#fae x reader

You argued the terms until your voice shook. Once only. No lasting harm. No binding claim beyond what was spoken. He agreed with an indulgent smile that told you he planned to enjoy every inch of the line you’d drawn.

The forest closed around you as the bargain sealed.

He touched you like a conqueror studying terrain, stripping away your defenses. He fed you fruit that made the world tilt and soften, your thoughts slipping like silk from your grasp. His voice stayed in your ear, amused, taunting - not so clever now, little ward-maker.

The forest watched.

When he was finally satisfied, when the deal was fulfilled exactly as spoken, you lay dazed beneath the trees, the weight of him gone but his presence still lingering like heat in the air.

True to his word, he brought you home.

You barely remembered the walk, only his hands steadying you, unashamed. At your door, he paused. His fingers traced your thigh, where evidence of him still clung, unmistakable.

He crowned you with flowers grown out of his hands in an instant.

“Human iron doesn’t stop everything,” he murmured. “If you’re worried about what I’ve left behind…you know where to find me.”

He kissed you once, slow, claiming, then vanished into the trees.

You stood alone at your threshold, the iron horseshoe heavy above your head.

For the first time, you wondered how long it would stay there.

You did not go back into the forest.

Instead, you tied your letter carefully to the leg of a blackbird that often watched from your fencepost. You fed it crumbs first (politeness mattered) and only then whispered your intent.

I will meet you at the forest’s edge. No further. If you wish to speak, you will come to me.

The bird vanished between the trees.

He came at dusk.

You waited where grass gave way to roots, where the rules still favored you. The air cooled when he stepped into view, annoyance sharpening his beauty. He looked displeased that you had learned.

“You summon me like a servant now?” he asked lightly.

You lifted your chin. “I summon you like an equal.”

That earned a smile, thin, dangerous.

You did not waste time. You demanded certainty. You demanded that what he had left behind would not grow, would not bind you to him through blood and bone and obligation.

He listened. Then he laughed.

“I could make you barren,” he said. “For a price.”

You stiffened when he named it: your body, whenever he wished, whenever he came. You threatened him back, voice shaking but steady enough: if he did not remove the risk, you would give any child born of it to another of his kind. Trade flesh for safety, as his people so loved to do.

His anger broke sharp and sudden, like ice cracking.

“I do not need your permission to curse you,” he said softly. “Forest or no forest.”

You held his gaze. You did not flinch.

So you compromised.

The horseshoe would come down. Offerings would be left, regularly and properly. In return, your body would be sealed from consequence unless you chose otherwise. No seed would take root without conscious will.

He considered this longer. Too long.

At last, he nodded. “Agreed.”

That was when the nights changed.

Without iron to bar him, he came freely: to your gate, to your windows, never crossing uninvited. Always bearing gifts: berries out of season, carved bone combs, silk that shimmered like moonlight trapped in thread.

You refused them politely.

He asked to be let inside. You declined just as politely and went out to him instead, carrying bread, cheese, wine. You sat together beneath the stars, always at the edge of invitation.

You learned each other slowly.

He called you little mortal, clever thing, thorn-hearted girl. You never gave him your name. He offered you everything in return for it: years without end, magic curling warm in your hands, a crown grown from living gold.

You said no.

Marriage. Power. A firstborn.

No. No. No.

Still, he came. Still, he lingered.

Fondness crept in despite his intent. He learned the way you laughed quietly into your sleeve. The exact distance you kept between you. The way you never forgot your manners.

Then, one night, you made a mistake.

You brought berries out with your bread. You did not see his fingers brush the bowl as he spoke. You did not notice the fruit glowing just a shade too warmly.

You ate.

The world softened. Colors bled. His voice slid closer, gentler, pleased.

“So careful,” he murmured. “And still human.”

You knew better even then, but knowing and resisting were no longer the same thing. His nearness felt inevitable. His touch felt earned. He did not need to force anything; your body leaned toward him on its own.

He took his pleasure slowly, as if savoring victory rather than conquest. And though the bargain held, though no life sparked from it, his satisfaction ran deeper than consequence.

When dawn came, he was gone.

You woke alone, the taste of sweetness still lingering, the forest watching with patient amusement.

That night, he returned with flowers.

And the night after that.

And though you never gave him your name, the forest learned the sound of your breathing, and he learned exactly how long it took before you stopped pretending you were not waiting.

But time did what neither bargains nor forests could stop.

Years gathered around you. Your hands grew surer, your back ached on damp mornings, and the village women began to look at you with that particular softness reserved for those whose seasons were closing.

He noticed before you spoke of it.

Fae always did.

He watched more closely then, less teasing, less hunger in his smiles, more careful attention paid to the way you tired. He still came at night. Still brought gifts. Still never crossed your threshold without leave. But something patient and watchful settled into him, like a hunter realizing winter was near.

It was you who named it aloud.

“You have wanted a child,” you said one evening, seated beside him beneath the eaves, wrapped in a shawl you had woven. “I shall give you one.”

The forest seemed to inhale.

He went utterly still.

For the first time since you had known him, his composure broke completely. Joy lit him from the inside out, bright and reckless, ancient and boyish all at once. He dropped to one knee in the grass, not in supplication, but in disbelief, hands braced as if the earth itself might give way.

“You are certain?” he asked. “Speak carefully.”

“I am certain,” you said. “One child. No more. And only because I choose it.”

He laughed then, unrestrained, radiant, and kissed your hands as though they were sacred things. He promised protection, gentleness, patience. You half-expected him to bend the rules, to make his seed take root at once now that permission had been granted.

You would not have been surprised.

But the magic obeyed you.

Weeks passed. Nothing changed. He tried not to look disappointed, but you saw it, the way his eyes lingered, the way his fingers hovered at your waist as if listening for something not yet there.

Then, a month later, you woke with a strange certainty humming beneath your skin.

The forest knew before you told him.

He appeared before your door at dawn, breathless, eyes alight. When you nodded, he laughed and pressed his forehead to yours, shaking with something that looked very much like relief.

From that moment on, he became vigilant.

Wards bloomed around your cottage under his hands: unseen barriers woven of root and moonlight and old names whispered into the soil. He sealed the windows against wandering spirits. He bent paths away from your home so nothing unfriendly might stumble upon it by chance.

Iron no longer hung above your door but you were safer than you had ever been.

He walked you through the forest now, openly, proudly, one hand always at your back. He chased away lesser fae with a glance. He argued with the old ones on your behalf. He brought you food chosen carefully, nothing that would harm you, nothing that would steal your will.

“Our child will be fierce,” he murmured once. “And stubborn. Like its mother.”

You smiled. “Like the father too.”

He laughed softly and kissed your temple.

The birth did not happen in your cottage.

That, he insisted upon.

You labored beneath an ancient oak, the air thick with old magic and softer hands than you had ever expected. He never left your side, not once, steadying you, murmuring encouragements in a tongue as old as pain itself. When the child finally came, the forest held its breath.

He was unmistakably fae.

Too still at first. Too bright. His eyes opened already knowing, pupils catching light that did not exist. Leaves curled inward toward him. The ground warmed beneath his small body as if recognizing its own.

You loved him instantly. That was the cruelty of it.

You held him for hours, memorizing the weight, the shape of his mouth, the faint hum beneath his skin. The father watched in silence, happy and devastated in equal measure, because he knew what had to be done as surely as you did.

A fae child raised among humans would starve. Not of food but of magic, of language, of the instincts that kept such beings alive. He would wither, grow wrong, draw dangers he could not survive.

You did not argue.

At dawn, you placed your son into his father’s arms.

You did not look away. You did not beg. You only pressed a kiss to his brow and whispered a blessing of your own making: human, stubborn, unbinding. Remember me.

The forest carried them away.

Your cottage felt unbearably quiet after that.

But you were not abandoned.

They visited often. The father came with gifts you could accept now: blankets woven with protective sigils, salves for aching joints, food that would not bind or weaken you. He stayed at the threshold unless invited further.

And your son, your beautiful, impossible child, returned as often as he could.

At first, he was carried. Then he walked. Then he ran.

He grew quickly, but not too quickly, his form always balanced between worlds. He laughed like wind through chimes. He asked questions that made your head ache and your heart swell. He brought you shiny stones, feathers, flowers that never wilted once placed in your hands.

He called you mother without hesitation.

You taught him human things: patience, kindness, the weight of promises, mortal courtesy.

His father taught him the rest.

The villagers whispered, of course. Of the strange child who came and went. Of the man too beautiful to be trusted who lingered near your home. But no harm ever came to you. The wards held. The forest bent away from ill intent.

On quiet evenings, the three of you sat beneath the eaves, watching stars rise one by one.

You never lived together. You never married. You never surrendered your name.

But you were not alone.

And one day your son grew tall enough to look down at you with ageless eyes softened by love, took your hands and said, very solemnly: “I know where I belong.”

You open your window and put the pie on the sill to cool off.

You need to wipe this window; it has a thin layer of dust on it, and Ambrose has an eye for those details. You hurriedly grab your dust-cloth and clean it immediately. While you scrub it clean, you catch a movement from your window overlooking the side of your garden, giving on the sidewalk.

Sidewalk where Marilyn, one of your neighbors, is strutting in her new dress, heavily pregnant with her third.

You gulp, your stomach clenching at that view.

She sees you under her hat and sends you a kiss, pushing her stroller with her daughter sitting in, her son trotting next to her. You wave your hand at her with an awkward smile.

Marylin smiles at you, gesturing to her tummy to show off her 6th month. Your eye twitches, but you keep on smiling as she keeps going.

Your stomach turns acidic…

Because you are still childless.

And people love to talk in this neighborhood!

It does not matter that you married successfully if you're not able to keep that marriage alive and satisfy all the desires and wants of your man!

And Ambrose wants children!

But you keep failing him.

You sigh as Marylin is now out of sight. Last time you spoke over tea, she and Désirée insinuated Ambrose was very popular among the young women.

Fertile young women.

The threat was barely veiled but sugarcoated with a concerned smile.

"You are young too, darling. Just less than a year ago…" Désirée said.

What a…!

She also loves to say you smell like nothing, because you only clean yourself and don't put on perfume. But what can you do about it? Ambrose hates when you put on perfume; he loves to be able to smell your human musk at all times of the day…

You throw your duster on the counter of your kitchen, infuriated.

You look around your new house, and sigh…

No use pestering about her…

You look at the clock and…! This late already?!

You run upstairs in your mules, kicking them off hurriedly to get rid of your day dress to put on a clean, ironed one, with the cute Vichy motif. You rush to your vanity to comb your hair in place, putting on your earrings, a pearl necklace, a dash of lipstick, and putting on some heels.

You check yourself in your mirror and sprint downstairs, hurry into the salon to grab a glass and Ambrose's favorite whisky, pouring him a generous draft on an ice globe that you leave on the coffee table, and rush to grab the newspaper that you put next to the glass.

You did not iron it… Arf, too late, you don't have time anymore.

You grab a hanger and a dust roll and go outside, waiting for your man.

You stand here, impatient to greet your husband home after a hard day of work, you fidget your fingers around the handle of the roll, biting your lower lip.

But 45 minutes after his usual time of arrival… No sign of your fae…

You come back inside from time to time, remaining on the ground floor to catch him, drinking his glass of whisky in worry, but remaining outside like the guard of the house most of the time. You return outside once more with a sigh when you hear a reviled voice from behind you as you close the door.

"Oh (Y/n)! How are you, sweetheart?"

You refrain from shivering in raw anger.

You turn with the most perfectly plastic smile.

"Désirée! What a blessing, how are you, darling?"

Désirée and her stupid family, her big dog, and white-picked fence! She's always the talk of the town with her new diamond earrings that shine. She humiliated you last time she held court in her salon, and you came with a last season dress.

"I love how you're not afraid to wear anything." She said, kissing your cheek as a greeting, her friends cackling behind her.

It was your first neighbor gathering since you came to the big city, and that was your first impression on your future female circle… Humiliating.

You already did not like how she looked at your homemade, fresh butter, apricot Brioche you baked the first day to meet her and the rest of the ladies.

Too much sugar, according to her.

Well, Ambrose loves sugar, and he loves your apricot brioche!

"I am wonderful, dear, wonderful. I could not help but notice how you keep coming in and out with a sad puppy expression. Where is your man, honey?"

That you would like to know too!

"Oh, you know… Surely making more hours, he loves his job so much…"

"Of course, darling." She smiles with a honeyed voice behind her sunglasses.

What's the use of sunglasses when the sun is coming down?

Showing off, evidently. It's a new pair, designed by a European studio that breaks hearts all over the state and even up to Washington, you've heard!

"I could not help but notice that a new school of typists opened near your husband's company; maybe he stopped to greet the new gals there?" She takes a false, innocently questioning tone that makes your blood boil.

"Doubtful."

"Oh, honey, not to say you aren't young yourself, of course. But you know how quickly the fertile window of women passes; it is only natural for a man to evaluate his options." She laughs with false cheer, "But he would surely never dare…"

"No, he would not."

"I love how you never doubt yourself. We need more lass like you in the neighborhood." She chuckles.

Holy… If you don't change the subject right now, you will punch her teeth in.

"Tell me, Désirée, is that a new lipstick?"

"My, my, yes! It's the new Chanel shade. Insolent, isn't it?" She smiles.

She looks like a clown with that.

"Insolent, yes, it's the exact term." You nod, your perfect smile still on.

"And you, (Y/n), another vintage dress? You truly have your very own sense of fashion!"

Okay, bad conversational subject. Quick, a new one!

"Well, I-"

You are stopped when a loud horn resonates in the entire street, making you both jump out of your skin, turning toward the car going up the street. Désirée descends her glasses on her nose to get a better look.

"Is that… An Aston Martin?" She asks

"Looks like so…"

Who's the lucky woman who married the mysterious driver? If only you could catch a glimpse of the man behind the wheel!

And what is your surprise when the brand new, shiny car pulls in right behind your house!

Ambrose gets out with a self-satisfied expression on his regal features.

"Hello, Ladies. Is it girly talk hour?" He asks, going up the small stairs, joining you on the porch in his elegant black suit.

You sigh with relief to see your man here at last.

With a brand new car… You prefer that explanation to the typist school one.

"Oh, Mister Allaman…" Desirée's face crumples a bit, "I was about to go."

"Nonsense, Madam…?" He demands, reaching you, his wing barely visible on his back.

But his fae 'shimmer' is quite unmistakable.

"Blackwood."

"Madam Blackwood." He nods, "You welcomed my dear little wife the other day; she can welcome you in our house. I'll remain silent in my armchair and let you gossip all you want."

"No…. No, really, I was about to go." She insists, taking a little step back as Ambrose towers over her despite her heels.

You noticed that Désirée is always uncomfortable around Ambrose and always excuses herself quickly.

"I did not catch your first name, Madame Blackwood."

"Why would you want to know that?" she asks with a white voice, but with a smile.

"You are my beloved's friend and we are neighbors; it is only natural I know your first name." He declares, circling your shoulders tenderly.

The corner of her lips twitches once.

"I am Cordelia." She says

"Cordelia… You do not look like a Cordelia." He muses, tilting his head at her.

He smiles, but his golden eyes are icy cold.

She gulps, like frozen.

So she is terrified of letting a fae know her name.

Well… Oops!

"I'm joking with you, Désirée. Of course, my (Y/n) told me your name!" He chuckles with a dark grin.

She lets out a single strangled laugh, smiling at your man but looking daggers at you. You just smile back.

"Goodbye, Désirée. You were about to leave, I think?" He says, grabbing the handle of the door, giving her a side glance.

"Yes! Indeed! Goodbye (Yn)! I hope to see you this weekend!" And she runs off in her heels and Chanel lipstick.

You enter with Ambrose in your home at last, with a deep breath.

"Jeez."

"So that is the infamous Désirée." Ambrose simply says, unbuttoning his black jacket, which he hands you.

"Yes…" You put it on the hanger and pass the dust roll on it rapidly before putting it in the closet, grabbing Ambrose's mule. "I prepared you a whisky, but it must be warm by now and-" You go to prepare a new drink, but Ambrose grabs your wrist to force you to stay and face him.

You frown, wondering what he wants, and for sole response, he raises an eyebrow at you…

Ah!

"Welcome home, darling." You greet, rising on your tiptoe to kiss his cheek as he leans down for you.

At the last second, he turns his head, and your lips crash upon each other as he grabs a fistful of your hair to kiss you deep and raw.

He parts from you, leaving you panting and eyes feverish.

"That's a better greeting, don't you think, my (Y/n)?"

"Y-yes, darling…" You gasp, heart sprinting.

"Now fetch me a new glass." He orders, loosening his tie and heading to the salon.

You rush to grab the unfinished whisky and replace it with a fresh one and a new ice globe.

"Here, darling."

"Thank you, my (Y/n)." He grabs the glass, already lost in the gazetted article with a deep weary sigh.

You return to the windowsill to grab your pie and put it on your counter. You open the fridge to grab your bowl of whipped cream to top it off and bring him a generous slice. This angle allows you to admire the large back of your fae, where his butterfly wings slowly reappear as the charm to hide them is wearing off.

What beautiful wings… Shimmery and energetic, they caught all your attention the day that you met. Them and his shining golden eyes…

You jump, hearing him clearing his throat, and you realize he has his hand raised in silence toward you, palm open like he was waiting for something.

Oh!

Oh…

You gulp, heading toward the secondary bathroom on the ground floor near the staircase, and grab something. You approach gingerly, holding on to that little thing like it was a buoy in the ocean

But truly, this is the thing that will get you drowned.

Ambrose's fingers snap, getting impatient, and you give him the pregnancy test.

You like to think that it is a very new technology, that all those tests are only prototypes and they could be wrong, but the thing is… Ambrose's firm is factoring those, and he is managing this test project very closely.

And he has absolute trust in those.

He ogle you for a second before lowering his eyes to the test.

Negative.

Again.

He lets out a low growl, pulling on his tie in displeasure.

"I'm sorry, honey. I-" But he stops you with a hand gesture.

He sighs, closes the gazette, puts it on the coffee table, and taps his fingers on his thigh.

Uh oh…

You gulp and lower yourself, allowing him to bend you over his lap and let him do whatever he wishes to you. He grabs the hem of your dress and pushes it out of his way, unclipping your stocking to hook your briefs and lower them down your legs.

You gulp, feeling the cold air hitting your exposed pussy as he traces his way up your leg with the tip of his fingers, sending shivers down your spine. He then takes a handful of your butt cheek that he kneads well and good before slapping it.

The bite on your flesh is sharp, but it is louder than painful.

"Don't you have anything to say, my (Y/n)?" He demands before slapping again, making you jump on his lap.

"I present you my excuses, darling…" You breathe out, anticipating the next one.

He kneads your cheek once more.

"Do you?"

"I-" Another slap, "Y-yes…"

"You know what I want, of course?"

"…Children."

Another one, making you yelp.

"How many?"

"…5"

"And will you obey?"

Another one, sending shockwaves in your cunt, before he caresses it.

"Y-Yes, darling…"

This time, he slaps your exposed pussy, making your clit shake.

"Because ?" He demands haughtily.

"Be-Because I am your… good little wife?" You try.

"Mmmmmmhmmmmm…" He contemplates your response.

And he slaps your cunt once more, tensing up your thigh muscles.

"Good, my lovely." He says, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, caressing your hair behind your ear while you pant, "I know you will obey. You are so good to me, my sweetheart. I do it for you, you know?"

"Y… Yes…"

"Wonderful, my dove." You shiver, feeling two of his fingers trailing your slit up and down, flicking your clit from time to time, "Now let me have my fun, okay?"

"Okay…" You pant, feeling him touching you so intimately.

He spreads your pussylips open, circling your pearl with a third finger, brushing and crossing it, sending raw pleasure straight to your core. You dig your nails into his thigh through the fabric of his pants while he toys with you so easily, humming a joyful tune.

Your thigh muscles spasm uncontrollably as he caresses your clit, tearing mewls out of you with ease.

"Aaaaah…. I love this little pearl of yours, don't you, my lovely?" He asks, torturing you, "It is so easy to make you chant with it." He kisses your cheek again with a light purr.

"I…I…!" You try to respond while he flicks your tender little bud with his agile fingers.

"I was not too harsh, my dove? Are you hurt?"

"No…" You admit as he presses the pad of his finger to your gaping entrance.

"I know you could take it like a big girl." He praises, chuckling, "You are the best, lovely."

Your entire body trembles as he pushes his long finger inside of you slowly, pushing past the tight ring of flesh.

"So tight as always, dear. Give me a minute, and you will be dripping." Ambrose promises you with the dark, low voice of a fae who saw the dawn of times.

And he starts fingering you nasty style. He caresses all the surfaces of your inner temple, curls his finger to harass your gummy spot, thrusting it in and out easily.

You gasp and moan out loud, feeling your stomach clenching at each of your husband's touches. You open your mouth in a silent cry as he pushes a second finger inside your sensitive cunt, getting wetter and wetter by each passing second.

Your toes curl in your tight shoes as he pumps his fingers in and out with more and more obscene wet sounds. Slowly, your entire body was getting wet with sweat; you could feel droplets traveling your skin between goosebumps, before soiling your former clean Vichy dress.

"You are leaking, lovely. You should see your cunt right now, all puffy and wet. It is a sight to see." He praises darkly.

"My… My stockings!" You protest, horrified by what your slick would do to the delicate fabric of your stockings.

"I will buy you more." He shuts you down.

"They are worth a fortune…!" You gasp between cries.

"Not for me. Now focus, stop spoiling my fun for silly things."

He spreads his fingers, stretching you wide open before scissoring you nice and well. He works you up with deadly precision, heightening the tension as you feel your slick rolling down your inner thigh, definitely ruining your stockings. Pressed down on his lap, you can feel his erection rising against your side, a silent reminder that you're not out of it yet!

The wet sounds are now utterly indecent, which you know he loves; he adores how wet you can get and how embarrassed it makes you feel. As a Fae, he has none of your scruples about sex and takes advantage of a lot of situations to get into your skirts and plow you down silly.

He hooks his knuckles inside to scratch your gummy spot, shocking your core until it is gaping around his fingers, dripping profusely.

He leans forward again to kiss your cheek once more.

"On all four, pretty girl." He growls in the curve of your ear, slapping your ass again.

You gulp, sliding from his lap to the ground, crawling away from the sofa and coffee table, where you have a little more space, feeling your essence dripping on the expensive carpet. You hear Ambrose's step following you, the metallic sound of his belt unbuckling, a low predatory growl emanating from his thick throat.

"Stop." He orders icily.

You obey in a breath, feeling him, kneeling behind you, his cold hands on your hips to stabilize you. He presses his length against your wet pussy, making you tremble at what is to come. He grinds his hips against your pussylips to coat his shaft with your slick before you feel his fat tip against your gaping entrance.

"Ready?" He demands.

"… Yes." You gulp, nodding.

And he enters, invading your most private place with his girthy cock, stretching you out so much, you can feel your walls part as he pushes further, corrupting your flesh so easily.

"Oh… Oh God…!"

He tsk and pinches your hip, earning a choked yelp from you.

"God is not fucking you tonight." Ambrose sniggers, "You are not God's lamb anymore, remember?" He mocks, pushing deeper and deeper, "You are mine and mine only. Do you understand?"

You gasp, trying to breathe as he keeps invading your most private place with his shaft. You can feel it leaking pre-cum inside of you, and that is nothing surprising.

His pre-cum is aphrodisiac after all… It came in handy to him more than once…

His hips finally hit yours, sitting fully inside your core, weighing heavily on your belly. He is so massive, all the air is punched out of your lungs, and you are left to pant like an animal. He lets a short moment pass to allow you to get used to his size.

He slaps your ass once more.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes…!" You jump at the impact.

Again, louder than painful, but he trained you well.

He slips out, leaving only the tip inside… And slams it back inside.

He slips out, rams it back in again.

And again

And again

And again

And again!

He fucks you raw and hard, his powerful hands on your hips, keeping you prisoner of his grip, his nails piercing your thin skin as he thrusts deep and true.

He stuffs you full and splits you open.

He pounds you roughly and without any mercy.

"I own you, little dove." He declares, barely affected, "I own that body, I own that mind, I own that soul." And he slaps your ass again, making you groan.

You gasp and moan out loud, your cheek rubbing against the carpet as he plows you down like he does so well. You can feel each vein of his thick member grazing your sweet spots as he pumps his length in and out.

Claiming ownership of your person like a King.

"I own that pussy." Ambrose growls, "I own it to toy and to breed as it pleases me. Is that clear?"

"Y… Yes…" You pant, drooling on your cheek and rug.

"You belong to me down to the thinnest of hair. You can pray to your God all you want each Sunday, but he cannot save you from me." He promises, rolling his hips into yours.

You can feel your inner muscles gorge themself with blood like fluffy pillows to welcome his cock inside of you. Your body heat skyrockets, and your dress is now ruined with sweat.

He installs a fast and merciless pace, leaving you no time to breathe or recover. You can't do anything but take it like a doll, and he knows he overpowers you completely, much to his taste.

"This pussy's mine. I will breed it as I see fit. I'll get you pregnant and fuck another one into you immediately after the delivery." He muses almost to himself, "I want to admire you full and round with my babies, I want you heavy and plump in the kitchen taking care of my lineage like you know so well."

You dig your nails into the carpet, your brain too fucked out to fully register everything he's saying to you, it can barely still register the pleasure you feel as it overwhelms you so much.

"It is intolerable that you have not yet given me a child! But I have my part of the responsibility here, I intend to fuck you so hard you black out, and I'll give you load after load until you look the part."

"Ah…! Honey…!" You whimper in your delusion, unable to slow your husband.

"Does that idea please you, lovely? You want me to fill that cute pussy full? You want me to stuff it till it bursts?"

"Ah…! Uuuuuuuhm…!" You can only moan in response.

"Ah, I see my pre-cum took effect. You were always so sensitive to it! Goes to prove we belong together, my (Y/n). We are meant for each other. I knew it to be true the second I laid eyes on you. My tender little dove."

Ambrose undulates his hips with precision, knowing perfectly what you need for you to scream his name to the dying sun.

"Tsssssssss! This dress hinders me."

He grabs your shoulders to force you up on your knees and seizes the opening of your dress to burst it open, sending all the buttons flying all over the ground, ruining it for good, and throwing it to the side.

"My… My Dress!" You protest in a flash of lucidity in this orgy.

"I will take you shopping tomorrow, forget that old rag. I saw a splendid Fendi dress in town today. I cannot wait to see it on you!"

He seizes your jaw and forces your head to turn to capture your lips, stealing your breath in a demanding kiss, you swear he reaps your vital energy for himself sometimes with how weak he makes you feel…

He grabs your bra and forces it down to take a handful of your breasts, kneading and massaging them like a stress toy. You hold on to his hand and entangle the other in his long hair as he snaps his hips into you.

He licks your lips to demand access to your mouth. You oblige and do not even have the time to part your lips barely, his tongue rushes into your mouth to meet and dance with yours. You let him take the lead, as you know it is useless to try to fight him on this terrain, and he takes command of your breath, controlling the air coming in and out of your lungs, making you lightheaded, your legs shaking on the coarse carpet while your essence rolls down your thighs.

He hits hard and true, fucking you meanly, you can feel him hitting your cervix deeply within yourself. You never knew how deep your cunt could be until he entered you for the first time, giving you what your former lover never could.

"You are mine to ruin." He groans in the kiss," No other men would ever want you after I am done with you, I will defile you out of all dignity and grace." He threatens with his favorite promise.

He licks from your jaw to your temple with a deranged growl, sending shudders down your core. He releases your jaw to return to your clit, which he starts harassing relentlessly, making it puff up and swell up under his expert care.

Only your husband can make you cum like he does. After your first night together, you knew he perveted you to disrepair. He had you in his palm, and you could not complain about a single thing, especially his prowess in bed.

"That Désirée looks like a frustrated woman. Why else would she be so jumpy and rough around the edges? Aren't you glad to have a diligent husband to take care of you, dove?"

"Y… Yes…" You mumble between whines.

You feel your clit palpitating under the finger pads of your husband as he whips it relentlessly. You feel the heat rising and rising in your veins, sweat rolling down your thin skin, exposed to all his assaults. He bares his teeth and bites down on your shoulder, earning an ungodly moan from you.

"What a good girl! So sweet and agreeable, I am the luckiest man to have married you, my dove." He praises, rocking his hips into yours, skin hitting skin in a deafening lewd litany. "You're mine to fuck as I please, all day, every day."

You cannot help but your pussy contracting at his words, so improper and mean, strangling his length tight.

"I see you love what you hear, beautiful. Do not worry, you have all my attention. I am not stopping until you scream my name, lovely." And he slaps your clit, making you yelp. "Fuck, you're so tight! You will be my death!"

He squeezes and makes your clit roll so naturally, sending you over he edge with destabilizing ease. He knows how to play with your nerves to have you screaming with only the moon as a witness.

Something snaps inside of you, like it clicked into place, and you let out a scream so animalistic you have pain recognizing yourself in it. Your pussy clenches powerfully, squirting all over his shaft, trying to imprison his cock deep inside of you. His thrusts slow down until he buries himself one last time to the hilt, squirting his virile seed deep inside your cunt, while you milk him for all his worth.

Your eyes roll inward, and your toes curl while your body arches impressively if you tried to break free of his embrace, but he holds you down solidly, keeping you prisoner of his grip.

Like you could ever be free from that man…

Like you even want to…

Ambrose finishes with a long growl that will haunt your darkest fantasies for the rest of your days, licking your neck up and down like a wolf grooming its fellow.

The sky is now pitch black, safe for the moon shining its silver rays into your salon, illuminating the room like a dirty secret.

But Ambrose wings also shine bright, and anyone who passes in front of your house would have a front row seat to a show of debauchery.

But honestly? You're too fucked to care.

Your brain is fried with pleasure, and as his grip releases, you fall forward onto the ground, cheek on the carpet, hips in the air with his shaft still deeply buried inside of you.

You pant, exhausted but satisfied.

Ambrose grips your arms and locks them in his fist behind your back, grips your hip with his free hand, slips out, and slips in back, installing a more peaceful pace.

"Oh-ooooooooh… Ho… Honey…" you protest sluggishly.

"I am not done with you, beautiful." He simply informs you, "I told you I would give you load after load."

"Bu… But… I'm so sore…"

He tuts you.

"Now, now. A good wife obeys with a smile on her face, you know it, don't you?"

"… But…"

"If you keep talking back, I will put those lips full of nerves to good use." He casually signals, "Take it like the good girl I know you are, you want to please me, don't you?"

"Y-yes…" You gasp, out of breath.

"Then let me take command. I will take good care of you, my sweet."

You start drooling as his cock brushes your G-spot restlessly, his back and forth motion teasing your nerve endings that barely had time to recover from your previous orgasm.

"You are so lucky to have a valiant husband who can take care of you like that. I hope you know it? We should ask Désirée if her weak man can make her scream several times at night. Maybe you will realize your luck then."

He tilts both your hips and gets meaner in his thrust again.

"You are so beautiful like that, dove. Quivering and fucked beyond repair, blissful expression and ass in the air, that is your true place, my lovely: thighs wide open for me, and taking it like a good girl." He groans, "And you did not scream my name like I ordered you, yet."

So you shut up and do as you're told.

You take it like a good girl.

___________________

You blink, disoriented.

You are not in bed, but in your living room.

Tired, you look around and realize Ambrose's clothes are scatered around the floor with the remnants of your dress, completely destroyed. You lower your gaze to find you wrapped in a plaid, an arm circling your stomach. You whine when you see the suspicious white stains on your carpet and wood floor.

You'll need to clean that…

And that's when you smell the sugary notes of strawberry and mint right next to your head.

You raise your eyes and find Ambrose smoking his pipe with that fairy tobacco that makes you high. He looks down at you with a smile and blows his smoke into your face, making you cough a bit.

"You want some?" He proposes, handing you the wooden pipe.

You take it and inhale a bit of smoke deep into your lungs, starting to see stars in your living room. You exhale, satisfied, and snuggle into your husband's hug as he kisses the top of your head.

"Look, honey." He whispers, "In the garden…"

You spin your head and discover small blue flames in your garden, levitating above the ground, burning gently. Your eyes open wide.

You jump to your feet and rush outside.

These are so pretty, but they back down as you approach them, naked on your patio, barely wrapped in the plaid. You kneel to look at them more closely, trying to touch them, but they evade easily.

"You won't be able to catch one like that." Ambrose chuckles, following you outside.

"Are those…?"

"Will-o'-the-wisp fairies." He confirms, naked as the day of his birth.

"They are so beautiful!"

"They are good omens." He kneels next to you, circling your trembling shoulders in the night's cold.

"Does that mean… I am going to be pregnant this time?" You ask, full of hope.

"Maybe…" He extends his hand to the ground, and one will-o'-the-wisp jumps into his open palm, "At least we have their blessings." He notes, satisfied.

You sit down, knees pressed to your chest in your thin plaid, looking up at the moon. Ambrose is way less troubled by his nakedness in the open. You lay your head on his shoulder, as he presses his cheek against the crown of your hair.

You can feel his wings quivering at that contact…

"I love you, Ambrose…" You muse, hypnotised by the scenery

"I love you more, little dove." He promises.

______________