a/n: First time writing something like this so I'm unsure. English is not my first language.
You lived alone in a crooked little cottage at the forest’s edge, where the trees leaned close enough to listen and the wind carried too many voices. You knew better than to invite attention. You knew better than most.
An iron horseshoe hung above your door, rusted but solid, nailed in place with care. You refreshed the chalk line at your threshold every month. You never said thank you out loud unless you meant it. And you never, ever, entered the forest.
That, it turned out, was an insult.
The fae who ruled those woods noticed everything. He noticed the way you skirted the treeline as if it might reach out and grab you. He noticed the iron above your door, the wards quietly muttering against his kind. He noticed that you never left bread or milk or honey on the stump near the path.
Worse than fear was indifference.
So he sent messengers.
The first time you saw the rabbits, you smiled despite yourself, three of them, soft and round, darting across the road just ahead of you as you returned from the village. They paused as if waiting. You hesitated. You knew better.
But they hopped down the main forest path, and you followed at a careful distance, reciting rules under your breath. Don’t stray off the trail. Don’t eat. Don’t accept gifts.
You didn’t notice the path narrowing until it vanished entirely.
The trees shifted. Roots rose. Ferns unfurled like green hands, swallowing the way behind you. When you turned, the trail was gone, replaced by unfamiliar bends and a silence that felt like it was listening.
You wandered for hours, heart pounding, clinging to your knowledge like a lifeline. You avoided the rings of mushrooms. You ignored the fruit glowing too brightly on low branches. Hunger and thirst gnawed, but you refused.
That refusal wore down his patience.
He appeared as if he had always been there, leaning against a birch, light caught in his hair like it had chosen him. Beautiful in a way that felt sharpened, intentional. His smile was slow, knowing.
“You’re very careful,” he said. “I admire that.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t give him your name.
That, too, irritated him.
He straightened, gaze darkening. “You want out. I want recompense.”
You crossed your arms. “A bargain requires fairness.”
His lips twitched. “Then negotiate.”
He offered a deal: your freedom in exchange for a favor and the removal of the iron from your door.
You refused. Two prices for one mercy.
His irritation flared, bright and reckless. He chose poorly.
“One favor,” he said. “Now. I will see you safely home afterward.”
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.”
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(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
So, I finally finished this fanart! I’m still going strong with the faeu fixation, and it’s giving me a ton of inspo for things.
I have a little story for them in mind, but my time is being sucked up by exams period and university stuff. So, long story short, i want to draw and write a ton of things, but i cant.
Anyway, the little fae Night is holding is my oc Humm. The story of this art is, to make it brief, that they have a bet going on and she is losing. So, she tried to pull a little prank thinking of outsmarting him, and obviously failed. I dont want to spoil to much of this given that i want to write a little oneshot of them, but that’s a good summary.
Faeu is owned by @owl-bones and @antlered-prince. The official blog of the au being @valrayne-faeu.
I feel like everyone’s Durge matches DU Drow’s freak, and then there’s my boy who doesn’t know how to handle all that without a few heart palpations <3
plot: while you were minding your own business, you caught the undivided attention of a fae who you can’t seem to shake off.
summary: finally crossing past the fae realm and catching up to his brother, the pair find themselves disagreeing with one another.
read on ao3 • first chapter • previous chapter • next chapter
“Please, just… stay close,” Eloryn found himself pleading as you both moved through the ruins of what was once his home.
He had intentionally chosen to avoid the potentially populated areas, sticking to a more obscure path. Staying out of danger was essential, especially when caring for a human. Little run-ins and individual encounters were manageable for the time-being because he was reasonably strong and wasn’t shy about using dirty, unfair tricks to aid his advantage, but anything else would pose a problem.
Besides, the glamour he had put on you was far from ideal, and it was only a matter of time before someone saw right through it.
Though as he dragged you through the devastation, he already regretted bringing you here so soon. It was on a whim influenced by territorial jealousy, and perhaps insecurity, when Alina tried to confront him, even if realistically, she could not be a threat. Maybe only in the sense that she could help you see reason. Eloryn himself knew that he was bad for you, but even so, he did not want to let you go.
Besides, if you were already exposed to magic and your feelings were on the way towards something positive, then he could make things work.
Eloryn, therefore, tried to hold on and push past this whole mess that he had gotten himself into, even if it meant trudging through what looked like hell itself. Blood and bones were padded into the grass, producing unfavourable sounds as you both walked. The smell was horrendous, but in the cover of the dark, he could claim it was just mere ruin to spare you the thought, even if, deeper down, you likely knew what you were passing over. It was coppery and tangy and heavy. It made you feel nauseous if you breathed it in. Oh, no. Definitely. You knew.
All he needed to do, though, was to get you to his brother’s in one piece. It was easier said than done when he first carried you off to the mushroom crossing; that much was the easy part. Getting you from the crossing—within the fae realm, to a place that wasn’t that easy to find already—was a whole new issue in itself. Perhaps if he approached the idea of building up your tolerance to magic at a more gradual pace back in the human realm, he could have eventually brought you here with less of an issue, too, if considering the way the glamour was making you feel in addition to the route you were taking, but again, it was already too late.
What was already done was final, and magic could do a whole lot of things.
But it could not turn back time.
Then, as if right on cue, you stumbled forward, barely catching onto his wrist for desperate stability. He stopped right away, his hands flying to your shoulders to steady you.
“I think there’s something wrong with me,” you managed to say after about half a minute. Your voice sounded hoarse, almost raspy, and you looked more sickly than usual, with your complexion less than bright.
It would be easier, admittedly, if he did not stop for every little inconvenience, but for you, he did have a heart. He didn’t mind stopping for you. He understood very well that what he was doing was potentially harmful because humans adapted differently to magic than magical beings, but that was all the more reason to press ahead. Only when you were out of sight could he allow you to rest and recover properly.
So, instead, all he did in response to your worried complaint was to draw you close to his chest and wrap his fingers along the curve of your scalp.
“Not long now, my lovely,” he soothed.
You screwed your eyes shut as you tried to recollect yourself.
“But… I feel like I’m about to be sick,” you cautiously admitted.
Eloryn breathed in sharply as he struggled to maintain his already crumbling exposure. He did not like the idea that he had indirectly—because no, this was not on purpose—caused your suffering, and especially not when he could hardly do anything to relieve it.
“That’s normal,” he tried to assure you. “Your body is just adjusting to the magic in the air. It’s not deadly, even if it feels wrong.”
You shook your head at his words. “But, but—”
“It’ll smooth out eventually,” he said.
You forced a thick gulp down, stumbling after him when you were ready to keep on moving. You held on tight around his hand, but felt even more uneasy when a strange silence built up between you both.
Maybe you needed a distraction to pass the time until you got there, because if you were brooding in sickly silence, then obviously, this was going to last forever.
You took a deep breath in, and then purposefully broke the silence, your voice low and soft, not accusatory in the slightest. “Can we talk more about what’s happening here?” you asked.
Eloryn, however, tried to avoid the subject.
“When we’re at my brother’s, yes,” he replied. Almost too quickly.
“But, please,” you insisted, intentionally slowing down in your tracks to get him to listen to you for once. “It would help me so much if I just knew what was going on. It’s… already difficult for me to walk somewhere feeling like this if I don’t know why anything is even happening.”
That time, however, you sounded much angrier. Although maybe not annoyed, and rather as though the last remnants of your patience had finally slipped. Your words came out as clipped, even if they weren’t inherently mean.
It seemed to have worked, though. He sighed loudly as he slowed down with you. Internally, he thought you were being too whiny, perhaps bratty, but he forced himself to imagine being in your shoes, and he swallowed that thought away. You had a point. It would be unfair of him to assume that you could blindly just accept yet another strange thing so readily, especially when it was a place that was dangerous for you to be in if alone.
“There’s a civil war, I think,” he admitted at last, keeping his voice down.
“What?” you replied much louder than you had meant to.
You gulped, breathing in, lowering your voice to just above a whisper.
“You dragged me into a war zone?”
Eloryn blinked and then turned away, looking momentarily embarrassed. His cheeks flushed a warm orange, and his hold on your hand tightened, yanking you just a step closer to him, just in case.
“…I, er, yes,” he nodded, “and before you say anything, leaving you behind in the human realm would have been just as risky,” he quickly added, almost defensively.
“How?” you asked. “If it’s something that’s just going on here, then—”
“It isn’t,” he cut you off. “The fiends and the fae seem to be joining forces, from what I understand, and are targeting the human realm,” he hastily disclosed. “It… technically was their territory first, but I do disagree with how they’re approaching the whole issue…”
“Eloryn?” you pleaded.
“Look, I don’t know much more beyond that,” he reluctantly confessed. “All I do know is that neither realm is safe right now. Fiends are looking to flock to the human realm, and as for what the fae are up to, is something I’m not entirely sure about.”
“And we’re going to where exactly?” you repeated, needing confirmation.
“To my brother’s,” he said calmly, gesturing ahead with the nod of his chin. “It should be safe once we reach his home, maybe even just his garden. His house is relatively isolated per the banishment order, and besides that, he’s exceptionally paranoid. He has warding glyphs at every corner, so nothing harmful can get too close.”
True to his word, the path gradually narrowed, and the land rose slightly, revealing a structure that slowly came into view. It was a large and grey, worn-looking brick house, almost resembling a castle with the tapered walls and roofing, but it looked somehow much more distinctive than what you were used to. In a way, it reminded you of older buildings you might find in a historic capital, but the engraving was not in any pattern that you could recognise.
Eloryn slowed as he cautiously set foot into the garden, pulling you back along with him to prevent you from wandering too far in.
“Alright,” he muttered under his breath, keeping you as close to him as possible. “Let’s see if we can get to the front door in one piece.”
He glanced at you just once, observing you warily.
“Make sure to think happy, harmless thoughts,” he instructed.
You blinked. “What?”
“...His warding glyphs are triggered by intentions,” Eloryn reluctantly disclosed. “If someone comes running in with anything other than harmless curiosity, then the area reacts accordingly. It’s not like the avoidance glyphs that I set up around your home. There are different types. The ones he has are for defence.”
You nodded slowly, trying to keep up. “Okay, I understand… but I promise that I don’t want to harm your brother?”
He mirrored your nod, still seeming unsure. “Well, that’s good, just… never mind,” he sighed, dropping his thoughts where he stood. He approached the door cautiously with you and then raised his hand to knock on the wood. “Here goes nothing,” he added in a low murmur.
As soon as his fist connected with the surface, however, it flew open immediately, causing him to almost stumble forward. He took a step back right away, hopeful to retain his composure, forcing himself to appear almost casual. You thought that this was technically an uncanny sight, because you were far too used to him looking sharp and almost sly. Then, as the other fae—presumed to be his brother—stepped into view, Eloryn looked all the more unnatural in his attempts to look harmless, as the other man looked softer, kinder even to an extent, even if his eyes held onto something almost angry that simmered beneath the surface.
Judging by the firmer lines on his face, too, you wondered just how much older he was than Eloryn. In addition to this, he looked less devilish than Eloryn did, perhaps less affected by impish law than he was, if at all. His complexion was closer to a neutral tan than Eloryn’s striking red, and his eyes were simply just brown, as opposed to Eloryn’s one good eye, resembling a burning yellow. His hair, too, was not as pearlescent, and though it was a similar cut, was just a soft, muted chestnut.
The features, however, otherwise looked similar, leading you to wonder if Eloryn had ever looked like this before the impish law caught up to him.
His brother spoke as soon as he saw what was in front of him.
“Oh, absolutely not,” he curtly announced, slamming the door right in Eloryn’s face.
He froze in contrast, unsure how to respond to such a blunt rejection. His expression was equally stunned and embarrassed, and for a split second, anger curdled on his face, revealing the true depths of how he felt.
“Now, wait a fucking minute,” he called out, raising his voice, slamming both of his fists hard on the door, causing the surrounding structure to shake and making you flinch behind him. “Are you still mad at me?”
Immediate regret filled his mind, however, as soon as the land around you began to hum. Eloryn pushed you to the side swiftly, saving you from a reactive shimmering bolt that aimed itself right to where you both stood.
Then, the door flew open once more.
“Yes, I’m still mad,” the other fae—Thome—snapped. “You’re a wanted criminal! Do you know just how many guards have come here with warrants in their hands, accusing me of hiding you, when I can’t even stand the sight of you?”
Eloryn opened his mouth to retaliate, but no such words ever came.
Thome inhaled deeply, trying to put a handle on his anger, but then his gaze locked onto you.
His rant died instantly as soon as he realised what you were.
Not a fae, not even a fiend, but a—
“Wait, is that a human?” he asked.
He stepped forward without even realising that he was moving, his eyes narrowing in distaste as he studied the shoddy attempt of glamour masking your skin. He reached out gently to adjust the spell, fixing your nausea right on the spot with just one small amendment.
“Oh,” you gasped, feeling instantly relieved.
His lips twitched slightly as if pleased by the approval, but then Eloryn cut in by clearing his throat.
“Yes, that’s a human you’re looking at,” he said, confirming Thome’s suspicions. “Now, can you please let us in?”
Thome closed his eyes momentarily, gulping back any residual anger and sighed. “Fine,” he allowed, stepping to the side to allow you both to enter.
The interior of his home felt oddly quiet in comparison to what you had been exposed to just outside; it was clean and comfortable and did not feel oppressive in the slightest. You could exist here without the suffocating feeling of nausea and sickness, but that much could have been from fixing up your glamour.
Thome took one glance at your weary state and snapped his eyes back at Eloryn.
“Next time, don’t even risk the glamour,” he suggested, his tone not unkind, but there was a warning laced in his tone.
Eloryn’s brows furrowed. “And what? Sneak her past potential fiends and patrols as a human? Are you stupid?”
Thome exhaled sharply, blocking out his brother’s snappy personality for the time being. He tried to dismiss the idea of why there was a human in the fae realm in the first place, focusing more on the issue of Eloryn’s handle on magic. “Because you’ve always been bad at those sorts of things. Your shoddy attempt could have resulted in… dead weight,” he quietly added, triggering your suspicions over what Eloryn had claimed before about the glamour and nausea not being fatal, “so don’t even risk it.”
Eloryn scoffed lightly. “Yeah, well. I did the best I could.”
Thome sighed once more and went back to studying you—the human—continuing to further reinforce the disguise to the best of his ability. Eloryn allowed this, needing his compliance, and for the reason that Thome was always the one who excelled at this sort of thing. If he was the one who put the spell on you, then it could be enough to fool even the higher order of fae, but hopefully it would not come to that.
Though he did not like how curious Thome was, tutting under his breath as soon as he began to overload you with questions. Nothing terribly invasive, curious things at best, but perhaps to someone as tired as you, it could have been too much, too soon. He asked you how long you had been exposed to magic, whether the land reacted to you being here, if you had noticed changes in your sleeping habits, memory, or mind. His expression kept on darkening with each answer, too, as if not pleased by what his reckless brother had put you through.
“No need to hound her so much,” Eloryn warned. “You’ve asked enough, haven’t you?”
Thome blinked, but took a step back. “Oh, I’m sorry? You’re the one who dragged a human into my house. Forgive me for being curious at all,” he remarked dryly.
“I’m just saying,” Eloryn muttered. “She’s not some miracle being who knows everything.”
Thome paused, a suspicion already forming in his mind.
His next question came out of sudden, laced with accusation.
“Wait,” he blurted out. “How did you even meet this awful man?”
Eloryn groaned. “Oh, don’t.”
You answered anyway, explaining how he just… showed up one day and didn’t leave.
Thome reacted just as Eloryn thought he would, sighing audibly as soon as his brother started to speak.
“Great,” Thome said. “So, he’s just doomed you from his own irresponsible actions. Just great.”
Then, after a pause.
“...Did he threaten you to keep him company?”
“N-no,” you replied, albeit hesitantly. “I like Eloryn.”
Then, Thome started to connect the dots for something he did not like at all. He looked at you both back and forth and just about jumped back in alarm. He turned his full attention back to Eloryn.
“What exactly is your relationship with this human?” he asked bluntly.
Eloryn blinked back at him, not liking his tone. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Thome almost laughed, glancing back at you and then back at Eloryn once more, groaning at the conclusion that was forming in his mind.
“I’m looking at you because this is a human, and fae and human relationships are frowned upon for a reason,” Thome replied, dropping his voice lower, trying to drive a certain point home. “Humans age differently to us.”
Eloryn blinked, narrowing his eyes. “And so what? She’s an adult,” he reasoned. “If we were to convert anything, I would probably be around… the same-ish… age, I think?” he added, not caring about keeping his volume as low as Thome’s. “Besides, don’t say such things. You’re implying that I manipulated her into liking me, which I did not.”
Thome tightened his jaw, still not buying what his brother was telling him. If he were to dwell more on the subject, then yes, the feelings you might have formed for Eloryn might have been natural. It might have even been exciting for you, because humans were not exposed to magic at all, but that was all the more reason for him to be cautious of the matter. Fae, in comparison, were manipulative by nature. The only reason they existed as the dominant race in their realm was that they had managed to outsmart and force fiends out into the wilds; the two weren’t so different.
He decided to try to voice the point.
“Sure,” he supposed. “But fae are manipulative creatures.”
Eloryn rolled his eyes, dismissing the issue entirely. “You’re making this out to be more of a problem than it truly is. Stop being so dramatic.”
At that, Thome threw his hands up.
“Dramatic?” he repeated. “Dramatic? As if humans don’t already have enough problems to deal with, she now has you to deal with?” he highlighted, driving his point home. “Please. You have to understand just how selfish this makes you look.”
“Selfish?” Eloryn snorted. “Sure,” he supposed, masking a smile that threatened to surface. “But, I have exposed her to the shimmer, so I am being at least a bit responsible by looking out for her.”
He stopped himself short there, remembering his little lie to you, not wanting you to catch onto the implication that there was any danger in being exposed to magic. He briefly wondered how Alina must have been faring.
However, you were sharper now without the nausea clouding your mind.
“Wait,” you called out, taking a step forward. “You said Alina was exposed to it. Does that mean—”
“Oh, wonderful,” Thome butted in, registering the implication that Eloryn had, perhaps unintentionally, exposed someone else to magic in addition to you. Though he wasn’t tone-deaf. He caught the worry in your voice and how suddenly uncertain Eloryn looked.
He looked at his brother, who looked at him pleadingly and then met you with a sigh.
“She should be fine,” he assured you, not wanting a nervous human in his hands, too.
You sighed in relief, but could not shake the feeling that the full truth was being withheld from you somehow.
Then, to make matters worse, you watched as he abruptly left as soon as he said that.
You hovered uncertainly still near the entrance to his home with Eloryn, later hearing the unmistakable sound of a commotion happening in what sounded like a kitchen.
“Is he… always like this?” you asked Eloryn, commenting on Thome’s naturally fretting demeanour.
Eloryn smiled almost fondly at your question. “Oh, this is him on a good day.”
You nodded slowly. “D-did you say that he could explain more of what was going on, by the way?” you asked cautiously.
Eloryn’s eyes lit up, as if thankful for the reminder. “Oh, yes. You’re right. I suppose I should get around to that.”
Minutes later, Thome returned with a trembling tray of tea, his expression forcefully composed. He urged you both to follow him into a sitting room, settling the tray down over a low table, sliding forward individual cups to where you both settled.
“Can you explain what is actually going on here?” Eloryn brought up after a moment of tense quiet, taking a sip of the tea first before determining it was just chamomile, and therefore safe for you to drink, giving you an approving nod.
Then, as an afterthought, added. “It’s just… I mean… I couldn’t have been away for that long for a war to have broken out.”
Thome closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Well, clearly you have if this is news to you,” he replied, taking a sip from his cup before leaning back in his seat and glancing between you both.
“How much is she aware of our realm?” Thome asked, needing to know what to go on.
Eloryn glanced at you briefly. “I suppose… enough? She’s aware of the basics, at least.”
Thome nodded, then inhaled deeply, ready to disclose what he knew.
“Essentially,” he started, “the fiends were left with almost nothing and started to infiltrate fae settlements again, which were also struggling. Fae, however, are just as territorial as fiends, so they do not like sharing their territory, especially when they’re struggling to come up with enough resources to sustain their own. There’s just… not enough food or anything else to sustain the populations that we have, which has led to the idea that the human realm has to be retaken.”
You listened intently, because yes, this did also concern you.
“And now,” he added, “they want their original home back,” he revealed. “Now, I understand that humans are also dealing with their issues, but something to consider is that it is much worse here. The fae realm was originally put into place with a lot less territory than what we originally had. Even our generals and politicians are for once in complete agreement that it would be easier to retake the old land than it would be to remain here.”
Eloryn scoffed. “How ridiculous.”
Thome could only shrug. “Yes, as politics often are,” he replied mildly, setting down his cup with a firm clink.
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but seemed to be steeling himself up to that point.
And then, silence settled over the room.
Eloryn did not say anything else that time, and you were still reeling with the idea that there was more to life than what you grew up knowing.
One definite conclusion could mutually be formed, here, however:
And that was that life was about to get a lot stranger.
For everyone—not just for the fae—but back home, too.
You leaned in, regardless, keen to listen to what more could be said about the matter.
(Even if it was something you might not be ready to hear.)
