#Stone Summit

[hsundholm]

The Path of Untersberg by Henrik Sundholm Via Flickr: Visiting Geiereck, the alpine mountain outside Salzburg, Austria.

[starlight-bread-blog]

The whitebeard pirates and the navy:

Hancock:

[slagharrow]

My mesmer showing up with his new rifle like....

[imkeepinit]

Movie poster by an unknown artist for the South Korean Imax release of the 2016 Summit Entertainment/Lionsgate motion picture 라라랜드.

[chubby-bun-bun]

heavy is the crown

As princess, you are bound by duty to marry the notorious and elusive Onichynus general, in exchange for his protection of your kingdom from an impending war. On the night of your wedding, tradition demands that you undergo the consummation rites, sealing the fate of your marriage—and your future.

tags: sylus x reader, NSFW, MDNI, royalty!au, general-of-powerful-nation!sylus x princess-of-kingdom-in-trouble!reader, first time sex (mc is a virgin), unprotected sex, afab!reader, fem!reader, slight voyeurism & somno & cockwarming at the end, lowkey breeding kink, gender-based stereotypes against women due to the time period, writing this has been a fever dream, word count: 2.7k~ worldbuilding and 5.5k~ smut lmfao

read on ao3

You dared to dream once upon a time.

You dreamt of crossing oceans beyond your shores, sailing aboard majestic galleons you’d only seen in textbooks. In the quiet solitude of your bedchambers, you imagined laughing with the townsfolk of distant cities, dancing in cobblestone streets to the melodies of traveling minstrels, and finding love in a modest man who'd want nothing more than to offer you freshly picked blooms every morning.

In the sanctuary of sleep, your dreams would lull you with visions of a simple life. A stone-walled kitchen warmed by the glow of a crackling hearth, a garden vibrant with blossoms and fresh produce, and a cozy reading nook nestled in an arched window. A loyal companion would sometimes join you—a slothful cat, a melodious songbird, a high-spirited pup, or a darling mare to carry you through grassy plains and wildflower fields.

"Do you take this man to be your wedded husband, to share in life's trials and joys, to love and honor, till death do you part?"

But such dreams have no place in the heart of a woman whose shoulders bear her kingdom's fate.

And so, as you take in the muted glow of the setting sun through delicate ivory lace, you finally put those girlhood fantasies to rest.

“I do.”

—

Being the youngest and only princess came with its fair share of trials and triumphs.

Unlike the elder princes, whose lives revolved around grueling expectations and fierce competition for the throne, your position spared you such burdens. Born to a queen who had long believed her childbearing years were behind her, you were nothing short of a miracle, arriving over a decade after your last sibling. This had earned you the undivided affection of the entire castle, leaving you thoroughly indulged and doted upon.

However, growing up without siblings near your age, you often grappled with bouts of loneliness. While you had fostered polite acquaintances among the daughters of many nobles, you found their company wearisome. The endless succession of balls and garden parties always seemed to revolve around the same gossip: politics, fashion, whispers about some baron’s sixteen-year-old daughter betrothed to a forty-year-old viscount, and, of course, the inevitable question: had anyone received a marriage proposal yet?

You naturally had many—to your dismay.

The idea of marriage filled you with profound dread. As a girl tagging along in your mother’s tea parties, you had often overheard the confessions and lamentations of the noblewomen. Stories of infidelity, neglect, and abuse spilled from their lips—duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses; women who stood at the very summit of high society. To you, marriage seemed less a sacred bond and more a cruel sentence—one far grimmer than the gallows.

At least the gallows granted the mercy of a quick death.

But as a princess, you were bound to uphold the ideal image of a young lady. One who radiated beauty, yet with grace and poise. Intelligent, but subservient to your intended husband’s authority. And, most important of all, fertile—to bear him strong sons who would carry on his legacy.

It sickened you. You would rather succumb to the plague than endure such a miserable life. But given your title, you could only try to delay the inevitable.

And so, life continued as it was—a never-ending cycle of social gatherings, fending off suitors, reading through your library, mastering languages, and nurturing a growing collection of hobbies. It was a life of privilege and routine—one that, despite its predictability, offered you a quiet sense of fulfillment.

Alas, nothing holds constant in the world, and change arrived in the form of a looming war from enemies across the sea.

Though small in size, your kingdom of Noir was a veritable treasure trove. With its abundant mountains and rivers, the island was never in short supply of precious metals, gems, and rare minerals. It was renowned for producing the finest artisans, who crafted the most exquisite jewelry, armor, and weapons. While modest in territory, it more than compensated with a thriving and prosperous economy.

The ultimate conquest for any conqueror.

Through the town streets worn smooth by centuries of footfalls, the bustling plazas lined with charming merchant stalls, the outskirt villages tucked among lush woodlands, and even the weathered stone walls of the towering castle, whispers had always flowed like an unrelenting tide—the most persistent being rumors of the neighboring kingdoms readying to seize Noir at any moment. But your father never addressed such hearsays, and life within the island always seemed as jovial and peaceful as it always did.

Until one night, as you sat engrossed in some book about Noir folklore, a series of sharp knocks on your chamber doors shattered the stillness, echoing sharply through the room.

It was your father, the king. Dropped to his knees, grasping your untainted hands in his rough, weathered ones, head bowed down at your mercy.

“Forgive me, my daughter,” he said in grief. “For the sake of the people—please, forgive me.”

For months, naval scouts had reported sightings of warships at the docks of two neighboring kingdoms, suspected of plotting to raid Noir and usurp the throne. Only a few weeks ago, those suspicions were confirmed when spies returned with dire news. The enemy militaries, vast and far stronger than your own, were preparing for a siege. Noir's true power had always been in the arts and commerce, not in its military might. Should your shores be attacked by an enemy nation—let alone two—the island would fall.

So on the very day the confirmation arrived, your father and the high court conspired to seek assistance from a nation on the mainland: Onichynus.

Conversations about the state were always hushed, spoken in whispers and laden with caution. It was rumored to be an immensely powerful dominion, even surpassing that of the hostile forces looming beyond your shores. Drunk sailors boasted of its staggering wealth, built on the spoils of their wars and ceaseless conquest. With an unmatched army of hardened warriors and mercenaries, it stood as a force to be reckoned with, its presence both feared and revered across the seas.

At its pinnacle stood their elusive general, a shadow whose name and true face remained unknown. Tales from sailors, traveling merchants, and tavern songs painted him as a ruthless figure, demon-like, who laid waste to rotten cities and beheaded corrupt kings. Some claimed he was a hero, purging the realm of wicked men in power, while others saw him as the embodiment of evil, leaving destruction and death in his wake.

Negotiations with Onichynus were a success. In return for their protection during the impending siege, Noir pledged to deliver three ships laden with its most prized metals, minerals, and gems—every year for the next century.

But to ensure Noir upheld its end of the bargain, their beloved princess would be bound in marriage to the general.

You could only keep your gaze steady, chin held high, as the king knelt before you, weeping, begging for your forgiveness.

You had your time to relish the pleasures of living as a princess. Now, it was time to fulfill your duties as one.

—

The night before the long-anticipated siege had arrived. After weeks of frantic planning and tense negotiations between Noir’s high court and the Onichynus war council, warriors and mercenaries had taken their positions across the island. Some blended seamlessly with the civilians, while the majority remained hidden in plain sight, their numbers concentrated along the docks.

In the king’s throne room, select members from both factions gathered for final preparations. Clad in his battle regalia, your father seemed a shadow of his former self—skin ashened, eyes hollow with exhaustion—yet his voice remained firm as he issued his commands to all present.

The Noir court members could hardly conceal their unease under the watchful eyes of the Onichynus war council. Towering and broad-shouldered, they seemed almost otherworldly. Their dark, burnished steel armor bore engravings of monstrous creatures, and many donned cloaks of crimson or black, their edges deliberately singed to resemble fire's touch. Helmets, adorned with jagged horns, cast grotesque shadows, while those who forwent them revealed faces with jagged streaks of war paint, as if to mimic claw marks.

Then, the heavy doors groaned open, spilling thick tendrils of black-red mist into the chamber. A hush fell as all eyes turned toward the towering figure that emerged from the haze.

The general.

For all the whispered tales of his demonic appearance—horns as tall as claymores, wings that spanned the heavens, and a tail that stretched like a river—you were stunned to find a face not of a monster, but of an angel.

Against the backdrop of his dark cloak, his striking silver hair stood out in sharp contrast. His features were sculpted with precision—high, defined cheekbones, a strong jawline, a straight nose, all framed by an expression that revealed little, save for full lips drawn into a tight line. The people of Noir gawked openly, stunned to finally see the man from the tales in the flesh. His gait was languid yet exuded confidence as he strode toward the throne where you sat beside your father.

His gaze found yours, and you stilled.

The deep scarlet of his eyes was piercing. You almost felt naked under it. Instantly, you straightened in your seat, fingers twitching to smooth the fabric of your dress.

“Expect the warships to be visible in six hours,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. The low timbre of it sent a chill racing up your spine.

“General, are you certain our forces are enough to handle their fleet?” your mother asked, voice quivering as she addressed him from your father’s other side.

The general's lips curved faintly, a low, rumbling chuckle escaping him.

“Rest easy, Your Majesty. By dawn, their remains will have joined their forefathers’ ghosts beneath the sea."

—

You had come to realize that Onichynus truly deserved the fear and respect it commanded. Just before daybreak, the gut-wrenching blare of Noir’s watchtower horns finally shattered the unnerving stillness of the island.

The enemies had fallen.

You had been locked away in one of the castle’s tower chambers, away from harm’s reach. As the kingdom’s key to securing this alliance, it was critical that no harm befell the general's betrothed.

After the second wave of victory horns, your door creaked open, revealing your maidservant—frantic, breathless from the long climb up the spiral staircase.

“Your Highness,” she gasped, voice trembling. “We’ve won.”

You could see the restraint in the way her nails dug into her apron, her blown pupils amidst her ragged breaths. She was restraining herself, her elation held in check, out of deference to you.

After all, Noir’s freedom had come at the cost of yours.

With a wistful smile, you turned toward the window, watching the flickering torchlights snake through the streets below. The chorus of jubilant cries and chants carried through the valleys, their voices rising to the heavens and echoing back from the mountain’s deepest crevices.

“It seems we have,” you murmured, voice barely audible over the chorus of celebration below.

You heard her hesitant shuffle behind you. "Several of the servants have been briefed already. They shall be ready tomorrow morning to begin preparations for the wedding."

You spun toward her, pulse pounding in your ears. "So soon?"

She lowered her gaze, unable to meet your eyes. "Onichynus wanted to complete the rites as quickly as possible, so they could sail for the mainland the following day."

You let out a slow exhale. "I see."

Your maidservant hesitated, her eyes flicking toward you, before she spoke again.

"If it offers you any comfort, ma'am," she said softly, head bowed, "you saved all of us."

You swallowed hard, forcing back the sting of tears threatening to spill.

—

Like your mother, grandmother, and all the royal women before you, you had always envisioned your wedding as a day of grandeur. You pictured riding through the town streets in the royal carriage, flanked by guards, waving to the cheering crowds. You imagined wearing a bespoke gown that sparkled in the light, a train so long it would sweep behind you like a royal procession.

You imagined trumpets announcing your arrival, their triumphant notes echoing through a hall packed with dignitaries and nobility from across the realm. And at the altar, a man of honor and equal standing would wait for you, his gaze warm with affection as you joined in a union built on love, not duty.

But now—the sun has nearly set, painting the grand temple in muted amber light. Inside, the space feels hollow, adorned only by a few hurriedly arranged flowers, their disarray a testament to the servants' exhaustion from cleaning up the siege’s destruction. Your gown, though lovely, is no custom-made masterpiece—just a window display piece hastily altered by the royal dressmaker. The pews stand mostly empty, save for your crestfallen family, a handful of somber faces from the Noir high court, and the ever-stoic Onichynus war council.

Your husband-to-be, still clad in his dark battle regalia, stands steadfast at your side, his expression an impenetrable mask as the archbishop intones the ceremonial rites. You had imagined him to be someone hard to look at—perhaps as old as a grandfather, his years as a general etched into every line of his face, and his figure weighed down by indulgent vices. Yet, to your quiet relief, he is nothing of the sort. Even if he proves unsavory as a husband or father to your future children, at least he’s pleasing to look at.

“By the will of fate, you are now bound in union,” the High Priest finally says, raising his palms toward you both. “May your allegiance to one another be as steadfast as the duties you carry, and may this union bring the future of your realms to prosperity.”

—

You wince as an elderly maidservant struggles to loosen a particularly stubborn knot in your hair, the pull jerking your head painfully. She pauses, her hand gently patting the spot in apology.

Your gaze stays fixed on the cold, flatstone floor, and you hardly notice the other maidservants bustling around you. One smooths out the faint creases in your satin nightdress, while another tugs at the neckline, pulling it lower to expose more of your cleavage and collarbone. Beneath the thin fabric, your undergarments have been removed, leaving you vulnerable to the biting chill of the room. You’ve been scrubbed clean, coated in the silkiest lotions, each scent more intoxicating than the last—all for your first night with your new husband.

“Are you nervous, Your Highness?” the elderly maidservant asks, her hands gentle as she brushes through your hair.

You pause, the question settling in your chest as you ponder how to answer.

“I can’t say I’m confident,” you say, twisting your fingers together. “I’ve never been with a man before.”

In the mirror, you catch the discreet glances exchanged behind you, their pity and concern barely hidden. You force yourself to look away, but the weight of their silent judgment lingers.

“The Onichynus general… he seemed like such a massive man,” a younger maidservant whispers, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I do hope he treats Her Highness with kindness.”

Another maidservant scoffs, her tone sharp with bitterness. “All men are beasts, driven only by their lust for control—and for anything with a pair of breasts.”

There’s a collective hiss of disapproval from the others, but the harsh words still echo in your mind. You fight to keep your face composed, though your heart aches with fear.

“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” the elderly maidservant says, her voice light. “The men from that state may be known for their ruthlessness, but with your likeness, the general will surely find himself a changed man.”

You can only hope the same.

Soon after, you begin your walk to the matrimonial room. The maidservants fall in step around you, their presence a quiet shield.  The lively chatter from your earlier preparations has faded, replaced by a tense, almost somber silence. Despite the considerable distance between rooms, the walk feels too short, each step too swift. Before you can fully gather your bearings, you now find yourself alone, sitting on the bed, the weight of the night settling in around you.

You shouldn’t feel this nervous. Women across the realm are bound to face this, especially those of royal blood. Consummation on the wedding night is an expectation, a duty. No matter how much you’ve dreaded or tried to avoid it, you’ve always known it was inevitable. All that’s left now is to steel yourself, strive to please your husband, and to embrace your role as a future mother—for Noir’s sake.

The doors swing open, and you flinch. The general steps inside, his damp hair clinging to his face, a clear sign of a recent bath. His attire for the evening is simple: loose trousers and a tunic that, despite its modesty, does little to hide the breadth of his shoulders or the strong lines of his chest. Your gaze betrays you, lingering longer than it should, tracing the way the fabric shifts with his movements. His towering height seems to diminish even the vast expanse of the room, making the high ceilings feel incredibly small.

His ember-like eyes catch yours and you suddenly feel too exposed.

“Good evening, princess.” 

“General,” you greet, wincing at how weak it sounds as it leaves your lips.

His gaze sweeps over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders beneath the delicate straps of your ivory nightdress, the soft swell of your breasts pressing gently against the neckline. The fabric cinches at your waist before flaring out around your hips, emphasized by the way you sit at the edge of the mattress. Your posture is rigid, hands clasped in your lap—a result of all the etiquette drilled into you from childhood.

He notices the tension in your form and lets out a sigh, turning toward the couch at the far end of the room.

You blink.

“Where are you going?” you blurt out, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Your Highness,” he drawls, settling into the couch with a lazy grace. “We don’t have to do this. You look like a kitten with her hackles raised. We could ruffle the bedding, spill some oil on the sheets, and pretend we had a night worthy of the chamberlain’s inspection.”

A flash of panic rises within you. You stand, words tumbling out in a rush. “Nonsense! Marriage is not recognized before the temple unless consummated on the night of the ceremony.”

He tilts his head, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Such peculiar customs you have here on Noir.”

You had imagined a thousand ways this night could go, a thousand versions of the man you’d just married. Not one of them prepared you for this.

You flush, frustration building in your chest. “General, I would appreciate it if you respect the customs of Noir. We are a proud people, and we honor the traditions passed down to us by our forefathers.”

He rolls his eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate pace, he stands and makes his way toward you. For every step he takes, you fight the instinct to hunch your shoulders, to shrink away. Next thing you know, he’s standing before you, his imposing size forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain your gaze.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, gently cupping your face. The heat of his touch burns through your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You finally avert your eyes. “I’ve never been with a man before,” you manage to say with as much indifference as you can muster, nails digging into your palms.

“Really? Not even a stolen kiss in your youth?”

You clench your teeth. “There are far more pressing matters to focus on than indulging in childish flirtations.”

He laughs, a rich, deep sound that resonates through the air, stirring an unexpected warmth low in your belly.

“Alright,” he concedes, his finger tracing a slow path along your cheek. Without warning, he grips your jaw, the touch both commanding and tender, pulling your gaze back to meet his. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. None of those absurd rules from your royal handbook.”

You pull back slightly, brows knitting in confusion. “The act is the same, is it not?”

“Do you agree, Your Highness?” he presses, lips grazing your ear ever so slightly. The warmth of his breath against your skin is unfamiliar, and the rush of heat that sweeps up your neck sends electrifying pulses deep within your core.

“Yes,” you grit out.

After studying your expression one last time, he lowers himself slightly, then grips the back of your thighs and lifts you with ease. You gasp, scrambling to find your balance. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, fingers digging into the firm, broad muscles of his shoulders. With a smooth shift, he adjusts your position, the inside of your thighs pressing against his hips, before carrying you to the vanity desk at the center of the room.

You struggle to speak, words caught in your throat as the sensation of being so high up in the air makes you dizzy. He finally sets you down on the desk, his large palms slowly dragging down your legs, gently pushing your knees apart.

“G—General,” you stammer, eyes wide as he pulls his tunic over his head, revealing a tanned expanse of skin and the hard, defined muscles beneath. “The bed is over there—why are we here?”

A flicker of a smile plays at his lips as he tosses the fabric carelessly to the floor. “Trust me, princess. Now close your eyes.”

You want to argue, remind him that asking you to trust the most notorious figure in the realm—whom you’ve barely known for a day—is no small request. But the gravity in his scarlet gaze quiets any protest. With a reluctant breath, you close your eyes.

There’s no movement at first. Then, his calloused palms find your knees, the rough calluses a stark contrast against the smooth stretch of your skin. Heat blossoms under his touch, searing its way upward as his hands glide along the curve of your hips, the taper of your waist. You fail to suppress the shudder coursing through you when his touch pauses just below the swell of your breasts, lingering for a heartbeat before sliding to your sides, his broad palms more than spanning the width of your back.

Then, you feel the faint brush of his breath against your mouth, a fleeting warmth before his lips capture yours in a tender kiss. The hot, wet sensation has your back arching instinctively, your hardened nipples pressing through the thin fabric of your nightgown against his hard chest. A deep, throbbing ache pulses at your core, and you clamp your thighs together in a futile effort to suppress the damp heat pooling between them.

The overwhelming rush of sensations draws a whimper from your lips, your trembling hands clutching at his shoulders for stability. His response is immediate—a low, guttural groan before he deepens the kiss, his mouth returning to yours with even more fervor.

You’ve read about kissing in your sparse collection of romance novels, tried to envision the mechanics behind the act. But the mental images always fell short, awkward and unappealing, leaving you unconvinced of its charm. You’d dismissed it as unnecessary, even pointless—especially when it came to something as pragmatic and straightforward as sex.

But now the general is sneaking in the hot, wet glide of his tongue between your lips and you panic, not sure what it is he’s doing and what you’re supposed to do. He must sense your uncertainty, because his large hand moves to steady your jaw and nape, holding you in place. When he feels the accidental brush of your tongue, he wastes no time and sucks at it, the lewd sound echoing in your ears, forcing soft, strangled sounds from your throat.

You no longer feel the seeping chill from outside the castle walls, body now feeling like it’s on fire, the wetness dripping from your entrance sliding down your inner thighs. You feel like you’re drunk and about to pass out, so you push his chest back with a gentle palm.

“General,” you say, heaving through swollen lips. “What… what are we doing? The bed…”

He takes a moment to steady his breath, eyes squeezed shut, palms pressing firmly at your waist. Then, a low, rough chuckle rumbles from his chest.

“You’re infuriatingly naive,” he mutters, his sweat-damp forehead resting against your shoulder. “You must be the only woman of all arranged marriages eager to crawl into bed with a man she barely knows.”

You flush, indignant at the implication behind his words. “What are you trying to say?” you demand, mouth unconsciously forming into a pout.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing gently over your lower lip. “What I’m saying, princess, is let me take care of you. I don’t know what your upbringing has taught you, but there’s more to this than just... getting it over with.”

You’re not used to being told what to do and deviating from the rules, so you force out a sharp “fine”—an unintended display of bratty defiance, considering the man before you. But he only laughs, and to your dismay, the sound makes him even more handsome than he already is.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, lifting you by your bottom this time, pressing you flush against his chest. His hands on your backside—so close to where you’re throbbing and wet—has you flinching forward. You suddenly feel the brush of something firm against the sensitive nub above your slit, and you jerk again in surprise.

He chuckles, before gently lowering you onto the soft expanse of the mattress. His lips find your collarbone first, then trail down to your nipples, where he suckles through the fabric. A soft whimper escapes you, your fingers curling into the sheets. You can feel his smile against your skin as his tongue sweeps over one of your sensitive buds, before continuing its journey down toward your abdomen.

But then he hovers his face above your groin that’s barely concealed by the bunched-up hem of your nightgown. Alarm jolts through you, and you prop yourself up on your elbows, torso rising instinctively. You attempt to close your legs, but his hands hold them firmly apart. 

“General—”

“Sylus,” he interrupts, lips brushing along the inside of your knee. “We’re married now, sweetheart. Use my name.”

A twisted sense of pride coils within you, knowing you hold both the name and face of the most infamous man in the realm.

You hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat before continuing. “Sylus,” you echo, the name oddly satisfying on your lips. “Not that I’m… doubting your expertise, but is all of this really necessary?”

He exhales heavily, saying nothing at first. Then, he takes your hand—its size utterly lost in his grip—and guides it down your body. His movements are deliberate, stopping only when your palm meets the undeniable hardness of his cock, straining against his trousers.

You struggle to contain the jumbled stutters tumbling from your lips. “What are you—”

“I’m a big man,” he states matter-of-factly, his gaze unwavering. “And this is your first time. As you are now—you won’t be able to handle me.”

You don’t fully understand what he means, but the statement silences you nonetheless.

He chuckles, letting go of your hand, and you immediately pull it back to your chest. “May I?” he asks, his voice low as he hovers below you once again.

You flash a glare, before nodding reluctantly.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans back, his gaze shifting downward to the space between your legs. Slowly, he lifts the hem of your dress, inch by inch, until the cool air brushes against your exposed skin. You watch, eyes heavy, fighting the tremors rushing through you, as his hand moves along the inside of your thigh. When his fingers brush against your folds, a sharp exhale escapes you, and your head falls back onto the mattress.

“You’re so sensitive, princess,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his words.

“Shut up and get on with it,” you snap, covering your eyes with your forearm.

You hear a quiet laugh escape him before two fingers press against the sensitive nub above your folds, sending a shock of pleasure through your body. Your back arches instinctively as he slides his fingers up and down against your entrance. The motion, slick and sinful, leaves you gasping, and you struggle to keep your legs open, body trembling from the unfamiliar pleasure.

Sylus’ eyes darken, flicking between the way his fingers tease your slick folds and the way your breasts strain against your dress. His breathing grows heavier as he reaches up, pulling the neckline down to expose your chest. A soft whine escapes you when his hand cups one swell, firm yet gentle, while the other continues its relentless ministrations below.

“I’m pressing one in, alright?” he murmurs.

You barely register the words before he pushes a thick finger past your folds.

“Wait—it feels—ngh—it’s strange,” you stammer, voice hitching on a whine.

He stills immediately, digit only halfway in. “Does it hurt?”

“I… kind of? I don’t know…”

You’re panting. The pressure is peculiar, and quite unpleasant. Your body tenses at the newness of it, the unfamiliar stretch bordering on discomfort.

He remains patient, finger unmoving. Then, you feel his thumb press on your nub, drawing gentle circles against the sensitive lower hood of it. The obscene sound of slickness fills the space and you’re mortified, toes curling at the wave of arousal soaking his hand.

“This better?” he whispers, drinking in every detail—your heaving chest, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the tremor in your thighs, and the glistening mess pooling between them.

You can’t respond, overwhelmed by the spiraling pleasure.

A chuckle rumbles from him, low and pleased, as he presses the rest of his finger inside. This time, it slides in smoothly, and the high-pitched moan that escapes you is muffled by your trembling palm. Now knuckle-deep, he gently strokes upward, pressing on a rough spot that makes you jerk in his hold.

“I’m going to try something, alright?” he says softly, breath brushing against your knee as he plants a tender kiss.

“Okay,” you croak, struggling to process the pulsing sensations building deep inside you.

The circles on your nub stop, and you almost whimper at the loss. But before you can voice your complaints, something warm, wet, and utterly foreign replaces his thumb. Your head snaps back, a raw, choked cry tearing from your lips.

“General—hah—Sylus… What are you—?”

He doesn’t answer. Dazed, you prop yourself up and the sight before you is almost too much: the most powerful man in the realm, kneeling between your legs, his mouth worshiping you with unrelenting fervor. His tongue laps at your folds, drags it languidly up to your engorged nub before closing his lips around it, sucking in a way that sends sharp, electric pulses straight through your core.

Panicked by the unbearable pressure building inside, you try to push his head away. “Stop—it’s strange, I feel like I’m going to—”

Before you can finish, he slides another finger inside, stretching you further. His fingers curl, stroking that spongy spot with unrelenting precision. His mouth works in tandem, alternating between suckling and lapping at your overstimulated nub.

Tears blur your vision as the intensity peaks. You scream into your palms, hips bucking against his mouth and hand as you feel yourself tip over the high he brought you to.

Sylus watches, entranced, as your legs open wider, cries muffled as your body convulses under his ministrations. Even as you shatter under him, he doesn’t let up, prolonging your fall at his mercy. And when you’re finally sent over the edge, your release flooding his eager mouth, he drinks in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, and utterly spent.

He presses his cheek against your inner thigh, feeling the delicate tremors rippling through your body as you struggle to steady your breathing. His eyes trail over your folds, soft and swollen, slightly parted as your essence continues to glisten and drip. Unable to hold back, he dips his head and presses a slow, deliberate kiss, groaning as your intoxicating taste lingers on his lips.

Your cry pierces the air, hands flying to his hair as you tug with desperation. “W—Wait…! I can’t… it’s too much… please…”

He only chuckles, low and teasing, before placing a final kiss on the sensitive nub above your folds. Then, he moves upward, settling his weight against you. His chin rests between your breasts, arms locking yours in place as his eyes meet yours, heat and satisfaction dancing in his gaze.

As clarity slowly returns, the enormity of what just happened hits you. He—the Onichynus general, a man who strikes fear in nations across the realm—had just laved at your most intimate area with his tongue. Such an act is nowhere to be found in the guides you’ve read on sex, not even as a distant suggestion. And yet, you enjoyed it. Far more than you care to admit.

An embarrassed huff escapes you as heat blooms across your face. You throw your hands up to cover it, unwilling to meet the insufferable smugness you can practically feel radiating from him below.

Suddenly, you feel the neckline of your dress being tugged down again, catching beneath your breasts. Then, you feel the flat of his tongue gently press on a nipple, circling it with the tip before pulling it into his mouth to suckle. His hand slides up to your other bud, palm brushing over it in slow, deliberate motions. Breasts are meant to nourish, to sustain future generations—mere vessels for the creation of life. Yet the hairs at the back of your neck raise on end as you feel the return of the persistent pulsing deep within you. You bite your lip, stifling the sounds threatening to escape, back arching as you desperately chase the sensation of his mouth on you.

“We can stop now if you wish, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your skin.

Fighting the heaviness taking over your body, you grab his jaw, forcing him to meet the fire in your gaze. “Do you have a problem with consummating with me, general?”

He responds with a particularly sharp suck at your nipple.

“Ngh—! Sylus! I meant Sylus!” you cry out, correcting yourself with a gasp.

He smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes, before moving to the soft curve of your breast. His mouth alternates between harsh sucking and teasing bites, leaving a trail of bruised blooms in his wake.

“While intercourse may be a mere formality to you Noir people, in Onichynus, it’s an act of passion and love,” he says, voice low as he shifts to giving attention to your other bud. “I wish to ensure that Her Highness, my wife, has a memorable first experience. So, if you feel spent for the night, we can always stop. At any time.”

His words settle deep inside you and you feel warmth spread in your chest. Perhaps Onichynus is more than the tales of its ruthless reputation, after all. Hesitantly, you caress his cheek, heart aching at the way he closes his eyes and nuzzles into your palm. He almost seems like a clingy pet feline.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I want to finish the rites,” you say softly. Then, you flush, struggling to find the right words. “And, um, I didn’t expect things to be this… good. I don’t mind experiencing more, if it’s alright with you.”

It takes a moment for your words to register, and when they do, Sylus smirks—a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sends heat coursing through your body. He leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue brushes your bottom lip, and this time, you grant him easy access. You mimic what he did to you earlier, tentatively wrapping your lips around his tongue and sucking gently.

Immediately, a low, visceral groan escapes him as his hips press forward, grinding his restrained arousal against your soaked folds. The rough fabric of his trousers drags against your sensitive nub, sending jolts of pleasure rippling through you. You whine into his mouth, arms winding around his neck as you pull him impossibly closer.

Sylus seems barely in control now, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he adjusts his movements, angling his hips so that the ridge where his shaft meets the head rubs directly against your overstimulated nub.

Without warning, he breaks the kiss, leaving you on the verge of a whine as a string of spit bridges the space between you. He steps back, tugging his trousers down in one swift motion. Your gaze drops instinctively, and your breath catches at the sight of him.

Broad shoulders taper into a lean waist, and every inch of his sculpted body radiates strength. But it’s the thick, throbbing length between his legs that holds your attention. He notices the starstruck look on your gaze and he chuckles, walking closer to you until you're face level with it. Taking your hand, he gently wraps it around his girth. The sheer thickness overwhelms your grip, and your breath catches at the realization.

“Feel free to take a look,” he rasps.

You’ve never seen a cock before, but instinctively, you know this one is massive. The shaft is thick,  with prominent veins that seem to throb faintly, and the soft, rounded shapes below it look heavy and full. The bulbous, mushroom-shaped tip is flushed, beads of some kind of white, translucent fluid glistening at the slit. For some reason, you feel the urge to lean in and taste it.

Sylus takes your hand, shaping it into a loose 'O.' “This is you,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers to glide along his length, spreading the slick fluid. “And this…” He pushes through the circle you’ve made, the thick head sliding in and out. “…is how it’ll feel when I’m inside you.”

Slowly, he begins to move, sliding his shaft through your grip. The sensation is intoxicating, and you’re mesmerized by the sight of him—his cock pumping in and out of your hand, each stroke leaving it sticky with his arousal. You don’t even realize your lips are parting until you lean forward, your tongue darting out to flick against the leaking tip.

Sylus lets out a guttural moan, one hand tangling in your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. His taste—salty and slightly bitter—is heady, and the heat of him against your tongue heightens your arousal. He bucks into your mouth, and though you gag slightly, you fight to take more of him, desperate for the connection.

You feel too empty.

“Princess—fuck—this is torture,” he groans, his deep voice rough with restraint.

You can only moan in response, lips stretched around his cock as he begins thrusting into your mouth. His large hands steady your head, guiding your movements. You peek up at him through fluttering lashes, and you feel your folds quiver at the sinful sight of the Onichynus general panting, eyes shut, sweat-covered muscles taut as he pistons in and out of you.

You are Noir’s beloved princess—revered and envied for your beauty, grace, and intellect—yet now you’re barely coherent, delirious over the addictive taste of your husband as he fucks your mouth over and over.

One particularly deep thrust hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears springing to your eyes. Sylus curses under his breath and withdraws immediately.

“Princess, I’m sorry,” he pants, taking in the sight of you—tears streaking your cheeks, saliva glistening on your lips, thighs pressed together in a futile attempt to relieve your ache.

“It’s okay,” you croak, voice hoarse and small.

Sylus pauses, taking a moment to steady himself and pull back from the frenzy consuming him, before climbing onto the bed, positioning himself against the headboard. His hands grip your waist, lifting you effortlessly to straddle his lap. Movements frantic and barely restrained, he aligns your slick folds against the length of his shaft. His lips find yours again, urgent and demanding, while his hands grip your hips, guiding you to rock against him. The friction against your sensitive nub draws a cry from you, and he groans into your mouth.

“Let me have you, princess,” he practically begs against your lips between heavy breaths.

You barely have time to process his words before he lifts you slightly, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. Then, you feel an immediate, sharp stretch as he breaches your folds, pushing deeper until the full length of him fills you to the hilt.

A strangled cry escapes you and you collapse against his chest, burying your face in his neck with stilted sobs. Sylus remains still, large hands massaging your rear soothingly, coaxing your body to adjust.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing against your temple. “Just breathe. Let me in.”

“It hurts,” you gasp. He shifts slightly, and a sharp sensation makes you wince, like he’s hitting a spot that feels too far, too much. “T—Too big…”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, breath hot and uneven against your ear. His hands move carefully, gently parting the delicate skin of your folds in an attempt to ease the stretch and make it more bearable.

Keeping his hips as still as possible, he reaches for the hem of your now sweat-soaked nightgown, lifting it with as much gentleness as he can muster. His eyes trace the path of the fabric as it reveals the slick mess of fluids dripping from where you're joined, the soft curve of your belly, the delicate bounce of your breasts freed from constraint, and finally, your tear-streaked face—beautiful, vulnerable, and utterly his. Guilt flickers through him as he feels himself twitch and grow even harder inside you, despite your pained whimpers.

After tossing the fabric aside, his lips find your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to the spots that make your walls flutter around him, drawing soft, helpless sounds from your lips. 

“Once you’re settled in our home on the mainland, you’ll have everything you could ever desire,” he murmurs, hands gliding up to rub gentle circles over your hardened nipples.

“You’ll have servants at your beck and call, and you’ll be free to do whatever you please. No one will dare defy you—no one will even think to.”

The vivid imagery of his words wraps around your mind like a spell, pulling you deeper into him. The sharp discomfort of being stretched begins to ebb, replaced by a dull ache that shifts to faint blooms of pleasure.

“And when you finally swell with my child,” he breathes, tone thick with promise, “I’ll find endless delight in claiming you over and over, until the first light of dawn touches us.”

You flush at the picture of him taking you like this, with your belly round and full with his heir.

He chuckles low against your ear, the sound dark and rich. “Oh? You like that idea, don’t you?”

You huff, landing a light smack on his chest. “Do not tease me,” you protest, voice carrying a hint of authority despite your half-lidded gaze. The sight of you perched on his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, while you fix him with a stern, regal expression befitting a princess is enough to have his hips bucking up to you.

With a strained groan, he crashes his lips against your neck, his cock throbbing almost painfully within your tight walls. “I need you, princess,” he rasps against your skin, barely holding back the urge to thrust up into you.

The pressure of the stretch still lingers, but the sharp pain has melted into pulses of pleasure. You place your hips back, grinding your sensitive nub against his groin, desperate for more. “Please do something,” you plead, hips moving in frantic, clumsy circles, chasing a bliss you don’t know you’re craving.

Sylus doesn’t hesitate. He lowers you back onto the mattress while still buried deep inside you. Propping himself up on his elbows, his gaze locks onto yours as he slowly draws his hips back, leaving only the tip nestled at your entrance. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he sinks back in to the hilt, filling you completely in one long, unrelenting stroke.

You cry out, this time in response to the delicious friction of his cock dragging against your walls. Driven wild by your reaction, he pulls back again, then thrusts deeply into you with another slow, deliberate plunge. A hiss escapes him as the head of his cock presses against your deepest depths.

“You’re doing so good,” he groans, lips brushing over the bruises left by his earlier kisses on your neck. “You’ve been such a darling for me, haven’t you?”

To his twisted delight, you remain incomprehensible, helpless sounds pouring from your kiss-bitten lips as you scramble to steady yourself by gripping his shoulders, nails digging painfully into his skin. He’s almost feral at the way your flesh ripples from the impact of each thrust. The princess of Noir, coveted by men all over the realm, now lies beneath him, sweat-slicked, legs spread, and taking his cock so wonderfully.  But beyond that, he sees the most perfect queen—one whose unparalleled intellect and sharp wit can stand beside him in his pursuit for power.

Suddenly, he pulls out, and you whine, tears staining your cheeks at the dizzying emptiness. He merely shushes you soothingly before gently turning you over onto your stomach. Before you can garble out a question on what he’s doing, he plunges into you once more, hitting a spot against your front that has you curling your toes and screaming into the sheets.

“I—It feels s—strange again—!” you manage between broken whimpers, each word punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his movements against your sore walls.

“Wanna feel good again, princess?” he murmurs against your ear.

Your answering sob is all the reply you can muster.

Suddenly, you’re hoisted up on your knees, his strong arm wrapping around your waist as his other hand grips your jaw, holding your face up. His thrusts quicken, erratic and desperate, and you gasp as his tongue traces the outer shell of your ear. Then, his hand slides lower, fingers finding the swollen nub above your abused folds. The sudden burst of pleasure at the rubbing motion has you crying out, body tightening as a familiar heat coils low in your belly.

You begin to thrash in his hold at the overwhelming sensations. “Sy—I think—I think I’m—”

“Let it happen, princess, I got you.”

With those words, your hands tangle in his sweat-damp hair as a violent shudder wracks your body, exhausted sobs escaping your lips. His relentless pace doesn’t falter, eyes locked on the harsh bounce of your breasts as he pounds into you from behind, chasing his release. The tight grip of your walls and the slick heat enveloping his cock finally push him over the edge, his thrusts turning shallow and frantic before burying himself deep with a final, forceful motion, spilling his seed inside you.

Sylus takes a moment to catch his breath, pressing soft, chaste kisses along your shoulders.

“You alright, princess?”

You don’t respond.

Confused, he gently tilts your head back, only to find your peaceful, sleeping face, soft snores escaping your lips. He huffs a small laugh. How adorable.

Carefully, he shifts against the headboard, settling you onto him with his half-hard cock still nestled inside, twitching faintly. Draping your legs over his knees, he starts massaging your inner thighs, soothing the soreness he knows must be there.

A series of sharp knocks echoes through the room.

“This is the chamberlain. I must confirm that the consummation rites have been fulfilled for your marriage to be deemed legitimate by the Grand Temple.”

Sylus scowls, eyes scanning over your sleeping form. “Can’t this wait in the morning?”

“This is necessary to eliminate any possibility of deceit in performing the rites.”

“Damn uptights,” he mutters. Then, a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “Well, come in then.”

The door swings open, revealing the old chamberlain in his faded temple robes, his attention fixed on his ledger. He mumbles the schedule for the following day as he approaches the bed. When he finally looks up, expecting to see the usual ruffled, soaked sheets, he freezes, almost stumbling backward in shock.

You—the cherished Noir princess, known for your beauty and headstrong grace—lie exhausted, nestled against the imposing form of the feared Onichynus general behind you. His scarlet eyes glint as he sucks a mark onto the side of your neck, and beneath you, his impressive girth disappears into your swollen, intimate folds, generous amounts of your combined essences coating his base.

“This is evidence enough, no?” Sylus taunts, sneaking in a shallow thrust up to you, drawing a soft, breathless whine from your throat.

The chamberlain stammers, his words fumbling as he backs toward the door.

“Y—Yes, the rites are confirmed. Good night,” he rushes out in a single breath before slamming the door behind him.

Chuckling, Sylus pulls his sleeping wife closer, placing a tender kiss on your temple. You’ll need the rest for the long journey ahead, and for whatever adjustments await you back on the mainland.

But, in the end, none of that matters.

He’s just grateful to have found his beloved kitten again.

check out my other works!

[dopescissorscashwagon]

Sharon Stone steps behind the podium at the Visionary Women's Day Summit at the Beverly Wilshire on March 6, 2024.

[macalaelliottphotography]

Landscape Retaining Walls in New York Ideas for a summertime stone retaining wall landscape in a small traditional yard with partial sun exposure.

[mammoth-clangen]

Previous refs

Bat is actually 9 moons and has grown a fair bit as of Moon 10. But alas, that's the problem with doing refs for characters in a story where they change c':

Read this ask if you want to know more about his missing leg

His and Snake's refs were made/posted in October, but mostly hold up

Steppe and Summit have some bonus notes from when i originally posted them here (also in october)

Seequa, is a Miracinonyx and is not really important but I made him a little ref bc it was world cheetah day cx

And finally! Old man Elmfade! His ref is crowded but i wanted everyone on the same page so i could upload it like this :'D

I used Mauricio Anton's 3D homotherium skull for Fade's headshot, but i sooooo wish I could find the actual model and not that single still of it. Having a decent 3D Homotherium skull to turnaround would be so gooood ;A;

[charseraph]

My emotion monuments.

Joy spins violently and emits a constant explosive roar.

Anger is a fissile ball contained in polished stone. It is very small and emits nearly no sound. Making eye contact will darken everything else in sight.

Loneliness emerges and retreats from the desert sand slowly and unexpectedly.

Fear alternates from hanging still to falling and rising rapidly.

Regret hovers high and rotates lazily. It may fall heavily, embedding itself into the desert.

Surrender is a full sphere with only its top exposed. Other monuments may prop themselves against it.

Vigor frequently holds Joy at its summit. Though it may sink into the ground the pillar never fully submerges.

Disgust is a disk with beveled edges. It typically sits on its flat side against the floor.

Sadness is hollow like a pistachio shell. It aimlessly hovers low to the ground.

Torpor has a spiral staircase. It may sink so low as to appear as a flush circular stone plaza.

Stress never collapses, but may be suddenly yanked downwards as its “stilt” is pulled into the sand in a breathy thump.

Each monument is unplaceably sentient.

[pomegranatelifethis]

A Crimson Dawn

The air in your chambers was heavy with the scent of lavender and old parchment, a fragile sanctuary woven from silk drapes and the soft glow of candlelight. You sat by the arched window, your fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of your gown, oblivious to the world beyond the stone walls of your kingdom. The distant clamor of steel and the cries of men were but faint echoes, dismissed as the clamor of routine drills. Your brothers, ever protective, had ensured your world remained untouched by the chaos that bled across the borders. They called it love, but the locked door at the end of the hall felt more like a cage.

You were the youngest, the cherished princess of Eryndor, raised on tales of chivalry and starlit balls, your heart a garden of dreams yet to bloom. War was a concept as foreign to you as the shadowed lands of Gotham, your enemy across the sea. Your brothers—Cassian, the eldest, with his stern brow, and Lysander, the scholar with ink-stained fingers—had shielded you from the whispers of bloodshed. Even now, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of fire, you hummed a soft melody, unaware of the storm that had already broken your kingdom.

---

In the heart of Gotham’s war camp, Prince Damian Wayne stood amidst a sea of crimson banners, his armor slick with the blood of Eryndor’s knights. The battlefield stretched before him, a tapestry of ruin—shattered shields, broken blades, and the lifeless forms of those who dared defy him. His men called him the Red Lord, a title born from the rivers of blood that followed his blade and the unrelenting fury in his emerald eyes. To them, he was a demon, a force of nature cloaked in obsidian steel.

But to Damian, this war was not for conquest or glory. It was for you.

He had seen you only once, at a diplomatic summit two summers past, when the air was sweet with peace and the halls of Eryndor rang with laughter. You had stood beneath a chandelier’s golden glow, your smile a beacon that pierced the shadows of his guarded heart. You were purity incarnate, a vision of grace in a world he knew only as cruel. He had watched you from afar, memorizing the way your eyes sparkled when you spoke, the way your laughter danced like music. He had been a prince of Gotham, heir to a throne forged in iron, but in that moment, he was merely a boy, struck silent by a longing he could not name.

When Eryndor’s king rejected Gotham’s alliance—rejected *you* as a bride for Damian, citing his blood-soaked lineage—the prince’s heart had turned to ash. The war that followed was a fire kindled by that rejection, a desperate bid to claim what his soul demanded. He would tear Eryndor apart if it meant you would be his.

The door to your chambers rattled, startling you from your reverie. You turned, expecting Lysander with his usual stack of books or Cassian with a lecture on court etiquette. Instead, the door remained shut, the lock unyielding. A faint shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the unmistakable clatter of armored boots. Your heart quickened, though you didn’t understand why.

“Cassian?” you called softly, rising from your seat. “Lysander?”

No answer came. The shouts grew louder, punctuated by the sharp ring of steel. You pressed a hand to your chest, your breath hitching. The world beyond your door was unraveling, and for the first time, the weight of your ignorance pressed against you like a physical force.

Your brothers had locked you away three days ago, their faces pale and drawn. “For your safety,” Cassian had said, his voice tight. “Stay here, little dove. Trust us.” You had nodded, ever obedient, believing their promises of protection. But now, as the castle trembled and the air grew thick with the acrid scent of smoke, doubt crept into your heart.

Damian carved his way through Eryndor’s stronghold, his sword a blur of death. The guards who stood between him and you were no match for his wrath. He had planned this assault for months, every move calculated, every sacrifice weighed. Gotham’s forces had crushed Eryndor’s armies, and now their castle was his. But victory meant nothing until he found you.

He stormed the upper towers, his heart a war drum in his chest. The rumors of your brothers’ desperation had reached him—how they had hidden you away, shielding you from the truth of their defeat. It only fueled his resolve. You deserved better than to be caged, better than a life of ignorance. He would free you, even if it meant staining his hands with more blood.

A final guard fell before him, and Damian kicked open the door to the royal wing. The corridor was lined with portraits of Eryndor’s kings, their eyes seeming to judge him as he passed. At the end of the hall, a heavy oak door stood barred, its iron lock gleaming in the torchlight. He knew you were behind it. He could feel it, as surely as he felt the ache in his bones.

You flinched as the door shuddered, a deafening crack splitting the air. The wood groaned, then splintered, and the lock gave way with a scream of metal. You stumbled back, your gown catching on the edge of a table, your eyes wide with fear. The figure that stepped through the wreckage was a nightmare made flesh—tall, clad in dark armor, his cape dripping with the crimson of battle. His face was half-hidden by a helm, but his eyes… his eyes burned with a fire that stole your breath.

“Princess,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, as he removed his helm. Dark hair fell across his brow, and those eyes—green as jade, sharp as a blade—locked onto yours.

You didn’t know him, yet something in his gaze felt achingly familiar, like a dream you couldn’t recall. “Who… who are you?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He took a step closer, and you instinctively retreated, your back pressing against the cold stone wall. He stopped, his expression softening, though the blood on his armor gleamed in the candlelight. “I am Damian Wayne, prince of Gotham,” he said. “And I have come for you.”

“For me?” Your mind spun, grasping for meaning. “Why? My brothers—”

“Your brothers are defeated,” he said, his tone gentle but unyielding. “Eryndor has fallen. But you… you are safe now. With me.”

The words made no sense. Fallen? Defeated? Your world, so carefully curated, shattered like glass. “I don’t understand,” you said, your voice breaking. “Why is this happening?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He wanted to tell you everything—how this war had been for you, how his heart had waged its own battle long before the first sword was drawn. But you were trembling, your innocence a fragile thing he feared he might break.

“Because I love you,” he said at last, the confession raw, unguarded. “And I would burn the world to keep you safe.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. Love? This stranger, this blood-soaked prince, spoke of love as if it were a vow written in the stars. You should have been afraid, should have screamed for your brothers, for the life you knew. But something in his eyes held you captive—a truth that stirred the untouched corners of your soul.

The Red Lord had come for you, and the world you knew would never be the same.

[dungeonmapster]

This map and more on patreon

Weatherbeaten steps rise in a winding, bending path up the steep cliffside, hewn into the rock in ancient times. Simply looking at the scores of stairs is exhausting, and any travelling packrats are sure to groan at the prospect of making the climb, but for those that wish to reach the frosty summit, there is no better way.

The mountain barrow tomb juts from the rugged terrain of the mountain's peak, its weathered stones blending with the natural rock formations. Massive stone arches, intricately carved with ancient symbols and motifs, adorned the entrance, creating an imposing yet eerily beautiful facade. The arches loomed overhead, casting long shadows that danced in the flickering light. At the barrow's entrance, a large and ancient door still stands, rusted in place by an age of neglect, guarding the final resting place of the inhabitants of a bygone age.

[danelloevee]

@ma7moudgaza2 has been displaced several times for the past 9+ months and currently lives in a tent with his parents and siblings. All he asks is for help in rebuilding his home so they have a more secure place to stay. I will relay a message he asked me to share:

We are a family of 5 suffering for over 9 months from a brutal war that spares neither humans nor stones.

My mother lost all of her family in this war, starting with my uncle Amer, his wife, and his children, who rose in the belt of fire over the city of Tal al-Hawa, then my other uncle and my other aunt died!! I don't know how my mother's heart can be patient with this affliction, but I ask God to give her patience and strength

My father also made many sacrifices when he lost his home and his job as a teacher, and his nephew was martyred at the beginning of the war. He is also strong and patient 🙏🏼

My brother Muhammad, who remained in northern Gaza, struggling with hunger, killing and destruction, also lost his place of work and many, many of his friends died

As for my spoiled sister, she lived the war while carrying the entire house on her shoulders. She lived the war from displacement to displacement and from tent to tent

As for me, Mahmoud, I also lost my studies after the occupation destroyed my university. I created this campaign to compensate us for a little of the damage we experienced. What we experienced is priceless at any price, but today I am asking you for a small donation of $10 that may contribute to saving us and our family from disappointment and the hell of war. We lived to build a new home for ourselves and the beginning of a new and beautiful life

This fundraiser has been verified and vetted and can be found on @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi 's list here

The link on the list is his previous campaign to evacuate, but the progress was slow so he is currently focusing on rebuilding their house instead

[lyn31]

Honeymoon

Summary

Tucked away in a snowy retreat, your honeymoon with Zayne begins not with rest, but with laughter, lingering touches, and the slow unraveling of everything you’d been waiting for.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Continuation from this fluff 👀

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: Smut, shameless smut actually, married couple, first night, not their first time, multiple sex position, multiple sex place, oral sex, creampie, teasing, banter, body worship.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The snow crunches softly beneath your boots as you step out of the car, the chill brushing your skin even through your coat. You tug it tighter—not just from the cold. Zayne’s right behind you, and somehow, his presence makes even the winter night feel still and calm.

The cabin is tucked into the trees, lights glowing faintly through frosted windows. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney. It looks like it was pulled from some quiet dream, and for a second you just stare.

Zayne rests a hand on your lower back. “Too cold to linger, darling,” he murmurs, then leans in a little closer. “Unless you’re hoping to give our hosts a show.”

You snort, elbowing him gently as you head for the front door. “Says the one who packs three scarves like we’re summiting a mountain.”

“You’re the one with silk under fleece,” he says calmly.

You stumble on the last step.

You definitely didn’t tell him about the lingerie.

The suite inside is warm, quiet. There’s a flickering fire already lit in the stone hearth, casting a golden glow across the polished wood floor and the thick, dark rugs. Your luggage is here too—someone must’ve dropped it off while you were still at the reception. Everything’s as it should be, every detail taken care of.

You slide your coat off slowly, fingers brushing over the fastenings beneath your sweater—where travel layers hide something far more delicate. You’re still wearing soft travel pants and a cozy knit sweater, but underneath... you’re ready.

Zayne’s moved to check something by the fireplace, shrugging out of his jacket and rolling his sleeves with slow, deliberate care. When he turns back, his gaze flickers down your form—and pauses, like he can see right through the layers.

“You look warm,” he says, voice mild, but his eyes are anything but.

You smile, heart kicking up just a little. “Mm. Cozy.”

He steps toward you, stopping close. “Comfortable?”

“Getting there.”

His hand brushes your hip. “How long do you plan to stay dressed like that?”

“That depends,” you murmur, tilting your chin up. “How long do you plan to keep looking at me like that without doing anything?”

There’s a flicker in his expression—something soft, something dangerous.

And he steps closer.

His fingers slide beneath the hem of your sweater—slow, testing—and when you don’t stop him, he lifts it higher, revealing the thin lace strap beneath. His breath catches, just a little.

“You were planning this,” he says, low.

“Obviously.”

“You didn’t think I’d notice?”

“I hoped you would.” You arch a brow at him, the boldness only half-played. “Though I wasn’t expecting you to comment on it in the snow.”

“You were fidgeting,” he murmurs, inching the fabric up more. “It gave you away.”

You let him lift the sweater the rest of the way. His touch is gentle, reverent even, but his eyes—his eyes are already devouring you.

The lingerie is delicate, a soft ivory that mirrors your wedding dress from earlier—like you never quite let the ceremony end—trimmed with faint gold shimmer that catches the firelight. He looks at you like you’re something unearthly. Something he can’t believe belongs to him.

He lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles along the line of your bra. “You wore this the whole evening?”

“Mmhmm.”

A beat.

“You’re insufferable.”

You smile, stepping back just enough to start undoing the drawstring of your pants. “And you’re slow.”

That gets him moving.

He’s on you in the next step, his hands replacing yours as he finishes pulling the pants down—slowly, deliberately. You feel the way his knuckles skim your thighs as he slides them off, the coolness of his breath as he lowers himself to his knees.

And he stays there.

Zayne doesn’t speak—not right away. He just looks. At you, like you’re art—posed in lace and gold, glowing in the firelight. His hands come to rest at the backs of your thighs, and for a second, he doesn’t move at all. Just breathes you in.

Then, softly.

“I married a menace.”

You laugh. “And you still said I do.”

He kisses your hip in answer.

And then he rises again, slowly, wrapping his arms around your waist, lifting you with the same quiet grace he always carries—and yet somehow, now, it feels entirely different. Like the whole world has narrowed down to this, his arms around you, your bare skin against his chest, the rustle of lace and breath and heat.

Instinctively, you loop your arms around his neck, heart stuttering.

“You’re carrying me?” you murmur, caught off guard by how natural it feels.

Zayne hums, calm and matter-of-fact. “Wouldn’t be right not to.”

The bed dips beneath your back as he lowers you gently onto the sheets. The firelight catches the shimmer in your lingerie again, and when his eyes trail over your body this time, it’s slower. Focused. He doesn’t move for a long moment—just takes you in, like he’s memorizing everything from the curve of your waist to the way the lace clings to your chest.

His gaze lingers there, and then—

“…You wore something like this before,” he murmurs. “Didn’t you?”

Your lips twitch into a small smile. “Might’ve crossed your mind a few times?”

His fingers brush over the edge of the lace, ghosting the outline of your breast without touching too directly. “The one with the built-in opening.”

You hum. “Mhm.”

He looks up at you again, slower this time. “You picked something similar on purpose.”

“Well,” you say lightly, dragging your nail along his forearm where he’s leaning over you, “you didn’t seem to mind it last time. Thought I’d wear something just as easy to work with.”

Zayne’s expression shifts—faintly strained at the edges, like he’s holding back too much at once. And then he finally slips a finger beneath the lace, pulling it down—not even bothering to take it off. Just enough to bare your breasts to the open air. Just enough to ruin you with how carefully he’s watching.

His gaze drops, darkening as he exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate.

“I like this one even more.”

His hands come up to cradle the weight of your chest, fingers splaying as his thumbs drag lightly over your nipples. They’re already stiff from the chill and anticipation, and his touch is maddeningly delicate—just enough pressure to tease, not satisfy.

And then his head dips.

His mouth is cool when it closes over your breast, the soft sharpness of it dragging a gasp straight from your throat. His tongue flicks against your nipple first, almost lazy, then circles it with slow, measured care. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t press harder. He just lingers, tasting you like he’s learning something from every movement.

One hand remains on your other breast, thumb brushing steady circles over the sensitive peak while he sucks gently, steadily, on the one in his mouth. His tongue swirls again—slow and wet—and your body jolts, hips shifting without your permission.

You arch toward him, breath catching. “Zayne—”

He doesn’t answer. Just moves to the other side with maddening control. His mouth closes around your other nipple just as slowly, just as gently, and you feel the wet drag of his tongue before he pulls back to nip at the soft skin just beneath. The sharpness makes you flinch—but he soothes the sting instantly, tongue flattening over the spot before trailing up again, dragging heat in his wake.

He returns to your nipple with a hum—quiet, pleased—and takes it between his lips again, sucking until your toes curl.

Then his fingers come back, cruel in their contrast. One hand pinches lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers until it swells, oversensitive and aching. The other hand cups you, thumb rubbing in slow, purposeful circles. Your breath stutters, your thighs shifting under the weight of his mouth—but his focus never wavers.

“I’ve barely touched you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing across your skin as he moves from one breast to the other, dragging his mouth messily across your chest, “and you’re already shaking.”

“I—It’s sensitive—” you breathe, voice already fraying.

“I know,” he says, and his tone is soft, dangerously pleased. He kisses your breast again, slower this time, like drawing breath from you. “You always are. But tonight…”

He pulls back just far enough to watch your reaction as he pinches again, just a bit firmer this time—measured, intentional. Your body twitches, hips rising, and a shiver rolls through you.

“…I want to see how far I can take you.”

And he does.

Alternates between lips and tongue, hand and mouth, just enough to keep you desperate—and never enough to let you settle.

He kisses lower first, returning to your breasts with wet, open-mouthed attention. One nipple disappears into his mouth while his fingers roll the other. You jolt when he pinches, a broken moan spilling out, and he groans softly around you like he feels it too. His tongue flicks quick, teasing strokes—then slows again, dragging in a broad, flat circle that makes your breath stutter.

Then he shifts, mouth lifting from your chest, trailing coolness to the center of your body.

He kisses your collarbone. Your throat. The underside of your jaw.

His hand never leaves your chest.

It keeps moving, fingertips grazing over your flushed skin, thumb stroking your nipple in tight, rhythmic circles while he finds the hollow of your throat and lingers there with his lips. You feel his breath against your skin, cool and steady, just before his mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels almost cruel with how sweet it is.

You moan into it, helpless and breathless, hips shifting under him, thighs pressing together as your body begs for more friction. But he just kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue sliding past your lips in a way that makes you dizzy.

Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

And while his mouth claims yours, both hands move on your breasts again—palming them, squeezing just enough to keep you panting. One hand pinches, sharper this time, and your whole body jerks. He swallows the sound you make and drags his lips away from yours just to murmur, “That’s it,” against your mouth.

Then he kisses lower again. Not rushed. Almost like he’s indulging himself.

Down your throat.

Back to your chest.

He sucks hard the moment he reaches your nipple again, and your back lifts sharply from the bed.

You cry out—raw, startled—because it’s too much now, and he doesn’t stop. He licks over the swollen peak in broad strokes, easing it briefly, but then his hand closes around the other and starts all over again—pinching, rolling, coaxing every last tremor from your body.

He breaks away from your breast just to kiss you again, like he can’t decide what he wants most.

And it’s that—that—that ruins you.

The way he keeps switching—cool mouth, sharp hands, unrelenting rhythm. The way he doesn’t let up. The way he gives you everything except what you’re squirming for.

You’re moaning openly now, voice cracking, body shaking under the weight of his mouth and touch. Your hands in his hair tighten. Your thighs tremble, hips twitching with no rhythm, and he stays exactly where he is—kissing your chest again, sucking until your skin feels like it might bruise, his hand tweaking your nipple just a little too hard.

And before you even realize it, release hits you with a gasp—sharp, unsteady—your back arching high off the bed as he sucks hard one final time, sealing it in, locking it deep. Your whole body pulses with it, shudders rolling through you, and he just…keeps going, gentle now. Tongue soothing, lips soft. Like he’s drawing it out, helping you ride the wave until you melt against the sheets.

He doesn’t stop right away. Lets the aftershocks roll through you while his hand strokes your side, grounding. Gentle. Worshipful.

When you finally open your eyes again, he’s still watching you.

“My wife,” Zayne murmurs, voice low and reverent—like he’s saying something holy.

The word hits you deeper than you expect. Like it sinks into your skin and nests in your chest, warming everything from the inside. It makes you feel wanted, claimed, but more than that—loved. All of you. In every possible way.

You don’t even have time to reply before he leans down and kisses you—soft at first, lips slow against yours, then deeper, his tongue sweeping over yours like he’s drinking you in. His mouth trails from there, down your jaw, along the slope of your neck. He kisses you like he’s charting a path, each press of his lips deliberate, slow, each breath he draws puffing coolness against your skin.

He doesn’t stop. Your collarbone, then the top of your chest. He kisses around the edge of the lace he pushed aside earlier, brushing his nose against the line where fabric meets bare skin. But instead of lingering there, he keeps going—down, lower, his mouth brushing the soft curve of your stomach still underneath the lace, the dip of your navel, then even lower, until he settles between your legs.

His hands curl under your thighs, gently lifting and parting them. He kisses the inside of one, then the other—slow, open-mouthed kisses that sting slightly from the coolness of his breath. His tongue flicks a sensitive spot near your knee, and you twitch, breath catching.

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re dark with hunger, intense and unblinking.

He trails lower. His lips brush down the inside of your thigh, cool and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch. He pauses at the skin just beside the edge of the sheer opening, letting his breath fan against the wet heat of your folds without touching. His nose skims over the fabric, inhaling deeply. You feel it everywhere.

“Zayne—” you manage, already breathless, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, he dips down.

The first lick is slow. From the very bottom of your slit all the way up, his tongue presses flat, dragging against you without mercy. He stops just shy of your clit, close enough that your hips twitch upward on instinct.

Then he does it again.

And again.

You suck in a sharp breath, fingers threading into his hair as he repeats the motion—painfully controlled, always avoiding the one spot you ache for. His hands grip your thighs tighter when you shift, holding you steady as he licks you open with maddening precision.

“You just came,” he murmurs against you. “So isn’t me going slow helpful?”

You exhale, legs trembling around him. You’re still sensitive—every drag of his tongue sends sparks through your spine—but that doesn’t dull the heat building again. If anything, it sharpens it.

“Y-you call this helping?” you choke out, hips twitching despite yourself.

He doesn’t answer. Just flattens his tongue against your slit once more, firmer this time—unapologetic.

Your whole body jolts.

A gasp rips from you as your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself, but his mouth only presses closer—cool, wet, and relentless, opposite yet feel exactly like the pulse deep in your core. Your thighs twitch against his grip, already too close again and nowhere near satisfied.

When he finally gives your clit a passing flick, you cry out, only for him to retreat again, teasing the edge of it with barely-there touches, as if by accident. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s dragging it out on purpose.

Your back arches helplessly, thighs trembling and clenching around his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps working you open—slow, thorough, wicked. His fingers return to your breasts, pinching lightly at your nipples, rolling them in time with the maddening pace of his tongue.

It’s too much.

The heat, the attention, the way he gives and withholds all at once—it’s dizzying. Your breath comes in short, broken gasps. Your hips twitch, trying to chase his mouth, but he keeps you pinned easily, mouth dragging another slow stroke right past where you want him most.

“Zayne—” you breathe, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging harder this time. “Do I—god—do I get my turn now?”

It comes out shaky, pleading, already fraying at the edges. You don’t even know if you’re asking to touch him or for him to finally let you come again—maybe both. Either way, you’re falling apart, and he hasn’t even let up.

Zayne hums against you, thoughtful but unbothered, his tongue still working. “Later,” he says, voice vibrating straight through your skin. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

And with that, he parts the fabric opening even further, thumbs slipping beneath the lace to hold you open for him.

The vibration of his voice as he speaks again is too much. It makes your stomach tense, your hips roll upward. You don’t even get to tease him back—because his tongue slides inside you next, wet and cool and slow.

A startled moan escapes your throat. Your legs tremble in his grip, but he’s not letting you close them. One hand glides up and down your thigh in calming motions while the other presses lightly against the top of your leg, holding you open just the way he wants.

And then—oh fuck—his thumb flicks your clit. A quick, knowing swipe that leaves you gasping. He circles it slowly after, matching the pace of his tongue. You’re squirming under him now, moaning his name again and again, but his grip never loosens.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.

His mouth leaves you only for a second, and then his fingers slide into you—two of them, slow, stretching you with unbearable patience. The drag of his knuckles has your toes curling.

There’s no break. He shifts lower on the bed tucking one of his legs beneath yours, spreading you wider. The new angle makes the slide of his fingers deeper, fuller, and his other hand returns to your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple again.

“Seriously?” you groan, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh.

Zayne tilts his head, feigning innocence—but his eyes are dark, lips slick and curled in quiet amusement.

“Something wrong?” he murmurs, like he’s not deliberately driving you insane. His voice is hoarse now, raw with arousal, and his gaze flickers from your chest to your face like he’s committing every reaction to memory.

You’re about to answer—say something—but he adds another finger, and your hips jerk before he presses a hand to your stomach, pinning you down.

“Zayne—”

“Hm?” He doesn’t even pretend to stop. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, slow and precise.

Your breath stutters. You don’t know if you’re frustrated or overwhelmed. Probably both. He leans up again, latches onto your nipple without warning, and you hiss from the sharp edge of sensation. He sucks, then releases with a wet pop before kissing up to your mouth again.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and back, pulling him closer. He’s still fingering you, slowly, and you take your chance—grind your hips up just enough to feel the solid heat of his cock pressed to your stomach.

He groans low, pulling back from the kiss, eyes flashing with need.

“Does it feel good?” he murmurs, even as his fingers keep working inside you.

Your breath hitches. You tilt your head to let him kiss your neck again. “Feels good…”

Before you gently guide his face up so you can really see him.

“But I want to make you feel good too.”

He pauses, eyes flicking over your face. Then he kisses your lips again. Once. Twice. A third time—slower, softer.

“People do say happy wife, happy life,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You snort, shaking your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Exactly. So let me return the favor.”

You nip at his lower lip before trailing your hand down—slow, deliberate. Pulling his fingers from you with a moan. He doesn’t stop you. When your fingers close over the thick outline of his cock, he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest as he lets you push him back onto the bed.

He follows easily, lips curving as you guide him down.

You shift up, straddling his hips, and tug at the hem of his sweater. “Way too many clothes.”

He lifts his arms obligingly, and you drag the fabric up—slow, teasing. It lifts over his stomach, then his chest, then off completely. You toss it aside.

“Much better already,” you murmur, eyes roaming over him.

Your hands move lower. You strip his pants next, then his boxers, baring him entirely. His cock springs free, flushed and hard, already glistening at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry. You lick your lips without realizing it.

He watches you the entire time. Like he wants to see exactly what you’re going to do.

You trail your fingers from the base of his length to the tip, slow and teasing. He shudders beneath you, his jaw tightening just slightly. Still, his eyes never leave yours.

You grip him at the base, slow and sure, and drag your hand upward in a slick stroke. The way his breath hitches—how his abs tighten just slightly beneath your thigh—sends a thrill straight through you. He’s so hard, heavy and hot in your hand, and you feel a jolt of satisfaction when you brush your thumb across the head and his hips twitch upward.

"You're enjoying this," you murmur, fingers working a little faster now, tightening your grip on the down stroke.

Zayne’s eyes stay locked on yours, dark with hunger. “Of course. I have a gorgeous wife sitting on top of me, making me feel like this. What’s not to enjoy?”

You smile, leaning down to kiss his chest, your strokes still smooth and steady. You press your lips to the center of his collarbone, then lower, trailing kisses down until you're hovering just above his cock. You exhale purposefully, watching him twitch in response. Your tongue flicks out, giving the head a teasing lick, and Zayne's hand slides into your hair instantly, not pushing, just holding.

But just as you’re about to take him into your mouth—just as your lips brush the tip—

“Up here,” he murmurs, voice a little rougher now. “And turn around.”

You blink. “What?”

His thumb brushes behind your ear, coaxing you gently back up. “I want your thighs around my head,” he says simply, eyes gleaming. “Turn. Face down.”

You stare at him for a beat, then raise a brow. “This is my turn.”

Zayne smiles, lazy and knowing. “Are you saying you can’t focus on sucking me off if I’m also eating you out, darling?”

This smug bastard.

You huff. The second the words leave his mouth, you feel the heat flare in your stomach—and your pride flaring right along with it.

“Oh really,” you mutter, already shifting your position.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The way he watches you move—like he’s already won—says it all.

You crawl up, straddling his chest before slowly turning yourself around. You adjust your knees on either side of his ribs, the faint graze of your skin over his chest making him hum low in his throat. Now you’re facing his cock again, but this time you feel his hands gripping your thighs, guiding your folds down to his mouth. His breath still cool, between your legs, and your own stutters just from the anticipation.

Then it begins.

You lower your mouth onto him, just the tip at first—wet, warm, your tongue circling slowly around the head. Beneath you, a rough sound slips from him. The sound vibrates against your skin, and then his mouth is on you too—tongue dragging a slow line up your slit before dipping in and curling upward.

You gasp around him, choking slightly, but you recover quickly. You slide more of him into your mouth, your hand stroking what you can’t take yet, and suck harder.

Zayne groans again. This time it’s hoarse, breathless. His hips lift slightly into your mouth, but his hands are steady on your thighs, spreading you wider.

He dives in deeper now, licking you open with long, practiced strokes. His tongue parts your folds, tracing every inch before focusing on your clit—short flicks at first, then slow circles that make your thighs tremble. He doesn’t rush. He’s savoring. Enjoying every reaction you give him.

You try to keep your rhythm, try to stay focused—but your own moans are getting harder to swallow.

You lower yourself further on his cock, feeling the stretch in your jaw, and the weight of him on your tongue makes your core clench, aching for more.. You hum around him instinctively, and Zayne lets out a ragged breath, deeper this time, the sound vibrating straight into your core.

Then his tongue thrusts into you—slow, deliberate, in rhythm with his hands pushing your thighs slowly, making your hip drop down as you gasp in shock, before he grips your hips, holding you in place.

Your legs tighten uncontrollably. Your hips roll against his face without meaning to, and your moan turns into something breathless, wet around his cock.

You can’t focus anymore. Not fully.

Your pace falters as he starts to suck your clit—hard—and your arms shake around him, breast fully flush against his skin. Your mouth leaves his cock for a second, panting, your cheek pressing to his thigh.

“Zayne—fuck—”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even pause. He just licks deeper, faster, tongue flicking cruelly over your clit, and your entire body shudders.

You try to go back to sucking him off, but the second you take him in again, he drags his tongue over that sensitive spot just beneath your clit—and you whimper, your hips grinding down helplessly.

He's doing this on purpose.

Of course he is.

You fall apart slowly, losing that edge of competition bit by bit. Your jaw slackens, your strokes uneven now, more instinct than focus. Your fingers tremble as they wrap around him again, but your body—your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s his. It’s reacting to him.

Because Zayne is still feasting on you like a man starved. Like tasting you is a privilege. Like he wants to bury himself in your body, through his tongue if nothing else.

You whimper again, unable to stop yourself, your hips beginning to stutter.

You try—you really try—to keep stroking him, licking him, to not let your body collapse entirely from the heat winding tighter in your belly. Your hand pumps his cock steadily, slick with your spit, and you give him a few more messy licks, mouth trembling around him. Every time he twitches in your grasp, it pushes you to keep going. To match him, if only a little.

But Zayne doesn’t let up. Not for a second.

His hands grip your hips, anchoring you in place while his tongue works you mercilessly—flicking and curling, dragging across your clit again and again. He knows your body too well. Knows exactly how to keep you on the edge, how to push you right past it.

“Z-Zayne—fuck, I’m—” your voice breaks around the words, muffled by his cock resting heavy on your tongue.

And then it hits.

You come hard.

Your thighs quake around his head, and you cry out around his cock, the sound vibrating through your throat. Your hips grind instinctively against his mouth, riding out every wave as his tongue keeps moving, keeps coaxing, even as your body clenches and shudders above him.

But your hand doesn’t stop either. More instinct than anything now.

Even while your body spirals through orgasm, you keep your hand on him, still pumping his cock in shaky, determined strokes. Your lips part again, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length as best you can. It’s messy. Desperate. A cry breaks from your lips freely against his skin, humming around him as the aftershocks pulse through you.

Zayne groans into you in return—low and rough, a sound of pure satisfaction.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even pause to catch his breath. He just holds you tighter, mouth sealed to you like he’s drinking you down, licking and sucking through every twitch of your orgasm. The wet sounds between your legs only get louder, filthier, and your entire body feels flushed, dizzy, wrung out in the best way.

You collapse forward, still breathing heavily, face against his thigh, lips brushing the base of his cock as your fingers keep stroking him slow, tender now. Worshipful. You’re too spent to do more, but you want to give him everything. Even like this.

He finally slows, tongue giving you one last languid lick before he gently kisses the inside of your thigh. One of his hands rubs soothing circles against your hip.

“…That’s two,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You groan tiredly against him. “Not the counting again.”

Zayne’s chuckle is quiet, his breath cool against your sensitive skin. “I’ll count it in my head then.”

You shift, still catching your breath, then glance down at his cock, still flushed and hard and glistening. You wrap your hand around him again with a weak smile.

“Still my turn, you know.”

He hums, fingertips skimming your thigh. “Mm. No one stopping you, wife.”

Your lips twitch at the word. You’ve been hearing it a lot today, but it still sends another ripple through your chest, even with your body still boneless.

You lift yourself slowly, dragging your lips up his cock in a languid, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back entirely. Zayne’s breath hitches as you shift to crawl off him, but you don’t go far—just enough to turn and straddle him, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palms.

His eyes trail over you, from the sweat-slick curve of your body to the lace clinging to your hips, barely concealing anything now.

“You planning to sit on me like that and not ride me?” he asks, voice husky but teasing.

You lean down, lips ghosting over his, your breath brushing his skin. “Trying to decide if you deserve it.” Even though you both know that you’re just trying to catch your breath.

His lips curve grows, but there's something else in his gaze too—something warmer, more undone. “Wife,” he says again, quieter this time, like the word means more than a title. Like it’s a promise.

Your heart trips. Your thighs tighten around him.

You shift your hips, dragging your soaked folds over the length of his cock without taking him in yet. Just letting him feel how ready you are. How wet he’s made you. His head tips back at the contact, a low groan curling from his throat as his hands come up to rest on your waist—but he doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t push.

He’s letting you lead.

He always does, when it matters.

You lift yourself slightly and reach between your bodies, lining him up with your entrance. You’re still sensitive—aching in the best way—but the stretch is familiar, hot and welcome as you start to sink down on him.

Zayne lets out a sharp breath, his fingers pressing a little harder into your skin.

You moan softly, bottoming out with a slow roll of your hips. “Feel good?”

His eyes flutter open. “Always.” He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. “You’re incredible.”

You lean into his touch for just a second before bracing your hands on his chest again, lifting your hips just a little and then rocking back down. Slow. Deep. Making sure he feels every inch.

Zayne groan again, low and reverent, his jaw clenching as you keep your pace deliberate. He’s watching you—always watching you—with that same look from earlier. Like he can’t believe this is real. That you are his.

You roll your hips again, adjusting your angle until the pressure hits just right. You gasp, tightening around him. His fingers twitch on your waist in response.

“You like that?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. But I’m doing this for you.”

“Mm,” he hums, clearly amused. “Then take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

You grin, leaning down to kiss him—slow, deep, lingering. And as your hips begin to move again, you moan into his mouth, giving him everything, just like you promised.

Zayne’s breath hitches, though not from your hips this time—his hand slides up your arm, fingers brushing your wrist before finding your left hand. He laces his fingers through yours, then lifts it slowly to his mouth.

You glance down at him, dazed and flushed, as his lips press to your knuckles. Then lower. To your ring finger. To the delicate band circling it. His gaze never leaves yours as he kisses your ring, making your gaze shift to the matching one on his own hand where it rests against your waist.

The gesture makes your chest tighten all over again. You clench around him without meaning to, and his breath stutters.

His other hand comes up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple, still swollen from earlier, the touch sends another spark through you. You grind down a little harder, your motions still slow but more intentional now—precise. Like you know how close he is. Like you’re guiding him there, just as he guided you.

“Still doing this for me?” he murmurs, voice low, strained.

You smile through your panting. “Mhm. Every second.”

And you prove it. You grind down again, this time tightening around him deliberately, purposefully. His groan is muffled this time, jaw tightening as he grips your hand harder.

So you do it again.

This time, Zayne’s rhythm falters.

His breath hitches—sharp, barely audible. The hand on your breast tightens slightly, fingers splaying like he’s trying to ground himself, and his other stays laced with yours, knuckles white with tension. It’s the only part of him that doesn’t move—everything else starts to unravel.

His hips jerk upward, a single, desperate thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Then again.

And again—sharp, needy movements, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. His control is fraying, the way it always does when he’s too far gone to be quiet about it. You can feel it in every inch of him—the trembling in his thighs, the shaky exhale, the low, broken groan he bites back.

You whisper his name, low and coaxing, squeezing his hand in yours like you’re holding him together.

He groans again, deeper this time, almost pained, like your voice is what finally tips him over the edge. His hips stutter beneath you, muscles tight and shaking as he pushes as deep as he can go and stays there—buried in you, throbbing.

Then he breaks.

He comes with a soft, strangled breath of your name, his cock twitching inside you, spilling deep, and the warmth of it makes you gasp—makes you clench around him instinctively. It fills you, thick and hot, until there’s too much to hold and some of it leaks out, slick between your bodies.

But you don’t stop. You keep moving—slow now, careful—grinding gently, coaxing him through the last waves. His hand stays tight in yours until, finally, the tension starts to ease. His grip softens. His body sags beneath you like the last of the strain has drained from his muscles.

Only then does Zayne pull you down, slow and wordless. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you until your forehead presses to his. He kisses you—firm, lingering, like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth. No teasing. No smug remarks.

Just slow, open-mouthed kisses. Deep and reverent.

His other hand slips from your breast to cradle your waist, holding you there—against him, around him, like he never wants to let go.

Zayne doesn’t stop kissing you, even after his breathing evens out. His lips are slower now, gentler. Like he could spend the rest of the night right here, tasting your mouth between sighs.

You murmur into the next kiss, boneless against him. Still joined. Still full of him.

Eventually, he draws back from the kiss with a soft exhale, his forehead resting against yours.

“…We should clean you up,” he says, voice hoarse but affectionate.

You huff a sleepy, reluctant sound, brushing your nose against his. “Later.”

He smiles faintly, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’ll fall asleep like this.”

You hum again, pretending to think. “And?”

Zayne laughs softly, then shifts—effortlessly lifting you, one arm cradling your back while the other supports your thighs. You make a quiet noise of protest, wrapping your arms around his neck, but you don’t complain when he carries you toward the bathroom. His cock slips out of you as he walks, and you shudder at the sensation, at the warmth leaking down your thigh.

He notices.

“Messy,” he murmurs, amusement curling beneath the word.

You swat weakly at his shoulder. “Your fault.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints,” he says, brushing a kiss against your temple before nudging the bathroom door open.

The lights are soft—he must’ve dimmed them earlier—but the marble tiles still catch the gold of the overhead glow. He sets you down gently on the edge of the tub, then reaches for the taps, turning them just enough for steam to begin curling into the air. The tub starts to fill slowly, a low hum echoing in the quiet.

You sit there watching him—his bare back, the relaxed curve of his shoulders. There’s a little flush at the tips of his ears now, probably from earlier, and his hair is slightly mussed. He looks younger like this. Softer. Yours.

His gaze shifts as he turns back to you, and this time it lingers.

You’re still wearing the lingerie—barely. The lace clings to you damply, stretched and askew, doing nothing now to hide how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

Zayne kneels in front of you, hands on your knees. He leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Let me take this off,” he says, fingertips ghosting over the waistband.

You lift your hips obediently, letting him peel the lace down your legs. He moves slowly, reverently. Like it’s not just clothing he’s removing—but layers.

His eyes trail over you as he slips the ruined lingerie aside. And even though he’s already seen you, touched you, tasted you—you feel bare in a different way now. Exposed. Worshipped.

When the bath is full enough, he turns off the taps. He helps you rinse first then helps you in the tub. The water is warm and welcoming, and you sigh as you sink into it. Zayne slides in behind you, pulling you gently between his legs, your back resting against his chest.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, breathing in the steam and the clean scent of him.

His arms wrap around you beneath the water. One hand brushes over your thigh, then between them—careful, soothing. Cleaning. But there’s no mistaking the heat behind his touch, the way his fingers trail just a little slower over your still-sensitive folds. The way his mouth brushes the shell of your ear.

“We’re supposed to be cleaning,” you murmur, barely holding back a smile.

“We are,” he says, utterly unconvincing.

Then his hand moves again, this time with unmistakable intent—stroking, parting, exploring you all over again.

You squirm slightly, heat coiling low in your stomach despite how thoroughly he already wrung you out. “You’re insatiable.”

Zayne’s voice is soft against the back of your neck. “I’m your husband. It’s expected.”

You twist in his arms, water sloshing softly around you both as you reach up to kiss him again. This one’s slower, deeper, lazy in a way that says you could spend hours like this—just lips and warmth and skin.

Zayne hums against your mouth, one hand stroking languid circles along your thigh beneath the water. His cock nudges your lower back as you shift closer, and you feel him twitch at the contact.

“You’re hard again,” you murmur, smiling against his lips.

He kisses you once more before replying, tone low and dry, “I’m in the bath with my naked wife.”

You snort, nipping gently at his jaw. “Flimsy excuse.”

Zayne leans in, brushing his mouth over your cheek, your ear, then lower—his lips pressing a slow kiss to the back of your neck. The same spot he always goes for. Always finds. Like instinct.

You shiver.

“You keep kissing me there,” you whisper, breath hitching.

He hums. “That's why you're put it there right.”

You tilt your head without thinking, offering him more. He doesn’t bite, just brushes his lips there again, slow and lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of it all over again.

The heat in the water is nothing compared to the way your body responds to him. Even after everything, you’re already aching again.

You shift, grinding back slightly, letting him feel you. “You wanna keep playing, husband?”

Zayne's breath hitches against your neck.

Then his hand slides around your waist, gripping firmly as he pulls you up with him. Water drips from your skin as he rises, carrying you again—not all the way this time, just helping you out of the tub before following behind.

You blink, still breathless, but before you can ask where he’s going, he tugs you gently by the wrist toward the wide bathroom mirror above the sink.

“What—”

“Turn around,” he says softly, stepping up behind you.

Your pulse stutters. You do as he says, standing there fully bare, flushed and dripping, your body slick from the bath. His reflection meets yours in the glass—wet hair, sharp jaw, the faintest flush on his cheeks. But it’s his eyes that catch you.

Hungry. Intense. Yours.

You watch as his hands slide along your waist, traveling up to cup your breasts, thumbing over your nipples, still sensitive from earlier. You gasp, arching slightly into his touch.

Then he leans in, mouth brushing that same spot again—your tattoo, still damp from the water.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely audible, reverent. “Look at you.”

You bite your lip, eyes flickering down to the mirror, catching sight of yourself—skin flushed, legs pressed together, body trembling already under his touch. Zayne’s cock presses firmly against the small of your back, thick and eager.

“My gorgeous wife,” he says again, kissing along the back of your neck, trailing lower. “All mine.”

You moan softly, thighs clenching. “In front of the mirror? Really?”

He chuckles low against your skin. “You’re the one who looks like a dream in it. You need to see yourself properly.”

Then he nudges your legs apart gently with his knee, bending you slightly at the waist, his hand firm on your hip as he lines himself up behind you.

The moment he sinks in, both of you groan—deep and sharp. Your hands brace against the cool counter, head falling forward, while Zayne leans into your back, bottoming out with a slow grind of his hips.

The mirror reflects all of it. Your parted lips. The way your body stretches to take him. The way Zayne’s eyes darken as he watches the way you react to every thrust.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he rolls his hips again, deeper this time. “Look how good you take me.”

You whimper, keeping your eyes locked with his in the mirror, lips parted. “Zayne—”

His hand slides up your spine, then tangles in your damp hair, not pulling—just holding you there, keeping your gaze locked with his. The next thrust is harder, making your legs tremble.

“You going to fall apart again for me?” he asks, breath cool—even after all this time—against your ear, lips trailing across your shoulder. “Like this?”

You nod helplessly, moaning as he picks up pace, cock slamming into you with a rhythm that feels almost punishing—but it’s not. It’s perfect. His grip is firm but never rough, unless you ask him to. His voice is teasing but always full of praise.

And he never stops looking at you. At your face, your body, the way your skin shakes with each thrust.

At the way you take him so well.

The sounds filling the bathroom are obscene—wet, rhythmic, breathless. Your skin slaps against his with each thrust, your moans rising every time he drives into you from behind, each movement angled just right to make your knees threaten to buckle.

Zayne’s hand traces up your stomach, smooth as ever, deliberate, until it finds your chest again. He cups one breast gently, thumbing over the sensitive peak, and you sob softly at the sensation. The mirror shows everything—how flushed your skin is, how your lips part with each sound, how Zayne keeps watching you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Then his other hand slides lower.

He doesn’t touch you there—not directly. Instead, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and brings your hand between your legs.

“Touch yourself for me,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “You know how. Just like that.”

Your breath catches.

But your fingers obey, slipping between your folds, already slick from the bath and everything else. The added pressure draws a choked moan from your lips as your fingers circle your clit, and you instinctively clench around him in response.

Zayne groans low, the sound nearly breaking into a growl. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint. “You feel what you’re doing to me?”

You nod frantically, still moving your fingers, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Your legs shake beneath you, pleasure mounting again way too fast.

A shudder rolls through you when his cool breath brushes the back of your neck. “You’re perfect. Every part of you.” Another thrust, harder this time. “Look at you, love. How beautiful you are when you’re about to come.”

You whimper, eyes locked with his in the mirror. His gaze doesn’t waver—he watches everything. The way your body trembles. The way your mouth falls open. The way your fingers work yourself while he keeps filling you over and over again.

And the words keep coming. Quiet. Deep. Meant only for you.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re made for this.”

“My gorgeous wife—”

Your climax crashes into you before you can speak, your body seizing around him, you brace one arm against the mirror, your forearm pressing to your lips as your cry escapes—muffled and broken—while your other hand keeps circling your clit, chasing every last pulse of pleasure that shakes through your core. You grind back against him desperately, still trembling through it, as Zayne slows—but doesn’t stop.

He holds you steady through it all, hand firm on your waist as he lets you ride out every wave, your body clenching around his cock, drawing him in deeper and deeper.

Only when your legs nearly give out does he finally pull you up against his chest, lifting you just enough to keep you steady.

Your chest heaves. Your fingers fall away from yourself, spent. And Zayne—still hard, still deep inside—presses a kiss to your jaw as he wraps both arms around you from behind.

His voice hums low against your ear. “Still with me?”

You nod faintly, the barest smile playing at your lips. “Barely.”

He chuckles, breath cool against your skin.

But he doesn’t let go.

And you don’t get a warning for what happens next.

One second you’re still catching your breath in his arms, trembling from your last orgasm, and the next you’re being turned. Zayne shifts you gently but purposefully, and before you can even find your balance, your back meets the warm tile of the bathroom wall.

The contrast makes you gasp.

“Zayne—”

“Shh.” His voice is soft, low, too steady for someone who’s still buried inside you. “I’ve got you.”

Your legs are too weak to argue, but they part easily as he lifts you, hands firm beneath your thighs, holding your full weight against the wall as he slides into you again.

You moan—helpless, full—and into him, fingers sinking into his hair, like holding him might steady the world. Every inch of you throbs, still raw from the last high, but you can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when he feels this good.

His hips begin to move again, slow but deep, pushing into you with careful precision. His breath catches when you clench around him, and then he leans in—mouth finding your jaw, then your throat, and lower still.

His tongue flicks against your breast before his lips close around your nipple, drawing it between his teeth. You cry out, head tipping back against the wall, your body arching to meet his mouth.

“Zayne—please—”

He groans around you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. His pace quickens.

You hold onto him tighter, legs trembling around his waist, your body curling forward as the pleasure builds again—burning and blooming, one wave on top of the next. You press your face into the crook of his neck, too overwhelmed to think.

Until your eyes flick open—

And you see it.

The mirror. The same one that had been in front of you moments ago is now behind him, angled just enough for you to catch your reflection.

And his.

You can see everything—your back arched, your breast being sucked by his mouth, your thighs spread wide around him as he thrusts up into you. The way your body bounces with every thrust, how he holds you like you weigh nothing. The way you cling to him like you’ll fall apart if he lets go.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.

Zayne doesn’t miss it.

He shifts slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder, and even though he can’t see what you’re seeing, he doesn’t need to. His lips curve against your skin in a knowing smirk.

“Oh?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “Finally noticing the view?”

You whimper, burying your face against him—but your hips still move with his. And  it’s too late. You can’t unsee it now.

Zayne chuckles, nudging your head aside so he can kiss your throat again. “You look beautiful, love. Every time I move, you tighten around me like you’re about to come again. Watching yourself fall apart?”

You nod shakily, your voice barely audible. “It’s—too much.”

“Mmm.” He presses deeper, harder, making you cry out again. “Don’t look away.”

His thrusts grow more urgent, more focused, slamming into you with unrelenting force. The slap of skin on skin echoes with your soft cries, your moans, his heavy breaths. His mouth never stops moving—your neck, your collarbone, your breast again, reverent and hungry. One of his hands slides to your lower back, angling you to meet each thrust perfectly, while the other still holds your thigh, tight, grounded.

You’re unraveling. Fast.

And he’s still watching your every reaction like it’s the only thing that matters.

Your back thuds gently against the wall with every thrust. Your body’s slick with sweat and water, still unsteady from everything he’s already taken from you—but Zayne gives you no room to recover. Not when you’re moaning like this. Not when your nails are dragging down his back. Not when your eyes keep flicking to the mirror behind him like you’re hypnotized.

He thrusts harder.

You cry out, clenching around him instinctively, and that makes him groan—deep, guttural—like he’s losing control.

“Can feel you it,” he pants, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re so tight… I won’t last long like this.”

You’re not sure you will either.

Every part of you is buzzing—overstimulated and starving at once. Your legs shake around him, arms still wrapped around his neck as if anchoring yourself there could slow the inevitable.

He shifts again, hips angling upward, and you nearly sob as the pressure slams perfectly into your sweet spot. Over and over. Each thrust tearing another breathless moan from your throat.

“Zayne—Zayne, I—” You can’t even form the words.

He doesn’t need you to.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles just firm enough, just fast enough to send your head spinning.

“That’s it,” he whispers, still watching the way your body moves for him in the mirror. “Let go, wife. Show me how beautiful you are like this.”

You fall.

Your entire body locks up, then shudders violently as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. You cling to him, crying out into his neck, pulsing around his cock in endless waves.

Zayne groans, his hips jerking as your body tightens around him again and again. His fingers dig into your thighs as he loses rhythm, thrusts growing erratic.

And then he breaks.

He presses deep—so deep—and spills into you with a strangled groan, face buried in your neck, his entire body trembling as he empties himself inside you for the second time tonight. You feel the heat of it, the way he fills you so full it almost aches, but you don’t move. You just cling to him, letting him hold your weight as your bodies twitch and tremble against one another.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

There’s only the sound of breathing. Water dripping. The soft press of Zayne’s lips against your skin—your shoulder, your neck, your collarbone. Over and over, like he’s grounding himself in you.

Finally, you breathe, voice faint. “That’s four.”

Zayne huffs a soft laugh into your skin, still pressed deep inside you. “You were keeping count after all.”

You smile, weak but pleased. “Someone has to. You said you’d do it in your head, remember?”

His lips brush your shoulder, his voice quieter now. “I did.” He lifts his head, looking at you with eyes still dark and glassy. “I’m not counting. I’m remembering.”

That makes your chest ache. In a good way.

He kisses you then—slow, thorough, adoring—before slowly letting your legs down, careful to keep you steady. You wince slightly as he slips out of you, his hands already soothing, steadying your hips as he gently helps you stand.

You sway. He catches you.

“Come on,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “Let’s actually clean up this time.”

You nod, eyes half-lidded, leaning into his chest as he guides you back toward the tub—arms around you like you’re something breakable now.

And even if your legs still tremble, you feel safe. Cared for. Loved.

The bathwater has cooled slightly, but it’s still warm enough to soothe your aching limbs. Zayne cradles you against his chest, letting your body rest against his.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The silence is comfortable, your heart still racing—but slower now, quieter.

His fingers trail gently along your arm underwater, then drift to the bottle of body wash at the side of the tub. He pours a little into his palm, working it into a gentle lather before he begins to wash you—slow strokes over your shoulders, down your arms, then across your chest with a feather light touch.

You sigh, leaning your head back against him.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur sleepily.

“Good.” His voice is soft, lips brushing the top of your damp hair. “That’s what honeymoons are for.”

He doesn’t rush. When he finishes with you, he nudges you forward a little, rinsing your back with careful, thorough strokes. And then your fingers find his hand and guide it to the cloth instead.

“My turn,” you say, a little smug.

Zayne lets you wash him without protest, even tilting his head when you lather gently under his jaw, pressing a kiss there as you finish.

Eventually, he shifts behind you, one hand resting lightly on your hip. “Come on. You’ll fall asleep in here if we stay too long.”

You nod reluctantly, letting him rise first before he helps you up too, both of you a little unsteady on your feet. He grabs the towels hanging on the wall and wraps one around your body first, then takes another for himself.

It’s only once you’re both out of the tub that the air hits you—cool and a little sharp after the warmth—and you instinctively step closer to him again.

Zayne catches you without hesitation, rubbing your back through the towel. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and the sight of him wrapped in nothing but a towel, eyes soft and a little glazed, does something funny to your chest.

He catches you staring.

“What?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head with a small smile. “Nothing. Just… you look good like this.”

He tilts his head. “Like this?”

“Messy,” you clarify, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair from his forehead. “Like you’ve been ruined.”

Zayne huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “That would imply I didn’t enjoy every second.”

You grin, but it softens as he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, the gesture almost absentminded in its tenderness. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then nudges your towel-wrapped form toward the door.

“Let’s dry off properly,” he murmurs. “Before you catch a cold.”

You follow him out of the bathroom, feet padding across the cool floor. The room is dim and warm, the soft rustle of towels and quiet footsteps the only sounds as you both move around each other with easy familiarity.

Zayne disappears into the wardrobe for a second to grab fresh clothes, then pauses when he sees you tugging at your towel. He crosses the room to grab the hair dryer from the vanity.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the plush stool.

You arch a brow. “Planning to pamper me again?”

“Of course.” His answer is immediate, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He plugs in the dryer, fingers gently guiding you down to sit. “Turn around.”

You do. The towel is still wrapped around your chest, your skin warm and damp beneath it. You hear the click of the dryer, feel the first warm gust of air hit your shoulders.

Zayne starts unhurried, running the dryer in even passes through your hair, careful not to pull. His fingers follow after, combing through the strands with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

“I always forget how soft it is,” he murmurs eventually, more to himself than to you. “Even when it’s damp.”

You smile faintly, closing your eyes at the praise. “You do spend a lot of time with your hands in it.”

His hands pause for just a second, then resume. “Only because it’s yours,” he says simply. “I like touching anything that belongs to you. And now mine too.”

You feel a warmth crawl up your neck at that, even though you’re still wrapped in towels and raw from pleasure. There’s no smugness in his voice, just quiet certainty.

“Possessive,” you murmur, barely audible over the hum of the dryer.

Zayne leans in just a little, not missing a beat. “And yet you keep letting me.”

You turn your head just enough to catch the amused curve of his mouth.

“Touché,” you mutter.

You close your eyes, leaning slightly into his touch as he continues. There’s something absurdly intimate about the moment—more than sex, more than the teasing. It’s the quiet care, the way his fingers never tug too hard, the way he smooths every section before moving on.

When he finishes your hair, he switches off the dryer, setting it aside with a soft clunk.

“Your turn,” you offer, glancing over your shoulder.

He hums. “I’ll manage.”

But you’re already standing, reaching for the dryer again. “Nope. You pampered me. I’m pampering you.”

Zayne raises a brow but sits without protest, and you can see the faint smile pulling at his mouth as you plug the dryer back in and angle it toward him.

His hair is shorter, but thick—and still damp at the roots. You start gently, fingers raking through while the warm air blows over him. His eyes close after a moment, lashes resting against his cheekbones, posture loose and trusting beneath your hands.

“You’re going to fall asleep,” you murmur, amused.

He exhales through his nose. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

You grin and keep going, making sure to get them all dry properly before crouching a little to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you say, satisfied. “Now we won’t wake up shivering.”

Zayne rises, towel slipping a little on his hips. He ignores it, stepping closer until his arms slip around your waist again.

“Smart and gorgeous,” he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss you. “My perfect wife.”

You flush at the praise, hands curling at his back. There’s no urgency now, no teasing—just warmth.

“You won’t get any sweet even if you keep flattering me,” you murmur, but the way your fingers clutch at him gives you away.

He chuckles before leaning in again, slower this time, lips brushing yours like he can’t help himself. “Worth a try.”

You laugh softly, the sound muffled between kisses, your body already molding into his without a second thought. He doesn’t press further, just holds you there for a moment, letting the quiet settle between your breaths. He lets his lips linger at your temple before pulling back slightly, eyes still soft.

“Stay here,” he says, brushing his thumb along your hip. “You need water.”

Before you can argue, he’s already turning away—grabbing the fresh pajamas he took before and tugging them on before disappearing into the kitchen. You put the pajamas on as well and sit on the edge of the bed, watching the soft golden light spill through the doorway from the other room.

When he returns, he’s holding two glasses, condensation already forming at the sides.

“You’re not sneaking me electrolytes, are you?” you tease as you take yours.

“Would you blame me if I did?” he replies, handing it over. “You could barely make it to the tub.”

You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your glass but drink anyway. It’s just water. Cold, refreshing, grounding.

He finishes his own quickly, sets the glass aside, and takes the empty one from your hands. His fingers linger for a moment as they brush against yours, gentle and cool.

Then he straightens and reaches for your hand again—not pulling, just offering.

“Come lie down,” he says, voice softer now.

You let him guide you without a word, fingers curling into his as he leads you back toward the bed. The mattress dips beneath your combined weight, sheets cool against your skin. He settles behind you, one arm slipping around your waist, the other tucking beneath your pillow.

You shift until your back meets his chest, until your legs find his and your breath slows to match the rise and fall of his.

His lips brush the back of your shoulder. “Comfortable?”

You hum in response, fingers playing absently with his. “You’re warm.”

“I’m not,” he murmurs with a faint smile against your skin. “You just run hot.”

“Still counts,” you whisper, already drowsy.

Zayne chuckles, the sound low and sleepy. He nudges his nose lightly against the back of your neck, then lets the silence return—slow, quiet, familiar.

You can feel it in the way he holds you: not just closeness, but safety. The kind of peace that settles in your chest, wrapping around your bones and telling you that you’re home.

His thumb brushes slow circles against your hip. Not to coax. Not to tease. Just… to remind you he’s still here.

And when your breathing evens out, when your thoughts finally go quiet, you feel him press one last kiss to your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispers—too soft for the room, but just loud enough for your heart. You murmur your reply to him as sleep finally drags you under.

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The morning light slips quietly through the curtains, softened by snow outside the windows. It’s gentle, casting soft gold across the sheets when Zayne stirs first.

He shifts slightly behind you, the arm around your waist tightening just a little as he breathes you in—then pulls you closer, snug against his chest.

You murmur something incoherent, blinking slow and groggy as the shift tugs you from sleep. Your hand finds his, fingers lacing through his automatically.

“Just waking up?” you ask, voice scratchy from sleep but warm.

He hums against the back of your neck, not bothering with words yet. Instead, he presses a kiss there—lazy and unhurried. Then another. And another, soft and slow along your skin like he has no plans to stop. His arm stays tight around your waist, holding you still while his lips drift lower, then up again.

You smile, sleep-muddled but content, and shift slightly beneath the covers, turning in his arms until you’re facing him. His hair’s a little tousled, his eyes still heavy-lidded, but his gaze finds yours without hesitation.

He brushes your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Sore?”

You snort, trying not to laugh too loud into the morning quiet. “Definitely. Can’t feel between my legs,” you say with a grin, “but I’d do it again.”

Zayne smiles faintly, kisses your temple. “Me too,” he murmurs—then presses a soft kiss to your lips before tucking his head beneath your chin, resting against your chest like it’s his favorite place in the world.

Your fingers drift into his hair, brushing lightly. “I guess we’re staying in,” you say, soft laugh trailing beneath your words.

He doesn’t answer—just lets out a breath and relaxes fully against you, both of you slowly drifting back into sleep with limbs tangled, hearts steady.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know how much time passes before Zayne wakes again. The bed shifts behind you, and his warmth starts to pull away.

You groan, reaching out blindly to grab his wrist. “Nooo. Stay. Warm.”

“I’ll be back,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he leans in, kissing the top of your head, lips brushing yours next in quiet distraction while he slips from the bed.

You sink back into the blankets, watching as he disappears out the door of your cozy suite bedroom.

When he returns, it’s with two mugs and a tray balanced in his arms. The smell hits first—toast, eggs, fruit, something sweet—and your stomach growls in betrayal.

“I was gonna bring this to bed quietly,” Zayne says, shutting the door behind him with his foot, “but it turns out the floorboards in this cabin have opinions.”

You laugh as he settles onto the edge of the mattress, setting the tray between you. “Brunch in bed? You’re making it very hard to ever leave.”

“I know. Strategic,” he says, completely deadpan, before handing you your mug.

The food is simple but perfect—tasting better just because you’re sharing it like this. Tucked into soft sheets, limbs brushing, the cold outside kept at bay by warmth and easy smiles.

You stretch, wiggling your toes beneath the blankets. “I actually planned for us to go skiing today, you know.”

Zayne raises an eyebrow at you mid-bite, amused. “You planned for that?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, sipping your drink. “Thought we’d wake up early, hit the slopes, pretend we’re athletic.”

“You know we never ski on the first day.” His voice is dry, teasing. He sets his cup down, tone casual but unmistakably pointed. “History suggests our first day on trips like this tends to be… less cardio, more recovery.”

You try to hide your grin behind your mug. “I’m not hearing any complaints.”

“None,” he agrees easily. “Though I am hearing ‘can’t feel between my legs.’”

You huff a laugh, reaching to pinch his side—only for him to catch your hand and kiss your fingers.

Eventually, the tray is cleared and set aside, and the two of you shuffle out of bed—blankets wrapped around your shoulders as you migrate to the living room. The fireplace crackles to life not long after, casting golden light across the space. Outside the wide windows, snow falls in soft, thick flakes, muffling the world in quiet.

You curl up together on the couch. A book rests in your lap, half-forgotten, as Zayne’s arm settles around your back. Even with the coolness of his body pressed to your side, it still feels warm beneath the layers—grounding, familiar. A movie plays softly in the background, more ambient than anything, something to fill the silence you don’t mind sharing.

Your hand rests against his knee, thumb brushing absent circles, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head in return.

No rush. No expectations.

Just the slow, steady rhythm of a day spent exactly where you belong.

Laughter between kisses.

Quiet touches.

Just the two of you—husband and wife.

Together.

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Notes

I could find an excuse, like how this story been on my ass for a few days, and I keep adding stuff into it, but damn you! I like it! 😂 Either way, I hope y'all enjoy it as well, thank you if you reading this until here 🫶🏻 A bit weird saying that under smut but we're all civil people here 😂 just joking, love y'all! Here's how the Proposal and Wedding and here is the fluff Part 2 of the honeymoon!

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: Parenthood AU Masterlist ✨

[hometoursandotherstuff]

1905 Romanesque stone house is perfect for Goth lovers. It's in Sioux City, Iowa, has 6bds, 5ba, and is listed for $450K.

The front door opens to a foyer with a closet, then an inner hall.

I really like this renovation. The black walls and ceilings just seem to suit this house. A white fireplace stands out beautifully.

Isn't this a pretty room for conversation?

Beautiful. Look at the dreamy window seat.

I love the simplicity of the dining room. The original oak door and molding grace the black wall.

Love the roomy kitchen. The painted floor and the inlaid in the corner where possibly the old stove stood was preserved. I love the stenciled ceiling.

You can pull up a chair here while the dinner cooks or cookies bake.

Two fridges flank a china cabinet. Clever idea.

Simply elegant ground floor primary bedroom.

This art deco vanity is gorgeous. I wonder if it conveys.

While the bath isn't 1905, the color of the later fixtures and tiles were beautifully preserved. What a great job with the matching wallpaper.

Tucked in the hall is a mahogany bar.

Large bedroom with pretty wallpaper and a wainscoting effect.

Look at the handsome colors in this bath. Love this.

Here's a large room that could be the primary bedroom, family room, or even a library. Love the columns and built-in shelving.

The original inlaid floors are wonderful. Look at the pocket doors. The overhead lights tilt toward one another.

Thru the pocket doors there's this sweet pink bedroom.

Oh, look at the shower and pedestal sink in this bath. The baths must've been renovated in the 20s.

I wonder if the the tub or shower was originally in this area.

Very spacious bedroom.

Yet another great bath.

This is nice, an enclosed porch.

Oh, look a secret room. Love this. I think it's the attic.

Wow, look at this attic.

Oh, man, the bath up here is definitely original.

This home is amazing.

Beautiful painted floor on the large deck in the back.

.4 acre lot, so it has a nice size yard.

https://www.redfin.com/IA/Sioux-City/1524-Summit-St-51103/home/130246844

[seb-boo]

beewild_official BeeWild goes Germany 🐝 with our long-standing species conservation partner sebastianvettel, we created a bee pasture, including a colorful stone habitat in the form of an F1 helmet (today's BeeWild species protection summit at the DEKRA headquarters in Stuttgart).

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 20

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5.6k

Trigger warning; //

notes; hey hey, i don't have much to say beside that heavier chapters are coming ! It as been hard for me to write the high lord meeting, so i hope that you guys will enjoy it <3 either way, enjoy this chapter and see you soon (i didn't take a month this time woohoooo). With love xoxo

previous ✧

The palace of the Dawn Court shimmered in the morning light, its rose-gold spires catching the rising sun like blades made of stained glass. As Feyre's magic gently released you from the winnow, your boots met polished stone warmed by early sunlight. The air here always smelled of citrus blossoms and parchment ink—refined, bright, and impossibly clean.

You adjusted your dark, embroidered coat, the glint of starlight threading catching in the folds as you stepped forward beside Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian. The wind tugged gently at your sleeves, a soft whisper against your skin, but the moment the great doors to the council chamber swung open… all warmth vanished.

Only two High Lords were present.

Thesan, robed in pale gold and deep plum, stood near the central table, his expression uncharacteristically grim. Helion lounged beside him, though even the usually radiant High Lord of Day looked subdued. He tapped his fingers against the table with practiced boredom—but his eyes, sharp as molten amber, never stopped scanning your group.

“Rhysand,” Thesan greeted, inclining his head. “Feyre. Cassian. Y/N.” His gaze lingered on you—sharper, more personal.

“Thesan,” Rhysand replied smoothly. “Helion.”

“Glad to see you well,” Helion murmured, his voice low, as if anything louder might shatter the air.

“I’d like to speak with Y/N, if you’ll excuse us,” Thesan said without preamble. His tone was polite—but it wasn’t a request. He was already stepping toward you.

Rhys merely nodded. “Of course.”

You followed Thesan through an arched side hallway of pale stone, the hush between you broken only by the distant sound of water from the ornamental fountains outside. When he finally stopped beneath a stained-glass window depicting the phases of the moon, he turned to face you fully.

“Rhysand’s letter reached me last week,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “He said you were attacked. On your way back from the last healer summit.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the tightening in your throat. “We were ambushed near the coastline. Azriel and I where injured. It wasn’t random.”

“I didn’t think it would be,” Thesan said, folding his hands. “Whoever it was—they knew when you’d be returning. Knew where you’d be.”

Your silence said everything.

Thesan’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I should have ensured more protection for your journey. It won’t happen again.”

You were about to respond when the sound of familiar footsteps echoed behind you.

You turned, already smiling.

“About time,” you said softly, as Thesan’s mate appeared at the end of the hall.

He looked much the same as always—sharp-eyed and calm, dressed in layered robes that spoke more of intellect than status. His smile grew as he stepped forward.

“I didn’t get the chance to see you last time,” he said, pulling you into a tight embrace. “And I hate that it’s under these circumstances that I’m finally able to.” His voice was warm and familiar, laced with a concern that didn’t have to be spoken aloud.

You closed your eyes for a moment, grateful for the embrace. “I’m fine,” you lied gently. “More or less.”

“More or less is better than not at all,” he murmured, pulling back to look you over. “I heard about what happened. I’m glad you’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Me too.”

Behind you, the shift in the air told you more company had arrived.

You turned to glimpse Kalias entering the chamber, his white hair tied back, eyes like fresh ice as he nodded a silent greeting. His consort followed close behind, offering a short bow. A ripple of soft robes and dark skin marked the arrival of the Summer Court delegation next—Tarquin, solemn as ever, his ocean-colored eyes sweeping the room with quiet calculation. Beside him walked Cresseida, her expression guarded but calm.

Thesan was still speaking—his voice low and measured, laced with the quiet control of someone trying not to let his worry show. His mate stood just behind him, arms crossed, brows drawn tight as they listened to your account of the ambush, and everything that followed.

You didn’t need to repeat the letter from Rask. The silence between the three of you, heavy with understanding, was enough. Thesan’s gaze flicked to the map projected behind you, then back to your face. “If what Azriel confirms matches what you received,” he murmured, “then we may be preparing for a war far beyond our comprehension.”

You were about to answer—another calm, clinical assessment—when you felt it.

A hand, firm and familiar, slid around your waist.

You stiffened, your heart leaping before your mind could catch up.

You turned—almost disbelieving.

Azriel stood beside you.

His shadows curled at his feet like restless smoke, still humming with residual adrenaline. His hair was wind-tossed, his expression carefully neutral. But the moment your eyes met his, you felt it through the bond like a punch to the ribs.

He’d seen it.

The continent was gone. Just as the letter had warned. Just as Finn had written.

Are you alright? your voice whispered through the bond, tentative. Scanning his face. Not for wounds—those were healed—but for the shadows still clinging to the edges of his expression.

His hand slid up your back, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. Better now that I’m with you, came the answer. Quiet, steady. Raw in a way he didn’t show anyone else.

You nearly flushed at the intimacy of it—but you didn’t pull away.

Thesan’s lips curved into something between sympathy and amusement as he stepped back. “It seems,” he said lightly, “that a few things have changed since our last conversation.”

You gave him a slow, knowing wink, laughed under your breath and stepped away, Azriel’s hand still pressed to the small of your back as he guided you across the room.

The meeting chamber had grown louder in the interim. Tarquin was seated now, calm and composed beside Cresseida, who scanned the gathered High Lords with sharp eyes. Kalias sat across from them, his consort murmuring something low in his ear.

You and Azriel returned to Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian, taking your place just as the chamber shifted again.

The room quieted as the doors opened once more.

The Autumn Court entered with a gust of cold wind and silent contempt. Beron walked at the front, his face unreadable. His sons followed, shoulders squared with practiced arrogance. But her seat—the Lady of Autumn’s—remained empty.

Your chest tightened. You had hoped… even though you’d known better.

She wasn’t here.

You didn’t have to say anything. Azriel’s fingers tightened on your side. His voice in your mind again—I know.

The room was nearly full. Quiet had settled over the gathered High Lords like a silk-draped blade—soft but perilous. Each court’s colors shimmered faintly in the golden light filtering through the high glass ceiling, casting strange reflections on polished stone.

And then the final doors opened.

Tamlin walked in like a storm with nowhere to go. Broad-shouldered, clad in green and gold, his expression unreadable—but colder than you remembered. He carried the weight of a High Lord long scorned, long humbled, but not softened.

But he wasn’t alone.

At his side walked Lila.

Her silver and green gown shimmered like dew-soaked moss, and her honey-blonde hair was woven into a crown of tiny braids. Her presence startled more than a few heads—Feyre’s brows lifted slightly; Helion leaned forward with open curiosity. Even Beron’s thin mouth twitched in mild surprise.

Lila, however, didn’t seem to notice the stir.

She caught your gaze across the room and instantly broke into a wide, eager grin. With both hands, she shook them in the air, fingers fluttering with fervent energy as she silently mouthed, Hi!

You gave her a discreet, fond smile and inclined your head, warmth blooming in your chest. Even here, even now, her energy was a comfort.

Then you felt it.

A stare—hot and heavy.

Your eyes flicked to the source, and when they met Tamlin’s, a shiver threaded down your spine.

His gaze was unreadable—part disbelief, part irritation, and just a sliver of something surprised. Perhaps at your presence. Perhaps at who you were seated beside.

Azriel’s fingers pressed lightly into your thigh beneath the table.

Reassuring. Possessive. Calm.

You didn’t break eye contact with Tamlin. Instead, you smiled at him—small, measured, not unkind.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he looked away, clearly annoyed.

What was that? Azriel’s voice slid through your mind, velvet-smooth.

He’s still mad I nearly burned his estate to the ground, you replied dryly.

You felt Azriel’s quiet laugh in your chest more than heard it—warm and dark like midnight smoke. His thumb traced a slow, lazy circle against your leg. He didn’t say anything more, but his shadows swirled around your ankles, content.

Once the last murmurs settled and all High Lords had taken their seats, Rhysand stood.

All eyes turned toward him.

His crown shimmered faintly above his brow, a subtle illusion of shadow and starlight. Feyre sat tall and poised beside him, her expression calm, but steel glinted behind her gaze.

Rhysand’s voice rang out with practiced clarity. “Thank you all for coming on short notice and thank you Thesan for hosting once again. I know how rare it is to gather the courts like this—especially under these circumstances.”

Silence met him.

Only the crackle of the hearthfire and the faint rustle of wings disturbed the stillness.

“We received a letter,” Rhys continued, “from Finn, Head Healer of the former kingdom of Rask. It was delivered just before the kingdom fell.”

A pause.

“He is dead now. Along with Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan.”

A murmur rippled through the table. Lila’s face blanched slightly. Kalias stilled. Even Helion sat forward.

Rhysand let the silence linger before continuing.

“In the letter, Finn warned us: Koeshiev’s assault has already begun—and his power is greater than we feared. He’s fractured himself—divided across multiple fronts, and wherever he goes, monsters follow.”

He turned, nodding once toward you.

“And this report was confirmed yesterday by Azriel, my spymaster, who scouted the remains of the continent and witnessed firsthand the destruction left behind. It matches Finn’s warning in full.”

Your stomach tightened.

Azriel didn’t speak. But the tension in his body, the way his hand stayed firm on your thigh, said enough.

Rhysand’s violet eyes swept the room. “We’ve tracked traces of Koeshiev’s presence near the central stretch of Prythian—between the Day and Dawn courts. We believe this is where he will strike next. Where this war will begin.”

The room exhaled. Cold and slow.

The meeting had begun.

And soon, the blood would follow.

The light filtering through the domed ceiling had shifted, golden morning softening into something cooler—muted, expectant. Rhysand’s voice still echoed faintly in the chamber as he stepped back and gave the floor to you.

You stood slowly.

Your hand slipped from Azriel’s under the table, but the warmth of his presence remained beside you, his shadows humming faintly as you moved into the center ring.

Every High Lord turned to look.

“The threat of Koeshiev did not begin with the fall of Rask,” you began, your voice clear, steady. “Nor did it begin with the warnings you’ve received in the past weeks. His presence has always been on the continent—quiet, buried beneath surface unrest and shifting borders. I know because I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

You glanced around the table, your gaze settling briefly on Helion, then Kalias, then Thesan.

“For centuries, we attributed the whispers of plague, sudden madness, and widespread illness to chaos. Coincidence. Local failures. But they weren’t. He was testing us—drifting beneath the surface like poison in a river.”

You paused, letting the room absorb that.

“It’s only after the Hybern war, after the Cauldron was shattered and reforged, that something seems to have changed. Perhaps that power shift awoke him, or perhaps he simply grew confident in our complacency. Whatever the reason… he’s not hiding anymore. And his reach has spread to Prythian.”

A beat.

“You must have heard from your own healers. Epidemics. Strange sicknesses that resist known cures. A rise in stillbirths, shadow fevers, or diseases with no clear origin. These are not natural. These are Koeshiev’s doing. The signs are already here.”

There was a long silence, broken by the inevitable.

Beron leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “And you base all this on coincidence and interpretation? Isn’t it possible your experience has led you to see threat in every shadow, healer?”

The word was nearly spat, but you didn’t flinch.

You turned toward him with the same serene composure you’d held since the meeting began, and your voice, when it came, was calm. Too calm. It unsettled him.

“Do you believe your healers are incompetent, High Lord?”

Beron blinked. “What?”

You took a step closer. “Do you trust them?”

“Of course I do,” he snapped. “How could I not?”

“Then you should have no trouble trusting me,” you said smoothly. “I was the one who reformed your court’s outdated triage systems and centralized your supply networks. I’m the one who trained your head healer, Rordan.”

A muscle ticked in Beron’s jaw.

“I remember your court well. I remember your arrogance, too,” you added, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “But I also remember Rordan. He was bright, determined. He wanted to change things. I took him under my wing, and I gave him the tools to do it.”

Beron’s mouth opened—then closed.

The chamber had gone still.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then stepped back, your gaze never leaving his.

“If you trust your court,” you said gently, “then trust the people who shaped it.”

Beron didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed but quiet now. He would not challenge you again—not today.

You returned to your place beside Azriel, and as you sat, his fingers brushed yours beneath the table. There was something warm and proud flickering through the bond.

You were born for this, his voice whispered across your mind.

But you didn’t respond—not with words.

You only smiled.

The map projected at the center of the table shimmered under Helion’s spellwork—an ever-shifting landscape of Prythian and the bordering ruins of the fallen kingdoms. Pale threads of magic marked the fault lines, the contested zones, the wilderness between courts that no one had truly ruled in centuries.

That wilderness was now the battlefield.

“What’s the current population near the Dawn and Winter borders?” Hellion asked, his voice clear but tight. “If we begin evacuations today, can we move them safely before the front line shifts?”

Thesan stepped forward, eyes dark. “We estimate nearly fifteen thousand within the eastern third of my court. Farmers, old temple towns, small villages. Most of them won’t leave without proof that danger is coming.”

Kalias nodded grimly. “Same here. Some have lived on those outskirts for generations. We can move them, but it won’t be easy. And the roads aren’t safe.”

“That’s not the only issue,” Rhysand interjected, his voice cutting cleanly through the rising tension. “The terrain is wild. Unclaimed. Full of creatures most of us haven’t seen since before the War. I think that’s exactly why Koshiev is going there.”

A beat of silence.

“Because he can control them,” Rhys finished.

Your stomach turned, the thought settling over the room like fog.

Helion leaned forward, arms crossed, the light from the map casting flickers over his sharp features. “How much time do you think we have?”

You glanced at Azriel—he gave the barest shake of his head.

You answered for them both. “If we’re lucky, a week. Two or three days more realistically. He’s already moving. The longer we wait, the more ground we lose before the first blade is even drawn.”

A heavy silence followed. Tarquin looked toward his generals, who had remained mostly silent until now, and gave a subtle nod.

“We’ve already begun preparing safe zones,” he said. “We’ll receive as many as we can. The Summer Court will open its coastal strongholds.”

Helion nodded. “And the Day Court’s inland cities are ready to shelter the rest. Our envoys left hours ago—we’ll have the ports and gates open within the day.”

There was a brief pause. The kind of pause that only comes when everyone in the room knows that no matter how many choices they have, none of them will lead to peace.

“Then it’s decided,” Rhysand said, voice cold steel. “Refugees will be moved to Summer and Day starting within the next two days. Evacuation notices are already being sent.”

“And the armies?” Cassian asked, arms crossed.

“They’ll mobilize within the same window,” Rhysand confirmed. “We start pulling border patrols today. Frontline formations go into place by the fifth sunrise.”

No one argued.

Even Beron, for once, kept silent.

By the time the meeting drew to a close, the sun had climbed high overhead, casting thin lines of light across the chamber floor. The tension that lingered in the air was different now—sharpened, ready. The kind of quiet that comes before swords are drawn and choices made permanent.

You stood beside Azriel as the High Lords began to rise, exchanging clipped nods and muttered commands with their advisors. Tarquin paused briefly beside you, eyes thoughtful.

“You’ve done well,” he said quietly. “Let’s hope we have time to make it count.”

You offered a faint smile. “We’ll make the time.”

He nodded once and moved on.

The grand chamber began to empty.

Chairs scraped gently against the polished floor, and low murmurs filled the space as courtiers and commanders clustered in quiet groups. Rhysand and Feyre moved together, already discussing deployment strategy with Thesan and Kalias. Cassian had veered off toward one of the Dawn generals. And Azriel…

Azriel’s hand rested gently at the small of your back, his body close as the two of you began making your way toward the corridor Thesan had assigned the Night Court delegation.

The bond between you hummed—low, steady, warm. You could feel the ache behind Azriel’s focus, the exhaustion from what he’d seen, what he wasn’t saying. But for now, he was calm. Focused on your next steps.

Then a voice stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You turned, startled by the sound of your name from that mouth.

Tamlin.

He stood a few paces behind you, still cloaked in the green and gold of the Spring Court, his face unreadable. Azriel immediately tensed beside you. You felt Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian all pause at the edge of the hallway, heads turning, brows rising ever so slightly.

“I’d like to speak with you,” Tamlin said, eyes flicking to Azriel, then back to you. “Alone.”

Surprise cracked through the tension.

You glanced at your court, offering them a soft, reassuring smile. “I’ll join you soon. Go ahead.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on yours. Are you sure?

I’m fine, you answered through the bond. Go.

He gave a short nod, hand sliding away from your back, though his shadows brushed your fingers in a lingering touch before he turned to follow the others.

Tamlin waited until they had gone before gesturing toward one of the side balconies. You followed in silence.

The wind was crisp, laced with the faint floral sweetness the Dawn Court always seemed to carry. The marble beneath your feet gleamed like moonstone, and the sky stretched endless above you—soft with clouds and streaked with the lingering light of early afternoon.

“I didn’t expect to see you at that table,” Tamlin said at last, stepping up to the balustrade. He didn’t look at you yet, his eyes on the horizon. “But I suppose it makes sense. I’d heard you’d settled in the Night Court.” A dry huff of a laugh escaped him. “Rhysand’s collecting powerful warriors like usual."

You didn’t bite at the jab. Just folded your hands in front of you.

“I heard,” you said gently. “And I wanted to say—I never had the chance to apologize. For leaving the Spring Court the way I did. Abruptly. Without any explanation.”

Tamlin looked at you then. His eyes were tired, the green dulled with wear and something far older. “It’s fine. Centuries have passed. Worse things have happened to me and my court since.”

You nodded once, accepting it. There wasn’t much else to say to that. The past was a graveyard full of ghosts neither of you needed to dig up again.

A beat passed before you asked, “How can I help you, Tamlin?”

His jaw worked for a moment. Then—quietly, surprisingly vulnerable—he said, “I’m sick.”

Your spine straightened slightly, instincts sharpening.

“Something’s wrong with my magic,” he continued. “And you’re the only one I know who might be able to help.”

You stepped closer, your expression softening. “What do you mean? What’s happening?”

He exhaled slowly, resting his hands on the edge of the balcony. “I’m sure you’ve heard—about me barely shifting back to my fae form over the last year. Well… it wasn’t on purpose. I couldn’t come back. I could feel myself in there, but it was like I was drowning. Like there was too much weight to fight through, and I just... stayed under.”

You were quiet. Let him speak.

“Lila helped. Of course she did. She stayed with me, brought me back more than once. But I don’t know if it’ll happen again.” His voice dropped lower. “And I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to come back next time.”

A silence stretched between you, the wind brushing gently through your hair, tugging at the edges of your coat.

“You lost control,” you said softly. “You weren’t weak. You were drained. That kind of magic, that kind of bond to the land… it reflects the state of the one who wields it. Your body didn’t shift because your soul didn’t know where it was supposed to go.”

Tamlin flinched—barely, but you saw it.

“It’s the kind of wound time heals more than anything else. But I’ll send you something. Tonic blends. Soothing tinctures. They’ll help with the physical drain, even if they can’t mend the deeper cracks.”

His shoulders dropped, just slightly. As though someone had let the tension out of a too-taut bowstring.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, genuinely.

You gave him a small nod.

Without another word, he stepped back, shadows curling at his feet. In a blink of golden light, he winnowed—vanishing into the air, leaving only the scent of Spring in his wake.

You stood alone for a moment longer, letting the wind wash over you, the memories, the past.

Then you turned and walked back inside.

The room assigned to the Night Court delegation was comfortably large, with arched windows and a private balcony that overlooked the eastern spires of the Dawn Court. The golden afternoon light pooled lazily across the floor, casting the whole room in a warm, sleepy glow—though no one here seemed remotely interested in rest.

Helion was lounging in one of the cushioned chairs near the fire, half a glass of dark wine swirling in his hand, his golden robes draped carelessly off one shoulder. Rhys sat near the hearth, Feyre beside him with a ledger open on her knee. Cassian leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, while Azriel stood in the corner, shadows slinking lazily near his boots, gaze fixed on the open door.

“I have to admit,” Helion was saying, his voice languid with curiosity, “I didn’t think she’d ever settle in one place. Let alone one court.”

Cassian grinned. “You’re not the first to say that.”

“She spent years in Day,” Helion went on, raising his glass slightly as if in toast. “Brilliant, sharp, too curious for her own good—always trying to find the exact limits of every spell, every theory. I saw her maybe three times. And each time I thought she’d vanish again in a month. Imagine my surprise when I heard she was in Velaris for good.”

He gave Azriel a pointed look, then smirked knowingly. “Well… I suppose she found a reason to stay.”

Cassian snorted from where he was leaning near the window. “What, did someone propose her that time too?”

Helion turned his head with an exaggerated look of scandal. “Oh, you really think you’re the first one to notice her, General?”

Cassian blinked.

Then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, are you saying—?”

Helion gave him a slow, wicked grin. “I didn’t say anything. But thank you for confirming you assumed I had.”

Feyre groaned. “Cauldron save us.”

Cassian raised both hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright. Just kidding.”

Helion winked. “So was I.”

Maybe.

Then the door opened, and conversation halted.

You stepped in.

As if the room had shifted with your arrival, everyone turned toward you at once. Helion’s grin stretched wider as he lifted his glass in greeting. “Speak of the stars.”

Your eyes swept the room, immediately clocking Helion, who raised his glass again.

“What’s up, Helion?” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“Your reputation precedes you, as always,” he purred.

You made your way to the open balcony door, letting the cooler air brush your face as you leaned against the frame. Azriel shifted subtly at your return, his shadows curling in greeting. You met his eyes briefly before Rhys’s voice drew your attention.

“What did Tamlin want?”

“He’s sick,” you said quietly. “His magic is… turning on him. He told me he’s been unable to shift fully for almost a year. It’s like he’s being drowned from the inside.”

Silence.

Cassian’s posture straightened. Feyre’s brows knit slightly.

“He asked for my help,” you continued. “For a treatment. Something that might make it bearable.”

“Can you treat it?” Rhys asked.

You gave a slight shrug. “I’m not a psychologist.”

Cassian blinked. “A what now?”

“A mind-healer,” you explained, glancing over your shoulder. “He’s depressed, basically.”

A long pause followed.

Even Helion went quiet.

You turned fully back toward them, letting the silence settle for a heartbeat longer before lifting your shoulders in a small sigh.

“Anyway,” you said.

The conversation continued—shifting to strategy, rotations, logistics—but the weight of your words lingered. The acknowledgment that even High Lords weren’t immune to breaking.

Then a knock.

Rhysand lifted a brow just as the door opened and Thesan stepped inside, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“Am I interrupting?”

Helion smirked without turning. “Always.”

Thesan’s eyes scanned the room briefly, unsurprised to find the Day Court lord here. “Of course you’d be here already.”

Rhysand rose from his chair, equally surprised and amused. “You don’t usually involve yourself with matters outside Dawn.”

Thesan gave him a cool look. “Don’t be flattered, Rhysand. I’m not here for you.”

Feyre snorted softly, and even Azriel allowed himself a shadow of a smile.

You watched the two High Lords face each other, different in every way—light and dark, formality and flair—and felt the weight of what was coming settle deeper into your bones.

It had begun.

And every alliance, every scar, every old wound… would matter.

You stood near the edge of the balcony, your eyes locked on the horizon. The golden light of the Day Court filtered through layers of clouds, soft and impossibly calm—mocking the storm you all knew was coming.

Your thoughts drifted, disjointed. Worry. Strategy. The weight of healing. The ache of what might never come to pass.

Behind you, you felt the curtains move.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Azriel stepped up beside you, silent as always, his shadows dancing faintly around your feet. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the quiet stretch between you, like a bridge no one wanted to break.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, his voice low, intimate.

You gave a soft exhale. “As okay as I can be. The war is so soon…”

Azriel didn’t answer, but he wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you gently into his chest. His warmth sank into your skin, his breath brushing your temple. You tilted your head slightly and kissed his cheek, letting your fingers rest lightly over his arms.

Then you sighed. “You know what…”

You turned, heart pounding with sudden clarity.

Crossing the threshold into the room again, you didn’t hesitate. “Thesan.”

Everyone looked up.

He raised a brow. “Yes?”

“Is the chapel under the palace finished? I remember you were renovating it last time I visited.”

Thesan blinked, caught off guard. “We completed it last month. Why?”

“Perfect.” You reached back, catching Azriel’s hand. “Az, let’s get married.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Cassian choked. “Huh?”

Rhys and Feyre both gaped, their mouths wide open.

And then—

Helion burst out laughing. Full, delighted laughter that echoed off the stone walls. “Oh, I missed you.”

You turned to face the room fully, hand still in Azriel’s. “The war’s coming. Tonight might be the last night we’re all alive and together. So let’s go.”

Azriel looked at you like you’d just given him breath—something fierce and vulnerable blooming across his face. His hand tightened around yours.

“Yes,” he said, voice barely audible over the stunned murmurs. “Yes. Cauldron, yes.”

Thesan shook his head, smirking. “If you had told me three hundred years ago this would be happening, I’d have laughed in your face.”

“Same,” you said, half-laughing, half crying.

Cassian groaned. “Az, Mor is going to kill you for not being here for your wedding.”

“She’ll get over it,” Az answered, grinning. “No one killed Rhys and Feyre when they snuck off and married on their own.”

Feyre flushed. “That’s not the same.”

“You sure?” Rhysand added, recovering enough to smirk. “Because I remember someone yelling at us for weeks.”

Helion was still chuckling into his wine. “I’ll officiate, obviously. Someone has to add beauty to this mess.”

Thesan rolled his eyes. “No. I will officiate. It’s my court. My chapel.”

Azriel just looked at you like nothing else mattered. And maybe it didn’t.

You leaned into him, heart steady now. “Let’s do it before I change my mind.”

Azriel pulled you closer, forehead against yours. “I’m not giving you the chance.”

And just like that—amidst war plans, political tension, and the ache of everything unknown—a new vow was about to be made.

Because there was no perfect time.

Only now.

The sun had only just risen when you returned to Velaris.

The city was quiet in that way only early dawn allowed. Lamplight still glowed faintly on the cobbled streets, while the first rays of day slipped between rooftops and stirred the Sidra to soft silver ripples. The Night Court slept—but not you. Not Azriel.

The door to your home closed with a whisper, and the silence that followed felt reverent. Like the world itself had paused to make room for the gravity of what had just passed.

Married.

You were married.

You barely made it to your room before the exhaustion caught up to you both. No ceremony feast, no grand toast. Just a long, quiet embrace in the foyer. Just the look in his eyes. Just the feeling of his fingers brushing the ring on your hand.

Now—

Now you lay tangled together in your shared bed, in the golden hush of dawn.

The covers were kicked low, your limbs strewn across his, your head tucked beneath his chin. Azriel’s arms cradled you like he’d been waiting an eternity to do so—his touch loose in sleep, but never far. One of his wings was draped half over your frame, heavy and warm, as if trying to shield you from time itself.

The matching rings on your fingers glinted faintly in the morning light. Silver for you. Shadow-forged black for him. But the engraving was the same—an eclipse surrounded by stars. A symbol of everything you were together: not light, not dark, but both. Balanced. Whole.

And on your skin…

A new tattoo wrapped across your back, covering every inch of the old scars. You had barely looked at it until now, but with Azriel’s hand lazily trailing over your spine, you could feel the shapes it had etched into you—every line tenderly inked, every star a memory made permanent.

A crescent moon arched over your left shoulder blade, soft and glowing. A golden sun rested against your right, radiant and warm. Between them stretched a night sky of constellations and falling stars, weaving across your spine like a trail of light. Shadows danced along the edges—Azriel’s shadows, inked into the design, merging with light where your shoulder met your arm. The ink curled down across your side and wound over your hip, tracing old pain with new meaning.

And on Azriel—

The same sun. The same moon.

Inked over the brutal scars on his hands, wrapping around his knuckles and wrists in silent reverence. The stars stretched across his forearms like armor—like wings—and threaded with shadows that mirrored yours.

You didn’t need to look to know it was the same.

You could feel it.

The bond between you pulsed gently—low and soft and sacred. Like your souls had curled into each other during the night and refused to part.

Azriel stirred slightly beneath you, his lips brushing the crown of your head. You shifted just enough to meet his gaze, and he opened his eyes, golden and soft.

You touched foreheads, your noses brushing. The quiet between you was thick with everything words could never quite hold.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice raw from sleep.

“I love you,” you whispered back.

And you stayed like that.

Two broken creatures, bound together in silver and ink and shadow and flame.

The morning after your wedding was the last moment of peace you would know for a very long time.

The few calm hours of sleep that you got were the last ones you would have for a long time.

Before the sun reached its zenith, Rhysand’s message had arrived.

Koshiev’s armies had invaded Prythian.

They had crossed the eastern threshold with no warning, no mercy—ripping through the borderlands like a storm of teeth and ash.

This was the beginning of the war.

And maybe, just maybe…

The beginning of the end.

Of your end.

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