We are spirits of another sort (Gabriel/Dean, NC-17)
We are spirits of another sort
Puck: They wilfully themselves exile from light,
and must for aye consort with black-browed night.
Oberon: But we are spirits of another sort.
Written: Late June, 2013
Pairings: Gabriel/Dean (Oberon/Puck); background Oberon/Titania and Puck/Titania (it’s up to you who Titania is in terms of the SPN cast!).
Rating: Explicit.
Genre and tropes: PWP; size kink; rough sex; biting; marking; power play; wild hunt; elements of rape fantasy; 69; nipple play; overstimulation; fae and fairies; barebacking; rimming; satyrs and other semi-human forms; magical creatures; self-lubrication; Shakespeare!
Word count: 3600.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Gabriel is Oberon, Dean is Puck. Today, Oberon wants his prey to run.
Warnings: Semi-human bodies (Gabriel is satyr-shaped, so he has goat’s legs, hooves, and horns, Dean has a few plumy feathers on his head and shoulders). Elements of rape fantasy, with corresponding pursuit and rough sex. And they shift in and out of speaking in verse, if that bothers anybody! They don’t do much speaking, though...
Notes: Inspired by this photoset. This was originally going to be Castiel/Gabriel, with Castiel as Puck, but I kept having trouble finding a place where Castiel’s and Puck’s personalities could meet and still give me the kind of dynamic between Puck and Oberon that I wanted. Basically, it was making Castiel OOC, so Dean generously decided to step in to take his place. Spelling for the dialogue is based on the 1600 quarto edition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
AO3 link.
And still the King did not relent, and Dean did not let go his horns but bucked and panted into it. Until the formidable and legendary weight of Oberon’s black cock was curving forward to smear wet against his stomach; until the King lifted his head, mouth swollen and curving into wickedness, and dragged his nails across the delicate skin of Dean’s stomach.
“Run, little nightjar. Run, and I will hunt you.”
---
He danced over the town, light as the smoke curling up acrid and grey to tease at his fingertips. High he flew, and lower, dips and curves to tease the bats: over the tiles and beams and wood that hid the four strange mortal lovers that he had teased to distraction on his King’s command two nights ago and whom Dean had, on a sudden whim, returned to love’s true couplings.
Toys lost their allure when they were broken, after all.
But the humans were sleeping, and there was no amusement here. He spun on a zephyr out to where the world was wilder: where life thrived in bark and mold and pool, and the night was a tangible thing coiling through the air around him.
The world was humming, purring, rustling, and Dean could feel it in his blood as he passed. He flitted through the trees, dancing, faster and faster, let the rich dampness of the air carry him with it. Past the gnomes that clustered in the darkest dells, the brownies scattered through the pine needles, the trailing lights of the pixies waltzing pink and red and turquoise and gold through the leaves. Creatures as strange as the humans, in their own way: creatures who never lifted their heads, never asked questions of the world beyond. They only looked up to snap sharp pointed teeth, or scatter away from him, or tip a wing or a hand or a claw or a little red cap in wary greeting.
There was only one fey could match him for his curiosity in those intriguing mortal creatures, and the King’s interest was as fierce while it lasted as it was fleeting: a minute, an hour, a short mortal lifetime, long enough to teach the humans he saw a lesson - vital, and vivid, and appropriate, and often deadly - before they slipped from his mind and he returned to his hunts and his revels and the ferocious joys of his realm.
The woods were wild tonight, and restless: humming and promising with the power of life that curled through leaves and roots and twigs and woke dark urges in beast and tree and fey, and Dean tossed himself through the tossing tree tops on the buffets of the wind, restless and seeking and glorying in it.
There was a bower curled in the bend of the river that the ash and the thorn ringed about: a perfect circle of smooth soft turf, forbidden to mortal sight. Dean set foot there for a moment - took on physical form to feel the rich earth beneath his feet - and that was his undoing.
The only warning was a whiff of animal, of heat and wildness and size, and there he was: reclining under a tree, black and silver and shaggy in the night, moon glinting grey from the great ridged ram’s horns sweeping back from his skull, one arm slung languid and dangerous over a bent knee. He whom mortals called Oberon, King of the Others: Gabriel, Dean’s lord.
“Ill met by moonelight, wilful spright.”
Dean saw the mood on his face, the white flash of his teeth, and felt the blood inside him start to heat. For it meant that the King was bored; and the King’s boredom was a succulent danger.
“Not ill, my lord, on such a lifesome night.”
The King rose to his feet: one long slow uncoiling of muscle and thick dark fur and shadow-dappled skin, eyes locked on Dean. In the moonlight those eyes were silver, or quicksilver - deep pools that gleamed and promised and changed and gave away nothing certain - but when they caught the sun they were golden and warm as honey, a heat that melted and burned and gave fierce, joyous life.
Dean bared his teeth and breathed him in: the weight and the musk of the air around him, the soft tremor in the ground underfoot with every deliberate step the King took.
“My stubborne knave, it may go ill for thee,” Gabriel purred, low; and, ah, it was the humans that he spoke of. The humans, and Dean’s disobedience.
Dean bowed low, sank to one knee on the earth, and let not a shadow of contrition paint his features. This was the game - these were the steps they danced.
“At yower commande, sir, as you would have me be.”
Gabriel came on, nearer: circling, prowling, goatish hooves biting soft into the sward. Dean felt it in the liquid heat of his veins, that gaze: sliding over his shoulders, down to the dip of his spine. Curling low around the line of his hip, up to rake over the plumes that curled back, green and blue and gold, from Dean’s head and shoulders.
“Art thou, boy? Villaine, what hast thou done?”
“Your will, my lord - at first,” Dean growled, and bit off the rhythm there: broke the dance, to force his master into a new step. To provoke him.
“And then your owne.” Sharp, like the startle of a whip-crack across a donkey’s back: closing the line for Dean, tripping on the heels of his words, breath tingling hot across the back of his neck. Already he could feel, in the fertile touch of his imaginings, the King’s weight against his back: the sheer strength, bearing Dean down into the mud by the riverbank and splitting him open.
“The humans wept,” he replied carelessly, discarding verse and rhyme, changing the pace. “I cleared their hearts and eyen - untangled every web.”
Claws trailed over back of his shoulder, climbing up to rake through hair.
“Thou knowest, boy, my design.” Simple and drawn-out, binding Dean’s prose to a rhyme and rhythm he had not intended.
Dean twisted on his feet, slipped through the air to alight on the far side of the clearing, out of his lord’s reach. Gabriel laughed at him, soft as a lion’s huff, and leaped up at perch himself on a low-slung branch. It boxed Dean in: he had placed himself with his back to ash and thorn, where there was no approach but from the front. And Gabriel had ranged himself neatly across that approach: to escape, Dean would have to push his way out between his King and the broad trunk of the lusty old oak. Or fly away, and flee his master’s ire.
Dean hissed like the sparrowhawk whose form he mimicked in the daylight, and arched his neck, feathers flaring as if he feared for a moment before he soothed them into deference.
The King smiled him the smile of the lion content to await his prey down by the water hole.
“Aye,” Dean allowed, and smirked. “To drive the mortal lovers to their doom, with pining and repentance. Their sighs bored me. Their whispers and kisses have a sweeter sound.”
“Robin Goodfellow, the mortals name thee,” the King mocked, eyes alight with possession. “Puck, and Hobgoblin, for thy curiosity and thy japes. Art theirs to name and tame now?”
Dean blinked sweetly, bare toes digging into the damp warmth under the leaf mold. “My japes, king of shadowes, are yours. As is my service.”
“Is it? Is it really, my wanderer of the night? What of my queene?”
Not only the humans, but the queen. The stakes were high today.
Dean dragged his tongue over one lip, held the King’s hot gaze, and thought of Titania as she had been last night: legs locked around his shoulders and heels dragging through feathers at his back, digging in with sharp demand. The arch of her body before his eyes, as flames flickered across her dark skin and lapped at his face. The treasures of her body opening up to his burrowing, hungry mouth.
He slid closer.
“Hers for pleasure, sweete lord, and yours for love.”
One hoof struck, quick as the frog’s tongue snatching the fly: thudded into the wood of the oak, bark scattering down to curl over Dean’s toes. The way was closed: another quick step and Dean was there, arrested by the hard shaggy bar of the King’s thigh. Then the second hoof lifted, set itself too against the oak, and Gabriel leaned back in his living wooden throne with Dean locked close and safe between his legs.
He was Robin Goodfellow, he was the Puck, and he could put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes. The King had nothing on his speed; but that meant little when the King had him in his hold.
“You tooke pleasure, then, in your service at her bower last night?”
Dean laughed. “What service or pleasure should I deny, if the queene command? She tasted sweete on my tongue.”
The King reached for him.
The hot thud of blood was thrumming thick through the earth underfoot, through the air and trees around them, as the living forest woke with its lord’s lust. And Dean felt it too: the thrill of it, shivering through the air. Through his skin too, when Oberon’s hands curled around his shoulder and hip, and that shaggy bronze head bent to puff hot breath down his throat.
“So proud, boy?”
He would have replied, but there was a tongue curling around his nipple, heat that left him cold to the night air as soon as it passed.
Then Gabriel bit down.
Dean cried out and arched into it, locked his hands around the great curled horns and dragged the King’s mouth in hard against his skin. He felt the chuckle, vibrating through hot swollen skin - then the teeth again, the tug and the scrape that shot fire down his spine. On and on, laving and soothing and suckling and biting until it was far past too much, and the other nipple ached with compassion and jealousy, and Dean’s legs were trembling but he was locked in place between hard thighs and hard hands and he could not fall. And still the King did not relent, and Dean did not let go his horns but bucked and panted into it. Until the formidable and legendary weight of Oberon’s black cock was curving forward to smear wet against his stomach; until the King lifted his head, mouth swollen and curving into wickedness, and dragged his nails across the delicate skin of Dean’s stomach.
“Run, little nightjar. Run, and I will hunt you.”
Hooves thudded to the ground beside Dean’s feet, one, two. Dean stood swaying a moment, mouth open and panting and chest marked with the King’s teeth, unsure in his dizziness whether his feet held to the earth at all; the King’s eyebrows arched, an indolent demand that said there would be no mercy tonight; and Dean laughed aloud, and fled.
Running, panting, feet and earth pattering against each other, light and delighted. Smaller branches sprang out of the way to let him pass: the heavier, eager with Oberon’s will, curled in toward him, to block the paths he knew or pin him to their strong trunks, so that he had to dance and duck and tack like a hare. And all the while there was the jagged rhythm of the King’s hooves, now from this side and now from that, always behind him but never lost, beating the same beat as the heart inside his chest, the insistent thump in his groin. The music of the wild hunt.
“Run,” the King had said, and so he did not fly, because if he flew he might escape. The forest was his domain, the acorn and the worm in the soil and the sweet juices that oozed from the broken bough; but it was Oberon’s too, his strength and his spirit and the blood that beat out his eternal years. Puck was the forest’s breath, Oberon its bone; and there was nowhere here that either could not find the other, if he wished.
He made for the creek, to leap its banks like a hart; but the King had guessed his path and the water was up already, raging like a river, too wide and muddy and ferocious to be leaped. Dean doubled back, laughing without breath, feinting left because he heard the King on the right, and if he were clever he could slip by and let Gabriel think he had dodged the other way. But the woods were deceptive, even to him: they could twist sound about at the King’s will and toss it one way or another, sound the horn and the hooves at the distance one minute and hard by the next; and all he knew was a flash of teeth and shadow and he was bowled over to the ground, tumbling down a bank in a haze of fur and fallen leaves and hot sweat-slick skin, tangling his body with the King’s.
The King let him struggle, let him fight: rolled with him on the earth and matched him blow for blow. Even as they wrestled Gabriel was toying with him, having his way: sliding his tongue over the strain of Dean’s neck as he flung it backwards, rutting his swollen member into the small of Dean’s back or the slick leaking between his thighs, tearing at the silks and blue grasses twined about Dean’s hips and legs and more delicate places until the night air and cold wet leaves laid their cool shocks where Dean was hottest.
Dean had him, for a moment: pressed him into the ground, knocked his head against the root of a tree, bit at the powerful stretch of his back. But the King was twisting between his thighs, laughing, arching up and around until his arm hooked around Dean’s neck and flung him sideways
Then Dean was on his back, and pinned. Hard, befurred haunches clamped down either side of his head, thick fur and hot skin pressing down over his face so that his breath was almost stifled. His thighs were dragged wide by hands hard as oak, and a hot sharp-toothed mouth descended.
The breath caught inside him, turned back at the door of his throat and rushed importunate back down its corridors and chambers to set the walls burning. He gasped, tried to drag breath into his heaving lungs, and got a mouthful of fur instead. It muffled the noises he made - though if he’d had his way he would have keened them to the earth and sky, as the King laid thorough, maddening claim to everything between his legs.
He tossed his head back: nosed and wriggled his way backward behind the thick weight of flesh hanging into his eyes until he could get at the tender skin behind it. There he bit kisses into the rim, pushed Gabriel open and owned it with his tongue, as the King did the same between his own legs. Muscle flexed and jumped against him, opening and clenching with the roll of Gabriel’s hips and the fierce shoves of Dean’s tongue - not wet like Dean, for what need had the King of wetness, of opening his body up to another?
The King shifted, hitched an arm under Dean’s hips and hauled them up to his mouth, to dive deeper and lap at the walls inside him as if he were so much juicy meat. Dean scrabbled blindly at Gabriel’s arms and shoulders, slipped up to tangle in his hair then found what he was looking for: locked hard on the rough furrowed sweep of Gabriel’s horns and used them to drag him in, to ride his face and demand while Gabriel growled into tender flesh and set his teeth to the nipped-red skin inside Dean’s thighs. Dean could only plead with his moans, mouth at the balls nudging against his chin and pull them into his mouth, lave and suckle them desperately until the fine dark fur was slick as his own tongue, and his face was messy and wet as his thighs.
Gabriel drew back; and for a moment, for a breath, the long solid weight of his cock fell across Dean’s greedy mouth. He arched into it, opened to lap at its girth and suck the rich wild salt into his body. Then it was gone, and the woods spun around him as he was dragged up and flung across the great fallen trunk of an oak, great with age and deep with moss.
There was fire racing up Dean’s spine, and moss in his mouth, and slick and spit trickling down his thighs, and teeth at his neck and the hot shaggy weight of his lord blanketing the back of his legs and pressing him down over the wood, and Dean arched his back and demanded, writhing for it, for that first frantic burn.
It was not long in coming, and it was not gentle. It seared into his body, stretched him and broken him open and shook him to pieces. Dean’s body was fighting it, as it always did. And he loved it - loved the Panic fear of it, the irresistible urge to flee lightfoot, the fleeting certainty that this would be the too-much that would defeat him. He loved the twin impossibility of taking it and of doing anything but take it, with that hand inexorable as a tree’s roots clamped down on the back of his neck, with the corded muscle under long tangled hair pressing in against his thighs and buttocks and trapping him against the wood.
The King shoved in rough and thick to the very root of him, and Dean shouted out, noisy with the shock and the triumph and the savage joy of it: a wordless boast to bird and leaf and fae and water.
Then Gabriel moved: rutting hard as a beast but thicker and deeper and truer than any. Rough fur scraped and chafed against buttocks and calves and the insides of Dean’s thighs, caught their combined slickness and tangled into damp tufts that slapped at his skin and caught at the crevices. The King’s growls and pants rumbled through his body as Dean wriggled, lithe and useless as a speared trout. Teeth scraped and nipped at his spine, lashing it to a sweet fire to match the burn between his legs and deep inside his body. And all he could do was cling and claw at the tree that crushed his belly, filling his nails with moss and bark.
“Mine thou art, and mine thou shalt remaine,” was growled against the skin of his neck. “The queene has fairys of her own to tame. Whatever hands may slide betweene your thighs, your life is mine - and I will have my prize.”
Never any doubt of that: not a moment when anybody in the forest could doubt that Dean was anything but Gabriel’s, Oberon’s, the King’s, the Satyr’s, the possession of this creature in any and all of his names. Every breath he breathed spoke it, every arch of his neck and flare of his feathers declared his pride, and his possession of the King in return. The Queen might be Oberon’s wife, but Dean was his Goodfellow.
And the surrender was sweeter if sweetly won.
“My life, dear king, mine heart and body too,” he gasped out; and, turning his face sideways to grin breathlessly with his cheek deep in the moss, “Is this, then, how a monarch learns to woo?”
Oberon huffed warm against his cheek. “He wooeth not, my kestrel, what he owns - but means to stop thy ryming with thy moans.”
And so he did: drove in harder: pulled out, teased with two shallow dips, then shoved all the way back to the depths of him, until Dean jerked and arched below him.
He snarled a challenge - hooked one foot back around Gabriel’s calf to pull him nearer, pushed up below him and took everything his King had to give. And when Gabriel’s hand slipped around to cover his mouth Dean sucked two fingers inside, drew them in greedily, savoured the wild blood that leaked free when they snagged on his teeth. King’s blood in his mouth, King’s seed slicking his body and, in another few fierce thrusts, shooting hot into his belly: the power of it raced through Dean’s veins and set the magic in his own blood alight, made a bonfire of his body, and sent him arching and crying out and slamming his head back against the hard rack of Gabriel’s horns, as together they spilled their essence into the thirsty forest floor.
They were still for long minutes afterward. Dean lay there and breathed: drew the cool, moist air into his body, and let it fall out again.
The world was simple and lazy: only the slowing pulse of Gabriel’s flesh inside him, the cautious chirrups of birds and bugs stirring again where they had been startled away by their lord’s passions. Then Oberon bent his head and lapped at Dean’s neck: once, twice, three times, soothing over the mess he had made there. Dean purred and arched into it, full and aching and satisfied.
A warm hand ran down his back, and the King slid free of him: softer now, a little slimmer, but never entirely flaccid - not he.
Dean stretched, yawned, rolled onto his back and grinned.
Gabriel was looking down at him with eyes sly and soft, crowned with his horns and the faint gilding of the coming dawn. Dean reached out one foot, twined it around his knee and dragged him in to set his mouth on that cock, for the pleasure of the taste and of seeing his lord’s knees go weak, of making him whimper a protest. Just for a moment; then Oberon was gone, and Puck laughed, and melted back into the warm breath of the forest.
---
Puck: I am that merry wanderer of the night:
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile.
Puck: They wilfully themselves exile from light,
and must for aye consort with black-browed night.
Oberon: But we are spirits of another sort.
Written: Late June, 2013
Pairings: Gabriel/Dean (Oberon/Puck); background Oberon/Titania and Puck/Titania (it’s up to you who Titania is in terms of the SPN cast!).
Rating: Explicit.
Genre and tropes: PWP; size kink; rough sex; biting; marking; power play; wild hunt; elements of rape fantasy; 69; nipple play; overstimulation; fae and fairies; barebacking; rimming; satyrs and other semi-human forms; magical creatures; self-lubrication; Shakespeare!
Word count: 3600.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Gabriel is Oberon, Dean is Puck. Today, Oberon wants his prey to run.
Warnings: Semi-human bodies (Gabriel is satyr-shaped, so he has goat’s legs, hooves, and horns, Dean has a few plumy feathers on his head and shoulders). Elements of rape fantasy, with corresponding pursuit and rough sex. And they shift in and out of speaking in verse, if that bothers anybody! They don’t do much speaking, though...
Notes: Inspired by this photoset. This was originally going to be Castiel/Gabriel, with Castiel as Puck, but I kept having trouble finding a place where Castiel’s and Puck’s personalities could meet and still give me the kind of dynamic between Puck and Oberon that I wanted. Basically, it was making Castiel OOC, so Dean generously decided to step in to take his place. Spelling for the dialogue is based on the 1600 quarto edition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
AO3 link.
And still the King did not relent, and Dean did not let go his horns but bucked and panted into it. Until the formidable and legendary weight of Oberon’s black cock was curving forward to smear wet against his stomach; until the King lifted his head, mouth swollen and curving into wickedness, and dragged his nails across the delicate skin of Dean’s stomach.
“Run, little nightjar. Run, and I will hunt you.”
---
He danced over the town, light as the smoke curling up acrid and grey to tease at his fingertips. High he flew, and lower, dips and curves to tease the bats: over the tiles and beams and wood that hid the four strange mortal lovers that he had teased to distraction on his King’s command two nights ago and whom Dean had, on a sudden whim, returned to love’s true couplings.
Toys lost their allure when they were broken, after all.
But the humans were sleeping, and there was no amusement here. He spun on a zephyr out to where the world was wilder: where life thrived in bark and mold and pool, and the night was a tangible thing coiling through the air around him.
The world was humming, purring, rustling, and Dean could feel it in his blood as he passed. He flitted through the trees, dancing, faster and faster, let the rich dampness of the air carry him with it. Past the gnomes that clustered in the darkest dells, the brownies scattered through the pine needles, the trailing lights of the pixies waltzing pink and red and turquoise and gold through the leaves. Creatures as strange as the humans, in their own way: creatures who never lifted their heads, never asked questions of the world beyond. They only looked up to snap sharp pointed teeth, or scatter away from him, or tip a wing or a hand or a claw or a little red cap in wary greeting.
There was only one fey could match him for his curiosity in those intriguing mortal creatures, and the King’s interest was as fierce while it lasted as it was fleeting: a minute, an hour, a short mortal lifetime, long enough to teach the humans he saw a lesson - vital, and vivid, and appropriate, and often deadly - before they slipped from his mind and he returned to his hunts and his revels and the ferocious joys of his realm.
The woods were wild tonight, and restless: humming and promising with the power of life that curled through leaves and roots and twigs and woke dark urges in beast and tree and fey, and Dean tossed himself through the tossing tree tops on the buffets of the wind, restless and seeking and glorying in it.
There was a bower curled in the bend of the river that the ash and the thorn ringed about: a perfect circle of smooth soft turf, forbidden to mortal sight. Dean set foot there for a moment - took on physical form to feel the rich earth beneath his feet - and that was his undoing.
The only warning was a whiff of animal, of heat and wildness and size, and there he was: reclining under a tree, black and silver and shaggy in the night, moon glinting grey from the great ridged ram’s horns sweeping back from his skull, one arm slung languid and dangerous over a bent knee. He whom mortals called Oberon, King of the Others: Gabriel, Dean’s lord.
“Ill met by moonelight, wilful spright.”
Dean saw the mood on his face, the white flash of his teeth, and felt the blood inside him start to heat. For it meant that the King was bored; and the King’s boredom was a succulent danger.
“Not ill, my lord, on such a lifesome night.”
The King rose to his feet: one long slow uncoiling of muscle and thick dark fur and shadow-dappled skin, eyes locked on Dean. In the moonlight those eyes were silver, or quicksilver - deep pools that gleamed and promised and changed and gave away nothing certain - but when they caught the sun they were golden and warm as honey, a heat that melted and burned and gave fierce, joyous life.
Dean bared his teeth and breathed him in: the weight and the musk of the air around him, the soft tremor in the ground underfoot with every deliberate step the King took.
“My stubborne knave, it may go ill for thee,” Gabriel purred, low; and, ah, it was the humans that he spoke of. The humans, and Dean’s disobedience.
Dean bowed low, sank to one knee on the earth, and let not a shadow of contrition paint his features. This was the game - these were the steps they danced.
“At yower commande, sir, as you would have me be.”
Gabriel came on, nearer: circling, prowling, goatish hooves biting soft into the sward. Dean felt it in the liquid heat of his veins, that gaze: sliding over his shoulders, down to the dip of his spine. Curling low around the line of his hip, up to rake over the plumes that curled back, green and blue and gold, from Dean’s head and shoulders.
“Art thou, boy? Villaine, what hast thou done?”
“Your will, my lord - at first,” Dean growled, and bit off the rhythm there: broke the dance, to force his master into a new step. To provoke him.
“And then your owne.” Sharp, like the startle of a whip-crack across a donkey’s back: closing the line for Dean, tripping on the heels of his words, breath tingling hot across the back of his neck. Already he could feel, in the fertile touch of his imaginings, the King’s weight against his back: the sheer strength, bearing Dean down into the mud by the riverbank and splitting him open.
“The humans wept,” he replied carelessly, discarding verse and rhyme, changing the pace. “I cleared their hearts and eyen - untangled every web.”
Claws trailed over back of his shoulder, climbing up to rake through hair.
“Thou knowest, boy, my design.” Simple and drawn-out, binding Dean’s prose to a rhyme and rhythm he had not intended.
Dean twisted on his feet, slipped through the air to alight on the far side of the clearing, out of his lord’s reach. Gabriel laughed at him, soft as a lion’s huff, and leaped up at perch himself on a low-slung branch. It boxed Dean in: he had placed himself with his back to ash and thorn, where there was no approach but from the front. And Gabriel had ranged himself neatly across that approach: to escape, Dean would have to push his way out between his King and the broad trunk of the lusty old oak. Or fly away, and flee his master’s ire.
Dean hissed like the sparrowhawk whose form he mimicked in the daylight, and arched his neck, feathers flaring as if he feared for a moment before he soothed them into deference.
The King smiled him the smile of the lion content to await his prey down by the water hole.
“Aye,” Dean allowed, and smirked. “To drive the mortal lovers to their doom, with pining and repentance. Their sighs bored me. Their whispers and kisses have a sweeter sound.”
“Robin Goodfellow, the mortals name thee,” the King mocked, eyes alight with possession. “Puck, and Hobgoblin, for thy curiosity and thy japes. Art theirs to name and tame now?”
Dean blinked sweetly, bare toes digging into the damp warmth under the leaf mold. “My japes, king of shadowes, are yours. As is my service.”
“Is it? Is it really, my wanderer of the night? What of my queene?”
Not only the humans, but the queen. The stakes were high today.
Dean dragged his tongue over one lip, held the King’s hot gaze, and thought of Titania as she had been last night: legs locked around his shoulders and heels dragging through feathers at his back, digging in with sharp demand. The arch of her body before his eyes, as flames flickered across her dark skin and lapped at his face. The treasures of her body opening up to his burrowing, hungry mouth.
He slid closer.
“Hers for pleasure, sweete lord, and yours for love.”
One hoof struck, quick as the frog’s tongue snatching the fly: thudded into the wood of the oak, bark scattering down to curl over Dean’s toes. The way was closed: another quick step and Dean was there, arrested by the hard shaggy bar of the King’s thigh. Then the second hoof lifted, set itself too against the oak, and Gabriel leaned back in his living wooden throne with Dean locked close and safe between his legs.
He was Robin Goodfellow, he was the Puck, and he could put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes. The King had nothing on his speed; but that meant little when the King had him in his hold.
“You tooke pleasure, then, in your service at her bower last night?”
Dean laughed. “What service or pleasure should I deny, if the queene command? She tasted sweete on my tongue.”
The King reached for him.
The hot thud of blood was thrumming thick through the earth underfoot, through the air and trees around them, as the living forest woke with its lord’s lust. And Dean felt it too: the thrill of it, shivering through the air. Through his skin too, when Oberon’s hands curled around his shoulder and hip, and that shaggy bronze head bent to puff hot breath down his throat.
“So proud, boy?”
He would have replied, but there was a tongue curling around his nipple, heat that left him cold to the night air as soon as it passed.
Then Gabriel bit down.
Dean cried out and arched into it, locked his hands around the great curled horns and dragged the King’s mouth in hard against his skin. He felt the chuckle, vibrating through hot swollen skin - then the teeth again, the tug and the scrape that shot fire down his spine. On and on, laving and soothing and suckling and biting until it was far past too much, and the other nipple ached with compassion and jealousy, and Dean’s legs were trembling but he was locked in place between hard thighs and hard hands and he could not fall. And still the King did not relent, and Dean did not let go his horns but bucked and panted into it. Until the formidable and legendary weight of Oberon’s black cock was curving forward to smear wet against his stomach; until the King lifted his head, mouth swollen and curving into wickedness, and dragged his nails across the delicate skin of Dean’s stomach.
“Run, little nightjar. Run, and I will hunt you.”
Hooves thudded to the ground beside Dean’s feet, one, two. Dean stood swaying a moment, mouth open and panting and chest marked with the King’s teeth, unsure in his dizziness whether his feet held to the earth at all; the King’s eyebrows arched, an indolent demand that said there would be no mercy tonight; and Dean laughed aloud, and fled.
Running, panting, feet and earth pattering against each other, light and delighted. Smaller branches sprang out of the way to let him pass: the heavier, eager with Oberon’s will, curled in toward him, to block the paths he knew or pin him to their strong trunks, so that he had to dance and duck and tack like a hare. And all the while there was the jagged rhythm of the King’s hooves, now from this side and now from that, always behind him but never lost, beating the same beat as the heart inside his chest, the insistent thump in his groin. The music of the wild hunt.
“Run,” the King had said, and so he did not fly, because if he flew he might escape. The forest was his domain, the acorn and the worm in the soil and the sweet juices that oozed from the broken bough; but it was Oberon’s too, his strength and his spirit and the blood that beat out his eternal years. Puck was the forest’s breath, Oberon its bone; and there was nowhere here that either could not find the other, if he wished.
He made for the creek, to leap its banks like a hart; but the King had guessed his path and the water was up already, raging like a river, too wide and muddy and ferocious to be leaped. Dean doubled back, laughing without breath, feinting left because he heard the King on the right, and if he were clever he could slip by and let Gabriel think he had dodged the other way. But the woods were deceptive, even to him: they could twist sound about at the King’s will and toss it one way or another, sound the horn and the hooves at the distance one minute and hard by the next; and all he knew was a flash of teeth and shadow and he was bowled over to the ground, tumbling down a bank in a haze of fur and fallen leaves and hot sweat-slick skin, tangling his body with the King’s.
The King let him struggle, let him fight: rolled with him on the earth and matched him blow for blow. Even as they wrestled Gabriel was toying with him, having his way: sliding his tongue over the strain of Dean’s neck as he flung it backwards, rutting his swollen member into the small of Dean’s back or the slick leaking between his thighs, tearing at the silks and blue grasses twined about Dean’s hips and legs and more delicate places until the night air and cold wet leaves laid their cool shocks where Dean was hottest.
Dean had him, for a moment: pressed him into the ground, knocked his head against the root of a tree, bit at the powerful stretch of his back. But the King was twisting between his thighs, laughing, arching up and around until his arm hooked around Dean’s neck and flung him sideways
Then Dean was on his back, and pinned. Hard, befurred haunches clamped down either side of his head, thick fur and hot skin pressing down over his face so that his breath was almost stifled. His thighs were dragged wide by hands hard as oak, and a hot sharp-toothed mouth descended.
The breath caught inside him, turned back at the door of his throat and rushed importunate back down its corridors and chambers to set the walls burning. He gasped, tried to drag breath into his heaving lungs, and got a mouthful of fur instead. It muffled the noises he made - though if he’d had his way he would have keened them to the earth and sky, as the King laid thorough, maddening claim to everything between his legs.
He tossed his head back: nosed and wriggled his way backward behind the thick weight of flesh hanging into his eyes until he could get at the tender skin behind it. There he bit kisses into the rim, pushed Gabriel open and owned it with his tongue, as the King did the same between his own legs. Muscle flexed and jumped against him, opening and clenching with the roll of Gabriel’s hips and the fierce shoves of Dean’s tongue - not wet like Dean, for what need had the King of wetness, of opening his body up to another?
The King shifted, hitched an arm under Dean’s hips and hauled them up to his mouth, to dive deeper and lap at the walls inside him as if he were so much juicy meat. Dean scrabbled blindly at Gabriel’s arms and shoulders, slipped up to tangle in his hair then found what he was looking for: locked hard on the rough furrowed sweep of Gabriel’s horns and used them to drag him in, to ride his face and demand while Gabriel growled into tender flesh and set his teeth to the nipped-red skin inside Dean’s thighs. Dean could only plead with his moans, mouth at the balls nudging against his chin and pull them into his mouth, lave and suckle them desperately until the fine dark fur was slick as his own tongue, and his face was messy and wet as his thighs.
Gabriel drew back; and for a moment, for a breath, the long solid weight of his cock fell across Dean’s greedy mouth. He arched into it, opened to lap at its girth and suck the rich wild salt into his body. Then it was gone, and the woods spun around him as he was dragged up and flung across the great fallen trunk of an oak, great with age and deep with moss.
There was fire racing up Dean’s spine, and moss in his mouth, and slick and spit trickling down his thighs, and teeth at his neck and the hot shaggy weight of his lord blanketing the back of his legs and pressing him down over the wood, and Dean arched his back and demanded, writhing for it, for that first frantic burn.
It was not long in coming, and it was not gentle. It seared into his body, stretched him and broken him open and shook him to pieces. Dean’s body was fighting it, as it always did. And he loved it - loved the Panic fear of it, the irresistible urge to flee lightfoot, the fleeting certainty that this would be the too-much that would defeat him. He loved the twin impossibility of taking it and of doing anything but take it, with that hand inexorable as a tree’s roots clamped down on the back of his neck, with the corded muscle under long tangled hair pressing in against his thighs and buttocks and trapping him against the wood.
The King shoved in rough and thick to the very root of him, and Dean shouted out, noisy with the shock and the triumph and the savage joy of it: a wordless boast to bird and leaf and fae and water.
Then Gabriel moved: rutting hard as a beast but thicker and deeper and truer than any. Rough fur scraped and chafed against buttocks and calves and the insides of Dean’s thighs, caught their combined slickness and tangled into damp tufts that slapped at his skin and caught at the crevices. The King’s growls and pants rumbled through his body as Dean wriggled, lithe and useless as a speared trout. Teeth scraped and nipped at his spine, lashing it to a sweet fire to match the burn between his legs and deep inside his body. And all he could do was cling and claw at the tree that crushed his belly, filling his nails with moss and bark.
“Mine thou art, and mine thou shalt remaine,” was growled against the skin of his neck. “The queene has fairys of her own to tame. Whatever hands may slide betweene your thighs, your life is mine - and I will have my prize.”
Never any doubt of that: not a moment when anybody in the forest could doubt that Dean was anything but Gabriel’s, Oberon’s, the King’s, the Satyr’s, the possession of this creature in any and all of his names. Every breath he breathed spoke it, every arch of his neck and flare of his feathers declared his pride, and his possession of the King in return. The Queen might be Oberon’s wife, but Dean was his Goodfellow.
And the surrender was sweeter if sweetly won.
“My life, dear king, mine heart and body too,” he gasped out; and, turning his face sideways to grin breathlessly with his cheek deep in the moss, “Is this, then, how a monarch learns to woo?”
Oberon huffed warm against his cheek. “He wooeth not, my kestrel, what he owns - but means to stop thy ryming with thy moans.”
And so he did: drove in harder: pulled out, teased with two shallow dips, then shoved all the way back to the depths of him, until Dean jerked and arched below him.
He snarled a challenge - hooked one foot back around Gabriel’s calf to pull him nearer, pushed up below him and took everything his King had to give. And when Gabriel’s hand slipped around to cover his mouth Dean sucked two fingers inside, drew them in greedily, savoured the wild blood that leaked free when they snagged on his teeth. King’s blood in his mouth, King’s seed slicking his body and, in another few fierce thrusts, shooting hot into his belly: the power of it raced through Dean’s veins and set the magic in his own blood alight, made a bonfire of his body, and sent him arching and crying out and slamming his head back against the hard rack of Gabriel’s horns, as together they spilled their essence into the thirsty forest floor.
They were still for long minutes afterward. Dean lay there and breathed: drew the cool, moist air into his body, and let it fall out again.
The world was simple and lazy: only the slowing pulse of Gabriel’s flesh inside him, the cautious chirrups of birds and bugs stirring again where they had been startled away by their lord’s passions. Then Oberon bent his head and lapped at Dean’s neck: once, twice, three times, soothing over the mess he had made there. Dean purred and arched into it, full and aching and satisfied.
A warm hand ran down his back, and the King slid free of him: softer now, a little slimmer, but never entirely flaccid - not he.
Dean stretched, yawned, rolled onto his back and grinned.
Gabriel was looking down at him with eyes sly and soft, crowned with his horns and the faint gilding of the coming dawn. Dean reached out one foot, twined it around his knee and dragged him in to set his mouth on that cock, for the pleasure of the taste and of seeing his lord’s knees go weak, of making him whimper a protest. Just for a moment; then Oberon was gone, and Puck laughed, and melted back into the warm breath of the forest.
---
Puck: I am that merry wanderer of the night:
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile.