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Blessing of Herne

M/M Version

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

1st March, 2025

All Rights Reserved.

The night was thick with mist, silvered by the full moon as it hung low over the ancient stones. A hushed stillness permeated the land, save for the rustling of unseen creatures in the hedgerows and the distant call of a night bird.

He stood at the edge of the henge, his breath shallow, his heart pounding like a stag fleeing the hunter's horn. Though he was pagan, though he had honoured the old ways all his life, stepping into the sacred circle filled him with trepidation. It was one thing to worship from afar, to whisper prayers beneath the boughs of ancient oaks. It was another to cross the threshold of a place so old, so powerful, that even time itself seemed to hold its breath within its bounds.

He approached from the east, the direction of the rising sun, where new beginnings were born. There, just outside the towering stones, he paused. Bowing his head, he whispered, “In perfect love and perfect trust," as if answering some unheard challenge.

The air thickened with unseen power, as though the land itself tested his resolve. The moment stretched, an eternity contained within a heartbeat. And then, as though the henge itself had deemed him worthy, the tension eased. A breeze stirred the mist, beckoning him forward.

Alone in the sacred circle, the buck knelt, his fur aglow beneath the celestial light, his breath a rhythmic prayer to the unseen god he had come to honour.

He had travelled far, his heart swollen with longing, his soul alight with the hunger of devotion. Lord Herne—the Horned One, the Keeper of the Wild Hunt—had beckoned to him in dreams, his voice a whisper upon the wind, his presence a shadow beneath the boughs of the ancient forests. He had come not as a mere worshipper, but as one willing to give himself wholly—body and spirit—to the god who ruled over beasts and woodland alike.

The air crackled with unseen power, the mist parting as if by unseen hands. The world around him trembled, and then—

He stepped into the circle.

Antlers crowned his noble brow, wreathed in faerie fire that flickered in hues of blue and green. His eyes, fathomless as the depths of the primeval woods, met his, and his breath hitched. He was power incarnate, the scent of loam and ancient trees clinging to his muscled form. Clothed in little more than the shadows of the night, his presence overwhelmed him, filling his senses with the essence of the untamed.

“You have called to me, little one," his voice rumbled, deep as the roots of the earth. “And I have come."

He could not speak; his lips parted in reverence and want. Herne reached out, a claw-tipped hand tracing the curve of his jaw, tilting his face upward so he could see the full measure of him. His touch ignited something deep within him, something primal, something sacred.

“Kneel no longer," he murmured, his breath warm against his ear. “Tonight, you are not merely my disciple. Tonight, you are mine."

And so, he rose, stepping into his embrace, where divinity and desire entwined in the hallowed ground of the old gods.

Herne's touch was fire and thunder, his hands mapping the curves of his body as if carving devotion into flesh. He moved with the certainty of a god who had taken mortal lovers since time immemorial, each caress imbued with an intimacy beyond mere sensation. A whisper of power passed from his fingers into his skin, igniting every nerve with tingling awareness, his very presence commanding his body to yield, to open, to receive him.

He gasped as unseen forces coiled through him, Herne's magicks twining around them like living vines, tightening, pulsing, drawing them closer in ways beyond the physical. The night thickened, air vibrating with an ancient song, the stars above spinning in slow reverence as he took him in both body and soul.

His magick filled him, wrapping around his essence, carrying him beyond the limits of his mortal understanding. He held him there, on the razor's edge of pleasure, suspended in divine ecstasy that stretched through what felt like eternity. Waves of sensation rolled through him, cresting and crashing, yet never fully breaking, a cycle of bliss orchestrated by the god who shared himself with him in ways beyond flesh alone.

Hours passed, or perhaps none—time lost all meaning beneath his touch. His power ebbed and flowed through him, heightening every sensation, keeping him poised at the pinnacle of rapture. He felt the weight of Herne's strength, not as something to overpower, but as something given freely, something sacred. His hands, his voice, his very essence guided him, unmaking and remaking him in the image of his blessing.

The stars wheeled above, and still, he kept him there, breathless, quivering, filled to his very soul with the power of his presence. He was a vessel for Herne's divinity, his body carrying the echoes of his will, his spirit bound to his in the oldest of rites. Each touch, each movement was an unspoken promise, a sharing, a reverence that passed between them like a whispered prayer.

Then, as dawn painted the horizon in hues of gold and fire, his embrace deepened, his breath shuddering against his fur. The circle hummed with power, the very earth beneath them responding to the crescendo of their union. And as the first light of morning kissed the sacred stones, he gave him his final blessing—his seed, his essence, a gift both primal and divine.

The moment he reached the peak, his climax surged, but before it could fall to the ground, it vanished into the air, claimed by Herne's magicks. His god took the gift as the very air seemed to hum with the ancient power between them. His body trembled with the sheer, uncontainable rapture of being filled with Herne's divine power one last time.

And then, silence.

He lay against him, spent, the rhythmic thrum of Herne's heartbeat steady beneath his ear, the scent of earth and divinity lulling him into sated quietude. The mist curled around them once more, the sacred space holding them within its timeless embrace.

His hands slapped against the cold, ancient stone of a menhir, the sharp edges grounding him as his body trembled with the rising tide of ecstasy. The sensation of stone against skin only deepened his connection to the earth beneath them, to the sacred land that had borne witness to the union of mortal and divine.

Behind him, Herne moved with an elegance that belied the primal hunger in his every touch. His hands grasped his hips gently, yet with a strength that held him in place, his grip a possessive tenderness that sent a thrill of power through him. Herne's breath washed over the nape of his neck, hot and ragged, sending shivers down his spine as his body pressed closer to him, each movement a whispered command, a sacred invocation.

Their lovemaking was no longer merely tender or passionate—it had become something raw, something animalistic, a blending of divinity and mortality in the most intimate, powerful of unions. His body moved against him with the urgency of a god claiming his own, the rhythm of his thrusts bordering on the primal, almost feral, yet filled with reverence and an unspoken promise.

Herne's groan vibrated from deep within his chest, a guttural sound that resonated through him, his powerful body tightening against him. The low rumble of his voice sent ripples of sensation through him as he felt himself slipping closer to the edge, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his mind unable to grasp more than the sensation of his touch, the strength of his presence, the heat of his body pressed against him.

His own breath caught in his throat as the tension between them became unbearable, his body quivering as the world seemed to collapse into a single moment of pure, uncontainable rapture. And then—together—they reached the peak. Herne's deep, guttural groan echoed in the night, the sound rumbling from the depths of his chest, a living testament to the divine power surging between them. His bleat, breathless and filled with pleasure, rang out, a wild and beautiful cry that could only be born from this sacred act, this holy union.

For the briefest of moments, time itself stood still, the air thick with the echoes of their shared climax, their bodies intertwined in a sacred bond that transcended the physical. He had come to honour Herne—to venerate him.

But in the end, it was his god who had claimed HIM.

For what felt like an eternity, Herne and he remained intertwined, the sacred rhythm of their union persisting as Herne held his trembling, panting body close. His strength was tempered by an unspoken gentleness, sensing the fragility of his mortal form, aware that he had brought him to the very edge of his capacity, pushing him beyond the limits of his being. In this, Herne found a deep satisfaction—a god pleased by the devotion and vulnerability of the mortal who had given himself so fully.

Some time later, when the quiet of the night had settled again, Herne gathered his exhausted form in his arms and carried him back to the altar. With a simple gesture, the ancient granite beneath them responded. Soft mosses unfurled from the stone, a carpet of verdant green, while delicate wildflowers bloomed, their petals curling open to the moonlight in a burst of colour. He laid him down upon the moss, his body still slick with sweat, his breath uneven but slowing as his consciousness flickered in and out like a candle in the wind.

Herne's fingers, warm and tender, traced the curves of his form, lingering over the soft fur of his pelt. His body trembled, though not from fear or cold, but from the exquisite aftershocks of what had transpired. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes twitched with the ghost of what had been, nerves still firing and refining, a fragile being overwhelmed by the divine.

Herne smiled, a quiet, knowing expression of satisfaction, and leaned down, pressing his lips lightly against his forehead in a gesture of deep affection.

“Sleep, my son," he whispered, voice thick with power and love. “Sleep and be blessed, for you are forever mine."

And as the moon faded in the sky and the first rays of dawn kissed the stones, the henge stood silent once more, its ancient power bearing witness to the sacred union between mortal and god.

END