Beneath the Blood Moon, I Am Yours
The forest is quiet.
Not with peace, but with reverence. Like the earth itself knows not to speak over what’s about to happen.
Mist curls low around your boots, kissed by the glow of candlelight, violet, teal, red. The flames flicker in a rhythm older than language. The circle has been drawn. Every rune etched into the soil with trembling certainty. Not a ritual of fear.
But of longing.
Of claiming.
And at the centre, It hangs.
A crystal vial, suspended on a silver chain, swaying ever so gently in the stillness. Inside, the liquid catches the moonlight, dark ruby, unnervingly familiar. Not quite blood. Not quite wine.
But something of you.
And something meant for him.
You don't have to wait long. You knew he would come.
You feel him before you see him, his presence arriving like a shift in gravity. The forest seems to lean toward him. So do you.
He steps into view, silver-haired and shadow-wrapped, eyes catching firelight and setting it to smoulder. The candles rise higher as he walks past them, drawn to him like everything else in your world.
He stops just shy of the circle.
“I didn’t summon you,” you murmur.
He smiles. “You never have to.”
The breath you take feels heavier. Charged. Your heart beats once, and the vial sways like it heard it. He steps over the circle’s edge.
The glyphs flare to life. Red light ripples outward in a ring.
This is it. This is the moment you bind more than bodies.
This is where you stop pretending he isn’t already yours.
You reach for the vial, but not to take it.
To offer it.
“I don’t command you,” you whisper. “I don’t bind without permission. This” Your fingers graze the chain. “is yours, only if you desire it.”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He steps closer, and lifts the vial from where it hangs.
His hand is warm. Steady. Certain.
“I want everything,” he says, eyes on yours.
Then, softer
“Especially this.”
He lifts the chain, and you help him slip it over his neck. The crystal rests above his heart like it’s always belonged there. The glyphs flicker once more, and then settle.
Satisfied.
The vow is silent. Unspoken. But no less powerful.
You feel it in your bones. In your pulse. In the air that thrums between your bodies.
He leans in, close enough for breath to become shared.
Close enough that when he speaks, it’s not to the forest, not to the flames.
It’s to you.
“Beneath the blood moon,” he says, “I am yours.”
And when he kisses you, it’s not gentle.
It’s devotion.
It’s release.
It’s the answer you both already knew.
The mood shifts.
The air changes, becomes thicker, charged, as if the forest itself is holding its breath again.
And then you see it.
A glint in his eyes. Something deeper. Wilder. A spark that wasn’t there before.
He glances at the altar with a devilish smile that steals the breath from your lungs.
“Perhaps,” he says, voice low and full of delicious promise, “we could extend this ritual a bit.”
The words strike you like lightning.
A jolt runs straight through you raw and immediate.
Your cock stiffens beneath your robes as the desire coils low in your belly.
You don’t hesitate.
“Do you have the blade?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“I always do,” he replies, gaze never leaving yours.
Trust radiates from him, pure, radiant, unshakable.
“Then let us begin.”
You take his hand in yours and lead him back into the circle, the rune-marked soil still glowing faintly with your bond. The air feels sacred, yet tinged with the sharp edge of need.
From his satchel, he retrieves a case.. ornate, carved with glyphs that only the two of you truly understand. You know its weight. Its purpose. Its history.
He places it upon the altar with reverence, murmuring a blessing as he opens it, revealing your ritual blade. Its curved silver edge gleams with anticipation as he turns back to you, his expression softening.
You move together... silent, assured.
You undress him slowly, fingertips grazing skin that answers every touch.
He returns the motion, slipping your robe from your shoulders with equal care, until nothing remains between you.
Naked.
Exposed.
Not vulnerable.. but seen. Chosen.
You hold out your arm, unwavering.
“Blood of my blood. Heart of my heart,” he intones, the ritual words wrapping around you like silk and steel.
The blade kisses your skin... sharp, swift. You don’t flinch. You welcome it.
Your gaze stays locked on his as the blood wells up, and when he brings your wound to his lips, it’s not violent, it’s worship.
He kisses you there, softly, reverently.
Then licks, slowly, savouring you like something holy.
And you burn for him.
But still, you wait.
Patience is part of the rite.
You take the blade in your own hand, clean it with the ritual cloth, and murmur your blessing.
“Bendithia’r henuriaid ni yn yr amser a’r gofod hwn.”
(Bless us Ancients who stand with us in this time and space?
You raise his arm in both hands, cradling it as though it were sacred.
It is.
“Blood of my blood. Heart of my heart.”
The blade dances, and he exhales, not from pain, but from release.
His eyes flare with that same primal heat as the blood runs free.
“The circle is complete,” you whisper,
“And we are One.”
You draw his wound to your lips, tasting him, copper, salt, Fin.
The kiss across his skin lingers, tongue slow and reverent. A communion deeper than words.
And then..
You look at each other.
Time stills.
Everything slows to that charged silence, until instinct takes over.
You crash into one another, mouths clashing, teeth clinking, tongues desperate.
It’s hungry. Desperate. Sacred.
You lower him to the altar like a gift offered to the gods.
But it’s you who worships first.
You feast on him, tongue circling his slick, sensitive folds.
You suck his hard cock and relish how hard his clit is in your mouth, his boycock aching between you both.
He moans, loud, open, yours, the sound shaking the very trees.
“I can’t wait, Daddy,” he gasps, arching under your tongue. “Take me.”
You growl low, feral.
“As you wish, my beloved cub.”
You flip him over, steadying his hips against the altar’s cold stone.
And then, gods help you, you enter him.
Your cock slides into him slowly, deliberately, inch by aching inch.
The bond between you roars to life, runes flashing as skin meets skin, need meets need.
You fuck him hard.
Not cruel.
Not soft.
But real.
Primal.
Sacred.
The kind of lovemaking that howls to the moon and answers back.
And when the moment comes, when your bodies pulse, you dock together in that divine rhythm, you feel everything.
Not just his clit pulsing against you.
Not just his cries of ecstasy.
But the joining. The completion.
“Together,” you whisper, forehead to his. “As One.”
Your release spills over him just as his coats you, his cum hot between your bodies, your souls, your skin.
You stay there for a moment, tangled, panting, trembling with something more than climax.
It’s not just sex.
It’s devotion made flesh.
A sacred act. A private spell.
The blood has bound.
The moon has seen.
And the gods, old and quiet, smile from the shadows.
Not with peace, but with reverence. Like the earth itself knows not to speak over what’s about to happen.
Mist curls low around your boots, kissed by the glow of candlelight, violet, teal, red. The flames flicker in a rhythm older than language. The circle has been drawn. Every rune etched into the soil with trembling certainty. Not a ritual of fear.
But of longing.
Of claiming.
And at the centre, It hangs.
A crystal vial, suspended on a silver chain, swaying ever so gently in the stillness. Inside, the liquid catches the moonlight, dark ruby, unnervingly familiar. Not quite blood. Not quite wine.
But something of you.
And something meant for him.
You don't have to wait long. You knew he would come.
You feel him before you see him, his presence arriving like a shift in gravity. The forest seems to lean toward him. So do you.
He steps into view, silver-haired and shadow-wrapped, eyes catching firelight and setting it to smoulder. The candles rise higher as he walks past them, drawn to him like everything else in your world.
He stops just shy of the circle.
“I didn’t summon you,” you murmur.
He smiles. “You never have to.”
The breath you take feels heavier. Charged. Your heart beats once, and the vial sways like it heard it. He steps over the circle’s edge.
The glyphs flare to life. Red light ripples outward in a ring.
This is it. This is the moment you bind more than bodies.
This is where you stop pretending he isn’t already yours.
You reach for the vial, but not to take it.
To offer it.
“I don’t command you,” you whisper. “I don’t bind without permission. This” Your fingers graze the chain. “is yours, only if you desire it.”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He steps closer, and lifts the vial from where it hangs.
His hand is warm. Steady. Certain.
“I want everything,” he says, eyes on yours.
Then, softer
“Especially this.”
He lifts the chain, and you help him slip it over his neck. The crystal rests above his heart like it’s always belonged there. The glyphs flicker once more, and then settle.
Satisfied.
The vow is silent. Unspoken. But no less powerful.
You feel it in your bones. In your pulse. In the air that thrums between your bodies.
He leans in, close enough for breath to become shared.
Close enough that when he speaks, it’s not to the forest, not to the flames.
It’s to you.
“Beneath the blood moon,” he says, “I am yours.”
And when he kisses you, it’s not gentle.
It’s devotion.
It’s release.
It’s the answer you both already knew.
The mood shifts.
The air changes, becomes thicker, charged, as if the forest itself is holding its breath again.
And then you see it.
A glint in his eyes. Something deeper. Wilder. A spark that wasn’t there before.
He glances at the altar with a devilish smile that steals the breath from your lungs.
“Perhaps,” he says, voice low and full of delicious promise, “we could extend this ritual a bit.”
The words strike you like lightning.
A jolt runs straight through you raw and immediate.
Your cock stiffens beneath your robes as the desire coils low in your belly.
You don’t hesitate.
“Do you have the blade?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“I always do,” he replies, gaze never leaving yours.
Trust radiates from him, pure, radiant, unshakable.
“Then let us begin.”
You take his hand in yours and lead him back into the circle, the rune-marked soil still glowing faintly with your bond. The air feels sacred, yet tinged with the sharp edge of need.
From his satchel, he retrieves a case.. ornate, carved with glyphs that only the two of you truly understand. You know its weight. Its purpose. Its history.
He places it upon the altar with reverence, murmuring a blessing as he opens it, revealing your ritual blade. Its curved silver edge gleams with anticipation as he turns back to you, his expression softening.
You move together... silent, assured.
You undress him slowly, fingertips grazing skin that answers every touch.
He returns the motion, slipping your robe from your shoulders with equal care, until nothing remains between you.
Naked.
Exposed.
Not vulnerable.. but seen. Chosen.
You hold out your arm, unwavering.
“Blood of my blood. Heart of my heart,” he intones, the ritual words wrapping around you like silk and steel.
The blade kisses your skin... sharp, swift. You don’t flinch. You welcome it.
Your gaze stays locked on his as the blood wells up, and when he brings your wound to his lips, it’s not violent, it’s worship.
He kisses you there, softly, reverently.
Then licks, slowly, savouring you like something holy.
And you burn for him.
But still, you wait.
Patience is part of the rite.
You take the blade in your own hand, clean it with the ritual cloth, and murmur your blessing.
“Bendithia’r henuriaid ni yn yr amser a’r gofod hwn.”
(Bless us Ancients who stand with us in this time and space?
You raise his arm in both hands, cradling it as though it were sacred.
It is.
“Blood of my blood. Heart of my heart.”
The blade dances, and he exhales, not from pain, but from release.
His eyes flare with that same primal heat as the blood runs free.
“The circle is complete,” you whisper,
“And we are One.”
You draw his wound to your lips, tasting him, copper, salt, Fin.
The kiss across his skin lingers, tongue slow and reverent. A communion deeper than words.
And then..
You look at each other.
Time stills.
Everything slows to that charged silence, until instinct takes over.
You crash into one another, mouths clashing, teeth clinking, tongues desperate.
It’s hungry. Desperate. Sacred.
You lower him to the altar like a gift offered to the gods.
But it’s you who worships first.
You feast on him, tongue circling his slick, sensitive folds.
You suck his hard cock and relish how hard his clit is in your mouth, his boycock aching between you both.
He moans, loud, open, yours, the sound shaking the very trees.
“I can’t wait, Daddy,” he gasps, arching under your tongue. “Take me.”
You growl low, feral.
“As you wish, my beloved cub.”
You flip him over, steadying his hips against the altar’s cold stone.
And then, gods help you, you enter him.
Your cock slides into him slowly, deliberately, inch by aching inch.
The bond between you roars to life, runes flashing as skin meets skin, need meets need.
You fuck him hard.
Not cruel.
Not soft.
But real.
Primal.
Sacred.
The kind of lovemaking that howls to the moon and answers back.
And when the moment comes, when your bodies pulse, you dock together in that divine rhythm, you feel everything.
Not just his clit pulsing against you.
Not just his cries of ecstasy.
But the joining. The completion.
“Together,” you whisper, forehead to his. “As One.”
Your release spills over him just as his coats you, his cum hot between your bodies, your souls, your skin.
You stay there for a moment, tangled, panting, trembling with something more than climax.
It’s not just sex.
It’s devotion made flesh.
A sacred act. A private spell.
The blood has bound.
The moon has seen.
And the gods, old and quiet, smile from the shadows.
