lustandlore

[lustandlore]

Ouch, but true. Your dream project isn’t going to write itself. Time to get those ideas out of your head and onto the page!

[lustandlore]

Tidebound

The moment he touched the artifact, the sea screamed.

It wasn't a sound any of his crew could hear—just him. A shriek like waves collapsing, like bones grinding on coral. Captain Rhys Vane recoiled from the glowing conch shell, but it was too late. The runes carved into its surface pulsed once... then flared, branding his palm with a burn that smelled like brine and magic.

The air thickened. The deck shuddered.

And then... she spoke.

"You've stolen from me, pirate."

The voice echoed in his skull, sultry and sharp, like saltwater cutting a wound. He staggered, grabbing the helm for balance.

"You've woken me."

He growled. "Show yourself."

Lightning cracked across the sky—and she did.

Not on the deck, but in his mind. A vision: hair like tangled seaweed, eyes glowing turquoise, lips curled in a wicked smirk. Her skin shimmered like abalone, and she was utterly, inhumanly beautiful.

"You touched my heart," she purred. "Now I'll take yours."

His heart seized—literally. Pain lanced through his chest, dropping him to his knees.

"Rhys!" his first mate yelled.

But he couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

"Unless," she whispered, "you serve me."

The storm rolled in without warning. Waves rose like hungry hands. The crew screamed.

Rhys bared his teeth.

"What are your terms, witch?"

"You keep me close. You feed me magic. You give me you."

"...You're not real."

"Then why is your ship sinking?"

The hull groaned.

And far below, the sea witch laughed.

Summoned in Salt

The ship bucked as though struck by a kraken. Barrels rolled. Sails whipped. Crew shouted. Rhys clutched the railing, breathing hard, the mark on his palm burning with cold fire.

And then—

She rose from the water like a goddamn curse given shape.

Not climbing aboard—emerging. Liquid became flesh, seafoam clinging to curves carved like temptation. Her hair dripped like ink and starlight. Barnacles clung to her hips like armor. Runes glowed along her collarbones. And those eyes—glowing, unblinking—locked on him like prey.

The sea witch had arrived.

She stepped onto the deck, barefoot and dripping, leaving puddles of glowing water behind her. The crew scattered like spooked gulls.

Except Rhys. He held her gaze like a challenge.

"You summoned yourself, then?" he asked, voice low and rough.

She tilted her head. "You touched my heart. That grants me passage."

"That thing is cursed."

"Everything with power is cursed." She stepped closer. "Even you."

He didn't back down. "What do you want?"

Her eyes flicked to his hand. "That mark means we're bound. Your heartbeat feeds my magic now. If I drift too far, you drown."

"Convenient," he sneered. "So I'm your anchor?"

She smiled. "You're my pet pirate."

He lunged forward, grabbing her wrist. Her skin hissed under his touch—cold and electric. "I don't belong to anyone."

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "That's what they all say... at first."

His breath caught. The air between them snapped with tension—equal parts magic and something darker.

"You want your ship to stay afloat?" she whispered. "You'll keep me close. Feed me. Touch me."

"And if I don't?"

She grinned, baring pearly teeth.

"Then we both go under."

Close Enough to Drown

She made herself comfortable in his quarters like she owned them.

Boots kicked off. Saltwater puddling beneath her feet. She dragged her fingers along the edge of his desk, trailing seafoam and something ancient. Rhys watched from the doorway, jaw clenched, heartbeat pounding harder than any drum on deck.

"You don't get to stay here," he growled.

She turned slowly, one brow raised. "And yet here I am."

His eyes raked over her—dripping wet, clothes clinging to her like silk, skin still shimmering faintly with magic. The mark on his hand burned again, responding to her nearness.

"You've already put your curse on me," he said. "What else do you want?"

She stepped forward.

"I want to feel the bond," she whispered.

He swallowed hard. "What does that mean?"

She smiled, dark and beautiful. "It means I want to know if you're strong enough to hold me."

Before he could speak, she pressed a palm flat against his chest. Magic snapped. The mark on his hand glowed brighter, and something inside him answered—low and deep and hungry.

He hissed. "What are you doing?"

"Feeding," she said, voice breathy. "You're full of rage. Lust. Want. I need that."

"Then take it without touching."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Her hand slid down—slow, taunting—over the curve of his ribs, down to his hip. The bond flared between them, a pulse of heat like lightning in water. His breath came faster.

"You think I'm afraid of you?" he growled.

"No," she said. "I think you're afraid of how much you want this."

His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist—hard. But she didn't flinch. Didn't back away. Just pressed closer, until their noses almost touched.

"You're used to control," she said softly. "But you summoned the sea, pirate. And the sea doesn't obey."

His grip faltered.

Her lips ghosted against his—but didn't kiss.

"Next time," she whispered, stepping back, "maybe don't touch things you don't understand."

And then she was gone, melting into mist, seafoam pooling where she'd stood.

He stared at the spot, fists clenched, every nerve on fire.

And the ship groaned beneath him... like it missed her already.

The Storm Between Us

It started with the wind.

Not a whisper, but a warning—the kind that made sails twitch and sea birds vanish. Rhys stood at the helm, jaw set, the cursed mark on his palm aching with each passing wave.

"She's coming," he muttered.

As if summoned, the sea witch appeared at his side, stepping out of mist that hadn't been there moments ago.

"I warned you," she said, voice tight with something too human—worry.

He didn't look at her. "You've warned me about a lot of things."

"This storm isn't natural."

He turned then, and she was closer than expected—hair wind-whipped, eyes glowing, a tension humming beneath her skin.

"Is anything around you natural?" he asked bitterly.

She didn't rise to the bait. Just stared past the horizon, where the clouds churned like boiling ink.

"It's not just weather," she said. "It's punishment. The sea doesn't like our bond."

He scoffed. "Then it can take a number. I don't like our bond either."

She flinched. Just for a second.

Then her expression hardened. "Liar."

Before he could respond, the first wave hit—hard. The ship groaned, tipping violently. Crew shouted. Lightning split the sky in a jagged scream of light.

Rhys barked orders. Men scrambled to tie lines, adjust sails, haul anchors. But the wind was wrong. The waves were angry.

And when he turned back to her—she was gone.

Until he felt her behind him.

Her hands slammed against his back—not gently. And suddenly they were somewhere else.

Below deck.

In his cabin.

Dry.

Silent.

He spun on her, furious. "What the hell—"

"I saved your crew," she snapped. "Do you want to drown right now, or would you rather survive this and argue later?"

His nostrils flared. "I don't need you to protect me."

"Yes," she said quietly. "You do."

He froze.

Her eyes burned—not with fire, but something quieter. Sadder. "You think I wanted to be bound to some arrogant pirate who treats his heart like a locked chest?" Her voice cracked. "This wasn't my plan either."

Outside, the storm roared louder.

She stepped closer, her presence calmer now. Not seducing. Not taunting. Just real.

"You don't have to trust me," she said. "But you do have to let me in. Or that storm's going to tear us both apart."

His chest rose and fell.

And then, finally... he nodded.

"Fine," he said. "But once this is over..."

"We talk," she said, finishing the sentence for him.

He didn't argue.

Because something in her voice had sounded like truth.

The Merge

The storm didn't knock—it invaded.

Magic bled through the hull like ink through parchment. The ship groaned, planks warping, ropes snapping overhead. And below deck, Rhys and the sea witch stood in the center of his quarters, every lantern extinguished by supernatural wind.

"We're out of time," she said, voice raw with panic.

He nodded. "Then do what you have to do."

She hesitated, glowing eyes wide. "If we merge like this—through a storm, through panic—it won't be gentle."

Rhys stepped forward, unflinching. "Neither are we."

Their marks flared. Hers—spiraling over her collarbone. His—still burned into his palm. As their hands met, magic surged, searing-hot and bone-deep. The cabin vanished in a blast of light.

Suddenly, they were in the storm—not below, not sheltered—inside it. Wind tore at them. Waves crashed upward, gravity bending. Above, lightning danced like serpents. Below, the ocean pulsed like a heartbeat.

She cried out, voice torn from her throat. "You have to let me in!"

"I am—"

"No, fully," she screamed. "No walls. No lies. Just you."

He hesitated.

Because that meant—

His grief. His fury. His shame. The soft parts of him he hadn't shown anyone.

But she was already wide open. Her essence bared—loneliness, power, ancient sorrow. She wasn't just a monster. She was once worshipped. Once loved. Once left.

He reached for her—not just with magic. With everything.

And the moment he did...

They merged.

Not body.

Soul.

A flash of blinding gold and turquoise lit up the eye of the storm. His fire surged through her sea. Her tide crashed into his fury. Power tangled like lovers and lightning, and somewhere in the middle—

—they kissed.

Not careful.

Not sweet.

But desperate. Teeth and salt and breath shared in the dark. It tasted like danger and destiny. Her hands gripped his hair. His arms crushed her to him like if he let go, the world would split.

And then— Silence.

The storm broke apart like shattered glass.

Waves flattened. Sky cleared.

They fell back onto the deck of the ship—smoke curling from their skin, chests heaving. His shirt was gone (again). Her lips were swollen. And the mark on his hand?

Gone.

Replaced by something new.

A spiral of seafoam and fire.

A perfect, burning knot.

The crew peeked out from the hold in stunned silence.

And the witch?

She just looked at him with something far more dangerous than magic.

Hope.

Salt and Surrender

They barely made it below deck.

The second the cabin door slammed shut behind them, she was on him—pushing, clawing, pulling him down like the tide claims the drowning.

Rhys didn't resist. Couldn't.

His mouth crushed hers, hands threading into her sea-drenched hair, dragging her body tight against his. Her legs wrapped around his waist before they even reached the table, knocking over maps and compasses as he lifted her onto the edge like she weighed nothing.

Her lips tore from his just long enough to gasp, "You're different now."

"So are you," he rasped, dragging his mouth along her throat, teeth grazing the pulse hammering there. "You're burning."

Her laugh was breathless, wicked. "Maybe I've been starved too long."

"Then let me feed you."

He yanked open her soaked tunic, fabric tearing, exposing skin that shimmered like moonlight on open water. His hands were rough, calloused—nothing like her cool, ethereal touch—but she arched into him like she craved the friction. Like only he could ground her.

"You still taste like magic," he growled, mouth closing over her breast. She gasped, hips rolling against him.

"You taste like sin," she whispered, one hand trailing down his stomach, her fingers brushing over the waistband of his trousers. "And I want every bite."

He groaned—deep and primal—as she freed him, wrapping her hand around him with a touch both reverent and filthy. Their bond flared again, glowing briefly across both their skin, lighting up the room like lightning through stained glass.

He gripped her hips. "I'm going to ruin you for the sea."

She smirked. "I am the sea."

And then he thrust into her—hard and deep—and her cry of pleasure echoed off the cabin walls like thunder. She clung to him, her magic fusing with his in every thrust, every gasp, every ragged, whispered curse between kisses.

It was more than sex.

It was claiming.

It was wild and wet and wrong in all the right ways.

And when she came—body trembling, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream—he followed with a growl, burying his face in her neck as the magic exploded between them again.

Afterward, they collapsed into the tangled mess of sheets and sails strewn across the floor, limbs entwined, skin slick with sweat and sea.

And in the silence, when the waves outside were calm and the ship rocked gently like a cradle—

He whispered, "You're mine now."

She smirked against his chest. "We'll see who owns who, pirate."

Queen of the Deep, King of Nothing

They called the ship The Siren's Wrath now.

No port would harbor it. No map could track it. Whispers spread across every dock and drinking hole from the Coral Isles to the Ivory Coast: if you saw a ship with sea-glass sails and a trail of mist in its wake—run.

Because aboard that ship was a captain with fire in his blood... And a sea witch bound to nothing but her own fury.

Together, they ruled the open water like myth reborn.

He wore no crown. She needed no throne.

She danced barefoot on the deck, storms curling in her palms, salt in her laugh. He watched her from the helm, lips twitching with affection he never named—but always showed. Every kiss still burned. Every fight still ended in bruises and bite marks and breathless, tangled apologies beneath the stars.

Some nights, they drank rum and read ancient maps inked in cursed blood.

Other nights, she rode him like she was the tide itself—wild, endless, and inescapable.

And when danger rose—when rival captains dared challenge them or forgotten sea gods stirred in the trenches below—they stood side by side, eyes glowing with power and purpose.

Because they weren't just lovers. Not just cursed. Not just bound.

They were chosen. By the storm. By the sea. By each other.

And if the world wasn't ready for what they'd become?

Well.

The world could drown.

[lustandlore]

You Shouldn't Have Touched My Tomb

⸻

She wasn't supposed to open that tomb.

Hell—she wasn't even supposed to be in the catacombs without her master. But curiosity always had teeth, and hers had just sunk too deep.

The stone slab had been sealed for centuries. Covered in runes no apprentice was allowed to translate.

But the second she touched it— He woke up.

⸻

Now she was flat on her back in the summoning circle, candles snuffed out by the violent breath of him.

The Ghost King.

He towered above her—tall, smoke-bodied, eyes like silver blades, robes of shadow wrapped tight around an unnaturally perfect frame. His crown was broken. His mouth was cruel.

And he looked at her like a man who hadn't touched in centuries.

"You summoned me," he growled, his voice everywhere at once—inside her head, against her skin, behind her eyes.

"I— I didn't mean—"

"You touched my grave with bare hands," he hissed. "You spilled your blood on my altar. And now you carry a piece of me."

His hand—if it was a hand—lowered to her chest. Right above her heart. It wasn't cold. It was burning.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered.

"No," he said, voice dropping. "You're aroused."

She gasped as shadow curled around her wrists—soft as silk, binding her arms above her head. Another tendril of him slid down her waist, coiling at her thigh.

"I can feel everything you feel," he said, mouth brushing her ear though he had no breath. "Your want. Your ache."

"I didn't ask for this—"

"But you opened the door." His voice dropped to a growl. "And now I'll teach you how to beg to keep it open."

⸻

The shadows touched her.

Slid between her thighs. Dragged down the fabric shielding her. She whimpered.

"Oh," he purred. "You're so wet."

"You're a ghost," she gasped.

"And yet," he growled, "you'll be screaming my name."

He filled her—not with flesh, but something deeper. A shape made of magic and soul and possession. It hit every spot perfectly. Like he was built for her. Or she'd been made for this.

Her back arched. Her cries echoed off the crypt walls.

"You belong to me now," he hissed, dragging her into a rhythm that left her trembling. "Say it."

"I—fuck—I belong to you!"

And when she came—shaking, ruined, wrecked from the inside out—he filled her soul with a moan so low and primal it turned her bones to liquid.

She collapsed into the circle, panting.

And he smiled—shadowy, golden-eyed, feral.

"Good girl."

Touch Me Where They Can't See

She made it back to the surface.

Barely.

Her master didn't even notice the change—how pale she'd gone, how her breath came in shallow bursts. He was too busy lecturing some idiot novice about tomb warding.

"Tell me," her master said, pacing, "what's the difference between spiritual residue and an active haunting?"

She opened her mouth to answer.

And he slipped in.

The Ghost King.

His voice coiled behind her ear, smooth as sin. "You didn't tell him."

Her spine straightened. "S-Spiritual residue," she stammered, "won't manifest with temperature changes..."

"Good girl." He sounded smug. Dark. Hungry.

And then—she felt it.

A phantom hand between her thighs.

Invisible. Intimate. Slow.

"Keep talking," he whispered in her mind. "I want to hear you try."

Her knees wobbled.

Her master looked at her sharply. "Are you ill?"

"No," she gasped. "Just... cold."

"Liar," the Ghost King purred.

He curled something deep inside her—just a flicker of sensation—but it made her pulse skyrocket. Her legs pressed together instinctively.

"You're dripping," he murmured. "Here. Let me show you."

She nearly choked on her next breath as he pushed phantom pressure against her clit. Slow, grinding. Perfect.

Her hands clenched at her sides. Her mouth parted.

And the worst part?

No one could see it.

No one could hear it.

But he could feel everything.

"You liked being mine last night," he growled. "Now let me have you in the light, too."

She was going to fall apart. Right here. In the middle of the sanctuary.

Her master turned back toward her. "Are you paying attention?"

She nodded. Desperately. "Yes, Master."

"Call me that," the Ghost King moaned. "Say it again in your mind, little necromancer. Say it for me."

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

And then he thrust—deep inside her soul. A psychic wave of pleasure that hit her so hard she had to fake a cough just to cover her gasp.

"Come for me silently," he hissed. "And maybe I'll let you sleep tonight."

She broke.

Shaking. Wet. Silent.

Her soul trembling in its shell as her master returned to his books, none the wiser.

And in her mind?

He licked her name into the dark.

(to be continued)

[lustandlore]

Untamed Offering

The Chosen One

The village only sent one every decade.

One girl. Clothed in white linen. Bathed in sacred oils. Left tied beneath the sacred tree at the stroke of midnight during the full moon.

She had expected to die.

What she hadn't expected... was him.

He stepped from the trees like a secret. Towering. Bare-chested. Skin kissed in golden bark, muscles carved like roots. His hair spilled like vines across his shoulders, and antlers crowned his head, dripping with glowing sap. Moss clung to him. The forest clung to him. He didn't walk—he emerged, ancient and watching.

He said nothing at first. Just circled her slowly, bare feet soundless on the moss, eyes dark and bottomless.

"You offer yourself?" he asked, voice like wind through branches.

She swallowed hard. "I was told to."

His gaze sharpened. "But do you want to?"

A pause. Then: "Yes."

Something shifted.

The ropes that bound her wrists untied themselves—sliding away like ivy. She didn't move. Couldn't. Not when he stepped closer and touched her chin, tilting her face up to meet his.

"Brave little thing," he murmured. "No fear in your eyes. Just hunger."

She didn't deny it.

And gods, when he kissed her—there was nothing holy about it.

His mouth devoured hers. His hands roamed, rough and reverent, dragging her against his chest. Linen tore like paper beneath his fingers, exposing skin still slick with oil. She gasped as he pushed her against the sacred tree—its bark soft, alive, like it approved.

"You are mine now," he growled, mouth at her throat. "Mine to taste. Mine to worship. Mine to claim."

She whimpered. "Then do it."

Oh, he did.

He lifted her with ease, spreading her thighs around his waist, holding her like she was a prayer he was about to consume. His cock—thick, heavy, hard—rubbed against her slick folds, teasing, taunting.

She moaned. "Please..."

He thrust into her with one powerful stroke.

She cried out, head falling back, nails digging into his bark-slicked shoulders. He was everywhere, all at once—filling her, owning her, claiming her like a god reclaiming what had always been his.

The forest pulsed around them.

Leaves trembled. Flowers bloomed at their feet. The tree above them glowed.

He fucked her like the wild thing he was—deep and relentless. Her cries became louder, more desperate. He licked every sound from her throat. Bit her shoulder. Growled promises into her mouth.

"You'll come for me," he hissed, "again and again, until the sun rises."

She shattered around him the first time—gasping, twitching, soaked.

And he didn't stop.

Not until the stars burned out above them and her body was a trembling, marked thing—covered in his bite marks, his worship, his seed.

When he finally laid her down in the moss, she was breathless, dazed, utterly wrecked.

And smiling.

Because being chosen... never felt so good.

Marked by the Wild

She woke to the scent of cedar and heat.

The moss beneath her was softer than any bed. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, casting gold across her bare skin. Her thighs ached—in the best way. Her body hummed like it still held his magic deep inside.

And then... she felt it.

A presence.

She turned slowly—and there he was.

The forest god. Perched beside a spring that glowed with ethereal light. Watching her like a predator at rest, his eyes heavy with satisfaction. His skin still glistened from their night together. Bark-dusted muscle. Those antlers, wide and glorious, caught the morning sun.

She tried to speak. He was already moving.

In two strides he was over her again, crouched low, one hand gripping her ankle, dragging her toward him through the moss. Her breath hitched.

"I wasn't done," he murmured.

Her pulse pounded. "Then why did you stop?"

He growled—a low, primal sound—and flipped her onto her stomach, dragging her hips up. Moss clung to her curves, and her body shivered in anticipation.

He leaned over her back, lips brushing her ear. "You should be worshipped where the land is oldest."

And he drove into her—slow this time. Deep. Controlled.

She gasped, hands curling into the earth as his cock stretched her all over again. Her slickness welcomed him greedily, already soaked from waking to the thought of him.

Each thrust was purposeful. Sacred.

His hands mapped her body like scripture—gripping her thighs, her breasts, her throat. He pressed kisses to her spine, licked the sweat from her skin, whispered ancient words that made the moss bloom under her knees.

"You were made for this," he breathed, voice breaking. "Made for me."

She moaned, body arching, pleasure tightening in her core like a drawn bowstring. "I'm yours..."

"Say it again."

"I'm yours," she whimpered. "I'm yours."

He lost control at that.

He slammed into her, harder now, no longer slow—claiming her in rhythm with the heartbeat of the forest. The spring beside them began to boil. Flowers bloomed in fast-forward. Trees bent inward, sheltering them, as if even the Grove wanted to witness her ruin.

And when she came, it was with a scream into the moss, her body pulsing around him like magic.

He followed with a brutal groan, burying himself deep, spilling into her with a shudder that shook the roots.

They collapsed together, tangled in vines and sweat and breathless silence.

And as she lay there, curled against him, a soft mark glowed low on her belly.

A vine-shaped sigil. His magic.

His claim.

The Grove Answers Her

The forest was different now.

She felt it in her blood, in her bones. In the way the wind bent toward her skin like a lover's breath, and the roots beneath her feet pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

It started when she touched the spring.

Just one fingertip in the glowing water—and the moss bloomed beneath her. Tiny white flowers opened along her wrist. Her breath caught.

"...Hello?" she whispered, feeling foolish. But the forest responded. A soft rustle. A swirl of light. Like it was listening.

She rose, barefoot and naked, power humming low under her skin. Her hands trailed along tree trunks, and bark shifted beneath her touch—greener, healthier. The forest liked her. Not just tolerated. Not just recognized her as his.

It claimed her too.

And when she exhaled and thought bloom—a vine unfurled from the earth beside her, curling up her leg like it knew her name.

She gasped.

"You're waking it," came a voice behind her—rough, low, startled.

She turned.

He stood in the clearing, chest bare, pupils blown wide. Watching her. Studying her.

"You're not just mine anymore," he said softly. "The Grove is responding to you."

She blinked. "Is that... bad?"

His jaw clenched. "It's dangerous."

She lifted a hand, and a willow's branch bent toward her fingers. "Feels more like a gift."

"It's not a gift." He stepped closer. "It's a claim."

She tilted her head, defiant. "You claimed me first."

His gaze darkened. "And I still do."

The moss curled around her feet. Magic swirled in the air. She didn't back down.

"You said I was made for this. That I belonged to the forest."

"I said you were mine," he growled.

"And what if the forest says I belong to it too?"

He was in front of her in a blink, hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush to his chest. His voice was low, dangerous.

"Then I'll bind it too. Burn the roots. Mark the trees. Make sure nothing—nothing—touches what's mine."

Her magic flared against his. A pulse of wild energy. Earth and divine heat clashing, teasing, intertwining.

She arched a brow, smiling. "Are you jealous, forest god?"

His mouth crashed against hers—rough, claiming.

"You have no idea what I am when I'm jealous."

Rooted in Ruin

His lips were still on hers when she shoved him—hard.

Not out of fear.

But challenge.

He stumbled back, caught off guard as vines erupted behind her, coiling protectively around her arms like living armor.

His eyes narrowed. "You're testing me."

Her lips curved into something dangerous. "I want to see if the forest god still has bite... or if he's all growl."

Oh.

That did it.

He growled—actually growled—and the ground shook as roots burst from the earth around his feet, spiraling with golden fire. The Grove responded to both of them now. Not just reverent. Ravenous.

She lifted her hand, and the trees bent. Leaves turned silver. Flowers bloomed, opened, and withered in seconds.

He lunged.

She dodged, laughing, her bare skin glowing as vines snaked after him, wrapping around his thigh, his wrist. He snarled and burned through them with a flick of his hand—but the moss beneath his feet rose again, gripping his ankles.

"You think you can bind a god?" he spat.

She stepped closer, hips swaying, the air thrumming with heat. "I think I already have."

His eyes flashed. "Then bind me."

Magic cracked. He tackled her into a bed of wildflowers, the air thick with steam and energy, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

His other hand slid between her thighs—already soaked. He hissed. "Still so wet for me."

Her vines struck back, wrapping around his chest, forcing him upright so she could straddle him.

She rolled her hips, grinding down on him, smirking. "Still so hard for me."

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back, biting her neck. "You want war, little witch?"

She moaned. "I want ruin."

And ruin he gave.

They crashed together like storms—her vines lashing, his roots anchoring, bodies slamming into earth and energy with each thrust. He flipped her again, hands digging into her thighs as he took her from behind, growling into her shoulder while her magic bloomed beneath him.

They weren't just fucking.

They were fighting for control—and losing to each other.

Again and again.

Until she came with a scream that shattered bark—and he followed with a roar that made the trees bow.

And when it was over, they collapsed—glowing, panting, covered in earth and sweat and bite marks.

He looked at her like she was lightning wrapped in flesh.

She looked at him like she knew he'd never let her go now.

And the Grove?

It purred.

You Were Never Meant for Him

She heard the voice before she saw him.

"Lyra!"

Her name, echoing through the Grove in a tone thick with desperation—and familiarity.

She turned, startled, still barefoot and cloaked in nothing but her god's claim: his mark glowing faintly between her breasts, the scent of moss and sweat clinging to her skin from the night before.

Elias stumbled into the clearing, wide-eyed, out of breath.

He hadn't changed.

Leather jerkin, soft brown eyes, boyish face twisted in worry. The same boy who used to steal glances when she walked through the market square. The same one who cried the night her name was drawn for the Offering.

"You shouldn't be here," she said gently.

He took a step forward anyway. "I had to come. Lyra, I—I love you. I always have."

She flinched.

"I can take you back," he pressed. "We'll run. We'll leave the village, go far away. You don't have to stay with... him."

Behind her, the trees whispered.

She didn't turn.

Didn't have to.

The temperature dropped.

The Grove stilled.

And then... he appeared.

The forest god stepped from the shadows like wrath made flesh. Taller than Elias by half a head, bare-chested, antlers glowing faintly with golden sap, eyes locked on the mortal with a stare that could kill.

Elias paled.

"I should rip your tongue out," the god said calmly. "For speaking her name in my Grove."

"Please," Elias whispered, trembling. "She doesn't belong to you."

"Oh?" the god said, stepping closer. "Then why does my seed still drip down her thighs?"

Elias recoiled, face twisted in shock and hurt. Lyra gasped—but didn't deny it.

The god's voice dropped to a purr—dangerous and cruel. "Why does her body bloom beneath my hands? Why does the forest sing when I bury myself inside her?"

"Stop," she said, not to him—to the fury building in the air. "You'll kill him."

"Maybe I should," the god growled, eyes never leaving Elias. "He thinks he can love you? With what? Pretty words and soft hands? I see what's in him. Weakness. Doubt. Fear."

Elias stepped back. "You've cursed her. Twisted her."

The god laughed—a low, vicious sound. "She came to me. She begged me. She woke me."

He turned to her then, fire in his eyes. "Tell him."

She swallowed, throat dry. And then, voice soft but steady: "I don't want to go back, Elias."

"She's mine," the god said, stepping behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. His hand slid over her stomach, possessive. "Body. Magic. Soul."

Elias ran.

Not just walked—fled, the forest parting to let him pass, likely saving his life.

The Grove sealed behind him.

Silence.

Lyra turned in the god's arms. "You didn't have to humiliate him."

His jaw tightened. "I had to. Because you're not just claimed, Lyra. You're worshipped. And I don't share what's sacred."

His hand slid down her belly, between her thighs, where she was already slick again. Her breath hitched.

"You're mine," he whispered against her lips. "And now I'll remind every inch of you why."

Claimed Again

The moment the Grove sealed behind the fleeing mortal, he turned her—fast and rough.

One hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. His breath was hot against her ear.

"You let him speak your name," he growled.

"He didn't—"

"You let him look at you like you still belonged to that world."

She gasped as he pressed her back against a tree, the bark shifting to cradle her body—soft and pulsing with magic.

"Let me make something very clear," he rasped, pulling her leg up around his hip, his cock already hard and heavy between them. "You are not his. You never were."

His hand slid down her body—urgent, claiming—fingers finding her wet and wanting.

"You want this," he snarled. "Say it."

"Yes," she moaned.

"Say who you belong to."

"You—gods, I belong to you."

That broke him.

He thrust into her with a growl, no hesitation, no pretense. Just need. Her back arched as he filled her, the sacred tree pulsing with every movement. Moss curled around her ankles, vines climbing her thighs like even the Grove wanted to hold her still for him.

He slammed into her again. And again. Deep. Brutal. Possessive.

Her cries echoed through the forest—raw and worshipful.

His mouth found her throat, biting down hard enough to leave his mark. His hands never stopped moving—gripping, pinning, claiming. She clawed at his shoulders, leaving angry red lines down his bark-dusted skin, needing something to ground her in the storm he'd become.

"You're mine," he growled into her ear. "Say it again."

"I'm yours," she gasped. "Yours, yours, yours—"

She shattered.

And he didn't stop.

He lifted her, carried her deeper into the Grove—still inside her—and laid her in a bed of glowing moss that bloomed beneath her with every thrust. There, he took her again, slower now, deeper. Reverent.

"Even the forest knows," he whispered. "You're mine. Forever."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

And when he came—when he spilled inside her again, magic burning through every vein—he didn't roar.

He whispered her name like a vow.

The Binding

She lay on the moss, dazed and glowing.

His seed still warm inside her.

The Grove pulsed quietly around them, and for the first time since her offering, it felt still. Like it too was holding its breath.

He hovered over her, antlers casting long shadows, eyes dark and unreadable.

"Do you know what you've done?" he asked softly.

She blinked. "What?"

"You've taken me into you. Fully. With no resistance. No wards. No protection."

"I wanted you."

He cupped her face, reverent. "You've claimed me just as much as I've claimed you. And now... the Grove wants to seal it."

Her breath caught.

"The mating bond," she whispered.

He nodded once. "It's rare. Sacred. Permanent."

She hesitated for only a moment—and then nodded.

"Yes."

His eyes flared gold. Magic stirred—deep and old and wild.

"The Grove must witness," he said. "It must take us both."

He stood, lifting her into his arms like she weighed nothing. The Grove opened a path for them, and he carried her to the heart of it—the altar, a clearing where the moonlight poured like silver fire. Flowers glowed in bloom. Vines shifted gently, alive and waiting.

He set her down on a bed of soft moss that shimmered with light.

And then, slowly, he removed his crown of antlers.

Placed it beside her.

"I give you my divinity," he said, voice low, shaking. "My power. My forest. My soul."

She reached for him, eyes shining. "And I give you mine."

He kissed her—soft, slow. Unlike before. This kiss was reverent. A promise.

And then he entered her again, slowly, like a ritual.

Their magic lit up the Grove—glowing gold and green, vines wrapping around their limbs, flowers blooming in real time. Their breaths synced. Their pulses merged.

When she came this time, it wasn't just pleasure—it was transcendence.

And when he followed—roaring her name to the stars—the Grove answered.

The bond snapped into place like lightning striking stone.

A glowing mark bloomed over both their hearts—matching symbols of root and flame, vine and divinity. Their souls fused.

And the forest... sang.

Afterward, he held her tight against his chest, buried in her hair, their skin still glowing faintly.

"You're not human anymore," he whispered.

She smiled.

"Good."

The One Who Comes Uninvited

It began with silence.

Not the peaceful hush of the Grove—but something colder. Wrong.

Birdsong vanished. Leaves stilled mid-rustle. Even the wind held its breath.

She felt it first.

The bond between her and the forest god hummed with warning, tugging in her chest. She stood, bare and radiant in the moonlight, and stepped outside their sacred den.

That's when she saw him.

A man—no, not a man. A god.

Tall, cruelly beautiful, with silver skin that shimmered like ice and night. His hair fell like shadow down his back, and in his eyes swirled the cosmos: stars trapped in obsidian. He smiled when he saw her.

"Little root goddess," he said, voice silk over blades. "You shine brighter than I imagined."

She stepped back, vines instinctively coiling at her feet.

"Who are you?"

He tilted his head. "A god with many names. But tonight, you may call me Ashar."

Her stomach turned. She'd heard of him. A god of ruin. Of endings. Of unmaking.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

His smile never faltered. "You."

Magic snapped behind her—and suddenly, he was there.

Her god.

Naked. Glowing. Rage coiling around him like wildfire.

Ashar's smile widened. "Jealous already, forest king?"

"She is mine," the forest god growled.

Ashar circled slowly. "You bonded with a mortal. You uplifted her. Made her divine. But she could be so much more with me."

"I will tear you apart," he snarled.

Ashar raised a brow. "She deserves to choose. Or are you afraid she might want more than moss and root?"

Before he could blink, vines erupted from the ground, striking toward Ashar like spears—but they stopped mid-air, frozen.

Ashar waved a hand lazily. "Tsk. I didn't come to fight... yet."

He turned to her, voice soft. "I could give you stars. Oceans. Real worship. Not just devotion from trees and dirt."

She didn't speak. Couldn't.

Until her god stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body.

"You will not touch her."

Ashar's gaze darkened. "Then I'll take her."

He vanished in a burst of shadow—only to reappear behind her, hand grazing her shoulder.

The forest screamed.

Before she could even flinch, her god tackled Ashar, both of them exploding into a clash of magic and fury that made the sky shatter with lightning.

She stood in the center of the Grove, trembling.

Marked. Bound.

And now... hunted.

Stolen Beneath the Star

It happened in the blink of an eye.

The gods clashed—root and ruin colliding with a force that split the sky. Trees cracked, the Grove wept, and the ground quaked under their fury. Her forest god was all fire and violence, his antlers aglow, muscles coiled with rage.

She tried to move, to help, to speak—

—and then the air shattered.

Ashar appeared behind her again, this time with purpose. His hand closed around her wrist, and before her god could react, they vanished into nothingness.

The Grove screamed.

He felt it immediately—the bond between them ruptured, severed mid-breath. One second, she was behind him—glowing, alive, his. The next, the world fell silent.

"No."

His voice tore through the trees like a stormfront.

"NO!"

He dropped to his knees, one palm against the earth. Magic surged outward in a shockwave, turning everything within the clearing to ash and bloom at once.

His vines recoiled. The moss blackened beneath him. Even the sacred tree withered.

She was gone.

Taken.

And the bond that had once pulsed like a heartbeat now throbbed with absence—cold and empty and wrong.

He lifted his face to the moon, eyes glowing gold, wild with grief.

And then—

He stood.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

"You want war, Ashar?" he whispered. "Then I will give you the end of your world."

The Grove groaned beneath him, roots shifting like soldiers waking from slumber.

His power rose.

The forest rose.

And somewhere in the distant void, he felt her spark—faint, flickering, afraid.

She was alive.

And he would burn through the stars themselves to bring her home.

The Palace of Ruin

The first thing she felt was cold.

Not biting. Not painful.

Worse.

It was the kind of chill that slid under your skin and settled in your bones, gentle and wrong. Like silk-wrapped death. She opened her eyes slowly and found herself lying on a slab of obsidian, polished so perfectly she could see the reflection of her own confusion.

The chamber around her shimmered with dark beauty—towers of crystal, walls of shadow, a sky above with no stars. Only swirling, endless void.

"Awake, at last."

She sat up quickly.

Ashar stood at the edge of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, clothed in flowing black robes that moved like smoke. His silver skin glowed faintly in the dim light, and those night-sky eyes never blinked.

"You stole me," she spat.

"I rescued you," he said. "From being wasted on a god who only knows soil and rot."

She rose, magic crackling beneath her skin.

"I don't belong to you."

Ashar tilted his head. "Yet... you're here. Bound to me now by act of divine claim."

Her blood turned to ice. "You didn't—"

"No," he said softly. "Not yet. I could have. You were unconscious. But that would have defeated the fun."

He stepped closer.

"I want you willing," he whispered. "I want you to kneel. To choose me. Because one day, you'll see what I offer is far greater than vines and moonlight."

The ground trembled under her feet. Her magic flared—a flicker of green among all that silver and black.

He smiled.

"Oh, good," he purred. "Fight me. Break something. Let's see what your mating bond is really worth—now that he's not here to hold your hand."

She narrowed her eyes. "He's coming."

Ashar's smile faded.

"I know."

And for the first time, she saw it—the crack beneath his cruelty. The insecurity. The fear of losing to a god whose love ran deeper than ruin.

She stepped closer. Bold. Dangerous.

"You may have taken me," she said, voice steady, "but he owns me."

And from somewhere far away—from a place beyond time—she felt it:

A pulse of green fire.

He was coming.

And the end of Ashar's world was coming with him.

The Path of Gods Burns Green

The first gate didn't open.

So he tore it off its hinges.

The Divine Road—once closed to beings bound to a single realm—split beneath his feet, roots cracking through the gold-lined marble like hungry veins. His steps were slow. Measured. But behind each one came the sound of the Grove itself.

He no longer walked alone.

The forest walked with him.

Vines slithered along the divine path, blooming poisonous flowers. Trees burst from stone. The wind whispered her name like a war drum.

Lyra. Lyra. Lyra.

Her absence was a wound.

But her presence—faint, flickering, alive—was a compass. He could feel her still. The bond hadn't broken completely. Not even Ashar could erase what they'd become.

She was his mate. His moon. His wild.

And the god of ruin had dared to lay hands on her.

His antlers burned. His skin glowed like bark lit from within. Each realm he passed through tried to slow him—guards, angels, veiled spirits.

He didn't stop.

Didn't speak.

He crushed them beneath roots, split the ground, and moved on.

Because rage had a shape now.

And it wore his face.

At the edge of the Eighth Veil—the border of Ashar's cold empire—he paused.

The air here reeked of stillness. Of endings. Of gods who thought themselves untouchable.

He lowered a hand to the soil.

Whispered her name.

And the forest answered.

Vines exploded upward, reaching into the sky. Flowers bloomed black with grief. The realm shuddered as his magic broke through its crust.

"I'm coming for you," he whispered.

And across the realms—

In her cold cage of obsidian and starlight—

She felt it.

Her god. Her mate. Her wrath incarnate.

Ashar had taken something sacred.

And now?

He would watch it destroy him.

The Dreamroot

She couldn't sleep.

The stone walls whispered. The shadows shifted. Ashar had vanished deeper into his palace, leaving her alone in her "room"—a tower of polished obsidian and cold silk, too quiet to be real.

But her body hummed.

A soft, green ache in her bones. A warmth that pulsed at the base of her spine. Her bond... was alive. Not strong. Not whole. But burning in flashes like distant lightning.

She closed her eyes.

And he found her.

Not in flesh. Not yet.

But in dream.

She stood barefoot in the Grove again, wrapped in moonlight and moss.

And there he was.

Her god.

Not just furious now—wounded. His chest heaved like he'd run through mountains. His eyes were glowing with pain and relief and something more dangerous than all of it.

"Lyra," he breathed.

She ran to him.

He caught her like he'd been dying without her. Their mouths met in a kiss so full of need and heartbreak she nearly collapsed. His hands were rough, desperate, sliding over her body like he was afraid she'd disappear again.

"I felt you," she whispered. "I feel you."

"I'm almost there."

Tears slid down her cheeks. He kissed them away.

"You're burning everything," she said.

"I'll burn all of it," he growled, voice thick, lips brushing her neck. "I'll rip the stars down if I have to. He'll never touch you again."

She gasped as his hands found her hips, his body pressing her back into the tree that grew only in this dream.

"You're mine," he whispered. "Even here. Especially here."

He lifted her leg around his waist.

Slid inside her like a promise.

It wasn't rough—not this time.

It was desperate.

His forehead pressed to hers, his thrusts deep and slow, like he was savoring each second they were allowed to touch. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her heart cracked open.

"I love you," she choked.

His body stilled. His breath hitched.

And then he moved faster.

Harder.

"Say it again," he groaned.

"I love you."

His hands gripped her tighter. His magic bled into her skin. The dream shifted—stars above, moss blooming underfoot. Her cries filled the sacred place. His name was a prayer on her lips.

And when they came together—he roared.

"I'm coming for you."

She clung to him, breathless. Glowing.

"I'll be waiting."

She woke with tears on her face... and moss blooming between the stones of her prison.

The Grove Has Come

The obsidian palace shuddered.

Lyra sat bolt upright on her cold bed, breath catching in her throat.

He was here.

She felt it in her soul—like fire through roots. The bond pulsed, no longer distant and flickering, but blazing. Hungry. Wrathful. Home.

And then came the sound.

Not thunder. Not wind.

Something older.

Trees. Cracking stone. Roots tearing through the sky.

And beneath it all... his voice.

"ASHAR."

The shadows recoiled. The walls trembled. A vine burst through the floor near her foot, glowing gold at the edges.

She ran.

Ashar stood at the gates of his throne hall, robes flowing like smoke, calm as ever—but his jaw was tight.

The great doors exploded inward, shattered by roots thicker than pillars.

And the forest god walked through.

Cloaked in moss and fire. Antlers burning. His chest heaved, his eyes wild—but locked straight onto her.

She stood at the top of the steps, glowing in silver chains.

His breath caught.

Then his gaze turned to Ashar.

"You touched what was mine," he said, voice low and shaking with rage.

"I gave her options," Ashar replied coolly. "You just didn't like that she had them."

The forest god took one step forward.

The entire palace shifted.

"You don't get to speak of her choices," he snarled, "when you stole her."

Ashar lifted a hand, and a blade of shadow formed in the air beside him. "And what will you do, forest king? Kill a god? Burn a realm?"

"Yes," he said simply.

And then—

He charged.

They collided like storms.

Root and ruin. Vine and void.

Ashar struck first—spear of darkness hurtling toward the forest god's chest. But it shattered against a wall of bark-thick magic, and vines snapped forward, wrapping around Ashar's leg and slamming him into the marble.

Lyra screamed as the bond flared. Their magic flooded the room, choking the air with heat and wildness.

Ashar vanished into shadow—reappearing behind the forest god with a dagger aimed at his spine.

Too slow.

A wall of thorned roots erupted behind him, catching the blade mid-swing.

And then—

"Lyra!" he shouted, hand outstretched. "Call me!"

She didn't hesitate.

She reached.

Magic snapped into place between them like lightning striking the earth.

Chains shattered. The bond ignited. The Grove howled.

She flew down the stairs into his arms—and the second their skin touched, the entire realm cracked.

Ashar shrieked.

Roots tore through the palace floor, spiraling upward, dragging columns into the sky. The void above split open as green light poured in.

The Grove had come.

And it wanted its queen back.

Ashar reached for her.

Too late.

The forest god grabbed Lyra by the waist, vines curling around them both, lifting them into the heart of the storm.

Ashar screamed as his realm collapsed in petals and ash.

And then—

They were gone.

Back in the Grove.

Home.

Safe.

Together.

Where the Wild Things Worship

The Grove was blooming again.

Since their return, the forest hadn't slept. New trees had sprung up overnight. Blossoms glowed gold where her feet touched. Vines twisted into arches above their den, as if the forest itself were weaving a crown for her.

She was no longer mortal.

Not truly.

Not after what she'd survived. Not after what she'd become.

And especially not after what he made her feel every night beneath the sacred tree.

She stood in the clearing now, bathed in moonlight, her bare skin wrapped only in soft moss and glowing sigils of her own making.

He found her there—always.

"You called me," he murmured.

"I don't have to call," she said with a soft smile. "You always come."

He crossed the moss in two strides, hands already hungry, reverent. His lips brushed her collarbone, his voice a growl against her skin.

"I will always come for you."

She tilted her head, teasing. "Even now that I'm your equal?"

He paused.

Then smiled—slow and dangerous.

"Especially now."

His hands slid around her waist. Down her hips. He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around him like instinct. The sacred tree behind her pulsed with gentle light.

"You're stronger than I ever imagined," he said against her mouth. "You tore open the roots of gods just by surviving."

Her fingers tangled in his hair. "You tore down realms for me."

"And I'd do it again."

He slid into her slowly—no hurry, no fury. Just worship. Her body welcomed him like a home. His breath caught.

They moved together like tides. Like wind through leaves. Like two halves of the same magic.

She arched. Moaned his name. He kissed her like it was a prayer.

There were no threats now.

No shadows.

Just the bond. The power. The peace.

And when they both came, wrapped in vines and moonlight and one another—

The forest sang.

They ruled together now.

Queen of bloom. King of root. Wild. Divine. Untamed.

And worshiped...

always.

🌿 THE END. 🌿

[lustandlore]

Bound by Thorn and Flame

The forest hated him. She could feel it in the way the wind howled when he moved, the way the branches cracked like bones beneath his heavy boots. He didn't belong here—not in her sacred grove, not in her realm.

And yet here he stood, all six-foot-something of fire-forged arrogance, arms crossed over his bare, rune-covered chest, eyes like smoke and storm watching her with infuriating calm.

"You're trespassing," she said, tightening her grip on the staff pulsing with forest magic. Her long, moss-green hair shimmered in the moonlight, and vines curled protectively around her ankles.

The demon grinned, slow and deliberate. "You summoned me."

"I needed a spark. Not an inferno."

He stepped closer, heat radiating off his skin. "You should be more specific when you cast spells in blood."

Her jaw tightened. "You're dangerous."

"So are you." His voice was velvet and sin. "I felt it when you touched the earth with rage. It called to me. You called to me."

She hated how her pulse responded, traitorous and warm. How his presence made the air thick and her throat dry. He wasn't supposed to be beautiful—scars laced his arms like stories untold, and his mouth was all sharp corners and promises she didn't want to understand.

"Leave," she whispered, even as the earth trembled beneath her feet, responding not to fear—but anticipation.

He didn't move. "You bound me with your need. And now," he stepped closer, until the warmth of him curled over her skin like firelight, "we're both going to burn."

The grove responded to his presence in ways she hadn't expected. The thorned vines writhed around her like they didn't know whether to attack or kneel. Her staff vibrated in her palm, the runes glowing faintly green—and in her chest, her heartbeat drummed a frantic, primal rhythm.

"I didn't mean to summon you," she snapped, stepping back, forcing her voice to stay level. "I was trying to channel the leyline beneath the roots. Not call upon some..." she gestured to his half-naked form, "fire-worshipping, chaos-spawned sex demon."

That grin again. Gods, that grin was criminal.

"I'm not a sex demon," he drawled. "Technically, I'm a wrath demon. The lust is just... a side effect." He stalked forward, every step causing a subtle shift in the temperature around them.

She lifted her staff defensively, but he only smirked and kept coming.

"Don't flatter yourself," she warned, voice catching.

"Too late," he murmured. "I've been watching you through the flame since you first screamed into the soil. All that power. All that grief." He stopped, inches away, his heat soaking into her skin. "You reek of heartbreak, little druid. But your rage? That's what made me need to find you."

Her throat bobbed.

He was wrong. Or maybe worse—he was right. The forest had given her peace, yes. But it hadn't taken away the hollow. It hadn't made her stop dreaming of fire.

And here he was. A living, breathing, walking embodiment of everything she tried to bury.

"I should send you back," she whispered. "Banish you. Seal the grove."

His hand brushed her cheek, and her magic flared—green and gold light bursting at the contact. But she didn't pull away.

"Do it," he said. "Send me back. If that's what you really want."

Silence.

Then... her staff fell to the moss-covered ground with a soft thud.

And her lips met his like lightning striking dry earth.

Her lips crushed against his, a clash of magic and heat, and the forest shuddered around them—leaves curling inward, vines quivering in response to the wild energy pulsing between their bodies.

He groaned into her mouth, hands immediately gripping her waist like he'd been starving for centuries and had finally been given something real. His touch was fire, but it didn't burn—it ignited. Her skin bloomed with sensation, every nerve ending sparking to life.

"You're playing with dangerous magic," she breathed, lips brushing his as he pushed her back against the thick trunk of an ancient tree. The bark wrapped around them like a throne, enclosing them in primal secrecy.

"Good," he growled, lifting her like she weighed nothing. "I am dangerous magic."

Her thighs wrapped around his hips, instinctive and needy, and when his mouth descended on her throat, she moaned—low, guttural, and holy gods, it echoed through the grove like a prayer.

Vines slithered around her arms, not to bind, but to hold—to anchor her as he devoured her. His fingers trailed beneath the hem of her moss-green robes, calloused and reverent.

"So soft," he murmured, eyes blazing. "So alive."

She gasped as his palm slid between her thighs, and he paused, smirking against her skin.

"You're wet," he teased. "Is that for me, little druid?"

She gritted her teeth, defiant even as her hips rocked against his hand. "Maybe it's the humidity."

He chuckled, low and wicked. "Then let's make it hotter."

Clothes vanished—whether by magic or sheer desperation, neither of them cared. Skin met skin, fire met earth, and when he finally thrust into her, the forest howled with them.

She cried out, head thrown back as he filled her, deeper than she thought possible, her walls gripping him like the earth claimed rain. His runes lit up across his chest and arms, glowing bright orange as he moved inside her, slow at first, then harder, faster.

The vines tightened around the tree in rhythm with their bodies. Magic surged. Stars burst behind her eyes.

"You're mine now," he snarled into her ear. "Bound by thorn... and flame."

She clung to him, nails digging into his back as her climax crashed over her like a tidal wave of raw power, and she felt his release seconds later, molten and wild.

And the grove... bloomed.

Every flower burst open in vibrant color. The tree they leaned against glowed with life. Magic soaked the air like summer rain.

They stayed tangled, panting, skin slick, souls raw.

And neither of them said a word.

Because whatever had just happened—whatever they'd just awakened—it wasn't done with them yet.

He was still inside her when the magic settled.

The forest had gone unnaturally quiet—not peaceful, but expectant. Like it was holding its breath.

Her head rested against his shoulder, his hands gentle now, tracing her spine like he was memorizing every bump, every freckle, every inch of her body he'd just worshipped with raw, unfiltered need. His breath was warm against her skin, no longer scorching—just present.

She hated how good it felt. How right it felt.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," she said softly, finally breaking the silence.

"Sure felt like it was," he replied, voice rough and content. But when she didn't laugh, didn't tease, he pulled back just enough to look into her face.

Her magic was still glowing faintly across her collarbones, faint druidic runes blooming like flowers after a storm. And his—those sharp fire-forged markings—had dimmed but hadn't vanished.

"We triggered something," she murmured.

He nodded. "I felt it too. The forest... woke up."

She slid off him slowly, legs trembling. The vines retracted like loyal pets, and her robe materialized again, summoned by her will. She didn't look at him as she stepped away, but he could see her chest rising and falling, her breath uneven.

"It wasn't just sex," she whispered.

He walked toward her. "No. It was binding."

Her head whipped around. "You think we—?"

"Our magics weren't just compatible," he said. "They merged. You cast something deeper than you meant to, Druid. You didn't just summon me. You chose me."

She opened her mouth to argue—but felt it. That subtle hum at the base of her spine. A tether. Not chains, not a leash—more like a pulse that mirrored her own. Her power reaching for his. Like roots twisting together underground.

"No," she breathed.

"Yes," he said, stepping close again, though this time... gentler. "You bound your magic to mine. You can feel it now, can't you? Every time you breathe, it tugs. Every time you think of me—"

"Shut up," she snapped, but her cheeks flushed.

"You like it."

"I hate you."

His lips brushed her ear. "Then why does your magic purr when I touch you?"

She shoved him back, hard. He let her, grinning, hands raised in surrender.

"You don't understand what you've done," she hissed. "I'm the Guardian of this Grove. I keep the balance. If I'm bound to a wrath demon, the Circle will see it as corruption."

"They'll come for you?" he asked, voice dropping.

"They'll come for us."

The smile slid off his face.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with a devilish smirk slowly returning, he reached out and brushed her hair back from her face. "Let them come," he said. "They'll learn what happens when you try to cut down a forest on fire."

The Circle arrived at dawn.

They didn't knock. They didn't announce themselves.

They simply appeared—seven robed figures materializing from the mist like ghosts in ritual green, each wearing a mask carved from sacred wood. The air grew thick with old power, the kind that smelled of wet stone and blood-soaked earth.

She stood at the edge of the grove barefoot, arms bare, her staff glowing faintly in her grip. Her hair was still tangled from sleep—or maybe from him—and her magic prickled under her skin like a second heartbeat.

They were early.

Behind her, the demon watched from the shadows. Silent. Shirtless again. Why was he always shirtless?

One of the masked druids stepped forward. "You broke the oath, Guardian."

"I didn't break anything," she said, chin lifted. "I answered the forest's call."

"You summoned a wrath demon and then—" a different voice, older, female, colder—"merged with him."

There it was. The word she didn't want to say.

Bound.

She could feel him even now, his energy humming at the edge of hers. He wasn't touching her, but it didn't matter. He was there. Anchored in her bones like roots and flame.

"I didn't mean for the binding," she admitted. "But the magic chose."

"The magic is corrupted."

"It's evolving."

The council rustled, murmuring like wind through brittle leaves. Then the center figure spoke again.

"Release him. Sever the bond. Or be stripped of your title."

Behind her, the demon chuckled.

She turned slightly, whispering without looking back. "Don't."

But he stepped forward anyway, bare feet silent on the moss.

"You want her to rip me out like a weed," he said, voice smooth and cold. "But what if I've already taken root?"

Several druids flinched.

"She is the forest," he continued. "And I am the fire that clears the rot. You need both."

"You are chaos," the elder woman hissed.

"And yet," he murmured, gaze locking with hers, "she still chose me."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She hadn't said that. Not out loud.

But it didn't make it less true.

He had challenged her. Matched her. Seen the grief she'd buried beneath bark and leaf—and wanted all of it. The mess. The rage. The truth.

"I won't sever the bond," she said suddenly.

Gasps. A ripple of power.

The Circle recoiled.

"I am the Guardian of this Grove," she said, stepping closer to him, "and I will not be ruled by fear. Not yours. Not his. Not even my own."

The forest trembled.

Magic bloomed.

And deep in her chest, the tether between them surged—twisting tighter, not in chains... but in choice.

The Circle stepped back, magic pulsing in angry waves. The eldest druid's voice cracked through the mist like lightning:

"Then you are no longer Guardian. You are exiled."

The word hit like a curse. She felt it immediately—her connection to the sacred Grove twisting, thinning, a thread fraying at the ends.

But then...

He grabbed her hand.

The second their palms touched, the bond between them surged. His runes blazed white-hot, and her staff flared with a light so bright it turned the mist gold.

"You don't get to take her magic," the demon growled. "Not while I still breathe."

"And not while the Grove still lives," she added, eyes glowing, vines climbing up her arms like armor.

The Circle didn't hesitate. Seven spells cast at once—pure elemental force—hurtled toward them like a storm of wrath.

He pulled her behind him and raised both arms, his body a shield of flame and fury. The blasts struck, exploding into embers around him, but even he staggered from the force.

She screamed his name—and her magic answered.

The Grove responded to her, not them.

Vines erupted from the earth, lashing toward the druids, twisting around their limbs, ripping away their masks. The forest howled, ancient and wild, its rage echoing hers.

He looked back at her, eyes burning blue-white. "Let go. Stop holding back."

She met his gaze—and surrendered.

Together, they stepped into the heart of the Grove. Her staff lifted on its own. His runes spread up his neck, down his spine, glowing like molten cracks in his skin.

The Circle launched another wave.

She dropped her staff.

And raised her hands.

The roots of the forest rose with her—twisting, writhing, ancient and powerful, striking down two of the elders with a force that shook the earth. He followed her lead, fire blasting from his palms, searing the spellwork before it could hit them.

One by one, the Circle fell back. Outmatched. Unprepared for the fury of two bound souls.

They weren't Guardian and Demon.

They were a storm.

When the final druid collapsed to his knees, smoke rising from the scorched moss, she stepped forward.

"You called me corrupted," she said, voice shaking with power. "But I am the new balance. You cannot purge the forest of fire... because fire makes it grow."

Silence.

Only breath. Only ash. Only roots and flame.

He came up beside her, hand resting lightly on her lower back.

"What now?" he murmured, voice low.

She looked around her ruined grove—then at him. Her bond. Her choice.

"Now," she said, "we rebuild."

And the forest, burned and raw, began to bloom.

In the days that followed, the forest transformed.

Where once the Grove had been ruled by rigid tradition, it now pulsed with something freer—wilder. Flowers bloomed where ash had fallen. New magic seeped from the roots, untamed and alive. And at the center of it all stood the druid and the demon.

She no longer wore the green robes of the Guardian. Instead, she wrapped herself in moss, leather, and flame-kissed bark. Her staff was reborn—twisted vine and blackened ember wood, glowing with both their magics fused.

He had changed too. The wildness in him, once barely restrained chaos, now had purpose. His runes no longer flickered with rage—they hummed with harmony. He laughed more. Smirked just as often. And he still couldn't be bothered to wear a shirt.

They rebuilt a sanctuary, not for rules—but for freedom. For those cast out, like them. Druids who questioned. Creatures with nowhere to belong. Witches. Spirits. Lost souls.

A new Circle. A circle of fire and root.

And at night, when the grove was quiet, and the wind whispered secrets through the leaves, they'd find each other again—over and over. In soft kisses shared beneath starlight. In rough hands pressed against bark. In tangled limbs and whispered promises as the forest bloomed around them.

Not fate.

Not prophecy.

Just choice.

Just them.

Bound by thorn.

Claimed by flame.

And utterly, irrevocably, in love.

[lustandlore]

The Hollow Crown

Authors Note: This is a short story/idea. Let me know if you would like to see a full version of this.

👑 Prince Caelan of Isar

Role: The Sacrificed

Vibe: Sharp-tongued, secretly soft, defiant to the end

Appearance: Late 20s, lean but strong, tousled dark hair, storm-gray eyes, and the kind of bone structure that belongs on coins. Wears silver and black, even when stripped of his crown.

Backstory: Sent to the underworld as a political offering to end a war. Fully expected to die. Didn't expect to want the god of death—or to crave the way he looks when Caelan takes control.

Arc: Goes from pawn to power, from consort to kingmaker. Learns to want, then to take. Finds love not in light, but in shadow.

Quote: "Kill me quickly, or worship me slowly. I won't beg for either."

💀 Auren, the God of Death (also referred to as "the god," until Caelan earns the name)

Role: The Eternal

Vibe: Ancient, elegant, feral beneath the surface

Appearance: Over 7ft tall in true form. Pale, moonlight skin with glowing undertones, long silver-white hair, eyes like obsidian rimmed in gold. Crown of bone. Always barefoot, like he's never needed armor.

Backstory: Ruled alone for eternity, collecting souls, unmoved by beauty or fear—until Caelan. Now he wants to possess, protect, and worship the only mortal who ever dared to bite back.

Arc: From cold god to possessive lover. Unlearning control. Learning devotion. Becomes willing to burn eternity for one soul.

Quote: "You are not mine because I rule you. You are mine because I could not bear the world without you in it."

The Boy Who Was Given

He wore white.

The ceremonial kind.

Delicate, sheer silk stitched with gold thread—so it would show the blood better.

His hands were bound in silver ribbon. His crown—his real one—had been taken.

And now, the boy once known as Prince Caelan of Isar stood alone at the black stone altar of the underworld's gate.

The last sacrifice of a dying kingdom.

To end the war, give death what he wants.

Only no one had asked Death what that was.

The altar trembled.

The air grew cold.

And then—he appeared.

Not in a blaze of fire or scream of shadow. Just... walked out from the mists like he'd been there all along.

Tall. Impossibly still. Robed in black and silver. His hair fell in sheets of white, and a crown of bone circled his brow. His skin was the color of moonstone. His eyes—silvered obsidian, rimmed in gold.

He looked at Caelan like one might study a flame they weren't sure would burn or flicker out.

"Another prince," the death god said, voice low and sharp. "How unoriginal."

Caelan lifted his chin, despite the cold seeping into his spine. "Kill me quickly."

That made the god laugh—just once. A bitter, amused sound.

"Oh, darling. If I wanted you dead..." He stepped closer. "I'd have let the war finish you."

Caelan flinched.

The god reached for him.

Caelan stiffened as long, elegant fingers slid beneath his chin. Cold. Gentle.

"But I don't want a corpse," the god murmured. "I want something that lives. Something that knows fear. Heat. Want."

His touch drifted lower—to the silk at Caelan's throat.

"And they've given me you."

The Table Between Us

The dining hall was nothing like Caelan expected.

There were no skulls. No flames. No screaming.

Just quiet.

And a table made of bone-white marble, polished to a reflective shine, so that when he looked down he saw himself—tired, bruised, beautiful in a way that felt cruel now.

At the far end of the table sat the god.

No title. No throne.

Just him.

Pale fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass that shimmered with something too red, too thick to be wine.

"You're not eating," the god said.

"I don't dine with executioners."

Death smiled.

"I haven't decided if I'm keeping you yet."

Caelan stiffened. "So I'm a toy."

"No," the god said, voice softer now. "Toys don't bleed."

The prince's stomach tightened.

A servant—silent and faceless, a shadow in the shape of a man—placed a silver-covered dish in front of him. When Caelan lifted the lid, steam rose from perfectly arranged food. His favorite. Which he hadn't told anyone.

He looked up slowly.

The god tilted his head. "I don't make mistakes, Caelan."

"You know my name."

"I know your thoughts."

He picked up a fork, slicing a bite from something soft and savory, but made no move to eat.

"You dream of running," the god murmured, eyes locked on him. "Of fighting. Of being held down."

Caelan's hand trembled.

"You wonder if it would be easier to beg."

He dropped the fork.

The god stood, slow and deliberate, his robes trailing behind him like shadow-smoke.

He circled the table.

Caelan forced himself not to move. Not to retreat.

"Would you beg, little prince?" Death whispered, brushing one cold finger down the side of Caelan's throat. "Or would you make me take it?"

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Because when the god's lips brushed just behind his ear, Caelan's breath caught. Just once.

And the god smiled.

"Tomorrow," he said, stepping back. "You'll come to my chambers."

Not a question.

A command.

And Caelan...

Was already burning.

Let Me Unmake You

The door shut behind him like a tomb sealing.

Caelan stood in the god's chambers, heart pounding, throat dry. He wasn't shackled. Wasn't held down. He could have run.

But he didn't.

Because he'd felt it last night—something dark and dangerous crawling under his skin. A part of him that wanted to be seen, even if it meant being devoured.

The room was lit only by flame. Not fire. Something colder. Ghostlight. It flickered over black stone and velvet. At the center stood a bed—carved from obsidian and draped in shadow, wide enough to hold sins and gods alike.

And then he was there.

The death god. Silent. Watching. Wearing nothing but a half-open robe, bare chest gleaming like marble, pale skin stretched over ancient strength. A crown still on his head, as if to remind Caelan who ruled even when undressed.

"You came," he said softly.

Caelan nodded.

"Do you know what that means?"

"Yes."

The god approached slowly, like a predator that enjoyed being invited to the kill. He reached out and undid the first clasp of Caelan's robe. Then the second. Then slid the fabric from his shoulders with reverent cruelty.

"You're trembling," he murmured.

"I'm not afraid."

"No," the god said. "You're aching."

Caelan hissed as cold fingers traced over his bare skin, down his chest, across his stomach.

"You've been waiting for someone to take you apart," Death whispered. "Let me."

Then he dropped to his knees.

And Caelan's world shattered.

Lips cold, mouth hot. Tongue like sin. He gasped, fisting the god's hair as pleasure sliced through him—sharp, immediate, blasphemous. The god groaned like he was starving, and Caelan couldn't help it—he moaned, low and desperate, needy.

"You sound so pretty when you break," the god rasped, rising to his feet and flipping him onto the bed in one smooth, supernatural movement.

Caelan barely had time to breathe before the god was on top of him, pinning his wrists, grinding down, their cocks aligned—hard and wanting and furious.

"Tell me to stop," Death murmured.

Caelan met his eyes. "Don't you dare."

Then the god thrust into him—slow, deliberate, ruinous.

Caelan cried out, body arching, taken in one unholy, perfect stretch. The god didn't stop—didn't falter—just drove into him with relentless control, like he was claiming every piece he hadn't already broken.

"You're mine," the god growled, biting at Caelan's throat.

"Yes," Caelan gasped. "Yes—"

"Say it."

"I'm yours—fuck—I'm yours—"

They came together like a war ending—loud, final, holy.

And when it was over, Caelan lay boneless beneath the god's body, marked, claimed, and more alive than he'd ever been.

He had been given to Death.

But somehow, he'd been reborn.

Mine in the Quiet Too

The room was quiet.

Not empty—just sated.

Caelan lay tangled in silk and shadow, his body heavy, marked in places that still burned from teeth and praise. His throat was raw from crying out. His thighs trembled. And his mind... was quiet for the first time in years.

He wasn't afraid.

He was owned.

And somehow, he didn't hate it.

The god returned with a silver basin cradled in his hands. Not a servant. Him. The king of endings, kneeling beside the bed, dipping a cloth into warm, lavender-scented water.

"You don't need to—" Caelan started.

"Yes," the god said, cutting him off gently. "I do."

He ran the cloth over Caelan's stomach, wiping away the remnants of their joining with slow, deliberate care. He cleaned each bite, every mark, treating them like relics.

"You bruise beautifully," he murmured, thumb brushing along a blooming purple mark on Caelan's hip.

Caelan flushed. "Is that some twisted compliment?"

"It's worship."

The god leaned in, kissed the spot.

Then another.

And another.

Each one slow. Gentle. A kind of claiming that asked for nothing... because it already had everything.

"I've taken lovers before," the god said softly. "But none I kept."

Caelan blinked. "And you plan to keep me?"

The god met his eyes. "I already do."

He pulled Caelan up, into his lap, arms wrapping around him like iron and silk all at once. The prince melted there, head resting against the god's chest. He could feel his heartbeat—slow, steady, impossible.

"You are more than an offering," the god whispered into his hair. "You're the piece I never knew I was missing."

Caelan swallowed hard.

"Say it again," he said, voice low.

"You are mine," the god growled, voice rough with heat. "Not just in the dark. Not just when you beg. But now. In the quiet. In the calm."

Caelan shivered.

And when the god lifted a chalice to his lips—amber-sweet nectar glowing inside—Caelan drank it without question.

Not because he was commanded.

Because he chose to.

The god kissed his forehead, cradled him like something holy.

And in that moment, Caelan realized:

He hadn't been taken.

He'd been found.

You Are the Only Thing That Lives Here

The god did not sleep.

But Caelan did.

Curled into him, lashes dark against his cheeks, lips parted just slightly as he breathed. The marks on his neck had already begun to fade—divine healing—but the god traced them anyway. Slowly. As if memorizing each one again and again.

He hadn't planned for this.

Hadn't expected the fire in this mortal. The defiance. And then the need.

But now?

Now he couldn't imagine his realm without Caelan in it.

Without the sound of him crying out.

Or the way he whispered his name in the dark like it meant something sacred.

He shifted, gently laying Caelan back against the pillows. The prince stirred, eyes blinking open.

"...What time is it?" he asked sleepily.

"There's no time here," the god said. "Only you."

Caelan flushed, rolling to his side as the god hovered over him. "Is this where you ruin me again?"

"No," he murmured, brushing hair from Caelan's face. "This is where I worship you."

His hand slid down—slow, reverent—stroking Caelan's inner thigh, tracing the curve of him, coaxing him back to need without force, without rush.

Caelan's breath hitched. "You're insatiable."

"I'm yours," the god said, voice low. "And you are mine."

He kissed Caelan then—deep, slow, anchoring.

Fingers tangled. Legs wrapped. And when the god took him again, it wasn't fast or rough.

It was devotion.

Every thrust was a vow. Every moan a prayer. Every time Caelan gasped his name—it rewrote the god's eternity.

He held him afterward. Not as a ruler holds a prize.

But as a man holds the one thing in the world that makes him feel alive.

"You know I'd tear down the heavens for you," the god whispered into his skin.

Caelan smiled, eyes fluttering closed again. "I know. But right now... just hold me."

And so he did.

With every limb.

Every breath.

Every piece of his immortal soul.

Let Me Worship You Back

He waited until the god was still. Uncloaked. Relaxed. Bare chest gleaming in the candlelight, silver hair splayed across dark sheets like moonlight spilled over shadow.

"You always touch me like I'm sacred," Caelan murmured.

The god blinked slowly, lounging against velvet pillows. "Because you are."

Caelan straddled him, slow and deliberate, his hands pressing to the god's chest. "Then let me worship you back."

The god opened his mouth.

But Caelan silenced him with a kiss—deep, possessive, claiming. When he pulled back, the god's lips were parted, eyes dark, breath shallow.

"I want to see you come undone," Caelan whispered. "You've ruled for eternity. But tonight? You kneel."

The god froze.

And then—

He smiled. Slowly. Reverently.

"Yes," he whispered. "Take me."

Caelan moved like a man who knew he had power.

Because he did.

He kissed down the god's chest, dragging nails across divine skin, biting at the sharp lines of his hips. The god hissed, hips bucking—but Caelan held him down, pinning him like a prayer answered too hard.

"You're always in control," he murmured. "Let go."

The god's head fell back. His throat arched. And Caelan took him into his mouth—slow, wet, worshipful. The god groaned, hand fisting in the sheets.

And when Caelan slid up again, straddling him once more, he lined their bodies with practiced ease and sank down.

The god gasped—loud. Unholy.

"Look at you," Caelan whispered. "Divine. Ruined. Mine."

He rocked his hips slowly, grinding in circles, milking sounds from the god no one had ever heard. His hands on the god's chest. His voice in his ear.

And the god? He begged.

"Please—Caelan—more—"

"You want to come for me?" the prince asked, voice low.

The god's eyes burned. "Yes."

"Then do it."

And when he did—arching, crying out, his power flaring across the chamber in waves of silver light—Caelan owned every second of it.

After, they lay tangled together.

The god blinking up at the ceiling like he'd never been touched before.

"You," he said breathlessly, "will be the end of me."

Caelan smiled.

"Good."

For Eternity, Then.

They stood together at the edge of the underworld, the entire realm bowed in silence beneath their joined shadows.

Caelan in black and silver, his new crown heavy and sharp. The god beside him, glowing faintly where Caelan had touched him last.

Two kings. One throne.

"Do you regret it?" the god asked, voice quieter than the wind.

Caelan turned, eyes glowing soft with something deeper than lust. "Being sacrificed to you?"

The god said nothing.

Caelan stepped closer. Lifted his hand. Brushed his thumb over the hollow of the god's throat.

"No," he whispered. "I think you were the only thing I was ever meant for."

The god exhaled like a man undone.

And when they kissed—slow, reverent, the end of all things—the entire underworld bloomed.

Not with flowers. But with life.

THE END.