Archive of Our Own

They lay tangled in the sheets of their four-poster bed, skin still flushed and damp from the latest round of desperate, hormone-fueled lovemaking. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the late-afternoon sun, casting the room in soft golden shadows. Stella had claimed the foot of the bed, curled into a fluffy black-and-white ball with her tail over her eyes, while Sneezles had wedged himself between two pillows, glowing faintly like a tiny night-light. Both pets had long since learned that when the blankets started moving rhythmically—or when Rayla’s moans turned particularly loud—they were better off pretending to be invisible.

Callum propped himself up on one elbow, the tray of jelly tarts balanced precariously on the mattress between them. He’d raided the kitchens himself earlier, slipping past the cooks with the practiced stealth of someone who’d once broken into a dragon’s lair… or at least he thought he had. Now he held a tart between thumb and forefinger, the glistening red jelly catching the low light.

“Open,” he ordered softly, voice still rough from earlier.

Rayla, sprawled on her back with one arm flung above her head and the other resting on the gentle swell of her belly, gave him a lazy, bratty little glare. “I’m no’ a bairn, Callum.”

“You’re acting like one.” He dangled the tart just out of reach. “And you begged for these five minutes ago. Mouth open, love.”

She huffed, but parted her lips anyway, tongue flicking out impatiently. Callum placed the tart on her tongue and watched, amused, as she immediately tried to speak around it.

“Mmph—told ye—mmph—the hormones make me—” She chewed twice, swallowed with an exaggerated gulp, then licked jelly from the corner of her mouth. “—crave sweet things. But these tarts aren't hittin' the same...”

Callum chuckled, low and fond, and selected another tart. This one had extra sugar dusting the top; he knew it was her favourite. “You say that like I’m not currently feeding you like a spoiled princess. Which, technically, you are now. Princess-consort of Katolis, terror of the training yard, and apparently insatiably aroused.”

Rayla kicked at his shin under the sheet—lightly, playfully. “Oi. I’m carryin’ yer child, ye daft human. I get tae be insatiable. It’s biology.”

“Moonshadow biology. I’ve never seen a human as demanding as you,” he corrected, pressing the next tart to her lips. She nipped at his fingers on purpose, catching the pad of his thumb between her teeth just hard enough to make him hiss.

“Careful,” he warned, though his eyes darkened with renewed heat. “Keep that up and the tarts are going to have to wait.”

She released his thumb with a smug pop, then took the whole tart into her mouth at once, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. “Mmmph—when d’ye reckon we tell them?” she mumbled around the mouthful, words garbled and sticky.

Callum arched a brow, wiping a smear of jelly from her chin with the pad of his thumb before sucking it clean himself—a move that made her pupils dilate instantly.

“Tell who what?” he teased, even though he knew exactly what she meant.

She swallowed with difficulty, glared, then swatted his chest. “The pregnancy, ye numpty. Ezran. Soren an’ Corvus. The council. Opeli’s going tae have a fit when she finds out there’s gonna be a half-elf runnin’ about the castle thats royal by blood.”

Callum’s expression sobered a fraction. He set the tray aside carefully, then rolled onto his side so they were face-to-face, noses almost touching. One hand slid to her belly, palm warm and possessive over the small, secret curve.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted quietly. “Ezran deserves to know first. He’s going to be an uncle. And he’ll be over the moon. Literally.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Soren and Corvus… they’ll probably try to throw some ridiculous celebration that involves dueling for ‘best uncle’ rights. Corvus will cheat. Soren will cry when he holds the baby for the first time.”

Rayla snorted, the sound turning into a soft giggle. “Aye. An’ they’ll both try tae teach the wee one how tae sword-fight before they can walk. Poor bairn.”

“They’ll have to get through me first,” Callum said, voice dropping into that new, darker register he’d developed over the past year—the one that made even seasoned guards straighten instinctively. “And you... especially you.”

She studied his face for a long moment, violet eyes searching. “Ye’ve been… sharper lately. More commanding. Everyone’s noticed. Even Ezran looks at ye sometimes like he’s tryin’ tae figure out who replaced his big brother wi’ a proper prince.”

Callum’s jaw tightened, just for a second. Then he exhaled, thumb tracing slow circles over her skin. “I know. I don’t like it either. But the closer we get to—Aaravos and Claudia still out there—I can’t afford to be the soft-hearted mage anymore. Not when everything we love is on the line.” His gaze dropped to her belly. “Especially now.”

Rayla reached up, cupping his cheek, forcing him to meet her eyes again. “Ye’re still you, Callum. The temper’s new, aye, but the heart’s the same. An’ that’s why I trust ye. I know that when Moonshadow elves fall with child, their partner's usually have heightened possessiveness. Lot's of tantrums, dueling, anything to 'protect' the pregrancy.” Her voice softened, accent thickening with sudden emotion. “But dinnae shut them out, Callum. Ezran needs his brother, no’ just the High Mage. Soren an’ Corvus need their best friend. An’ I… I need ye tae let me be independent sometimes, too. Even when I’m bein’ a wee bit difficult.”

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. “You’re allowed to be independent. But it’s also my job—to take care of you. Both of you. Like you said. Moonshadow tradition and all,” Another kiss, lower, against the inside of her wrist. “As for telling people… maybe after the next full moon? Gives us another few weeks to be sure everything’s progressing well. The healer said the first trimester is the riskiest for pregnancies. And considering the healer has no experience with mixed blood babies, I’m not taking any chances.”

Rayla nodded slowly. “Aye. An’ I’d rather tell Ezran in private. Just us three. Then the lads can make a fuss after. That, and Ethari and Runaan should know too, so we have tae plan for that.”

“Agreed.” Callum reached for the tray again, picking up the last tart. He tore it in half, offering her the bigger piece. “One more. Then you’re going to rest.”

She accepted the half, but instead of eating it, she held it up to his lips. “Ye first. Ye’ve been feedin’ me all afternoon. Fair’s fair.”

He took the bite, chewing slowly, eyes never leaving hers. When he swallowed, he leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, tasting of sugar and her. She melted against him, the half-eaten tart forgotten between their fingers, smearing sticky red across both their chests.

When they parted, breathless, Rayla rested her forehead against his. “I love ye, ye ken that? Even when ye’re teasin’ me an’ bossin’ me about.”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing jelly from her lip with his tongue before kissing her again, softer this time. “And I love you. Bratty, insatiably aroused, jelly-tart-stealing assassin and all.”

She laughed against his mouth, the sound muffled and happy.

Under the blankets, Stella let out a tiny, indignant chitter—as if to say, Finally, they’re done moving—and Sneezles pulsed once, twice, like a heartbeat answering theirs.

For now, the world outside their chambers could wait. The secret, the baby, the future—they would face it together. 

“I’m done wi’ jelly tarts,” she announced, as though it were a royal decree. Her accent was thicker than usual, worn raw by exhaustion and something restless she couldn’t name. “Done wi’ moonberries, done wi’ sweet rolls. They’re nae doin’ it anymore. I cannae explain it—just… nothin’ tastes right. Nothin’ fills the ache.”

Callum paused, fingers stilling on her tunic button. He studied her carefully, the way he always did when her mood shifted into that particular restless, bratty territory.

“You’re tired,” he said gently. “It’s been a long day. The healer said the cravings shift sometimes. Maybe it’s just—”

“I’m no’ tired,” she cut in, though the lie was obvious in the faint shadows under her eyes. “I’m restless. Hungry. An’ horny. All at once. An’ I dinnae ken what I want, but I ken I want somethin’.” She nudged toward him, then another, until the space between them was barely a breath. “An’ right now, that somethin’ is you.”

Before he could answer, her hands were on his chest, shoving him backward with surprising force for someone who looked half-asleep. He went down willingly, sprawling across the rumpled sheets with a soft huff of surprise. Rayla followed immediately, climbing over him like a predator who’d finally decided on her prey.

“Rayla—”

“Shh.” She pressed two fingers to his lips, violet eyes dark and intent. “Dinnae talk. Just… let me.”

She slid lower, slow and deliberate, dragging her palms down the planes of his chest, over his stomach, until she reached the laces of his trousers. Her movements were unhurried, almost reverent—nothing like the frantic, hormone-driven urgency of the past few weeks. This felt different. Focused. As though she were chasing something only she could sense.

She freed him with practiced ease, unbuckling his belt. His cock sprang free from his trousers, wrapping her fingers around his length and giving one long, languid stroke from base to tip. Callum sucked in a breath; she smiled at the sound, small and satisfied, like she’d just won a private victory.

“Look at ye,” she murmured, voice low and rough. “Already soooo hard fer me. An’ I havenae even started properly.”

Her thumb circled the head, spreading the bead of wetness that had already gathered there. She leaned down, silver hair falling forward to curtain her face, and dragged the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock in one slow, wet glide. Callum’s hips jerked involuntarily.

“Mmm,” she whispered against his skin, the warmth of her breath making him twitch again. “I’m no’ in a rush tonight.”

She took his cock into her mouth inch by inch, lips stretching around him, tongue curling lazily. No frantic bobbing, no desperate suction—just long, deliberate slides, savoring every ridge and vein as though she were tasting something rare and exquisite. One hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking in perfect time with the movements of her mouth; the other slipped beneath to cup his balls gently, rolling and kneading with featherlight pressure.

Callum’s fingers threaded into her hair— holding onto her horns. His breathing had turned ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“Gods, Rayla…”

She hummed around him in answer, the vibration traveling straight up his groin. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, heavy-lidded and smug, as though this entire act were for her pleasure far more than his. Every slow pull of her lips, every swirl of her tongue, every twist of her wrist seemed designed to draw out his reactions so she could drink them in.

She pulled off just long enough to speak, lips shiny and swollen.

“Ye taste so good,” she said softly, almost wonderingly. “Better than any sweet roll. Better than moonberries. I could do this all night.”

Then she sank back down, taking him deeper this time, relaxing her throat until her nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. She held there for a long moment, swallowing around him, letting the rhythmic contractions milk him without moving.

Callum’s control frayed. His hips lifted in tiny, helpless thrusts; his grip in her horns tightened. When did she learn to do that?  With the new sensation massaging the tip of his cock in her throat, Callum was a goner, “Rayla—I’m close—”

She didn’t pull away.

Instead she doubled down—slow, sensual, relentless—until his whole body locked up and he spilled into her mouth with a choked groan. Thick pulses of heat coated her tongue.

Rayla didn’t flinch.

She stayed right where she was, swallowing greedily, drawing out every last drop as though it were the only thing that could possibly soothe the gnawing emptiness inside her. When he finally stopped shuddering, she pulled off slowly, lips pursing to catch the final bead that clung to the tip. She licked it away with a soft, contented sound.

For several heartbeats she simply knelt between his thighs, eyes half-closed, licking her lips over and over like someone who’d just discovered a new favourite flavour. Then her gaze snapped back to his.

Her pupils were blown wide. Barely, was there any violet left. 

“Callum,” she said, voice hoarse and trembling with sudden urgency. “That… that was it.”

He blinked, still dazed not really processing what she was saying. “What?”

“That was what I needed.” She crawled back up his body until she was straddling his hips, hands braced on either side of his head. Her silver hair fell around them like a curtain. “I didnae ken it until right now, but—gods, I need more. Right now. Again.”

She rocked against him once, already seeking friction, already wet and aching despite having spent the last five minutes entirely focused on him.

“Please,” she whispered, the bratty edge gone, replaced by raw, honest want. “I need tae taste ye again. I need it inside me mouth. I need it down my throat. I need—”

Callum’s hands found her waist, thumbs brushing the slight curve of her belly.

“Anything,” he rasped, voice wrecked, to blown out of his body to comprehend what exactly she wanted. “Anything you want.”

Rayla’s smile was slow and wicked and relieved all at once.

“Good,” she murmured, already sliding back down his body. “Because I’m no’ done wi’ ye yet. Not even close.”

Under the blankets, two small, frightened shapes huddled tighter together, as though hoping the storm would pass them by.

It wouldn’t.

Not tonight.

A week had passed since that lazy afternoon in bed, where Callum had fed Rayla jelly tarts and they'd whispered about when to reveal their secret... and her very passionate giving. The days in Katolis Castle blurred into a rhythm of council meetings, sparring sessions, and stolen moments that grew increasingly heated under the relentless pull of Rayla's Moonshadow pregnancy hormones. Callum, as High Mage and Prince, found himself balancing the weight of his duties with the ever-present need to satiate his wife's escalating desires. Her body was changing subtly—her breasts fuller, her skin glowing with an ethereal luminescence that only he seemed to notice—but it was her cravings that had taken a sharp, unexpected turn.

It started innocently enough. One morning, as the first rays of sun pierced the heavy curtains of their chambers, Callum stirred from sleep to find Rayla already awake, her violet eyes fixed on him with a predatory gleam. She was nestled between his legs, her silver hair tousled from the night before, her lithe form bare and pressing against him under the sheets. Rayla was only wearing her panties, and he was reminded of that when her bare breasts were cushioned over his thigh. Stella and Sneezles, sensing the shift, had already scampered to the edge of the bed, peeking warily before diving under the bedframe with synchronized chirps of alarm.

"Mornin', love," Rayla murmured, her thick Moonshadow accent wrapping around the words like velvet. "I've been needing ye."

Callum blinked, still half-asleep, his body responding instinctively to her proximity. "Rayla, what—?"

She silenced him with a lick to the tip of his cock, her other hand already working him to hardness with slow, teasing strokes. "Dinnae talk. Just let me have ye." Her mouth descended, hot and eager, trailing kisses to his cock and taking him in deeply. It was a wake-up call like no other—her tongue swirling, her cheeks hollowing as she worked him with the precision of an assassin. Callum's hands fisted in the sheets, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn't stop until he spilled into her mouth, and she swallowed every drop with a satisfied hum, her eyes never leaving his.

"Gods, Rayla," he panted, pulling her up to kiss her, tasting himself on her lips. "That's... new."

She grinned, bratty and unrepentant, licking her lips. "Blame the bairn. Or the hormones. Either way, ye're my favourite treat now."

Callum didn't really grasp that comment... But from that moment, it became a pattern—a delicious, exhausting ritual that threaded through their days. Callum, ever the giver, indulged her without question, his dominance surfacing in quiet commands that made her shiver. But it was her initiative that drove it, her demands turning into urgent pleas that he could not fathom denying.

Before the morning council meeting, as Callum dressed in his princely High Mage robes embroidered with runes, Rayla cornered him against the vanity. "Quick one, Callum. Fer luck." She dropped to her knees, her horns brushing his thighs as she freed him from his trousers. The room filled with wet, slurping sounds, her accent muffled as she whispered praises around him: "Ye taste sooo good, Mr. Mage. Give it tae me." He came with a stifled groan, his hand on her horn, guiding her gently but firmly. Stella chattered indignantly from the bed, while Sneezles glowed brighter in distress, both pets hiding under the blankets as the intensity built.

The meeting itself was a test of Callum's composure.

 Opeli droned on about trade routes, her disdainful glances at Rayla barely concealed. "We must ensure no... elven influences disrupt our alliances," she said pointedly, her eyes flicking to Rayla's pointed ears.

Callum's temper, already simmering from the weight of secrets and hormones, flared. "Opeli, if you have an issue with my wife, say it plainly. Otherwise, hold your tongue. Before I decide to cut it out." His voice boomed with authority, the air crackling faintly with undirected primal magic—a spark of sky arcanum that made the candles flicker.

The room fell silent, Ezran shooting him a concerned look. Soren and Corvus exchanged glances, their brotherly protectiveness toward Rayla evident in their scowls at Opeli. But Rayla, seated beside him, squeezed his thigh under the table, her touch both soothing and promising. She didn't even hear what Opeli had mentioned. Only the protectiveness in Callum's voice.She usually hated when people spoke for her, protecting her honour... But when Callum snapped, she was determined to unleash it again.

After the meeting adjourned, she pulled him into a shadowed alcove just outside the chamber. "Ye were fierce in there," she purred, her accent thickening with arousal. "I need tae taste ye again. Right now." The risk was high—footsteps echoed in the halls—but Callum didn't resist. He was quick to let her drop to her knees once more. Her mouth was insistent, her hands gripping his hips as she took him deep. "Swallow it all, Moonlight," he murmured dominantly, his fingers threading through her hair. She did, moaning softly around him, the vibration sending him over the edge.

 As they emerged, composed but flushed, Soren clapped him on the back. "Nice takedown, Callum. You've got that prince vibe down."

Callum forced a smile, his mind still reeling. "Thanks. Just... protecting what's mine." Which made Rayla roll her eyes in annoyance, as if she weren’t tasting his cum on her tongue in that moment. But why did Callum say that? He never said such possessive things before...

Lunch brought no respite. Rayla's cravings for sweets resurfaced—she devoured a plate of moonberries imported from the Silvergrove, (a demand that Ezran fulfilled using meticulous connections) their juicy tartness staining her lips purple. "These are almost as good as ye," she teased, feeding him one before leaning in to whisper, "But no' quite."

The afternoon sparring session with Soren and Corvus provided a brief distraction. Rayla, ever the Moonshadow assassin, dominated the yard, her blades a blur as she disarmed Soren with a flourish and tripped Corvus into the dirt. "Ha! Ye two gang up on me again, an' I'll make ye regret it!" she laughed, her accent lilting with triumph. They bickered like siblings—Soren poking her side, Corvus ruffling her hair—while Ezran watched from afar, chuckling at their antics.

"Ye're gettin' slow, lads," Rayla taunted, helping Soren up. "Must be all that human food weighin' ye down."

Soren grinned. "Or maybe you're just cheating with elf magic."

"Assassin skills, ye oaf. Pure talent."

Callum joined later, taking a break from his spellwork in his study and observing, his pride in her swelling, but her glance his way was heated. After the session, in the armory as they stowed gear, she pushed him against a rack of swords. "Smart an' strong—perfect," she breathed, sinking to her knees amid the clang of metal. The blowjob was fervent, her head bobbing rhythmically, swallowing him whole. Callum bit back a moan, his dominance kicking in: "Deeper, Rayla. Take it like the good girl you are." She complied, eyes watering but eager, and when he released, she drank him down with a contented sigh. A guard passed nearby, oblivious, but the thrill made it all the more intense. They've been in risky situations before the pregnancy of course. Sometimes they couldn't wait to go to their room so she'd pull him into a nearby closet and he'd fuck her against the door with her mouth covered. These were normal incdents. But what wasn't normal was what happened at dinner...

Dinner that evening was a formal affair in the great hall, with Ezran at the head of the table, dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms present. Rayla sat beside Callum, her hand innocently on his knee—at first. As courses arrived, her fingers wandered higher, stroking him through his trousers under the tablecloth. "Rayla," he whispered warningly, his temper warring with arousal.

She leaned in, feigning interest in her sweet roll. "Hush. I need a taste. Slip away wi' me?"

But she didn't wait. Instead Rayla shoved her fork off the table, the metal making a loud noise. With brazen audacity, she ducked under the table during a loud toast, her movements hidden by the long cloth. Callum's eyes widened in shock as she freed his cock from his trousers, her mouth enveloping him in the midst of conversation. Soren, across the table, raised a brow. "You okay, Callum? Look like you've seen a ghost."

"F-Fine," Callum stammered, his hand gripping the table edge shakily as Rayla's tongue worked magic. Her accent was in his mind, imagining her muffled words: "Give it tae me, Mr. Mage..." The risk—Ezran chatting obliviously, Opeli scowling from afar—pushed him over quickly. He came with a stiufled groan before going into a coughing fit, Rayla swallowing every drop before reemerging with a innocent smile, wiping her mouth discreetly. "Whoopsies... Dropped my fork," she said smoothly.

Callum's heart pounded, a mix of exhilaration and fear. "You're going to get us caught," he murmured later, as they excused themselves early.

In their chambers, the bathtub awaited—a massive copper tub filled with steaming water scented with moonberry oils. Rayla stripped languidly, her body a vision of graceful curves, the slight swell of her belly more pronounced in the candlelight. "Join me?."

Callum rolled his eyes at the dumb question undressed, slipping into the water behind her. She certainly didn't have to tell him twice. She leaned back against him, her hand guiding his to her breast. But soon, she turned, submerging her hand partially to jerk his cock upward. Callum threw his head back muttering a plea to the stars. And then she leaned down, tarting her tongue over the large length of him that was out of the water. Water sloshed as she bobbed, bubbles forming around her. "Rayla, gods..." he groaned, his head falling back. Callum, not wanting this to be all about him decided to deepen the kink—he used an ocean arcanum spell to create gentle currents, enhancing the sensation like underwater caresses to her clit. And just a few waves was enough to send  her over the edge as she swallowed him eagerly, the warmth of the bath contrasting with her hot mouth. Stella and Sneezles, perched on the tub's edge, fled elsewhere with startled squeaks when water splashed.

Finally, before bed, as they dried off and slipped under the covers, Rayla curled against him. "One more, Callum. Tae sleep sound." Her blowjob was slower, more intimate—her eyes locked on his, her bratty whimpers turning babyish as she pleaded. "Please, give me yer seed." He did, holding her head gently, his command soft but unyielding. She swallowed with a happy sigh, nuzzling his thigh.

As they lay spent, pets emerging cautiously to snuggle, Callum stroked her hair. "This new extra-curricular... it's intense."

"Aye," she murmured sleepily. "But ye're handlin' it like the hero ye are. My sweet prince."

He kissed her forehead, before pulling her into his arms as she was quick to fall asleep, satiated. But Callum didn't sleep much that night...

The candle on Callum’s desk had burned down to a stub, wax pooling in thick, translucent rings around the base. It was well past midnight—closer to dawn than dusk—and the High Mage’s study was a fortress of parchment, ink, and quiet desperation. Trade agreements with Duren and Del Bar sat half-finished before him: clauses about grain tariffs, border patrols, shared river rights. Ezran needed these signed and couriered before the sun rose if they were to reach the eastern delegations in time for the spring council. Callum’s eyes burned from staring at the tiny script; his right hand ached from gripping the quill so long. He was three paragraphs from completion. Just three.

He didn’t hear the door open.

Rayla moved like shadow itself—bare feet silent on the stone floor, silver hair loose and glowing faintly in the candlelight. She wore only one of his old tunics, the hem skimming the tops of her thighs, sleeves rolled to her elbows. No corset, no smallclothes. The fabric clung to the slight curve of her belly and the heavier swell of her breasts, nipples already peaked against the linen from the cool night air and whatever fire was raging inside her. Her thighs chaffed together, the arousal between her legs acting as a lubricant.

She didn’t speak at first.

She simply walked straight to the desk, violet eyes glassy with need, cheeks flushed high. Callum was so deep in rewriting a particularly convoluted indemnity clause that he didn’t register her presence until her hands were already on his belt.

“Rayla—?”

The buckle clinked open before he could finish the word.

Rayla crawled underneath the the large oak desk. She dropped to her knees between his spread thighs without preamble, the stone cold against her shins. Her fingers worked the laces of his trousers with frantic precision—assassin dexterity turned to desperate purpose. The front panel fell open; she tugged the fabric down just enough to free him. His cock sprang up, already half-hard from the mere proximity of her scent—moonberries, night-blooming jasmine, and the unmistakable musk of her arousal.

“Rayla, Moonlight, I have to—” He tried to reach for the quill again while his other hand reached for her shoulder, fingers trembling. “The treaty. Sunrise. Ezran’s counting on—”

She didn’t answer with words.

She answered with her mouth.

One hand wrapped around the thick base of his shaft—fingers not quite meeting (as usual) because he was already swelling under her touch—while the other braced on his thigh for leverage. She took him in one long, greedy slide, lips stretching wide around the head, tongue flattening against the sensitive underside as she pushed forward until the blunt crown bumped the soft back of her throat.

Callum’s spine snapped straight. The quill snapped in his fist; ink splattered across the parchment in dark, accusing stars.

“Fuck—Rayla—”

She hummed around him, the vibration traveling down every inch of him like liquid lightning. Then she pulled back—slow enough to let him feel every ridge of her palate, every ripple of her tongue—only to surge forward again, faster this time. Rhythmic. Relentless. The wet, obscene sound of her mouth filled the quiet study: slick gluck-gluck-gluck as saliva gathered at the corners of her lips and dripped in thin silver strings onto his balls.

Her technique was frantic but precise. She hollowed her cheeks on the upstroke, creating tight, sucking pressure that made the veins along his length stand out in sharp relief. On the downstroke she relaxed her throat, letting him slip deeper until her nose pressed flush against the dark hair at his groin. She swallowed repeatedly—deliberately, rhythmic contractions that massaged the head where it nestled in the tight heat of her gullet.

Callum’s head fell back against the chair. This new sensation he was now introduced to was like pushing a button that just made him come instantly. In the back of his mind he wondered how on earth she was able to do that… His hands hovered uselessly for a moment—wanting to push her away so he could finish the gods-damned document, or needing to fist her hair and hold her there forever—before one finally landed on her horn, anchoring.

“Rayla… please… I can’t—I have to finish this—”

She pulled off just long enough to speak, voice wrecked and thick with spit.

“Ye can finish after ye finish in my mouth.”

Then she dove back down, faster, hungrier. Her free hand slipped lower, cupping his sac, rolling the heavy weight of his balls in her palm while her thumb pressed gently against the tender skin behind them. The dual sensation—tight suction on his cock, firm pressure on his perineum—sent a jolt straight through his groin to his spine.

His hips jerked up involuntarily, driving him deeper. She moaned around the intrusion, the sound muffled and greedy, and redoubled her pace. Saliva coated him now, slick and shining in the candlelight; it dripped down his shaft, over her knuckles, onto the floor between her knees. Her tongue never stopped moving—swirling around the flared ridge on every withdrawal, flicking the slit on every plunge, lapping at the thick vein that pulsed along the underside.

Callum’s breathing turned ragged. The treaty forgotten, ink drying in useless smears. His other hand gripped the arm of the chair so hard the the mighty oak wood creaked.

“Rayla—gods—I’m—”

She knew. Of course she knew.

She pulled back until only the head remained between her lips, sealed tight, and sucked—hard—while her hand pumped the shaft in short, twisting strokes. Her tongue swirled around the slit, coaxing, demanding.

He broke.

A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as the first thick spurt hit the back of her tongue. Rayla’s eyes fluttered closed in pure bliss. She swallowed convulsively, throat working around him, milking every pulse. Jet after jet coated her mouth—salty, bitter, warm—and she drank it down like it was the only thing that could possibly quiet the clawing hunger inside her. A thin trickle escaped the corner of her mouth; she caught it with her tongue on the next swallow, unwilling to waste a single drop.

When he finally stopped shuddering, she kept him in her mouth—gentle now, soft suction, laving the oversensitive head until he hissed and tugged lightly at her hair.

She released him with a wet pop, lips swollen and glistening, chin shiny with spit and traces of him. She rested her cheek against his still-twitching thigh and looked up at him with glassy, satisfied eyes.

“Better,” she rasped with a sigh. “Thanks, love.”

Callum stared down at her, chest heaving, ink-stained fingers trembling. It looked as though he had been teleported to a whole other dimension, given that his cum along with his entire being was sucked out of his cock.

“The treaty,” he managed weakly, breathelessly.

Rayla glanced at the ruined parchment—black splotches blooming across half-finished sentences like dark flowers.

“Ye can rewrite it,” she said simply. Then she nuzzled the softening length of him, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip. “After ye give me another?”

on the top of the desk, two small, terrified shapes hopped off and huddled against the far leg of the chair. Stella had her paws over her eyes; Sneezles was glowing so brightly he looked ready to combust from sheer mortification.

Rayla paid them no mind.

She was already licking a slow, deliberate stripe up the underside of Callum’s cock, coaxing him back to hardness with patient, greedy tenderness.

“Again,” she whispered against his skin. “Please. I need it again.”

Callum closed his eyes, one hand carding through her silver hair.

He was never going to finish that treaty before sunrise.

And right now—he couldn’t bring himself to care. Callum’s chest was still heaving, the aftershocks of release making his thighs twitch under Rayla’s palms. The ruined treaty lay forgotten on the desk—ink bleeding across parchment like spilled blood—but reality crashed back in with brutal clarity the moment he looked down at her.

Kneeling between his legs, silver hair mussed, lips swollen and glossy, eyes glassy with that same insatiable hunger she’d worn all week. She was already leaning forward again, tongue flicking out to catch the last glistening bead at his tip, when something in Callum snapped back into focus.

Enough.

He reached down, fingers curling gently but firmly around her upper arms, and pulled her up in one swift motion.

Rayla let out a startled, protesting whine—“Callum—!”—but he didn’t let her finish. He hauled her straight into his lap, straddling him in the wide chair, her bare thighs bracketing his hips, the hem of his borrowed tunic riding up to expose the slick dripping shine already coating her inner thighs.

“Stop,” he said, voice rough but steady. One hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb stroking softly along the sensitive line where her jaw met her throat. “Just—stop for a second, Moon.”

Rayla squirmed, trying to grind down against the half-hard length. “But I need—”

“I know, I know...” He tightened his grip just enough to still her hips. “But why don’t we… play a different way tonight? Let me take care of you first. Let me touch you. Fingers, tongue—whatever you want. I’ll make you come until you can’t remember your own name. Then maybe—”

“No.” The word came out sharp, almost panicked. She grabbed his wrist, pressing his hand between her legs so he could feel how drenched she was.

“No’ that. I dinnae want yer fingers or yer mouth right now. I want—” Her voice cracked, thick with desperation. “I want yer cum. In my mouth. Down my throat. D'ye feel how wet I am? I need it, Callum. I CRAVE it. More than breathin’. More than anythin’.”

The study suddenly felt too small, the candlelight too bright. His heart thudded hard against his ribs.

He froze, the words finally clicking.

Crave... She craves it?

“You… what?”

Rayla’s cheeks flushed darker, but she didn’t look away. “Ye heard me. I crave it. Yer seed. I cannae explain it—dinnae ken if it’s the bairn or the hormones or some mad Moonshadow thing—but nothin’ else will do. Jelly tarts taste like ash. Moonberries are just… meh. Sweet rolls? Nothing. But ye—” She licked her swollen bottom lip, eyes fluttering half-closed at the memory. “When ye spill in my mouth… it’s like liquid gold. Like every empty place inside me gets filled at once. I need it again. Right now.”

Callum stared at her, mouth opening and closing several times before any sound emerged.

“I— That’s— You’re saying you’re literally craving my-my—” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “My… cum? Like it’s… — like it’s-it’s—uh … food?”

“Aye.” Her voice was small now, but the hunger in her eyes hadn’t dimmed. “Exactly like that.”

He let out a shaky, incredulous laugh that bordered on panic. “Gods. Okay. Okay. That’s—new. Very new.” His free hand came up to scrub over his face, ink still smudged across his fingers. “Rayla, are you… are you feeling all right? I mean—more than usual? This doesn’t feel like just arousal anymore. This feels like—”

“Like I’m starvin’,” she finished. “Because I am.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. Then, with careful hands, he lifted her off his lap and set her on her feet between his knees. She swayed for a second, unsteady, and he steadied her with palms on her hips. 

“Right,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Right. We’re not doing this here. Not when I’ve still got three paragraphs to salvage and the sun’s going to rise in—” He glanced at the window; the sky was already the deep bruised purple that came right before dawn. “—far too soon.”

He stood, wincing as fabric scraped over sensitized skin, and quickly tucked himself back into his trousers. His fingers fumbled the laces and buckled— tightly, still trembling from earlier. Rayla watched every movement with the fixed intensity of a predator denied its kill.

Callum placed a hand on the small of her back—gently—and turned her toward the door.

“Go back to our chambers,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Ten. I swear. I just need to finish this draft—Ezran’s waiting on it—and then I’m yours. All night. As much as you want. However you want it.”

“Ten minutes is too long,” she whispered, already starting to sink toward her knees again.

Callum panicked.

“Wow, wow, wow, okay, breathe…” he said more to himself. He caught her under the arms mid-drop and hoisted her back up, spinning her so her chest pressed to his chest. One arm banded around her waist tightly, the other hand cupping her jaw to turn her face toward his.

“No,” he said firmly, though his voice cracked on the word. “No more of you on your knees tonight—not here. I’m going to finish this. Quickly. Then I’m coming to bed, and you can have me until the sun’s high and we both pass out. Until then—” He pressed a hard, lingering kiss to her forehead. “There’s a bowl of moonberries on the nightstand. Fresh ones. Eat them. They won’t fix it, I know, but they’ll keep you from chewing the furniture.”

Rayla made a small, frustrated sound—half growl, half whimper—but she didn’t fight him.

“Ten minutes,” she muttered, accent thick with petulance. “If ye’re no’ there in ten, I’m comin’ back. An’ I willnae ask nicely next time.”

Callum exhaled a shaky laugh against her hair. “Noted.”

He walked her to the door—more like escorted her, keeping one arm around her waist the entire way—and opened it just enough for her to slip through. But when he looked down, a flash of pink creeping in his vision, he panicked when he realized what she was wearing. 

Rayla paused on the threshold, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were still dark with want, lips still kiss-bruised… and her thighs were practically slick with arousal, trickling down her leg. Callum’s eyes blushed out. 

“Wait!— hang on,” Callum grabbed her arm while shedding his robe. He immediately swung it over her shoulder to cover her. Rayla raised her eyebrow in confusion but Callum just gave her a nervous laugh, “It’s cold… don’t want you freezing and whatnot…”

“Dinnae take longer than ten,” she warned again, quieter this time.

“I won’t,” he promised.

She gave him one last lingering look—then turned and padded barefoot down the corridor, the hem of his robes swaying around her ankles. Callum shut the door. Leaned his forehead against the cool wood for five full seconds. Breathed.

Then he returned to the desk. The ruined parchment stared up at him accusingly. He picked up a fresh sheet, dipped a new quill, and forced himself to focus.

Ten minutes.

He could do this in ten minutes. He hoped.

Under the desk, Stella finally dared to peek out, chittering softly in what was either sympathy or judgment. Sneezles just glowed brighter, as if trying to light the way to salvation. Callum ignored them both.

Ten minutes.

He started writing.

The next morning came too soon.

Callum woke before dawn had even thought of touching the horizon, the sky outside their windows still the deep, bruised indigo of pre-dawn. Rayla was curled against him, one leg thrown over his hip, her silver hair fanned across his chest like moonlight made solid. Her breathing was slow and even, the faint rise and fall of her belly pressing rhythmically against his side—the tiny life inside her a quiet, constant reminder of why he couldn’t afford to fall apart.

He didn’t dare move at first. Every time he’d tried to slip out of bed in the small hours over the past week, she’d stirred, violet eyes cracking open, hands reaching, mouth already forming the word *stay*. Last night had been… relentless. After he’d finally stumbled into their chambers at 4:17 a.m.— treaty draft salvaged by sheer willpower and several cups of cold tea—she’d been waiting. Hungry. Desperate. He’d given her everything she asked for, again and again, until his voice cracked on her name and his legs shook when he finally collapsed beside her. She’d fallen asleep with his taste still on her lips, a small, satisfied smile curving her mouth.

Now, as the first gray light began to seep under the curtains, Callum carefully extricated himself. He moved inch by inch—lifting her arm from his waist, sliding his leg free, easing the blankets back over her shoulders. Rayla murmured something incoherent, brow furrowing, but didn’t wake.

He exhaled silently through his nose.

Stella cracked one eye open from her nest of pillows, gave him a look that clearly said *traitor*, and buried her face again. Sneezles pulsed once in sleepy disapproval before dimming.

Callum dressed in the dark—loose tunic, soft trousers and boots—and slipped out. No need to wear his high mage robes. 

The royal library was empty at this hour, the air thick with the scent of old leather, beeswax, and dust. He lit a single candle with a murmured *ignis* and began pulling volumes from the high shelves. Moonshadow Elf Physiology. Traditions of the Moonshadow Elves. Arcane Influences on Gestation. Rare Species Conceptions. Anything that might mention pregnancy.

He read until his eyes watered.

Heightened arousal: yes. Documented across multiple texts. Moonshadow pregnancies were notorious for it—hormonal surges that could last the full term, sometimes spiking in the second trimester. Increased sensitivity, vivid dreams, insatiable desire. All of it matched.

But cravings?

Nothing.

Not a single line about unusual oral fixations. Not a whisper of semen-specific hunger. No warnings about nutrient deficiencies manifesting as bizarre appetites. No case studies of Moonshadow elves developing obsessive oral cravings during gestation.

Callum closed the last book with more force than necessary. The candle flame danced wildly.

He needed answers.

The healer—Lirien, the same discreet Earthblood elf they’d smuggled into the castle weeks ago—lived in a small, warded cottage on the edge of the palace grounds. She opened the door before he could knock, as though she’d sensed him coming.

“High Mage,” she greeted, voice calm but eyes sharp. “You look like death warmed over.”

Callum managed a tired half-smile. “Feels like it.”

She ushered him inside. The cottage smelled of dried herbs, sage smoke, and something faintly metallic—bloodroot, probably. Lirien gestured to a low stool by the hearth. He sat. She didn’t.

“What seems to be the issue?.”

He told her.

He started with the obvious—the constant horniness, the way Rayla had been climbing him like a tree since the conception. Then the shift. The jelly tarts losing its appeal. The moonberries turning bland. The sweet rolls tasting like cardboard.

And then… the new craving.

He described it in halting, clinical terms at first—“intense oral fixation”, “compulsive ingestion”—but the words felt ridiculous even as they left his mouth. Finally he just said it plainly.

“She craves my… semen. Specifically. More than food. More than anything. She says it’s the only thing that quiets the emptiness inside her. Last night she—” He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning despite himself. “She came to my study at three in the morning. I was trying to finish a treaty draft for Ezran. She didn’t care. She just… needed it. Right then. It's like something else is driving her completely.”

Lirien listened without interrupting. When he finished, she was silent for a long beat.

Then she blinked.

Twice.

“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “that your wife—your very pregnant Moonshadow assassin wife—has developed an acute craving for human seminal fluid.”

Callum nodded, throat tight. “Yes.”

Another long silence.

Lirien exhaled through her nose, lips twitching in what might have been amusement or disbelief. “Well. Most elves would kill to be in your position, Your Highness.”

Callum’s head snapped up. “Don’t—don’t get me wrong!... I’m serious. I love her. I love giving her what she needs. Gods, I enjoy it—more than I probably should—but I’m scared. For her. For the babe. What if this is some kind of deficiency? What if it’s dangerous? What if it means something’s wrong with the pregnancy?”

Lirien’s expression softened immediately. She pulled up a stool across from him and sat.

“All right,” she said gently. “Let’s be serious, then. Walk me through the rest. How is she otherwise? Eating? Drinking? Sleeping? Any nausea, fatigue, bleeding, pain?”

Callum ran a hand through his hair. “She’s… good. Really good, aside from this. I make sure she drinks the prenatal tea every morning—the one you blended with ironbloom and star anise. She finishes every cup. I’ve been feeding her constantly—whatever she’ll actually eat. Fruits, nuts, bread, cheese. She’s not losing weight. If anything, she’s glowing. She’s divine. Energy’s high. She still spars with Soren and Corvus every afternoon and wipes the floor with them. She does get morning nausea but no spotting, no cramps. The babe is active—I can feel little kicks now when Rayla lies on her back.”

Lirien nodded slowly, processing.

“And emotionally? Mood swings? Anxiety?”

“She’s bratty,” he said with a faint, fond smile. “Demanding. But that’s normal for her. She’s… happy. Clingy, sometimes. But happy.”

The healer leaned back, folding her arms.

“Then there’s nothing wrong.”

Callum stared. “Nothing?”

“Nothing pathological.” Lirien spread her hands. “Moonshadow pregnancies are… unique. The hormonal cascade is more intense than in humans or other elves. We know arousal spikes. Libido becomes near-constant. But cravings? They manifest differently for every carrier. Some crave raw venison. Others need river silt. There are documented cases of Moonshadow people eating fistfuls of snow just to feel something cold slide down their throats. One of my family during his third pregnancy insisted on licking frost off windowpanes at midnight. But after the pregnancy his symptoms went back to normal. No medical texts mention seminal fluid specifically because—well—it’s rare. And intimate. People don’t write it down.”

She met his eyes steadily.

“But if she’s otherwise healthy—if she’s nourished, hydrated, staying away from ale, resting when she needs to, and the babe is thriving—then this is simply her body’s way of demanding what it believes it needs right now. Perhaps there are trace elements in your… contribution… that her system has latched onto. Perhaps it’s psychological, tied to bonding and trust. Perhaps it’s magical. Primal magic in your blood, human-elf hybrid child—it could be anything. But from what you’ve described? It’s not harming her. It’s not harming the babe. If anything it’s doing her good.”

Callum exhaled hard, shoulders dropping for the first time in hours.

“So… what do I do?”

Lirien’s mouth curved in the smallest, wryest smile.

“For now? Enjoy the ride, your highness. Keep her fed and watered and loved. Keep an eye on her overall health. If anything changes—fever, pain, sudden loss of appetite, lethargy—come to me immediately. But until then…” She shrugged one shoulder. “Let her have you. As often as she wants. She’s carrying your child. Her body knows what it’s doing—even if it’s asking in ways that make you blush.”

Callum let out a shaky laugh, rubbing his face.

“I’m exhausted,” he admitted.

“I can see that.”

“But I’d rather be exhausted like this than worried she’s in danger.”

Lirien turned away from the hearth, reaching into a low wooden cabinet carved with faint Moonshadow runes. The door creaked open on oiled hinges, releasing the sharp, green scent of dried leaves and something faintly metallic underneath—like copper warmed by sunlight.

She returned with a small drawstring pouch no bigger than her palm, the fabric a deep indigo shot through with silver threads. When she loosened the tie, Callum caught a glimpse of tiny, needle-like leaves—pale jade green, edged in faint gold. They looked almost luminous in the cottage’s low light.

“Feyroot,” she said, voice matter-of-fact. “Not the common kind you find in human apothecaries. This is Silvergrove-grown—harvested under the third full moon of autumn. Very rare outside our borders. Most moonshadow partners require it to keep up with their partners. I’m surprised you waited this long.”

Callum took the pouch when she offered it. The leaves inside were surprisingly heavy for their size, cool against his fingertips.

“What does it do?”

“Stamina,” Lirien answered simply. “Not the crude kind—none of that ‘soldier’s tonic’ nonsense that leaves you jittery and sick the next day. Feyroot steadies the body’s reserves. It deepens breath capacity, slows lactic acid buildup in the muscles, sharpens focus so exhaustion doesn’t cloud judgment. You’ll last longer—physically, mentally—without crashing afterward. It also allows for further semen production. Most Moonshadow elves take this during mating cycles, when their partners are being extra playful. And it won’t interfere with your magic; if anything, it smooths the flow of primal energy. Moon arcanum especially likes it.”

He turned the pouch over in his hand, watching the leaves shift like tiny blades of moonlight.

“Oh..."

“Steep one leaf—only one—in hot water for seven minutes. Drink it plain; no honey, no milk. The taste is… bracing. Like chewing fresh pine needles mixed with lightning. You’ll feel it within twenty minutes: clearer head, steadier heartbeat, a kind of quiet fire in the limbs. It lasts six to eight hours, sometimes longer if you’re already well-rested.”

Callum’s thumb brushed the drawstring. “Are there any side effects?”

“Minimal, if you don’t abuse it. Overuse—more than two leaves in a day—can cause restlessness, mild tremors, insomnia. Some report heightened sensitivity to touch for a few hours after. Nothing dangerous. But this isn’t candy, you highness. It’s medicine. Use it when you truly need it. When she’s climbing the walls and you can barely keep your eyes open.”

He met her gaze. “You’re saying I should expect more nights like last night.”

Lirien’s mouth quirked. “I’m saying Moonshadow pregnancies don’t follow neat schedules. The cravings may peak and ebb, but the hunger won’t vanish until the babe is born—and maybe not even then, depending on how strong the bond is. You’re her anchor right now. Her body knows it. If she needs you ten times in a night, she’ll ask. And you’ll want to be able to answer.”

Callum exhaled slowly, closing his fingers around the pouch.

“I don’t want to rely on herbs to keep up with my own wife.”

“It’s a very common thing to use in Moonshadow culture. Mothers and fathers who fall pregnant have insatiable appetite. It’s hard for partners to keep up. You won’t be relying on it forever,” she said gently. “Just… borrowing a little extra strength while her body rewrites the rules. You’re already doing the hardest part. This just makes sure you don’t burn out doing it. But it’s purely up to you to use it. You are still in control of your own body. And you are allowed to tell her no. ”

He nodded once, tucking the pouch into the inner pocket of his tunic. The fabric rustled softly against his chest.

“Thank you. Again.”

Lirien inclined her head. “Bring her to me next week for the proper check. I want to listen to the heartbeat myself, feel the placement. And if the cravings change—get stronger, or shift to something else entirely—come back sooner.”

“I will.”

She walked him to the door. Outside, the first true light of morning was breaking over the castle walls—pale gold streaking the sky. Birds were starting to call from the orchards.

“Callum.”

He paused on the threshold.

“Enjoy her,” Lirien said quietly. “This part—the desperate, messy, overwhelming part—it passes. One day you’ll look back and miss how badly she wanted you every waking second. Even when it exhausts you.”

He managed a small, crooked smile.

“Our passion for each other never changes. It only manifests in different ways.”

Lirien stood, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Go back to her. Sleep—if she lets you. And when the cravings peak again… give her what she needs. You’re doing right by her, Callum. Both of them.”

He nodded, throat thick.

“Thank you.”

She squeezed once, then let go.

“Anytime. Now get out of my cottage before the sun rises and someone sees the High Mage sneaking around like a guilty teenager.”

Callum managed a real smile this time—tired, but lighter.

He left the cottage as the first pink streak appeared on the horizon. Callum walked back through the waking palace grounds, the pouch of feyroot a small, secret weight against his heart. His legs still ached faintly from the night before; his voice was still a little hoarse from whispering her name over and over. But the panic had ebbed. In its place was something steadier—resolve, laced with a tired, bone-deep affection.

He slipped back into their chambers just as Rayla was stirring.

Back in their chambers, Rayla was still asleep—sprawled on her stomach now, one arm flung across his pillow, the blankets twisted around her legs. Stella had migrated to curl against the small of Rayla’s back like a living hot-water canteen. Sneezles glowed softly from the nightstand, a tiny beacon.

Callum kicked off his shoes, shed his tunic, and slid back under the covers as carefully as he’d left. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Ye were gone ages,” she mumbled, accent thick and sleepy. “Thought ye’d run off tae hide in a library again.”

Callum crossed the room in three strides, kicking off his shoes as he went.

“Not hiding,” he said, climbing back onto the bed. “Getting supplies.”

Her brows lifted. “Supplies?”

He pulled the pouch from his pocket and held it up. The leaves inside caught the morning light and shimmered.

“Something to help me keep up,” he told her, voice low. “Because I have a feeling you’re not done being hungry anytime soon.”

“But first—”

Rayla let herself be moved by Callum, eyes half-lidded and curious, that bratty little smirk already tugging at her mouth.

Callum sank to one knee in front of her—slow, deliberate—until his face was level with her hips. He kept hold of her wrists, thumbs stroking the delicate inner skin where her pulse jumped.

“I don’t want this to be only about me,” he said quietly. His voice was still rough from sleep and overuse, but steady. “Not anymore. Not even if you’re craving it like air. I love giving you what you need—gods, Rayla, I loved it—but I have my own cravings too.”

He released one wrist and let his free hand drift to her thigh. Fingers splayed wide, he slid his palm upward in one long, slow glide—over the smooth muscle, the faint silvery scar from an old blade, the heat already gathering at the apex. Rayla’s breath hitched when his thumb brushed the crease where thigh met hip.

“And I’m hoping you could also satisfy them,” he continued, voice dropping lower. “I want to wake up with my face between your legs every morning. Miss the way you taste—sweet and sharp, like moonberries after rain. Miss the little sounds you make when my tongue circles your clit, slow at first, then faster until your thighs shake and you grab my hair like you’re afraid I’ll stop.”

Rayla’s free hand flew to his shoulder, fingers digging in. Her accent thickened with sudden want. “Callum…”

“I miss burying my face in your cunt at night,” he went on, undeterred, his hand sliding higher until his fingertips grazed the slick folds already swollen and wet for him. “Miss feeling you come on my tongue—clenching, pulsing, flooding my mouth while I drink every drop. Miss the way your hips buck when I suck your clit just right, how your back arches off the bed like you’re trying not to fly apart.”

He leaned in, nose brushing the soft silver curls at her mound, inhaling deeply. Rayla whimpered—a small, helpless sound that went straight to his cock.

“I’ve been so focused on keeping up with you,” he murmured against her skin, lips ghosting over her clit without quite touching. “On giving, giving, giving. And I will. I’ll keep giving you everything you crave—every morning, every night, every stolen minute. But right now? Before I fuck your mouth senseless for the next eight hours?”

He looked up at her through his lashes, eyes dark with hunger of his own.

“Right now I want to taste you. I want to spread you open and lick you slow until you’re begging. I want to feel you come apart on my tongue the way you used to—before the cravings turned everything into my cum. Just you and me. No desperation. Just… us.”

Rayla stared down at him, chest rising and falling fast. Her thighs trembled under his palms.

“Ye’re no’ playin’ fair,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

“I’m not playing at all.” His thumbs parted her gently, exposing the glistening pink of her. He leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue from her entrance to her clit in one long, languid stroke—slow enough to savor every quiver, every fresh rush of wetness. Rayla’s knees buckled; he caught her hips and held her steady, “I’m very serious. There’s nothing I crave more, than watching you fall apart.”

“Gods—Callum—”

He hummed against her, the vibration making her gasp. Then he did it again—another slow, deliberate lick, circling her clit with the tip of his tongue before flattening it to lap at the sensitive bundle in broad, unhurried strokes.

Rayla’s fingers threaded into his hair, tugging hard enough to sting.

“More,” she demanded, bratty even now. “Harder. Please.”

He smiled against her—small, wicked—then sucked her clit between his lips, gentle at first, then firmer, flicking the tip of his tongue in tight little circles while one hand slid between her thighs to press two fingers inside her. She was so wet they slipped in easily, curling against that spot that always made her toes curl.

Rayla’s head fell back on a broken moan. “Yes—there—dinnae stop—”

He didn’t.

He worked her with patient, relentless focus—tongue swirling, fingers stroking, free hand gripping her ass to keep her pressed against his mouth. The sounds were obscene: wet suckling, her gasping whimpers, the slick slide of his fingers. Stella and Sneezles had long since vanished under the blankets again, tiny shapes quivering in protest.

When Rayla started to shake—thighs clamping around his ears, breath coming in short, sharp pants—he doubled down. Sucked harder. Crooked his fingers just right. Let his tongue lash her clit in quick, merciless flicks. Gods he was rock hard against his trousers. His hand tha was pushing her thigh up came down to grip his cock, hoping it would behave under the firm pressure. 

She came with a cry that echoed off the stone walls—back bowing, hips grinding against his face, inner walls fluttering and squeezing around his fingers as she flooded his mouth. Callum drank her down greedily, groaning at the taste he’d missed so much—sharp, sweet, unmistakably her.

He didn’t stop until the last tremor faded, until she was whimpering from overstimulation and weakly pushing at his head.

Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, chin dripping, eyes blown dark with satisfaction.

Rayla stared down at him, chest heaving, cheeks flushed high.

“Ye… bastard,” she panted, half-laughing, half-dazed. “That wasna fair.”

Callum rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Told you I had cravings too.”

He kissed her then—deep, filthy, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Rayla moaned into his mouth, hands scrambling at his trousers.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against his.

Rayla’s gaze flicked from the pouch to his face. A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips—bratty, delighted, and just a little predatory.

“Ye know…” She reached out, fingers brushing his wrist as she tugged him down beside her. “Maybe ye should test out the herbs. Right now. Make sure it works properly.”

Callum laughed—quiet, resigned, already reaching for the kettle on the nightstand to heat water.

“Give me seven minutes,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Then I’m all yours.”

Rayla hummed happily, already nuzzling into his neck.

“Six,” she countered.

And just like that, the day began the same way the night had ended—with her hands on him, and him more than willing to give her everything she craved.

The pouch of feyroot sat on the nightstand like a promise.

Stella chittered once from under the pillow—half protest, half surrender.

Sneezles glowed brighter, resigned to another long day of hiding.

Callum didn’t mind.

He’d take the exhaustion, the strange cravings, the endless nights.

As long as it was with her.