Black Morass [m] my time

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ione stood at the edge of the sacred grove, the air around her thick with the tang of blooming herbs and the faint whisper of the wind through the ancient oaks. the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that danced like specters in the twilight. her posture was composed, regal as always, but there was a subtle tension in the way her ears flicked, her tail shifting against her hocks.

something within her stirred, undeniable and primal, a warmth blooming beneath her chest and radiating outward. she inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the sensation that had begun to creep into her thoughts, her pulse quickening in its wake.

it was time.

she tipped her head back, her voice rising in a clear, resonant call that echoed through the stillness of the grove. it was not a cry for the pack, nor an open invitation—it was specific, pointed. @Kovictus, she summoned, the reverend mother’s voice carrying authority laced with something softer, something only he was meant to hear.

ione lowered her head, the faintest curl of a smile brushing her lips as she waited, the fire within her igniting fully in the anticipation of his arrival.

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he moved instantly, his massive frame cutting through the swampy terrain with long strides.

when she came into view, standing poised at the edge of the grove, the fire inside him roared. his pace quickened, and he strode toward her without hesitation, his golden gaze locked on hers.

ione, he growls her name as if it is the only word he knows. his wife has called him, for a purpose only the two of them know. that they will share. it was only milliseconds before the dominus was upon his wife, burying massive head into her thin throat. inhaling the sweet there, greedy.

he layers her throat and scruff with fervent kisses. tending to her with a fever, tongue feathering through out her fur. he could take her, be done with it, but his wife deserves more than barbarity. the barbarity he would show for a common woman; it was not hers to have. he would show her worship.

they would lay together now, tending to one another, basking in the warmth of the other. his nose burrows into the fur at the nape of her neck and he pants, hungrily, pressing himself further upon his wife. making his demands known.

reverend mother stood still, regal even in the face of his approach, her pale eyes watching him with an intensity that burned as brightly as the fire within her. as kovictus closed the distance between them, she felt his presence like a tidal wave, commanding and unrelenting, and yet she did not falter. instead, she leaned into his touch, her body softening under the fervent kisses he laid upon her throat and scruff.

she tilted her head back, a faint, breathy sound escaping her lips as she allowed herself to bask in the devotion he offered. there was a heat rising in her, pooling in her limbs, and she turned her body to him, her movements slow and deliberate, graceful even in surrender. she lowered herself, her tail brushing aside as she spread before him, her posture both commanding and inviting.

then take what is yours, she murmured, her voice low, a sultry thread weaving through her words. her pale gaze met his, steady and expectant, the reverend mother waiting to be worshipped as only her dominus could.

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a gift meant for him alone.

he looms above her and he steps closer, pressing nose into her scruff, dragging down her spine as he inhales her deeply, greedily, his breath hot and uneven. her scent is maddening, her voice—those words—a challenge he cannot ignore.

mine, it is a rumble, the single word a claim, a vow, spoken like a growl of thunder. his teeth graze the tender fur of her neck, restraint hanging by a thread as he leans into her. then, he circles her, his golden gaze never leaving hers, a predator basking in the prey that willingly offers itself.

you are mine, he growls again, his tone rough, guttural, dripping with possession. he lowers himself to her level, his massive frame pressing close, dominating the space between them as his nose brushes along her exposed neck and shoulder. the way she splays before him, offering herself like a shrine for him to worship at, drives him to insanity. eyes flaring with the intensity of his urges. carnem tuam possidebo, sanguinem tuum bibam.

his jaws snap around her scruff, teeth piercing flesh; the metallic tang of her blood hits his tongue. he relishes in the way she does not fight, does not cower—how she coos with pleasure. a woman truly meant for him. and now she will be scarred with the etching of his jaws, binded to him and only him. hips coming to press against her, connection in entirety.

and when it is done, he is there to groom the blood from his wife’s fur, and to hold her in strong arms.

she does not falter beneath his shadow; she does not shy away from the thunder in his voice or the heat of his breath against her skin. where another might tremble, she welcomes it, her posture firm, regal even in submission. the bite tears through flesh, a sharp sting that draws not fear but pleasure—a mark of her choice, her power, and his.

her lips part with a low hum of satisfaction, her pale eyes half-lidded as she tilts her head further, baring more of her neck to him. yes, this was the man she had chosen, the one she had deemed worthy. and in this moment, she knows she was right.

for a fleeting second, the thought of osiel crosses her mind—a flicker of wonder if he could ever wield such power with the same precision, the same dominance. but it vanishes as quickly as it comes, lost to the raw heat of the moment.

her breath catches as his frame presses against hers, his claim sealing them in a bond deeper than blood. when the storm subsides, and he tends to the wounds he inflicted, her gaze lingers on him, unwavering, proud. her lips curve into the faintest smile, her voice a low murmur meant only for him.

yours, she affirms, a gift meant for him alone.

you did well, ione. he whispers, softly, a tone of voice only for her. heart a rapid beat within his chest following the aftermath of their consumption of one another. and he lowers his head, dragging his nose along the line of her spine as he breathes her in deeply, savoring her scent now mingled with the metallic tang of blood. his tongue laps at the wound he’s inflicted, tending to it with surprising care.

i see it now. a legacy that will make the heavens weep. and it begins with the nectar of a mother’s womb.

forehead now comes to press against hers as his body cups hers, legs entangled, bodies rising and falling in mismatched rhythm as they breathed together. his breaths slow, mighty. a rumble thick in his throat, a sound of please that falls from parted lips as he brushes his snout against hers. i hear the mighty thrum of our children’s hearts already.

his whispers, soft and reverent, did not require a reply. she let them settle, a quiet affirmation that she had chosen well.

her head tilted slightly, meeting his forehead with hers, the gesture as intimate as the bond they had just forged. the faint sting of her wound remained, but she bore it without complaint, knowing it as a mark of devotion, a seal of their shared purpose.

she did not need to voice her pride, nor the certainty that coursed through her. it was written in the way her body remained relaxed against his, in the faint curve of her lips, and in the steady rhythm of her breaths. the legacy he spoke of, the thrum of children yet to come—it was enough.

their union would not end here; it would be revisited, reignited in the days to come. but for now, she allowed the moment to linger, the quiet satisfaction of knowing they had begun something eternal.