed up from between Dean's legs to his chest, the vines loosened on his wrists. Fionnbhair grabbed Dean’s arms, pushed them to his sides, and the vines rearranged themselves to keep his arms tight again his ribs. Dean gasped where they rubbed open the cuts, making them bleed anew as they slithered and gripped.
Fionnbhair splayed his legs over Dean’s shoulders and rubbed his hard cock against Dean’s lips. “Your lips are sinful. I’ve never seen the like in all my centuries. They shame even the Fae, pretty.” Dean flicked his tongue out across the tip of the man’s cock, knowing good and well that would shut Fionnbhair up. Fionnbhair rose up on his knees and gripped the trees over Dean’s head and pushed his hips forward. Dean opened his mouth around the crown and rolled his tongue over the head, flicking across the slit, and Fionnbhair groaned above him. Dean thought the Fae really had an unfair advantage because Fionnbhair actually tasted like peppermint. It was mind blowing and wrong.
“Open your mouth and relax, pretty,” Fionnbhair said as he caressed Dean’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. Dean did and felt that slick heat slipping further into his mouth. Fionnbhair made slow shallow thrusts past his lips, increasing his strokes until he bumped up against the back of Dean’s throat. Dean forced himself to relax against his gag reflex. Spit came out the side of his mouth, but Fionnbhair wiped it away and kept pumping into Dean’s mouth. It was messy and slick, wet and fucking hot as Dean watched the Fae coming apart above him. Dean hummed against the thick length in his mouth, and Fionnbhair was coming down his throat. Dean worked his throat, swallowing, and drifted on the satisfaction winding into his gut.
Part 3