Chapter Text
"...must've misheard. You want me to do what to you, dove?"
Well. That's now how you envisioned him responding, is it?
You clutch the counter's edge and draw in a shaky breath, trying to suck as much air in as you can, and from it osmose enough courage to ask the question that's been sitting on your sex-addled brain ever since your dirty little fantasy overrode your central nervous system.
It's become as much of your daily life as eating, breathing, and sleeping. Exactly thirty seconds ago you had blurted it out to your wonderful spouse of two years, Rowan.
Such a heavy question had burnt through you all day at your office job, sat with you on the commute home, and haunted your kitchen alongside you while you nursed an over-poured glass of Sav Blanc.
The wine had helped to steel your frizzled nerves until Rowan, in human form and devastating in his typical three-piece suit, arrived home in your dimly lit kitchen in the house you've built together. His messenger bag hangs precariously from his shoulder and his keys dangle from his long, lithe fingers, slack with shock to match his expression.
He wears his hair long—it's one of your favorite features: a shimmering, iridescent white that mirrors his mane. Lately, Rowan has taken to tying it back from his face, which is lovely with soft features and eyes that are like starlight catching in a dark forest pond.
Your unicorn husband fits in with all the other fi-tech working folk in your big, blended city of humans and magical creatures. Certainly, unicorns aren't so common as say an elf or orc, but they are known to shift out of their true four-legged form and walk about the world as extraordinarily beautiful humanoids like your love does.
This Rowan does out of devotion to lucky you, his wife—choosing to live the majority of his life in this form.
But before you slip into a thorough round of navel-gazing and wonder at how fortunate you are to have found one another in this wide world and face insurmountable odds as a mixed magical-human couple, you need to address his immediate ask: repeating what you had blurted out at poor Rowan just as he stepped through the door.
"I want you," you enunciate slowly, because the first time you asked him it came out in an incoherent snare of words, "to chase me through your ancestral forest and fuck me. And I want it to be in your true form. As if I were a unicorn, too."
Time slows as you wait for his response. You've long since catastrophized the best and worst-case scenarios of how Rowan will receive your idea: on the bright side, he could agree with his typical boundless, boyish enthusiasm and whisk the both of you off for a weekend of carnal, anatomically harrowing fun in the countryside.
On the gloomier side, he could turn you down to not hurt your frail (and tragically human) anatomy with his impossibly thick, long cock in his true form. You weren't built to take his kind of anatomy.
Rowan, out of a sense of preservation for his 'dearest, sweetest dove', might want to keep the sex, as one might say, very vanilla if only to protect your health.
But damnit you want it!
If you had to rewind the clock and place your finger on how this all started, it was a harmless remark by your husband's mother over the phone when you were trying to plot out a way to join the clan during their usual solar equinox jaunt.
Althea, your mother-in-law, lived part-time in a cottage at the fringe of their clan's ancestral wood, phoning you every other week to catch up when she fancied walking on two legs in her human form as a lark and possessed fingers to ring your cell from her own landline.
On this occasion, she misspoke with a completely well-intentioned but irksome reminder that you had little knowledge of how things worked in Rowan's world.
You had brought up an ignorance on how long you should ask off work for the occasion.
'Do these gatherings run rather long? I don't want to put Rowan out with having to break away and drive me home early.'
Your mother-in-law (or mate's dam as the unicorns called it) chortled. Her reply came tinny across the line, 'Oh, dove, you couldn't possibly know that though, how silly of me! They go on a whole fortnight.'
Really, Althea could be the loveliest woman (see also: mare) at times, but your mind was always churning like a clunky washing machine when you tried to fit the idea of yourself into their clan, Rowan's culture. It was a different world outside of the city where you both lived a blended, normal life as an interspecies couple.
How much more were you missing out on by not having been born and raised as a unicorn mare?
Thus, your research has led you down what you call a bit of a rabbit hole. On the other end of it, you're not even certain you're solving the main problem of feeling ill-fitted in his life.
Will sex with him in his truest, most authentic form fix your feelings of inadequacy? Findings are still pending, but you're certain you'll regret it if you don't at least give it a go.
There are precisely twenty-six tabs open on your laptop, which is presently sitting closed on the kitchen island between you and Rowan. Many web pages open on it are mundane, most leaning scientific, and a few are downright pornographic in nature.
Admittedly fitting a unicorn's cock anywhere in your body is fucking daunting. You're committed to doing the legwork on this topic—you've read countless blogs and sundry social media testimonials from people, much like yourself, in long-term relationships with unicorns.
'Lessons learned, and handy tricks for making it all work out!' as one lovely soul commented with a list of Dos and Don'ts.
And then you looked up the porn. Amateur and professional content, unicorn on women, unicorn on men, unicorn on unicorn, shifted and unshifted. But the one that grabbed your absolute attention during last night's browsing session was this one:
The scene opens on a moonlit forest, the camerawork and lighting exquisite as it pans to a young woman running pell-mell in a short white sundress. She's having a grand old time being pursued, giggling, and shooting coy, furtive looks over her shoulder. The sound of pounding hooves pipes into your earbuds.
There's a minute of a chase as a fig leaf, a performative thrill before the porn gets into the real action. The woman trips, falling over a moss-covered log. Of course, how she gets into that position is contrived as there's obviously prop work and choice angles employed to maneuver the girl perfectly.
Her skirt comes up conveniently rucked during the fall, and there's not a scrap of underwear to hide her shaven, bare pussy from the back shot spread across your laptop screen.
Camera lighting catches the glimmer of how wet the chase has made her. The stallion finally catches up and mounts over the girl's prone body splayed ass up on the log.
His shimmering white coat brightens your screen in an otherworldly glow, and you watch as the girl squirms to hitch her hips higher while the stallion flexes his powerful hips, lunging low with a guttural, primal noise.
The actress is so into it—she sighs and coos and coaches him so he lines up just right, and your breathing hitches with hers when the fat, flared head of the unicorn's cock prods her sweet, pink folds with a wet click and then—
Your husband had stirred beside you in bed.
You'd shut your laptop at lightspeed and felt a flush creep all the way south toward your navel. You gave it a beat. Had he seen your screen?
Rowan, still sleeping, was only turning onto his other side. You soothed a hand down his broad, muscled back and watched the star shine shimmer of magic pulse in his veins at your touch.
Now, this evening following the last and final straw that had pushed you towards making this proposal, Rowan stands on the kitchen tile, processing.
Your husband takes a long moment to gather his thoughts. It's a special sort of hell, waiting on his verdict. Your heart hitches in your chest when his fingers twiddle his keys, and he's bitten down on his lip as he considers you with a furrowed, consternated look. And then Rowan blows a bit of air out through his lips in a bemused, amazed snort.
Your unicorn husband takes another look at you, purses his lips, and decides he needs a drink, too, because he confiscates your glass and drains all of it in one go. And then he dumps all his things on the floor, steps to your side, and takes you into his arms.
"Are you certain you want that, dove? It will be..." he pauses, then enunciates, "difficult. We'd best consult a doctor before giving it all a go." He reaches to cradle the turn of your cheek in his hand, and you reach to cover the back of it so you can nuzzle into his palm, sighing happily. This is absolutely, most definitely, not a hard 'no' to your idea. "I'd feel rotten if I hurt you, but I want what you want, wife. If it's safe, and you desire it, who am I to deny you?"