Someone’s been writing fanfiction about you and shipping you with your adoptive siblings.
Warnings: Future Yandere themes, CRACK, pseudo-incest mentioned, GN!Reader, Reader doesn’t see themselves as apart of the family.
Platonic Route
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve - Part Thirteen - Part Fourteen - Part Fifteen - Part Sixteen - Part Seventeen - Part Eighteen - Part Nineteen - Part Twenty
Being the normal one of your family was boring.
Not just because you were constantly ignored either. But, because there was hardly any excitement in your life. Besides school and what few hobbies you had that didn’t burn you out.
Most of your time was spent doom scrolling or imagining life outside of the manor. You’d long since given up on trying to get your family’s attention. Trying a few ridiculous and embarrassing things over the years. None that you’d care to mention, but things that certainly haunted your ass at night.
It was unfortunate that despite your normalcy you were a bit… impulsive.
It wasn’t really something you’d grown out of either. But, you had learned enough times how to not publicly embarrass yourself anymore. Or, at least learned to embrace it.
Which is why when you discovered that Tim had the audacity to tear into your imported tea that you’d been looking forward to, you decided to be petty.
Yes, you were rich and Bruce literally threw money at you like magic powder to make you disappear . But, you’d at least been on the internet long enough to have it berated into the value of things.
Plus, Tim was a bitch. And, Damian wasn’t much better.
Little shit got another pet that had been hogging up your space. You had your ONE space in the garden and that little motherfucker needed a new spot for Jerry the turkey’s new turkey wife, Susan. Fuck those turkeys. And, fuck Damian.
Now, it wasn’t like you could physically retaliate against the two of them. Damian had assassin training and Tim could find blackmail on anyone. Even if your shame and dignity were practically nonexistent at this point, you still wanted to live and not have your friends be disappeared.
So, your impulsive little twisted mind got the bright idea to write fanfiction. About them. Shipping their vigilante identities.
Was it wrong? Yes. Was it also hilarious and spiteful? Also, yes.
Look, RIP your digital footprint. But, you knew Tim would either get bored and track it one day or something. And, you were gonna leave him a nice little dingleberry on that internet footpath for him to discover. And, knowing him, he would read it just to make sure you blow the family’s cover.
After hitting fifteen thousand flowery slowish burn, enemies to lovers, words written out of spite all while cackling and pounding way too many energy drinks, you decided to post your masterpiece. (No smut though. You had some morals.)
Only for your world to topple due to your curiosity.
You knew people wrote this stuff about Gotham’s favorite and famous angsty eldritch abominations. Sometimes shipping them with famous people, the rouges, each other, even people’s civilian selfs.
But, why, on this blessed earth did the top liked fanfics in this wretched universe you lived in involve you?!
And, you’re didn’t mean like OCs that reminded you of yourself. They were tagging your full government name shipping you with nearly EVERYONE you fucking knew who wore tight Kevlar suits, kicked ass, and ignored your existence.
There was full on smut of your ass getting devoured by your adoptive siblings. You read it. It was horrifyingly well done.
You may have collapsed on the floor in a screaming heap of emotions. Screaming into the rug. But, not too loudly. You did not want Alfred coming to check on you. You would have no explanation to give him.
After, maybe ten minutes of screaming and another thirty to dissociate, you finally pulled yourself back up to look at the computer. The evidence.
With the face of war veteran all you could ask was, “Who wrote this?”
A/N: This is just a crack idea I had while I’m combating my writers block. Apologies for the delay in everything, my kids are also exhausting me this summer.
A/N: Will I continue this? Probably, but I got too many WIPs at the moment. It’ll be when motivation strikes of after I finish my other things!
this is a PSA that you CANNOT get reported for fraud on Tumblr!!
@/chesue00 (a moot) recently got hacked n another one of my old moots got hacked (but I got blocked after the scammer realized I wasn't falling for it) so I figured I'd make this post just as a warning for everyone else
This is what the process will look like ↓
FIRST, THEY WILL COMMENT SOMETHING LIKE THIS
THIS IS THE IMAGE THEY WILL DM YOU (except with your username)
Things wrong with this screenshot:
You cannot get reported for fraud on Tumblr. Spam? yes. Fraud? No.
That is the Twitter UI. Tumblr's logo goes on the bottom left of their emails
You don't get an email when you report someone on Tumblr
why would you be dming someone on DISCORD to get a TUMBLR account unlocked
THEY WILL SEND YOU THIS MESSAGE, OR SOMETHING ALONG THE LINES OF IT
THINGS WRONG WITH THIS:
Tumblr usernames are unique to the person. There are no shared usernames/handles
You usually get flagged for explicit (visual) content as a blog and not whatever the scam is trying to lie to you about
Tumblr's team is not gonna be texting you on Discord
DO NOT FALL FOR THIS SCAM!! They will come from actual Tumblr accounts since they've been going around recently and successfully hacked a lot of people and are now hacking from them. Stay safe and keep your Tumblr blog in your hands 🙂↕️
and for anyone curious, here's the font they type in on Discord when you do contact them.
Tumblr support is not gonna contact you via Discord. STAY SAFE
Also an official tumblr email for those who want a comparison
My dumb ass got this account hacked a day ago and IM FINALLY BACK😭🫂💕 if you got any messages from me that i accidentally reported u or smth that was not me akzjkasn
A 1950s-inspired/traditional husband x female wife reader
I’m craving the dynamic of a benevolent misogynist who thinks his wife is fragile and unable to survive the world without his help. He wants her at home barefoot and pregnant like a proper woman’s role should be. He’s the breadwinner and takes great pride in spoiling/providing for his wife and future kids. Wifey just has to take care of the house and get all dolled up for him and bend over to take that dick like the cum dump she is
Looking for a man who knows how to girl boss and gaslight me properly. The man should respectfully and lovingly put me in my place the kitchen and bedroom
LightYandere! Fae husband x Wifey!reader — MDNI! TW: Light Fantasy in modern time setting, Fae!yandere, power imbalance, mysoginy, petnames (little dove, little one, etc...), size difference, P in V, hard fuck, breeding kink, creampie sms, kind of Dom(m)/sub(m and f) dynamic, doggy
Ting ting ting ting!
Your apple pie is ready!
You rush to the oven to take it out.
Yum! Perfect as always! With your homemade whipped cream, it will be a killer pie, once again!
You hope Ambrose will love it again; he has such a peculiar and pricey palate! He was not really enthusiastic the first time you served him something as plain as an apple pie, but changed his mind the second he took his first bite.
"This pie is the reason I married you." He likes to tell you, "This, and those intoxicating human curves of yours."
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
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