Wild Pansies in the Fae Court

by time_to_occur

Tags: #cw:noncon #bondage #dom:male #fantasy #humiliation #pov:bottom #transformation #fae #faerie #m/m #m/nb #shakespeare

After attending a Shakespeare in the Park show, a mortal runs afoul of the Fair folk and his closest friend seeks to help him.

Consent is paramount in real life. I do not condone non-consensual acts. 

It happened during the mid-July Shakespeare in the Park performance of (surprise) A Midsummer Night's Dream. The year was 1999, before everyone's names were all over the internet, and before everyone started carrying computers around in their pockets. The local theatre company always seemed to want to put on that truest of fairy tales. They rotated it with Romeo and Juliet. This was probably because the set design was easy to transpose amidst the trees of the apple orchard. Easy for the audience to believe that they were in a forest clearing, with the trees at their back, and the orchard's largest tree playing host to Titania's bower. 

Chance, sitting in the audience under an apple tree, was working on his Master's degree in Mathematics, with a focus on Statistics and Game Theory, at a nearby university. Chance's friend Fairchilde (his last name -- an affectation that Fairchilde had picked up at boarding school, from what Chance had been told) was a graduate student in the English department of that same nearby university. And there was nothing English department students seemed to love more than dragging their friends to Shakespeare in the Park with some cheap wine, strawberries, some crackers and cheese. 

The theatre company knew their business and it was a good production. There was something in particular about the lithe, light way that their Puck moved that really sold the performance. Chance thought that the movements sometimes looked almost unnatural. He seemed at home hanging from what looked like just his toes on a branch high off the ground -- no doubt wearing some kind of emergency harness hidden by the leaves -- or tumbling in the grass at high speeds as he chased the Athenian youths through the woods, throwing his voice and mimicking them. Puck had always been Chance's favourite character in the play. This actor really lent something alluring to the role. Arousing, even.

By the end of the play, Chance was sated on wine and cheese and pleasantly sleepy. He only half-listened to the epilogue, which Puck delivered playfully, with just the right hint of sincerity.

  "If we shadows have offended,  

  think but this, and all is mended  

  -- that you have but slumber’d here  

  while these visions did appear.  

  And this weak and idle theme,  

  no more yielding but a dream...”  

"Hey, I'll be right back -- my back teeth are floating from all the wine," said Fairchilde, eloquent English student that he was, as he rose to his feet and headed off into the trees. 

Chance wasn't sure how long Fairchilde was gone, but it was a different voice that woke him from his drowsing. 

"Hey, man, you don't want to fall asleep under an apple tree."

Chance blinked open his eyes, heavy with sleep, and found the actor who played Puck standing a little ways' away, talking to him. "Hmm? Sorry -- am I in the way?"

The actor smiled broadly. Chance fancied that it was a little bit of a flirtatious smile. "The fair folk -- the Fae, you know -- they would call this kind of tree an Ympe tree. Because it's got grafts on it to maintain the different apple varieties, you know? You don't want to fall asleep under an Ympe tree, friend. The Faeries will come steal you away, if one takes a shine to you."

Chance laughed. "Oh dear -- well, I definitely don't want to be stolen away by the Faeries. Not right this minute, anyhow. Will you forgive me, Puck?"

That merry mirth danced around Puck's eyes, and he kept smiling. "Just this once, then. I go by Robin, by the way. I'll forgive you if you give me your name."

Chance opened his mouth to speak, but the noise of Fairchilde's return drew his attention momentarily away from Robin. Fairchilde was already speaking as he arrived before he realized that Chance wasn't alone. "Okay, bud, do you need to take a leak before we -- Ah, sorry."

Chance gathered up his things and rose to his feet, still smiling at the actor. "I'm glad to meet you, Robin. My name is Chance."

Robin's grin widened toothily, almost unnaturally. For a moment, Chance wondered how he had thought that the actor was hot, with that scary smile, but then the grin relaxed a little as he spoke, and Chance discovered his exact reasons all over again. "Wonderful. Well met, Chance. Have a good night -- and you're welcome back for a repeat performance, if you enjoyed it."  


And that was when Chance's fortunes changed. On the way home, Fairchilde teased Chance mercilessly for flirting with an actor from a volunteer theatre company. Maybe, if Fairchilde had been around to tell him some of what he learned from studying Breton Lais and Middle English Romances as part of his English degree, Chance wouldn't have given a Fae creature part of his real name. A great happenstance -- a happy Chance, you could say, for Robin Goodfellow. 

And Puck did say so.

The Fae trickster didn't question his attraction to this mortal, Chance -- it was in his nature to get carried away by his own whims. It was those very whims that had led him to join the theatre company that summer -- he loved to hear his own tales told. It was those same whims that caused him not to steal Chance away immediately, as was his right, after he had fallen asleep under the Ympe tree, because Chance had asked nicely. 

It had been fun to meet a mortal so foolish. A piece of a mortal's true name was an all right haul, but quite useless without its other parts. Perhaps, Robin thought, happen-Chance would come his way again. Notoriety had its uses. Sleeping under the Ympe tree had marked Chance, and as Robin Goodfellow himself was the Fae who had discovered him, other fair folk would be reluctant to touch him without Robin's permission. There were rules, after all, even if many a Fae followed their own regional and personal variants thereof. 

So it was that when Chance and Fairchilde went camping that summer during Labour Day Weekend, and Chance just happened to stand in a Faerie ring to take a piss in the dark in the middle of the night, during the witching hour, the offended fair folk reached out to Robin Goodfellow. And Robin Goodfellow had a reputation to uphold. 


After stealing the man away to Faerie, Puck had gone through his wallet and discovered his full, true name on his driver's license and health card: Chance Lapensée, no middle names listed. For all his merry-making, Puck was a practical sort of creature, even if given to whimsy. Perhaps, at a later date, if he grew bored, he would make Chance forget their time together and torture his name out of him. In the meanwhile, it would be Puck's duty and pleasure to bind Chance to his will and service for a year and a day, to make him a compliant servant capable of handling Puck and other fair folks' treatment of his mortal body. In that time, there would be plenty of... opportunities for Chance to further entangle himself.  


Chance lay naked and chilled in the early morning dew, blindfolded, gagged with his own underwear, with his face pressed into a patch of moss, and his limbs bound together by tough, fibrous vines. As Chance awoke, he choked on the fabric in his mouth, inhaling deeply through his nose and smelling his own musk along with the earthy, damp scent of the moss. His confusion grew instant by instant as he began to discover the extent of his predicament. He grunted through the gag, trying to yell to Fairchilde. He had never known his friend to be given to shitty pranks, but he supposed that he had also never been alone in the woods with him before. Wriggling, he tried to push his forehead against the ground to shift the blindfold. 

Chance felt a hand grip his hair from behind, holding his head in place. Having finally managed to work his underwear free of his mouth, cheek now pressed into the damp drool that he had left behind on them, Chance let out a grunt of surprise and tried to shake his head free. "Fairchilde?! What the fuck?"

The voice that answered was playful and lilting, but with a dangerous edge and ethereal quality that could not be Fairchilde. 

  "Be still, thou mortal, Chance Lapensée.  

  You have slept under an Ympe tree  

  and pissed on a Faerie mound.  

  Now by this Faerie you have been found.  

  You unwittingly gave your name to a Fae,  

  and now I take what was freely given to me.  

  With your name, Chance Lapensée,  

  I bind you to my service for a year and a day."  

Chance blinked behind the blindfold, feeling an unusual sensation in the pit of his stomach. He recognized the voice now -- it was Puck's actor from the play in the orchard -- Robin. Dread and arousal mixed in his lower abdomen. From there, the arousal spread rapidly, along with a heavy sense of inevitability. Robin's words seemed to echo through Chance's entire body. He tensed as his cock hardened and rose to full mast. Other changes rippled through his being, but they were many, and coming on too fast for Chance's confused mind to track them all. 

Sinister laughter, clear as a bell, rang through the clearing. "I promise you'll enjoy it. I'll make sure of it."

The hand left the back of his head, and Chance was hauled up and flipped around so that he lay supine. The blindfold came off, and Chance gasped at the electric brightness of the foliage around him -- the green bed of moss that he lay on looked practically fluorescent after the darkness. The plants looked alien and out of place for the area that he had been camping in. As his eyes adjusted, and since he was no longer face down in the moss and in his own underwear, Chance inhaled deeply, aiming to settle himself. He didn't know what the fuck had just happened, but he felt oddly disconnected from any worry that he might usually have felt. Instead, there was a growing sense of need in his stomach -- his cock was still hard against his belly, warm and soothing in contrast to the chill of the rest of his body. Some curiosity made its way through this strange veil of calm -- if the actor from the Shakespeare in the Park company had brought him here, where was he now? And why had he removed the blindfold?  

The clearing was empty until it wasn't. Standing suddenly not scant three feet away was the actor who had played Puck, posing with a handful of wild purple pansies held to his face. His face was a little more *elfine* than Chance remembered. His ears came to a point, and his nose was slightly upturned, his cheekbones high and distinct, highlighting startling eyes of striated green and brown. His skin was a tawny gold, and he wore a narrow brown leather vest, but was otherwise bare-chested. His hair was cut into a messy strip that followed the curve of his head from the base of his skull, all the way to his forehead. He wore loose, comfortable brown leather pants that ended at his knee and puffed out at the hips. He had no shoes. Clearly, from his pose and expression, he had planned on making this entrance.

"Servitude is fine, but there are other ways that I intend to make you mine," said Robin, voice gleeful. "You'll learn of all the ways that the Fair folk enjoy being serviced, Chance, Seelie and Unseelie alike." 

As he mixed the pansies with a mess of other ingredients that Chance couldn't identify, first in a small mortar and pestle, and then in some kind of glass flask, Robin prattled on almost amicably to his captive. Like they were making a stew together in a kitchen. "Oh -- I was going to steal your name and all that, return it at the end of the year, but it simply isn't practical to call you 'boy' all of the time, and frankly, I can't be bothered to come up with another name for you. I'll try not to use it too often in front of other Fae -- after all, names do have power." 

Chance wanted to speak up, but his questions died on his lips. He really believed that the person before him was a Faerie, not someone that Fairchilde had paid to commit very hard to a prank, or some human kidnapper who intended to murder him -- and, if that was true, he had every reason to believe that Robin could make good on all that he was saying. Chance was fucking terrified. 

Giving the potion in the flask a last good shake, Robin Goodfellow approached Chance and knelt beside him. Chance found his body rising toward Robin as if compelled, and soon his head lay in Robin's lap. Robin ran a hand through Chance's hair before pressing lightly on his forehead to tilt his head back. With his other hand, he uncorked the potion's flask and dipped in a small corner of cotton cloth. Saturating it with the unknown brew, he held open Chance's left eye and squeezed the cloth over it, depositing a number of drops onto its moist surface. He repeated this gesture with Chance's right eye, then held both shut a moment with the palm of his hand. A sharp floral scent under Chance's nose signaled that Robin now held the remainder of the potion there. 

"Take a nice deep breath in, my happen-Chance," said Puck, almost cajoling. 

Chance found his body obeying, and his eyes relaxing. The smell of the flowers didn't seem to fade from his awareness even as he grew accustomed to it. Robin next began to stroke up and down Chance's arm in a regular rhythm. "With every stroke of your arm, you find yourself sinking deeper, becoming submerged, in a pool of receptive relaxation. Deeper and deeper -- and no matter how far you sink, you will never fall asleep while I have you in my power this way. Such a pleasant sensation, going deep down inside yourself to your most receptive place -- to where you can best listen to my words and make them true. The magic helps, but this submission and obedience has lived inside you for far longer than since you crossed over to Faerie."

Robin's words carried Chance along, and Chance found it so easy to do the small, simple tasks that Robin set out for him. Eyes opening and closing at Robin's command, Chance found his mind just as eager as his body to respond to his new Master and lover. It was becoming hard to tell the difference between his own thoughts and Robin's words. And that was just fine by Chance.  


Watching the potion take effect on Chance was deeply satisfying. Puck hadn't bothered with a servant or thrall of his own in some centuries, preferring to borrow Lord Oberon's, or play at being mortal for a night or two, kissing boys in the dark before convincing them of more exciting activities that they could do together. He had a habit of forgetting to take care of his playthings, whereas Oberon always ensured that his were well-fed and prepared to serve. 

Robin Goodfellow was sure that Chance was aware of some of the binding magic and potion's mental effects, but thought it unlikely that his newly-acquired human thrall realized just how inhuman his body was becoming. 

Chance's ears were becoming slightly pointed, his eyes glowing with a supernatural lustre every time Robin asked him to open them as he fractionated him and brought him down into a deep, magically-induced trance. His skin had taken on a white pallor and a greenish tint, and his organs were rearranging themselves to better suit Chance's new role. His mind, meanwhile, was being filled with new desires, and the protocols for dealing with the Fae, from the lowest wildlings to the rulers of the courts. Robin took care to leave out those rules that would help a mortal stuck in Faerie to free themself. He... helpfully added a few compulsions as well that would keep Chance aroused and ready to serve. The binding spell, for its part, ensured that for a year and a day, Chance would be loyal, obedient to Puck's word, and would always find his way back to Puck no matter how far he wandered. 

Corking the potion for now, Robin unbound his mortal servant's limbs, the vines slithering back to their place in the trees for the moment. He ran his hands up and down Chance's body and listened to the mortal moan deliciously.  


Robin's grin filled Chance's whole awareness as his body responded to the Fae's touches, his spine shuddering and quivering.  When the Fae leaned over and whispered into his ear, the hot breath that tickled at it made Chance shiver and buck his hips. "Faeries love a bowl of fresh cream, dear servant. Now, do your duty." 

Robin pushed Chance from his lap and eyed him with a cold curiosity. Suddenly free of Robin's control, Chance's limbs fell heavily against the moss, like his puppet strings had been cut. As he collected himself, Chance understood that this was a test of some kind for Robin's control over him. He supposed that the end result was what would matter, regardless of whether Chance was just trying to avoid punishment or Puck's magical compulsions had worked. Chance was relieved to find that Puck's words didn't seem to have affected him. 

However, fearing the consequences of disobedience, he looked down at his hardened cock and grasped it in his hands. He barely registered that it had changed in shape and colour -- the ridges of the glans flaring out even further like a mushroom cap, the green shading on the underside of the shaft. Fingering his piss slit and cupping his balls half-heartedly, Chance was gripped by a sudden and overwhelming urge to please his Fae Master. A puckish playful urge to tease overtook him, and he danced his fingers up and down the shaft. His face split into a smile not unlike Robin's own, and he drew patterns on his dick with his fingertips, never realizing that his fingers were faithfully tracing runes of control and obedience planted in his mind by Robin Goodfellow's magical, hypnotic trance. 

As he considered spitting in his hands for lube, Puck gestured for Chance to hold out his palms. Uncorking the potion, Puck poured a good tablespoon into his servant's hands. The potion was viscous and wet, clinging to Chance, and he obediently began to apply it to his cock. The smell alone was intoxicating, and Chance's eyes glazed over as he began to fitfully stroke his cock with both fists, pistoning rhythmically and then stopping. It felt as if the bundle of nerves in the glans of his penis now extended down his entire length. Instinctively, Chance edged himself -- a series of rhythmic, enthusiastic pumps of his cock, followed by several slower strokes. He would cum soon. 

Seeming to sense this, Robin pushed Chance's hands away. "Hands at your sides. Locked."

Chance's arms immediately fell to either side and it felt as though his wrists were now stuck to his hips. As his body jerked around, his wrists stayed at his hips. His moans tore from his body with abandon, his eyes screwing shut tightly. When he opened them as he came into Robin's hand, he realized that they had an audience. At first, Chance was confused, taking in the Fae that surrounded every side of the clearing, who seemed to find Chance's performance amusing and arousing. 

Some were small and almost insectoid, with carapaces and wings, their lower halves striped like bees, or their eyes large and multifaceted, while others were closer to human height, differing only in the impossible hues of their skin, or their impressively shapely bodies -- some as round as the sun, thick-thighed and alluring, and others tall and narrow, like reeds at the side of a pond. Some seemed to be jerking off themselves or others, while still more were tittering laughter. A new voice in Chance's mind -- Robin's voice, from all the many things that he had told Chance while he was deep in that magical trance -- told him that many Fae had the power to use glamours, including invisibility, and he realized that the audience had likely been there for quite some time, and simply decided to show themselves. It was like...a standing ovation. 

Bringing the palmful of Chance's cum to his lips, Robin licked and sucked, devouring his cream. When he was finished, he wiped his hand in Chance's hair forcefully and Chance stumbled, arms still locked at the waist. "Good. Boy."  


Bo Fairchilde was fucking devasted when he realized that his friend Chance had somehow gone missing on their camping trip. He had followed Chance's trail as much as he could as soon as he woke up to find him gone. Chance might have wandered off alone, but he was the type to have the courtesy to leave a message saying where he'd got to. It was difficult to tell how long he had been gone, but Fairchilde took note of the time that he had realized Chance was missing. In the back of his mind, he knew he was doing it in case there was a missing persons' investigation, although he was hoping to find that Chance had just gotten lost after taking a look around. 

Chance's backtrail included discarded clothing, which was a mystery to Fairchilde. He didn't like his friend's prospects if he was naked and alone in the woods. He took a photo of the clothing with his polaroid camera before gathering them up, in case there was any scent left upon them for a search and rescue dog to track. 

It took him an hour and a half to walk back into town and find the police station to file a report. The next few days were hectic, and Fairchilde spent his time searching with the other volunteers when he wasn't being questioned at the station or fending off reporters. Nobody was giving up hope yet, but Fairchilde could tell that hope for Chance's survival was dwindling. 

It was some days later, half-asleep, that Fairchilde chanced to look upon the photocopy of the photo he had taken of Chance's clothing. The police had the original, but they had allowed him to keep the copy. He only now noticed the trampled mushrooms in the picture, growing in a circle, on top of a small, raised platform of dirt and grass -- maybe an old ringfort of some kind. Fairchilde knew that he was sleep-deprived when the thought that came to his head was that that was a fairy ring. And it looked like Chance -- or some other human with size 10 sneakers -- had half-trampled it. 

He had a ridiculous thought. But it refused to go away. 

No matter how many times he discounted it, Bo Fairchilde's brain kept coming back to the apple orchard where he and Chance had watched *A Midsummer Night's Dream*, and to the ring of mushrooms on the elevated, circular mound of ground in the photo. He thought of how Chance had been speaking with one of the actors -- Puck -- when he had returned from taking a piss. He remembered teasing Chance as they drove back into the city together, asking him whether or not he had accidentally cockblocked him from getting some Faerie dick, or at the least the actor's number. 

It was ridiculous, but with Chance missing, Fairchilde owed it to his friend to at least look into the *possibility*. He could barely bring himself to name what he was thinking. Had his friend been stolen away by the Faeries?  


In Faerie, the passage of time was given to uncertain leaps and jerks, at times coming to a crawl, and sometimes flitting faster past one's eyes than a Fae on the wing in a forest glade. So it was for Chance, who had no idea how long he had been serving in his new role as Puck's favourite fuck. True to his word, Chance was enjoying himself. Except, in the quiet moments, when he was finally allowed to rest, Chance felt deeply ashamed at his wanton behaviour. He barely understood his transgression, and did not believe the punishment was proportional to the crime -- stepping on some mushrooms, taking a leak in some circle? But he knew now, from the various bits of knowledge and lore that Puck had magicked into his brain so that he might be of better service, that such slights were of great symbolic importance to the Fae. Words and gestures were weighed differently here. 

Chance flushed with embarrassment and shame whenever he thought of all that he had done to service Robin Goodfellow and his guests. Then, he flushed with arousal, and, after his own obedient mind and body forced him to ask for permission from his Master, he jerked himself off to the thought of his own humiliation. His cream, as the Fae called it, was considered precious, and, each time, when he was finished bringing himself off, he presented it to Robin, who licked it off his hands slowly and lasciviously. 

One morning, as Chance was napping on the bank of a creek, totally exhausted from the night before, he felt hands grasping his ass, petting it. He rolled over, his body instinctively clambering onto all fours. Not many would dare to touch Robin Goodfellow's mortal servant without his permission. It did not matter if it was Robin or some other Fae, he knew that ultimately, he would obey. His body was already responding with intense, throbbing arousal. Spreading out from his stomach into his genitals and ass, his muscles were tingling and clenching with desire. 

"My lucky Chance, I've come to let you know that today you'll be presented at the Seelie Court," murmured Robin, throwing his voice so that it sounded as if his mouth were right beside Chance's ear. Chance squirmed at the sensation -- he loved when his Master whispered into his ear. "We'll have to... prepare you for the occasion. I have no doubt that you'll be exceedingly pleasing to my Lord Oberon. And, since he has done me many courtesies and often shared his mortal playthings with me, I have every intention of sharing you with him if he so desires."

Robin gave Chance's ass a hard thump. Chance bit his lower lip to avoid crying out. Robin glanced at his face and frowned, whacking his ass harder. Chance cried out, and Robin smiled, satisfied. "Good boy -- I like to hear you when I give you something to enjoy."

Chance pushed the globes of his ass up into Robin's hands, helplessly enjoying the spanking now that Robin had suggested that he should. His ass grew warm as Robin continued the treatment, rhythmically hitting Chance harder and harder, even punching his ass with solid, steady hits. 

Robin stopped eventually. "Heh, that wasn't part of the preparations, but I do like to give you encouragement now and again. You've really settled into your role as a mortal slut, addicted to Fae sex."

Chance flushed with embarrassment, feeling the truth of it in the way that even just Robin's words made his dick twitch. His eyes grew wide as Robin passed a thick, twisted root, peeled smooth and at least ten inches long, in front of his face. It was shaped into a large plug. "This is what I'll actually be using to prepare you, dear boy. You haven't met Oberon yet, and you'll be glad of this when you do."

Humming in a way that Chance felt was deliberately intended to be unsettling, Puck pulled out a jar of the potion that he had made from the wild pansies and other materials on Chance's first day in Faerie. "This potion really is a bit of a cure-all -- it has those relaxing, entrancing properties, of course, and, as you know, it makes *divine* lubricant, in addition to bringing the aroused mortal slut out in you. After I've soaked this plug in here, you'll have a very good ride indeed -- to the Seelie Court and in it."

Robin stuck the root in the jar to soak, and placed the jar in front of Chance so that he could stare at it. "So that you can get used to the idea, dear heart, while I prepare you for it."

Chance's body quivered, eyes on the thick, long root in the jar, as Robin stroked his hole. Dipping into the jar, he began to rub the edges of the outer ring of muscle before gently probing it, murmuring into Chance's ear about what a good plaything he was. Chance's hole quivered as he tried to consciously relax it, knowing that this was his Master's will, and he had yet to successfully disobey it. 

As Robin's fingers dipped inside him, rubbing gently back and forth, with a generous helping of lubricant, Chance felt his body start to sing with heat and pleasure. His mind focused on that gentle rhythm, and he found himself falling into a light trance. His entire being seemed concentrated in his hole, in the nimble and gentle way that Robin massaged his anal muscle ring into relaxation. Chance found himself thinking that his captor was kind, in his way. One finger. Two. After playing with his prostate and fondling his cock and balls, three. Robin moved his fingers in and out, slowly, and Chance found his breathing matching that rhythm. A deep breath in, those fingers brushing his prostate, and a deep breath out, the fingers wriggling slightly at his entrance. 

Chance was deep in trance when Robin asked him to pass him the jar with that long, thick root in it. Chance obeyed, and Robin began to tease Chance's hole with the unknown plant root. He continued the pattern, using ample lubricant to ease the root's passage into his plaything's hole. Chance felt a thrill of shame and pleasure at the realization that he had referred to himself in his own mind as Puck's plaything. Slowly but inevitably, his ass opened for his Master. The rest of the plug finally eased in, and he sighed with pleasure as it seated itself. 

They were off to the Seelie Court.  


The Shakespeare in the Park troupe was touring in a different region at this point, but after some research, Fairchilde managed to acquire their schedule and drove out to satisfy his curiosity. He knew that this was some desperate part of his brain clinging to any sort of hope or explanation for what had happened to his friend. He just...couldn't help himself. He had to investigate. 

Fairchilde had also read through a lot of Middle English tales in his time as an English major, and Middle English and early Modern English loved a Faerie. Whether they were more like demons from hell who tortured unsuspecting mortals and stole their loved ones away, or creatures that would reward courtesy and kindness, or grant magical gifts like swords in lakes, or the ability to spin hay into gold, the English canon was full of them. If his friend was stuck in a magical realm, Fairchilde reasoned with himself, he was for once well-equipped for the task of finding him, armed with the knowledge of a thousand years of English Nerd lore. 

When he got to the performance, a part of Fairchilde was unsurprised to find a different actor playing Puck. After the show, he spoke with the actors, saying how much he had enjoyed their performance earlier that summer, and, by the way, what had happened to the actor who was playing Puck? They said that he left them a note saying that he was leaving and wouldn't be able to play out the rest of the season. The understudy took over, though he never seemed to get the tumbles and acrobatics to look quite the way that Robin had. They all said that they were sad to see him go. 

That was enough to convince Fairchilde to take his next rational step, and, well, prepare for a trip to Faerie. Just in case he managed to transport himself when he went back to investigate the woods. It would only cost him an afternoon to prove himself wrong, and if he was right... well, hot damn. Digging into his bookshelf, he searched through every text that mentioned Faeries, from his Arthuriana to the Goblin Market to the Tale of Sir Orfeo. He even broke out the Fair Port Convention and listened to Tam Lin

He had a forty-gallon hiking bag and a solid pair of shoes. He packed as if he were going for a back country hike, then filled the rest of the bag with more unusual items: condensed milk, shiny costume jewelry and a roll of new pennies, meal replacement bars so that he could avoid Fae food, and a hunting blade of cold steel - the closest modern equivalent that he could find to the cold iron of Faerie lore.  


As he hiked through the woods, Fairchilde reflected on how ridiculous it was for him to be seriously searching the woods for an entrance to Faerie because some part of him believed his missing friend had been stolen away. 

If Fairchilde was honest, going to the Fae realms would kind of be a dream come true. As a kid, he had always daydreamed that he had been adopted -- that his parents weren't his parents, and that his real family was out there, somewhere. That he was special. Meant for a fateful destiny or something. His psych classes in university said that was a common childhood fantasy. When he had started to read all these tales, first as a teen and later in school, there had been something so appealing about them. 

He was worried that this was his way of keeping Chance alive. The longer he was missing, the lower the chances were that he would be found. But, he figured that taking an afternoon hike could do no harm, even if it didn't result in a trip to a magical otherworld.

He combed the woods, seeking out that original Faerie mound where he had found Chance's clothing. The ring of mushrooms had sprung up again in the trampled spot. He stepped within it, and feeling foolish and more than a little childish, called out. "Faerie, Faerie, can't catch me!" 

Fairchilde was not, alas, stolen away immediately. He spent the rest of the afternoon seeking out other rings -- and found a fair few. Each time, he stood in the circle, and shouted those same words. By the end of the day, he felt that he must have had ample opportunity to catch the ear of every Fae creature there was. Tired, he knew that he had to head back home. He was grateful to put this fantasy to rest. Chance hadn't been stolen away by the Faeries. 

Just before he started back toward the trailhead parking lot, Fairchilde decided to take a break. He leaned against a solid granite boulder...

...and fell through it, finding himself facing the other direction, a solid wall of rock behind him.   


Chance rode a white steed to the Seelie Court while also riding the strange plug inside of him. Every bump had jolted the plug and made him moan with fierce pleasure that bordered on pain. His abdomen was sticky with pre-cum, and his mind was adrift in a sea of distracted arousal. Robin Goodfellow, riding beside him the whole time, had clearly found his pre-dick-ament amusing, and, acrobat that he was, managed to bridge the gap between their horses and stroke his cock often enough to keep it steadily drooling. 

By the end of the journey, he was a mess, and Robin took the time to lick his stomach clean before they entered the ruined fort that hosted the Court. At the entrance, Robin wordlessly slipped a harness over Chance's torso and leashed him. Chance knew better than to protest. 

The courtyard was alive with hundreds of fair folk, and Chance felt his cheeks (the ones on his face) grow hot with humiliation at being brought before them all naked, leashed, with his ass visibly plugged and his dick still drooling pre-cum onto his abdomen, still shiny with Robin's spit. The aging stone work was covered in vines and moss, and the Fae took full advantage of this, strategically positioning and tying vines together into rope swings, or piling the moss to build seats and benches. At the center of the courtyard was a raised dais. The dais was made of living hawthorne trees in full white bloom, twisting together apparently of their own accord to form a platform. It was currently empty. 

Robin led him through the crowd without looking back, and Chance was forced to follow through a sea of questing hands which groped at his body. A time or two, he thought that they were going to hold him back and do more than pinch or prod as he passed, but a glance from Robin was enough for the pressure to ease up. They stood now in the center of the crowd, and all eyes were on them. Chance was flushed with shame and embarrassment as the Fair folk of the Seelie Court groped now with their eyes instead of their hands. 

This was only momentary, as a rich, honeyed voice boomed from behind them, and Chase couldn't help but turn toward it. It seemed to shake the very stones around them. 


Chance's eyes grew wide. The Fae that stood before him stood almost eight feet tall, with the darkest brown skin of anyone Chance had ever met. His legs were as thick as tree trunks, with a solid wall of abdomen with the ridges of the muscles cut like bricks into it, pectorals like two reserve whiskey barrels nestled side by side, and arms thicker than Chance's head. He wore an open robe-like garment and a loin cloth, but Chance could tell that beneath that, he was also built to impress. His eyes were a glowing, golden brown, and his smile was white and gleaming. He was beautiful, and Chance couldn't take his eyes off of him.

This must be Oberon.  


Fairchilde spent a good ten minutes sitting on his ass beside the granite boulder and staring around himself in disbelief. The forest was alive with colours and small, flitting creatures, with flora and fauna that defied description. Given the evidence of his senses, he could only come to the conclusion that he had managed to find a doorway into Faerie. 

For all his planning, he had no real idea about how to locate Chance once he was here. He supposed that he would have to ask around. The Seelie Fae would be his best chance at not getting murdered, eaten, or having his soul trapped. And Seelie Fae liked gifts and etiquette, though he was mentally preparing to avoid giving his name or saying thank you.

Fairchilde picked a direction and began to walk. As he walked, he began to recognize some of the tree varieties. He spotted a good-sized fallen branch next to what looked to be a Rowan tree - which he knew was said to be powerfully magical and good-aligned. Picking up the stick, he decided that it would make a good walking stick. 

When he stopped for a break, Fairchilde meticulously carved his initials into the wood, and as he cut the last letter, it felt as though the stick jumped beneath his hand. He nicked his thumb and bled onto the wood. A shiver went up Fairchilde's spine. The cut stopped bleeding almost immediately, and he drank a sip of water and ate half of a meal bar before moving on. 

Fairchilde found himself before a large mirror-smooth pond. He looked down into it and glanced down casually at his reflection. The water looked cool and welcoming, and he had already been hiking all day. He yearned to clean off the sweat that stuck his shirt to his back. His reflection smiled at him and began to beckon him eagerly, inviting him to take a swim in the pond. Surprised, Fairchilde thrust his walking stick into the water, into his reflection's face. The water rippled, no longer reflective, and revealed strange creatures beneath its surface, with long, broad tentacles and large, hungry eyes, with a circle of teeth below. Fairchilde shuddered and said a silent thank-you to the walking stick, hoping afterward that it did not matter if he thanked a stick, especially if he didn't do it out loud. 

The smaller Fae that Fairchilde could hear tittering in the woods seemed content to keep well away from him. He imagined that they hadn't seen a human traveler in some time. This would be to his advantage once he knew where he was going, but in the meanwhile, he needed directions. So, Fairchilde decided to set out some bait. He dug through his pack and opened a can of condensed milk. He picked a likely spot -- a well-lit clearing next to a running stream, with soft moss on its banks. Setting the can down beside him, he waited.

It was between blinks that the Fae showed themself. They peered out from behind a noble old tree, eyebrows raised in askance. The Fae wore a crown of hawthorn berries and branches. Their skin was rough and bark-like, the same colour as the tree they stepped out from around. "Hello, mortal -- hello, human. Is that...condensed milk?"

Fairchilde nodded. "As it happens. I seek information in exchange for my milk."

The tree nymph -- for Fairchilde felt sure that this was a tree spirit -- came out from behind the tree and took a few steps forward toward Fairchilde. "You'll exchange your milk for information?"

Fairchilde paused, taking care with his words. "I'll exchange my milk for true information that answers three questions of my choosing."

"If you throw in the can of condensed milk, too, then we have a deal," said the tree nymph, eyeing the can hungrily. 

Fairchilde blushed realizing what he had been about to agree to. "I meant the condensed milk, not my... man milk."

The nymph took a step back and frowned. "Oh."

Worried that they would leave, and that the next Fae might ask more of him, Fairchilde thought quickly, his face growing increasingly red, even as his dick awoke to the possibility of getting some action. "Wait -- well -- I can give you some of my milk -- what I currently have ready to give -- and this can of condensed milk...if you agree that no bodily or mental harm will come to me from the act or any other action that you take, and if you will answer three of my questions truthfully."

The nymph placed their hands on their hips. "Okay, I accept. What's your name?"

Aha -- another trap,’ thought Fairchilde. "You can call me Fair."

The nymph smiled, realizing that they had been caught out. "I go by Thorne."

Thorne moved quickly, and was soon possessively gripping the can of condensed milk. They parted the leaves around their crotch, and revealed a proud, stiff branch, clear sap already running from the tip. They sealed the top with some of this sap, which seemed to flow with ease. They then concealed the can somewhere beneath their garment of leaves. They tilted their head, eyeing Fairchilde hungrily.

Fairchilde unbuttoned his pants and pulled his penis out, stroking it to full hardness. He glanced at Thorne. "Uh...how do you want to do this?"

"What fools these mortals be," murmured Thorne playfully, and lifted Fairchilde's hands away from his penis. They adjusted their position so that they could fully engulf Fairchilde's cock, and then that was exactly what they did. Languidly, the nymph worked their throat around it, before sliding their warm, pleasant mouth up and down the shaft. They cupped his balls, tickling them with the leaves and branches that made up their body. Fairchilde's eyes fluttered and he let himself give in to the pleasure. 

Thorne continued to suck, stroke, and tease in that slow, languid fashion until suddenly they increased the intensity of their suction, surprising Fairchilde into a strong orgasm. He cried out and fucked the nymph's face, thrusting as his "milk" ran down their throat. The aftershocks ran through his body for a full minute afterward, and Thorne drew back off his cock, looking pleased.

Fairchilde exhaled, trying to stay focused on the task at hand. He dug out a polaroid from the camping trip and showed it to Thorne. "My first question is, have you seen a mortal in Faerie named Chance who looks something like this?" 

Thorne nodded. "Yes, on this very bank, atop this very moss, I saw that mortal become Robin Goodfellow's servant and be transformed. Unless something changes, he will serve for a year and a day...though of course, time runs a bit funny in Faerie."

Fairchilde leaned forward in excitement before the rest of the information hit home. He had suspected that the actor in the play had something to do with this, but that he was actually *Puck* and that Chance had run afoul of him...well, that was news. Okay. He only just remembered not to say thank you. "Okay -- so far, you're holding up your end of the bargain, Thorne. Next question. Where are Robin Goodfellow and the mortal now?"

Thorne sent Fairchilde on his way with directions to the Seelie Court and warnings of the dangers on the road ahead. Fairchilde steeled himself for the journey, and wondered how the fuck he might get the better of that great hobgoblin and trickster, Robin Goodfellow.   


As Oberon approached the dais, the crowd parted and Robin Goodfellow smiled that wide, unsettling grin. "My Lord Oberon. It is your gentle Puck, come hither to present to you our mortal servant. We chanced upon him at a revel in our honour -- a performance of the Bard's Midsummer play. He later insulted us with careless acts, and so we have bound him to our service for a year and a day, that he might learn greater care for our way. And, of course, your kind and gentle Puck does love to spirit mortals away!" 

"HAHA! And with them, have your way. Isn't it so, dear Puck?"

Oberon's voice reverberated through Chance's body, rich and deep. He was even with Robin and Chance now, and stepped up onto the dais. Oberon gave a wave of acknowledgement to all assembled, turning to face each corner of the courtyard as he did so. Then, he returned his gaze to Chance's body. Chance felt more exposed than ever under those golden eyes. He seemed to decide something. 

Holding a hand out for Chance's leash, he gestured for Robin and Chance to climb up. "Come, Mortal. You will serve us as we hold court, and later, participate in our revels. Puck, do come and sit with me."

Once Chance had climbed up onto the dais, Robin Goodfellow surrendered his leash to Lord Oberon, King of the Faerie Realm and Seelie Court. Oberon wound the leash around his fist and drew Chance in close, pulling him up into his broad lap. Chance was seated right on top of Oberon's thick erection, and squirmed a little at the thought of that dick replacing the plug deep inside his ass. He wondered what "participating in revels" meant, but suspected it meant that Oberon would be penetrating him by the end of it. 

Supplicants passed before Oberon with requests, and between each audience, Oberon took the opportunity to fondle Chance's body with his large, strong hands. By the end of it all, Chance's mind was entirely concentrated on Oberon's touches and both his own hard cock and the one that pressed up against his ass. He moaned without a care for who heard it, enjoying the way that Oberon tweaked his nipples, or caressed his scalp through his hair. When the audiences were over, Oberon turned his attention fully to the mortal man that was limp and entranced in his arms. 

"It didn't take much to make him melt, dear Puck. What a sensual servant you have bound to you."

Oberon's voice rumbled through the fog that had descended on his mind. He barely heard his Master's reply. 

"He has been administered many doses of a potion of my own devising, made up of love-in-idleness and other powerful magics. Even now, he is penetrated by a phallus soaked in this potion. It entrances him, and is training his hole to accept your girth and length, Lord Oberon."

Oberon lifted Chance to his feet, gently stroking his hair and brow. "Excellent. I think that I'll fuck him here, for the entertainment of our courtiers."

With that, Oberon pushed Chance onto all fours. Chance blushed at the implication of those words. Hundreds would watch him take Lord Oberon's cock. Kneeling, Chance felt Oberon run a warm, broad hand over the curves of his back, from the base of his neck to the bottom of his collarbone. He rubbed Chance's ass, too, curiously nudging the plug, which in turn rubbed against his prostate. Chance groaned. 

"All are welcome to enjoy the mortal's ass -- vicariously, through your Lord," intoned Oberon, and grabbed the base of the root plug and drew it out. It felt good as it slid from the sensitive, nerve-lined channel. Though Chance could not see it, he dipped his cock in the potion that Robin offered to him, and then began to ease the tip of his erection into Chance's loosened hole. 

Chance bit his lip in anticipation. He had not had the chance to take the measure of Lord Oberon's cock. Its girth made him feel tight and drawn, but Oberon took his time, working the tip as long as Chance needed before sliding further in. To his utter shock, he felt his stomach distending as Lord Oberon filled him. He'd never felt any sensation quite like it. He inhaled sharply, and Oberon soothed him, stroking his back and ass. "You take it well, mortal. You should feel proud."

And wonder of wonders, Chance did. Then Oberon began to move inside of him in earnest, and Chance began to see stars. He moaned, crying out loudly with each thrust. The crowd was eerily silent despite their number. None wanted to interrupt their Lord's pleasure. Knowing that they could hear him humiliated Chance, but he found that this humiliation set his arousal further aflame. There seemed to be no limit to how fucking horny he could be made, under Puck's influence. 

That was when Oberon lifted Chance and began to bounce him up and down. After a while of that, he turned Chance to face him and held him close to his large, muscular body. Leaning down over the smaller mortal, the Lord of the Seelie Court lifted Chance's chin and stuck his tongue into his mouth. He began to kiss Chance with a mouth that could cover half his face if that was what the Lord had wanted. The kisses were tender, though the tongue was insistent. Oberon fucked Chance until he lost all sense of time. 

Then, Oberon flipped Chance back around onto his knees, pumping into his ass before drawing out just as he came, painting the whole of Chance's back in Fae cum. Taking hold of the tip of his dick, Lord Oberon used it as a stylus to draw wings of cum on Chance's upper back. Then, he began to tongue the boy, licking his own cum from his body with broad, wet strokes. The wings, however, remained. Oberon leaned in close to Chance's ear. "I have marked you with my cum, darling mortal -- a Faerie mark. You will be visible to the Fae and those who have the sight, until you shuffle off the mortal coil and leave this body behind. You will be easy to find for those who know how to look."

Exhausted, Chance heard these words and passed out in Lord Oberon's arms.  


Faeries, Fairchilde found out, were way hornier than the stories gave them credit for. He stopped counting how many times the Fair Folk propositioned him, and the times that he had almost found himself trapped in an unlucky deal. They seemed to treat him as more wily and powerful than he would have thought appropriate, but maybe the mortals who actually managed to travel in the Fae realm tended to be the clever sort these days. The road to the Seelie Court was winding and confusing. He was grateful for the Rowan walking stick, which seemed to know which way to go, and would thrum in his hands when he took the correct path. Fairchilde didn't dare question it -- whatever pact he had made with it, it was sealed with blood magic, as the cut on his thumb could attest to. 

Occupying Fairchilde's thoughts was the knowledge that he still had not thought up a way to challenge or trick Puck, if he met him. He was here to free Chance, though he had to admit that the adventure suited him. It had been exhilarating to deal with the Fae and catch them out when they tried to trick him. Puck, though, he was on a different level. He was one of the Fae best known to mortal kind -- one of the most daring.  

He soon found himself outside the ruins of the castle where the Seelie Fae were said to hold their court. His pack was empty of all the gifts and supplies that he had brought with him, with the exception of one last can of condensed milk, one new penny, and half of a meal replacement bar. It was unearthly quiet, except for... an almost howling sort of sound that Fairchilde at first could not identify. As he drew nearer, he realized that loud moans of pleasure punctuated the silence. 

Sneaking to the edge of the doorway, Fairchilde's eyes immediately fell on his good friend, Chance Lapensée, getting thoroughly fucked in the ass by what he was fairly certain was Lord Oberon, King of Faerie, judging by the lore that he knew. His eyes widened, and he found that he could not turn away from the sight.

By the end of it, Chance was hanging limp in Oberon's arms, two wing-like birthmarks newly adorning his back. The Rowan wood staff vibrated in his hands insistently, breaking Fairchilde's hyperfocus. He felt a sense of urgency -- he could not let Chance leave this place unless it was with him. 

Not wholly sure if he was acting of his own accord, Fairchilde brought the staff down hard on the cobblestones, breaking the silence. Three hundred or so Fae turned to look at him.  


A lone man, mortal to all appearances, stood at the edge of one of the doorways into Lord Oberon's court. He wielded a Rowan staff that seemed to vibrate with life and magic. Where it struck the ground, the noise echoed throughout this most giant of fairy rounds, the ruined courtyard. The Fae looking on began to murmur, before Oberon silenced them all, slashing an arm diagonally through the air. His voice was strong and loud, though he did not scream or shout.  


Robin Goodfellow laughed upon seeing Chance's companion from the first night that they met. His eyes narrowed and his tone was condescending. "Why, that's a mortal, lost among the Fae, waiting to be eaten up like the morsel that he is."  


Fairchilde was practiced now at talking with the Fae, and his tongue seemed to know what to do, even if he didn't. All that lore, and all of the experience of this strange journey through the Fae wilds came to bear. He spoke the words that came to him steadily with unearned confidence. 

"I am known as the child of Fair folk," he began, which was true, if not quite in the way that it came across. 

  "I hold as much claim to that title as any here.  

  When I was a child, I dreamt that I was a changeling,  

  but forgot those dreams as I grew,  

  turning instead to mortal facts and rationality,  

  which no longer account for the Fae.  

  The mortal you hold in your arms, Lord Oberon,  

  is also mine to claim.  

  He ate freely of my food under the Ympe tree,  

  a double bind which Puck bore witness to --  

  Do not deny it, hobgoblin!  

  He is my due, bound to me,  

  and the realm in which I choose to reside.  

  I have first claim to him --  

  not your dear Robin Goodfellow."  

Fairchilde brought the Rowan staff down onto the cobbles again, punctuating the end of that technically true little speech with another resounding thud. He glanced over that Chance, who was still passed out in Oberon's arms -- fucked out. 

Oberon's brows were raised, intrigued, and he turned to Puck. "Merry wanderer of the night, is there any truth to what this traveler says? Speak truly, or your dearest appendage will shrivel and fall off dead."

Robin Goodfellow crossed his arms in consternation. "The mortal speaks true -- but he is but that -- a mortal! He has no power to enforce his claim. Further, why did he not act upon his right and steal away the human that very night?"

Fairchilde realized that he had indeed stolen Chance away, after a fashion. "He rode away from the Ympe tree with me in my carriage. Would you agree that he was indeed stolen away?"

Goodfellow stomped a foot in petulant anger, but was soon doubled over in laughter. "Trickery! Trickery of the best and most foolish sort!" He then straightened his body. "But the fact remains that you're just a mortal."

Fairchilde groaned inwardly. Outwardly, he tried his best to keep his face impassive. "I tell you again that I am known as the Progeny of Fair Folk. They call me Fairchilde, and have since I was a boy."

Shit. He had given them part of his true name. Fuck.

Oberon looked between Puck and Fairchilde, a silent judge. 

Puck had crossed his arms, thinking of a retort. "Well, then, Fairchilde, if that is what they call you, prove that you have the blood. What Fae magics do you control?"

Lord Oberon gave a stately nod. "This seems a fair test. If you have claim to this mortal, and you possess Fae magics, then the mortal should return to your realm in your company and be bound to your service."

The Rowan staff thrummed in hands, and Fairchilde was gripped by a childish urge. He gripped the wood like a spear, and lifted it to throw. Just before he loosed it, he grinned and spoke. "Puck, go fuck yourself."

Puck looked surprised as the shaft careened toward him. He caught it deftly and grinned, but this grin too soon turned to surprise and even fear. The Rowan staff had begun to vibrate wildly in Robin Goodfellow's hands. He had unwittingly accepted Fairchilde's gift. Still gripping it, he lowered his pants one side at a time, and then bent over. He thrust the vibrating shaft toward his hole, and it struck true. With a yell of surprise, Robin Goodfellow fell over as the Rowan staff began to fuck him. 

Ignoring his bedfellow and faithful servant for the moment, Lord Oberon inclined his head to Fairchilde before stepping down from the dais with Chance still in his arms. The crowd parted. "You have proven the legitimacy of your claim with a trick worthy of Puck. I know not how, but I am bound to honour my word. Perhaps you are a changeling child, come home to your past. Perhaps this visit to Faerie will not be your last."

Then, as he walked steadily toward Fairchilde, Lord Oberon rumbled, chuckling deeply. "If ever you release this mortal from your service and have no further need for him, Lord Oberon would be glad to have the use of him. He will remain in this form, though not to mortal sight. It may be that in his new body, you find new ways to delight."

Lord Oberon lay Chance on the ground in front of Fairchilde, then reached behind him to bring out a jar of that wondrous potion that had eased Chance's passage through the Fae realm. "Something to sweeten the pot -- and the boy."  


Fairchilde picked up his friend and bundled him in his rain jacket and a spare pair of shorts. He traded the last can of condensed milk and the last shiny new penny for a shortcut out of the Fae realm. They came out not fifty feet away from where Fairchilde had gone in -- it was a good shortcut, and well worth the milk. 

And so it was that Fairchilde brought Chance clear out of Faerie. 

Well, not completely clear.

First, the pair had to wait until everything had settled down. Everyone reported non-stop on the radio and in newspapers about the miraculous adventure of Chance Lapensée and his devoted best friend, Bo Fairchilde, for about a week before completely forgetting about them. Then, the police investigations were finally put to rest. It was then, with time to breathe, that the two found out that Chance was still insatiable, to put it lightly. But Bo Fairchilde was no mere mortal, as it turned out, and he adventured into Chance's Fae wilds often and repeatedly, to both of their hearts' content.

Please leave me a comment and let me know what you thought! 

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