#black chimney pots

[puppixel]

Exterior Brick Example of a large classic brown two-story brick house exterior design

[kingwenish]

Exterior Brick

[fictionalmenxyn]

Hiii, i see you mostly do rafe cameron fics but i came across your account under the evan buckley tag and saw you post asking for request. So i tought i would ask if you could do a fic where reader works with buck and during a night out with team he asks the reader to kiss to get a girl of his back.

But yeah that's all thank you in advance if you decide to do it

Of course!!! Still waiting for season eight over in the Uk 😭 also I’m gonna use Taylor as the girl sorry! Personally I don’t think they should’ve got together. They should’ve stayed friends, but that’s my opinion 😭

߷𝐎𝐤 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫߷

Pairing: Buck x firefighter!reader

Warnings: jealousy (not Buck), language and making out

߷߷߷

After a good shift, with an appearance on the news. The 118 decided to celebrate the hard day and once again saving those who needed your help.

So here you all are, you, dressed in a black dress. Revealing the small delicate slime tattoo on your back. With black heels. Sleek and casual for a bar. Not over or under doing it. It was a nicer bar that you all usually go to. So you all dressed a little fancier, not by much.

You sat with the team, a beer bottle in hand. You were in a conversation with Hen when you both hear Buck next to you “arh shit… she’s here…” you turned to look at him “who?” He answered “Taylor�� we broke up a month ago, and here she is… waltzing in here… what are the odds?”

Hen joke “for you? Low… very low..” you both chuckled. Buck nudged your shoulder playfully “hey don’t agree with her!” Causing you to laugh more. Which that’s exactly what he intended.

He sipped his drink, then glanced to you. “So? How about a game of pool? I see one of the tables free?” You looked over and smiled. That’s what you’d do in your spare time at the station. Playing pool. You nodded “oh it’s on, Buckaroo!”

You placed your beer bottle on the table before getting up and heading over to the table.

Buck started to set up the balls in the plastic triangle. As you grab the cue sticks. You held one out to him. Feeling eyes on you, not in a good way…

You noticed Taylor’s eyes glued to you. You talked to Buck “she always like this?” Buck raised an eyebrow “like what?” You replied “her eyes haven’t left me since we started to set up pool, Buck..” he chuckled “oh she thinks we both have it for each other. That’s why she’d never let me go over your place for movie night while we were dating…” you gasped “that’s why?!” You were pissed. Controlling what Buck does?? That’s not on. At. All.

You broke the triangle of balls, then stand off the to side to let Buck have his go. The two of you went back and forth, taking turns.

Taylor never shifted her gaze since you started playing. You huffed, Buck joked “not gettin’ bored already? Thought you liked playing this?” You replied “I do, but not when she doesn’t take her eyes off of me. It’s borderline creepy, Buck…”

He hummed in agreement, “I got an idea…”

“Oh yeah?” “Yeah…”

He gestured you to come closer, you and Buck were close. Really close, that’s probably why Taylor was jealous. But everyone on the team knew you two didn’t see each other that way… not yet at least.

He whispered in your ear, “lemme pretend to show you how to hit a shot, then I’ll peck your cheek, yeah?” His voice a little more rasped at the lowering of his voice.

You smirked “oh it’s on…” you walk around the table a few times. Trying to find the right ball to try and pot. Your acting skills, flawless. Buck spoke “hey, lemme show you a trick…” he came up behind you.

You both lean over to pool table. The team subtly watching. Eddie and Chimney lapping this up like two school girls. Hen and Bobby rolling their eyes, knowing this is how you two are.

Buck whispered “lemme count to three, then I’ll kiss your cheek, okay?” You nodded. Then looked to the pool table again.

“Three… two… one…”

He helped you hit the cue to the ball. Then once it potted. He smiled then kissed your cheek “good job, Y/n/n!” You smiled. Then look to Taylor. She looked jealous. But not enough for your liking. She treated Buck wrong. Let’s show her how to treat him right.

You closed the gap between you to. Kissing him softly. Two seconds it took for him to acknowledge what was going on. Then he kissed back. More fiery than the kiss you just gave. But you happily matched his intention.

He held your jaw gently. His big hand holding your jaw like you’d melt away if he didn’t hold it. In the background you can hear Eddie whistle and Chimney clapping. You peak out of your one eye to see Taylor.

It was like someone had shot someone in front of her. The shock and rage sent through her, definitely showing through her facial expressions. You smirked and mumbled into the kiss “it’s working..” Buck smirked too “good, let’s keep going though…”

In the end Taylor downed her drink, storming out of the bar. Once Bobby saw she left. He went to call out to you both.

You both kept kissing, that’s until you hear Bobby “alright you pair. step away or get a room!” You both laugh as you pull away.

Buck joked “think the room is sounding like a good idea right now…” you smirked “me too, Buck… me too…”

Eddie said a little too loud “I win! Hand over the money Chim!”

You both look over “what?!” Chimney casually spoke “oh we were betting on this, see how long it took for you too to finally do something…”

You playfully roll your eyes “thanks, Team..”

߷߷߷

[c-rose2081]

Royelle (Diary 1 - Legacies and Lottery)

—

—

There’s something about early mornings.

Maybe it’s the way sunlight breaks across the distant horizon, outlining rolling green hills in a sharp and peachy pink color. Perhaps it’s how a pale mist lingers just above the ground, decorating tired flowers with diamond-like dew drops. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s the quiet peace that’s settled over Bookend; it’s inhabitants still tucked in their beds dreaming.

I wish I could get away with sleeping so late. But, in the words of Mrs. Fin, dreams are a luxury for those who have no work to be done. And at the Bookend Chateau Hotel, there’s always something to do. That work begins at daybreak with feeding the chickens and other yard animals, stoking the fire, and readying the morning drinks for the guests. Tea and coffee, all made by hand, of course. There will be none of those blasted contraptions in my hotel, Mrs. Fin says, only the very best for my guests.

And so I prod the pre-cut logs into catching, pushing and teasing until a whisper of smoke curls up into the chimney. A fire sparks soon after, illuminating the mountain of soot in a dazzle of orange and yellow. Lovely. I hardly mind the quiet, as silence is a rarity in a place where people are almost always coming and going. The crackle of hearth is a comfort as I perform my morning tasks, yawning all the while. The night had been rather chilly, and I hadn’t finished work until well past midnight. But as I settle a familiar black pot over the fire, I can’t help but stare outside. The sun is shining and the birds are chirping. What I wouldn’t give to be out berry picking instead of this.

I jump with a start as a familiar bell comes to life, rattling on its hook. Soon, two more follow suit. The Madame and her sons.

“ELLA!” Mrs. Fin’s voice echoes down a metal tube, grating against my ears as I open the funnel.

“Good morning, Madame.”

“Where’s my tea? I’m dying of thirst up here girl!”

“It’s coming, Madame.”

“Stop dawdling, I don’t pay you to stand down there daydreaming. And don’t forget to start the washing and mending either.”

“Of course not, Madame.”

Letting the funnel shut with a metallic clatter, I finish morning preparations with haste, filling three trays to carry upstairs. Madame likes her tea and cookies first thing, while Barney and Hubert prefer coffee and toast. And of course I can’t forget to feed Penelope, the ragged, ancient Pomeranian which never leaves Mrs. Fin’s side. If the creature didn’t sputter, sniffle and drool as much as it did, I’d almost think it was stuffed; it had been alive for so long.

Balancing one breakfast on my head and one on each hand, I precariously make my way up the cellar steps into the main house. It’s still quiet, most of the guests sleeping in. After all, one didn’t normally take vacations to be up with the sun. Still, it wouldn’t be long at all until they started to wake too, and the true chaos of the day began. After all, the hotel was booked. A new school year was starting at Ever After High this week, meaning the village was bustling with families, all seeing their sons and daughters off to school.

But something new was happening too. Something that had never been done in the history of Ever After. The first student lottery was taking place today. There was still time to enter, people from far and wide making the pilgrimage in hopes their name might be called. After all, it’s not every day a school once exclusive to royalty opens its doors to the common folk.

I had thought about entering my name when it was announced, but I can’t possibly leave my poor dad’s alone with Mrs. Fin. It was a little strange that I hadn’t seen either of them yet; normally they helped with morning preparations. It made me wonder where the two had gone, especially so early in the morning, but I didn’t have much time to linger on it.

Dropping the first breakfast tray at Barney’s room, I knocked swiftly at the door before moving on to Hubert’s and doing the same. Though I didn’t see either emerge, the trays vanished the second I had my back turned with little more than door slams. Thank you, Royelle. Rolling my eyes, I finally come to Madame’s room, giving a light tap on the door.

“Enter!”

Her cawing voice is grating as I push inside, breakfast and tea in hand. As expected, Mrs. Fin is still in bed. Penelope is waiting for me too, wall-eyes pointing in different directions as she drools. Such a strange creature. “What took you so long?” Mrs. Fin complains. “I’ve been waiting ages.”

“Apologies, Madame.”

“You have chores to do, Ella. I expect it all to be done, unlike yesterday.”

“We’re very busy,” I say, setting down the woman’s breakfast. “I’m doing my best.”

“‘Your best’ doesn’t get your wage paid,” Mrs. Fin sniffs. “Don’t forget how generous I am, allowing you to live in my house for practically nothing.” Practically nothing? I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes again. This is nothing short of slavery. “And Ella, don’t think I’ve forgotten what today is.”

“Oh?” Playing dumb, I pick up Penelope, avoiding her little crooked mouth of teeth. She has a tendency to bite. “Is something exciting happening today?”

Mrs. Fin scrunches her already wrinkly nose. “Don’t be cute with me, girl. Don’t even think about entering your name in that lottery.”

“I haven’t.”

“You won’t, because you’re not of much use anywhere but here. I doubt anyone else would take your father’s in, let alone you.”

I can’t help but scowl. What a cruel thing to say. “They might…”

“A strange orphan raised by two equally strange men? I highly doubt it. I saved all of you from the streets. You should be thanking me more profusely.”

Knowing there isn’t much I can do to change Mrs. Fin’s mind—and wanting to avoid her ire, if possible—I just nod. “Of course, Madame. Is there anything else you need?”

“No. Be gone now, you have work to do. And don’t forget precious Penelope’s breakfast.”

“Of course not, Madame. Excuse me.” An immortal dog still tucked under one arm, I make my way back downstairs. Unlike when I’d left, two familiar faces were sitting at the table waiting when I returned. “Good morning, Papa’s. I was wondering where you both got off to.” Setting Penelope on the ground by the fire, she snuffles a pathetic wheeze as I set to mushing up some raw chicken for her meal. She can’t eat much else, seeing as her teeth aren’t much longer for this world either.

“Sorry, pumpkin. We had an errand to run.” Pa Rodgers is tall and slim, with a mop of salt and pepper hair that was no doubt blonde once upon a time. Pa Hammerstein who sits beside him is stout and round, with the jolliest face carved with smile lines and wrinkles. They love one another very much and had raised me since I was left in the woods as a baby. It’s impossible to stay mad at them.

“What errand could you possibly have that needs to be done before sunrise?”

“Today is a very special day, dear,” Pa Hammerstein says excitedly. “It would be a shame to miss it.”

“You mean the lottery?” I ask, setting down Penny’s chicken as she sticks her entire face into the mush. Cleaning her would probably result in even more bandages on the tips of my fingers.

“But of course! It’s not every day common people get to join the ranks of royalty,” Pa Rodgers notes. “We brought something from town for you.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

“We did.”

Turning to see what my dad’s had found, a single paper ticket sits on the table. It’s blue, one end ragged and partially torn. I instantly shake my head. “I’m not entering the lottery, daddy.”

“But why not?”

“Because. I can’t leave you here with Madame alone. What a nightmare that would be. Besides, I’d be a complete laughing stock.” Pulling at the shredded hem of my skirt, Pa Hammerstein guffaws past his cheery cheeks.

“Nonsense. You’d be the prettiest girl at Ever After!”

“Pa, please. I can’t possibly enter now. Madame forbade it, and you’d get in so much trouble if I left.”

“Royelle, you’re our daughter,” Pa Rodgers stands up, placing his hands on my shoulders. “We love you very much, pumpkin. We want what’s best for you.”

“Yes, what he said,” Pa Hammerstein agrees. “There’s a better life for you out there in the world, child. Far better than that of a servant.”

I shake my head again, hotness burning the corners of my eyes. Dad’s always felt bad that they couldn’t raise me in their own house. One with a yard and a garden and food always on the table. I’ve been working at the Chateau since I was little; Madame put me to work the minute I was old enough to scatter corn for the chickens and balance a tea tray. Sure it’s not the most luxurious life, but I’d never hold it against the men who raised me. After all, without them, I’d have been eaten by a wolf or frozen to death when I was just a baby. “But what about you? I can’t possibly leave you here.”

“Ever After isn’t that far, dear….”

“It would seem a million miles away. No. I simply can’t. I’d die without you.”

“Oh, Ella. You’re so full of heart.” Pa Rodger’s brushes some of my blonde hair back, smoothing it behind my ear. “But even the chance of you having a better future than this would make both of us so happy.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Pa Hammerstein agrees, tottering to his feet and taking my hand. “You’re our princess, see? Always have been, always will be. You deserve to enter the lottery just as much as any other girl.”

“But…”

“If you won’t do it for yourself, at least enter for our sake? Please, Ella? Put two old men at ease.”

“Oh…” frustrated, I stomp my foot. “Very well, but only if you both stop talking like you’ve got one foot in the grave. You’re still plenty young.”

“Tell that to my poor knees, dear,” Pa Hammerstein complains, falling back down into his chair as Pa Rodgers pushes me to sit at the table.

“Here you are, pumpkin. Just write your name and the name of our village.”

Taking the pen offered to me, I place the tip down to the paper and hesitate. This didn’t seem like a very good idea. It wasn’t likely I’d get chosen; the entire kingdom had no doubt entered too. But if Madame found out, she’d have all our heads.

“Go on, dear,” Pa urges behind my shoulder. “Go on.” I can’t help but wince as I sign my name in familiar shaky cursive. ROYELLE H. : BOOKEND. In a flash the ticket vanishes, whisked away in a glitter of magic.

“It’s done,” Pa Hammerstein blusters past his fluffy mustache.

“Now we wait,” Pa Rodgers agrees, squeezing my shoulders from behind. “Thank you, Royelle. You’ve made us very proud.”

“Not a word to Madame about this,” I warn. “She’ll go off like a tea kettle and then we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Agreed,” Pa Rodgers nods. “Hear that, you wind-filled old coot? No spilling the beans.”

“Hey, who are you calling old, you splintery old signpost?”

Rolling my eyes at my dad’s bickering, I leave the table. Penelope had finished her breakfast, sittint on the floor quaking, chicken slop dripping from the hair around her nose. “Alright Penelope,” I sigh, picking her up and heading to the washbasin. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

—

—

First little drabble for Legacies and Lottery. I dunno if I’ll write in a longer format over on my Ao3 or if I’ll stick the these short ‘diary entry’ style snippets? Let me know what you think of it, I know lots of text in a post isn’t always people’s cup of tea.

[jajatoc]

Mesque's fleet of world enders, black like a pot, appears on the horizon of Revachol. In the fashion capital. They're [...] asking, what' that ominous chimney smoke over the ocean, like storm clouds?

In the leather-seat-scented rustle of the radio, they talk about an atomic weapon that was dropped on Revachol three hours ago. The female announcers voice is calm and beautiful.

Hi I just finished Sacred and Terrible Air and it did irreparable damage to my brain + In '72, year of the nuking of Revachol (if i remember correctly), Kim would have been 64, Harry 65 and I will never recover from this knowledge

[gallaghersgal]

DAY THIRTEEN → hot coco / baking, sydney adamu

TAGS & WARNINGS → all fluff! fem!reader, idiots to lovers lowkey, also neighbors to lovers. (slightly) late entry for bearblr promptober!

WC → 872

you knock on your neighbor’s door, prepared for your… girls night. you’d hoped it was a date, but for some reason you’d blurted out, ‘oh, like a girls night in!’ when syd proposed the idea. you’ve been kicking yourself since.  you’d suggested the two of you use tonight as an excuse to put on a nice outfit, go out of your way to make that kind of effort when your busy schedules barely allow it. 

she opens the door with a grin, her lips lined in deep brown and accentuated by a soft pink gloss. she wears a dark patterned sweater with a black skirt and tights, paired with shiny black boots, a silk scarf over her hair, and small gold hoops in her ears. 

“ugh, you look amazing!” you say, stepping inside and setting your share of ingredients down on her counter. when your hands are free you turn around to hug her, a polite embrace you wish would last longer. when you hold each other at arm’s length you point out, “i can’t believe you’re copying me!”

sydney’s gaze drifts over your red turtleneck, black skirt and tights. you wear white mary janes to match your white eyeliner and large daisy earrings. “please, you look so good like- stop! get out of my kitchen,” she teases, shoving you lightly before an awkward look washes over her. “fuck, sorry that was-“

you shake your head and laugh it off. sydney’s awkward bits and idiosyncrasies made her special to you. they made her the girl you were falling wholly, hopelessly, head over heels for. 

you fall into easy conversation, browsing the pages of sydney’s recipe books. she preps the dough for croissants, the perfect pairing for the french hot chocolate sydney overheard you raving about. she’d offered to make it for you, and after the whole date vs. girls night fiasco—which neither of you had discussed, but both seemed to notice the error—you felt bad, offering to bring ingredients for croissants to pair with the drink. 

after prepping the dough, sydney passes it to you to roll out while she gets to work on the hot chocolate. you roll it out, then fold it over just like sydney’s shown you before. with careful hands you roll the dough into two large croissants, situating them on the pan and placing them in the hot oven.

turning towards the living room, your eyes take in the space for the first time tonight. the coffee table is cleared off, a fall centerpiece is in the middle, and small candles light the area. despite being an electric replica, seeing as the mantle was decorative and had no chimney, her fireplace brings a glow and warmth into the room. 

“can i put on some music? i’ve always wanted to use your record player!” you ask, gesturing into the room. truthfully you want a better look at her decor.

“yeah of course,” she tells you. “my record basket’s under the desk.” 

you kneel by the wicker basket, glancing over at sydney’s concentrated face as she slowly heats chocolate over the stove. she’s so beautiful, you think.

you thumb through rows of old school soul records until a stevie wonder greatest hits collection sticks out. you place the record down and drop the needle with a grin.

sydney looks up at you, the two braids she pulled in front of her silk scarf now hang in front of her eyes, but she’s smiling nonetheless. she nods your way as the first notes of for once in my life play. “great choice!”

you return to her side, “you have great taste. seriously, sam cooke? aretha franklin? that’s a little before our time.”

sydney’s eyes never leave the chocolate, stirring it into thickness after adding the ingredients. “uh- yeah! it’s just all, like, stuff my dad listens to. we’re pretty close, so.” she moves the pot off the stove, pouring the dark chocolate mixture over a bit of milk in two white teacups. “pretty sure if you look a little further though, theres a vinyl for uh… the ratatouille soundtrack?”

you laugh, watching her make an embarrassed face as she grabs something from the fridge. “you’re serious,” you ask.

“yeah, i was like fifteen and just got my first record player,” sydney tells you as she grabs two spoons from her drawer and pries the top off the container. homemade whipped cream. 

“syd, this is-” you whisper, cutting yourself off. you dip your spoon into the whipped cream, then turn it upside down over your cup. it falls into the dark liquid, melting at the sides from the heat. you take a sip immediately, not minding the warmth that spreads through your chest. “oh my god. this is amazing.”

she takes a sip for herself, whipped cream getting stuck on her upper lip. “you have a little-“ you gesture toward her face, and her eyes go a little wide. nervously, she looks around for a napkin, but your hands on her cheeks stop her. “i’m going to kiss you,” you tell her quietly.

sydney only nods, then your lips are on hers. she tastes like chocolate and peppermint, with a hint of the whipped cream you’ve cleaned off with your kiss.

© gallaghersgal, 2024. inbox. masterlist.

div. © saradika (x).

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Halloween Fics (MFLs) [October 2023 Edition]

See also:

Halloween Fics (Oct 2018)

Halloween and Ghosts (updated Oct 31/21)

Vampires (Dec. 2020)

Ghosts / Figments

Hybrids and Shapeshifters

Hey everyone!! Hope you're having a wonderful day! Today I thought that it's been a long time since I've posted an update to my Halloween fic list, but I haven't read many new fics since, so I though for today's post (because I don't have anything ready anyway) I would go through my MFL List and post up the ones that have been recommended to me throughout the years! Please note I have not read any of these, these are just based on a tag search on my offlline list :)

And because I haven't actually been asked this year for some new fics (I usually do so I am sad lol), I guess I shall make a new list without one!

As usual, please feel free to add your own fics!

========

Mummy by ChrisCalledMeSweetie (T, 901 w., 1 Ch. || UAP Canon Divergence, Halloween, Meeting the Parents) – Meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time can be a bit scary. Especially when your boyfriend is Sherlock Holmes. Part 12 of the Spooky Johnlock Stories series

What Didn't Happen by Katzedecimal (T, 1,213 w., 1 Ch. || Costumes, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Halloween, Texting, Case Fic) – There is a very short Conan busying about the flat. He's threatening me with a sword if I don't eat something.

Until the final breath escapes by meet_me_in_samarra (M, 1,875 w., 1 Ch. || Halloween, Domestics, Established Relationship, Mild Gore, Kissing) – In a world turned hostile they hold onto their love until the final breath escapes.

John Watson and the Curse of the Were-Kitten by  ChrisCalledMeSweetie (G, 2,193 w., 2 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Supernatural AU ||  Halloween, Spooky Fluff) – Limping away from the crime scene, John glanced up at a nearby rooftop. His mouth dropped open at what he saw: Sherlock, silhouetted against the rising full moon. Realising that he was gawping like a fool, John looked around to make sure he wasn’t being observed. When he turned back, Sherlock had vanished. All that remained on the rooftop was a small black kitten, padding between the chimney pots. Part 1 of the Spooky Johnlock Stories series, Part 5 of the H.I.A.T.U.S. Prompt Fills

These Hands of Yours by okapi (E, 2,700 w., 1 Ch. || ACD Canon || Supernatural Elements, Horror, Hands, Anal Fisting / Fingering, Halloween) – Holmes has casts made of his hands. Watson falls in love. So do the hands.

His favourite pizza (delivery guy) by thewallflower07 (G, 4,298 w., 1 Ch. || Teenager AU || Flirting John, Annoying Mycroft, Med Student John, Horny Teenagers, Halloween, High School Student Sherlock, Pizza) – Sherlock is staying at a hotel on Halloween with his family and keeps insisting they order pizza because he is infatuated with the very cute, blonde delivery boy.

Wanted: Empath by nutmeag83 (T, 4,886 w., 1 Ch. || Supernatural Elements AU || Empath John, Ghost Hunter Sherlock, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Pining John, Resolved Romantic Tension, Friends to Lovers) – Sherlock is a ghost hunter and John his empath assistant. Near Halloween, they investigate a ghostly sighting at a mansion in the English countryside. The events of their investigation bring their feelings for each other to the fore.

Food goes on the food shelf by avalanching effect (G, 5,283 w., 1 Ch. || Halloween, Pre-Slash, Crack/Humour, Cannibalism, Magical Realism, Witches, Light Gore, POV Sherlock) – John, (without conferring with Sherlock) implements a system of organization in the kitchen. There are areas designated as 'experiment' areas, and others as 'food safe' areas. Crossover, however, is bound to happen.

In a manner of speaking I'm dead by fellshish (T, 6,372 w., 1 Ch. || Halloween, Mystrade, Angst With Happy Ending, PIning, First Kiss, Drunk Idiots, Drinking Games, Humour) – Sherlock and John accidentally dress in matching outfits for Lestrade's Halloween party. Things only get worse: someone pushes them to play 'Never have I ever'.

A Beautifully Frightening Revelation by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for (M, 6,486 w., 2 Ch. || Supernatural Elements AU|| Ghosts, Haunted House, First Kiss/Times, Frottage, Fluff, Halloween, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing, Spooky) – John and Sherlock are investigating an isolated country manor haunted by a mischievous ghost. A series of spooky incidents brings them together in a candlelit bedroom, the night ripe for revelations and facing fears.

The Babadook by CatieBrie (T, 6,886 w., 1 Ch. || Babadook Fusion || Post-TRF, Horror, Demonic Possession, Violence, Halloween, Grief, Angst with Happy Ending) – “A children’s book,” John mutters as he flips it open. The pages are scrawled with beautiful charcoal lines and thick black ink. The cover, bright red, edges the open pages and something tugs at the back of John’s brain. It’s a familiar feeling, black and tarrish and thick in his thoughts. He shakes it off and picks the book up off his bed, turning so that he can sit on the edge and spread the book out across his knees. If it’s in a word or it’s in a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook. He turns the page, ignoring the pressure building beneath his chest. There’s a closet on one page; paper doors meant to be opened by the reader flutter as John reads the text on the other page.

The Spirit Child by VelvetMace (M, 7,287 w., 1 Ch. || Psychological Horror, Disturbing Themes, Horror, Gore) – A small wooden box filled with clay and feotus bones yields more than just clues to a violent murder. A Halloween Story. Read at your own risk -- and I do not say this lightly.

Were it Well by merelypassingtime (G, 7,496 w., 6 Ch. || Shapeshifter AU || Crack, Halloween) – When moving in with the world's only consulting detective John is concerned he won't be able to keep his secret. Turns out he need not have worried.

In the Shadows of 221B by CarmillaCarmine (E, 8,299 w., 5 Ch. || Halloween, Friends to Lovers, Spooky Smut) – On a stormy, Halloween night, Sherlock appears changed, but John isn't about to complain about anything Sherlock wants to do to him. Part 10 of the The Stories of Angst and Heartbreak series

Let's Say I Let You In by kedgeree (E, 9,972 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE|| Halloween, Costume Kink, Established Relationship, Humour, Smut, Vampire Sherlock, Bloodplay, Biting, Romance) – It's Halloween and Sherlock's vampire costume is turning John on, but Sherlock doesn't quite get the idea of a sexy vampire. At least…not at first. Part 4 of the Holidays series

The Subtenant by khorazir (T, 12,238 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canon Divergence, Post-TRF, Halloween, Magical Realism, Humour, Ghosts, Banter, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss) – When you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Hence, there can be no doubt about it: 221B is haunted. Sherlock and John set out to investigate their new subtenant and find out more than they bargained for.

Hallowe'en Homecoming by earlybloomingparentheses (T, 12,594 w., 1 Ch. || Unconventional Relationship, Halloween, Sherlock’s Childhood, Family Videos) – Sherlock and John are solving a case when Mycroft turns up and persuades Sherlock to return home for his mother's Hallowe'en celebration. John thinks that seeing where Sherlock grew up will help him understand the detective better; instead, he finds himself more confused than ever. But it's John Watson's job to look after Sherlock Holmes, come hell, high water, or Hallowe'en, so that's just what he's going to do.

Looks like something the cat digged out by HOverSeas (T, 12,876 w., 1 Ch || Magical Realism AU || Post-TGG, Canon Divergence, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, Werecat John, Temporary Character Death) – The bomb at the pool goes off, and takes both Sherlock and Moriarty with it. John doesn't agree with the outcome, so he decides to bring Sherlock back from the dead. But, of course, there is a price.

Zing and You'll Miss It by Raina_at (M, 14,980 w., 2 Ch. || Hotel Transylvania AU || Vampire Sherlock, Crack/Humour, Rom Com, University Student John, Love at First Sight, Magic, Soul Mates, Minor Mollstrade) – Every year, the monster community meets at Halloween for a big party. Sherlock is bored out of his mind as usual, when suddenly a handsome human stumbles into the monster party. Eyes meet, sparks fly, and Sherlock's entire world is turned upside down as he has to decide whether that tingly feeling is lust, love, magic, or a combination of all three.

The Masquerade of the Red Death by okapi (E, 16,800 w., 14 Ch. || Friends to Lovers, For A Case / Case Fic, Kink Exploration, Orgy, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Bum Worship, Shotgunning, Daddy Kink, Corsetry, Cock Worship, Praise Kink, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Drugging, Wrestling, Love Confessions, Pet Play, Rimming, Public Sex/Blow Jobs, Shibari, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism) – On the hunt for a serial killer, Sherlock & John attend a masked orgy. Inspired by "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allan Poe. Part 11 of the Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics)

One Good Scare by blueink3 (M, 17,386 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Holmes Family, Parentlock, Misunderstandings, Family, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Halloween, Happy Ending) – Mummy invites Sherlock, John, and Rosie to the country for her birthday, which just so happens to coincide with the annual Harvest Festival, an event Sherlock loathes. With John seemingly making the wrong move at every turn and with ghosts hiding in each of their closets, what will it take for their (Halloween) masks to finally come off?

The Halloween Party by XistentialAngst (M, 19,044 w., 3 Ch. || Halloween, Sexy Sherlock, Vampires, Costumes/Disguises, Mutual Masturbation, BAMF John, First Time, Humour, Romance, Frottage, Friends to Lovers) – Sherlock and John attend a Halloween party on the trail of a vampire killer -- a man who's been seducing his victims and taking all their blood. Sexy costumes, bad puns, hideous danger, frantic sex in hidden places and some Halloween-flavored fluff are all on hand to "treat" you. Boo.

it's not always black and wight by elldotsee (M, 21,385 w., 7 Ch. || Supernatural Elements AU || Ghosts, Halloween, Case Fic, Victor Trevor) – By the time he turned eight, Sherlock had had more supernatural experiences than he could count or recall. He’d grown used to flickering lights, the whispers in the night, the sudden appearance of apparitions in the corridors. The dead were just as much a part of his life as the living. He went about his business, never disrupting theirs.Sometimes he talked to them, but they never talked back. Sometimes, he heard their stories second-hand, in the snippets of conversation between his parents at the dinner table, but they were never spoken about like real people. They were simply characters that formed the tapestry of the house, bumps and flickers of a life stuck in the in-between. That is, until he met Victor.

Haunted by Vulpesmellifera (E, 22,369 w., 4 Ch. || S4 Fix-It/Post-Canon, POV John, Child Endangerment, Halloween, Nightmares, Bed Sharing) – Plagued by the past, John moves himself and his daughter to a new flat for a fresh start - and it's not 221B Baker Street.While he grapples with new knowledge and old guilt, he's confronted with odd neighbors and strange noises in the night. But is it the new flat, or is John Watson losing his grip on reality?

the napoleon by darcylindbergh (E, 24,823 w., 4 Ch. || 1980′s AU || Halloween, Action & Romance, Costumes, Costume Parties/Masquerades, Mutual Pining, First Kiss / Time) – Halloween, 1989: John and Sherlock both have big plans for the night, but serial killers have the worst possible timing.

From a Well, Dark and Deep by Vulpesmellifera (M, 32,691 w., 18 Ch. || Post S4, Supernatural Elements, Horror / Milld Body Horror, Bed Sharing, Possession, Hand Holding, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Coming Out, Alternating POV, Nightmares, Caring John, Happy Ending) – Sherlock Holmes is desperately trying to reconcile his newfound memories and feelings within his transport—a transport that won’t quit with the nightmares and the strange, fiddly anxieties that crop up at the most inopportune moments. On the advice of his psychiatrist—not that he’s thrilled to be taking the man’s advice, but needs must—he's going to mark the anniversary of Eurus’ torments. That explains why he visits the well. What he finds at the well, though, is entirely unexpected. Meanwhile, John Watson has finally come to terms with something he’s ignored his entire life. He’s ready to share that something with Sherlock, except Sherlock isn’t acting himself. It's not the time for confessions, and John determines he must get to the bottom of his best friend's affliction before he can reveal anything. Part 3 of Vulpes' Halloween Johnlock

This Is Family by SaraStarchild (T, 39,840 w., 16 Ch. || Hereditary AU || Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Demonic Possession, POV Third Person Limited, Protective Mycroft, Cults, Mycroft Whump, Sherlock Whump, Major Character Death, Graphic Violence, Retelling) – When the Holmes family's secretive mother and matriarch, Ellen Holmes, passes away, the family she leaves behind – father Martin, sons Mycroft and Sherlock, and daughter Eurus – begins to unravel cryptic and increasingly terrifying secrets about their ancestry. The more they discover, the more they find themselves trying to outrun the sinister fate they seem to have inherited. This is, pretty much, a word-for-word retelling of the 2018 Ari Aster film, Hereditary. Part 1 of Sherlock Halloween Stories

A Sharp, Dressed Man Series by sgam76 (T, 50,221+ w. across 6 works || Series WiP || Vampire AU || Halloween Fic, Protective Mycroft, Kidnapping, Injured Sherlock, Psychological Terror) – Every once in a while, Mycroft Holmes is called upon to take matters into his own hands. It doesn't always go exactly as you'd expect. And he enjoys it more than he will ever admit.

FictoberLock 2018 by FinAmour & unicornpoe (M, 60,875 w., 31 Ch. || Halloween, Protective John, Smitten Sherlock, Fluff, First Kiss, Injured Sherlock, Various Prompts) – 31 different prompts, 31 Johnlock fics: one every day for the month of October! Each chapter is a stand-alone story. Some are written by unicornpoe, some by FinAmour, and some are written by us both! They range in length from ~500 words to ~3500 words, and there’s something in here for everyone.

Johnloctober by prettysailorsoldier (E, 169,945 w., 31 Ch. || Assorted AU’s || Alternate First Meetings, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, 30 Day OTP Challenge, Prompts, Halloween / Autumn, Assorted Tags) – 31 days of autumnal Johnlock with prompts from all of you! There will be a bit of everything, but you can check the tags for more specifics.

Skeletons Series by flawedamythyst (T, 174,262 w. across 3 works || Nightmare Before Christmas Fusion ||  Implied Character Death) – Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at. Halloween-esque AU.

[sparklepocalypse]

Hello! I missed Six Sentence Sunday for reasons of life happening, but I'm back today, bitches and non-bitches! 🥰 Thank you so much to the absolute cavalcade of fantastic humans who tagged me today, including @alasse9, @zwiazdziarka, @heysweetheart-writes, @violetbaudelaire-quagmire, @cha-melodius, @captainjunglegym, @wordsofhoneydew, @piratefalls, @orchidscript, @firenati0n, @priincebutt, @kiwiana-writes, @getmehighonmagic, and @duchessdepolignaca03! My tag is open, but @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, I'm calling on you specifically because I haven't seen your name in my feed yet. ❤️

Today I bring you another lil' chonk of my @aroyallybigbangrwrb fic, Meet Me on the Other Side, a Western AU featuring runaway prince Henry and bounty hunter Alex. And when I say I have been having the most fun finding 19th-century slang terms to pepper into the fic... there's just a lot of pepper, okay?

The Sunfall Inn is located just off the Marcelina town square. It’s rather flash, by Alex’s reckoning, but he’s never been the sort to be bullocked by the corn cob aristocracy in this part of the country, and he assumes this Mr. Srivastava won’t be any different. He’s right and wrong on that front. Mr. Srivastava is an unassuming, brown-skinned feller of a height with Alex, wearing a natty black three-piece suit and a chimney pot hat. But when he opens his mouth to introduce himself, it’s clear to Alex that this man has spent a fair portion of his life around the type of fancy folk who don’t have much cause for visiting towns like this one. “Mr. Claremont-Diaz, I presume,” he says, extending a hand to shake. He speaks with a genteel accent, and Alex feels himself straightening up just a tad. “My name is Shaan Srivastava. I appreciate your punctuality.” “Call me Alex, Mr. Srivastava. Everyone else does,” Alex replies, shaking his hand firmly. “Guessing some measure of secrecy might be in order here?” “You’re correct,” Shaan says. Alex notices that he doesn’t invite the use of his first name. It's awfully starched of him, Alex decides, but the bounty’s more than enough to warrant his continued attention. Alex nods. “If you don’t mind a walk, there’s a trail not far from here that leads to a little glade, and nobody goes there during the day. At night, well, if you aren’t partial to seeing some feller in his birthday suit dipping into the sweets of his best girl – or his best boy, if he’s of that persuasion – best you avoid the glade at night.” “Are you certain it’s secure?” Shaan asks. His hand rises subtly at his side but stills, and Alex wonders what he might be hiding that’s made him so nervous. “You’ll be with me,” Alex replies. “You’ll be safe as houses, sunshine.” “Not precisely what I meant,” Shaan sputters, but Alex is already gesturing at the side door of the inn, next to the bar, and walking toward it, and after a moment, Shaan follows.

[canonicallyobserving911]

Buck & Eddie: In 6x13... no one in The Buckley-Diaz Family sat on Buck’s couch

In 6x13 “Mixed Feelings” not only did Buck, Eddie and Chris stay in the kitchen area of Buck’s loft, they DID NOT sit on the couch and as a matter of fact, the camera angles remained focused on the kitchen while no other part of Buck’s loft was shown.  I noticed this while I was live blogging Monday night, I made a brief post about it and after further review of the episode, I realized Buck’s couch wasn’t shown at all in 6x13.  It was interesting especially since his living room area has been shown several times throughout season 6.

6x1 “Let the Games Begin”

While Buck was cooking dinner and talking to Eddie about Bobby not choosing either of them to be interim captain, Chris said, “Buck, you don’t even have a couch” and the camera panned towards Buck’s living room to show the empty space where his black leather couch previously sat.

6x4 “Animal Instincts”

His living room was shown when he told Connor and Kameron he would be their sperm donor and it was also shown earlier during the episode when Connor showed up to tell him he didn’t have to do it even though it was clear he wanted him to.

6x8 “9-1-1 What’s Your Fantasy?”

There were several clear shots of Buck’s living room when Maddie and Chimney took Jee-Yun over there so Buck could babysit her for them while they went house hunting.

6x11 “In Another Life”

After Buck was discharged from the hospital, his mother insisted she was going to buy him a couch.  She did but it wasn’t shown in his loft until 6x12 “Recovery”.

6x12 “Recovery”

Buck couldn’t get comfortable on his new couch and people wouldn’t stop coming to his loft unannounced.  The couch his mother purchased was never shown up close and even when he was lying on it, it could barely be seen. Up to that point, every time Buck’s living room was shown, no couch was included.

Buck went to Eddie’s and after he sat down on their Eddie’s couch, he immediately fell asleep.

Eddie let Buck sleep and after he woke up, he went into the kitchen to talk to Eddie.

Eddie asked Buck if he wanted a beer but Buck said he’d rather have some water (related post linked here).  Even after Buck sat down at the kitchen table, their Eddie’s couch could still be seen.  Reminder, Eddie’s kitchen has a door that’s been closed before by his ex-girlfriend after he broke up with her so it was a CHOICE to keep the door open so the couch could be seen.

6x13 “Mixed Feelings”

While Eddie and Chris were in Buck’s loft with him, the camera angles REMAINED focused on the kitchen and the dinning room table where they were sitting.  Buck’s new couch was never shown even though it could be seen several times in 6x12 while Hen was visiting him and they sat at the table eating the pot roast Maddie made for his lunch.

At the end of the episode, while Buck and Chris were preparing to bake cookies, the camera REMAINED focused on the kitchen area again and it didn’t show Buck’s couch.

Eddie and Chris sat on Buck’s couch with him in 3x9 “Fallout”, Chris sat on it in 3x1 “Kids Today” and he sat on it again in 4x8 “Breaking Point”, therefore it was a CHOICE to keep the camera angles focused on the kitchen area while they were there in 6x13.

It’s certainly possible this could be a coincidence but that’s very unlikely especially since both Athena and Karen have mentioned in CANON the lack of belief in coincidences.  Also, the camera angles were PURPOSEFULLY positioned to stay focused on Buck, Eddie and Chris at the beginning of the episode even though it could have been placed in the kitchen like it was in 6x4, 6x8 and 6x12 to show Buck’s living room but it wasn’t.

Both the showrunner and OS have mentioned in separate interviews Buck’s new couch will meet an unlikely end sometime before the end of the season so it remains to be seen what will happen to it.  Since it wasn’t shown at all while Buck, Eddie and Chris were there, it further illustrates the couch metaphor and how it relates to Buck finding his couch/relationship at Eddie’s house.

Will he find his couch before the end of season 6?  Only the showrunner(s), writers and producers know the answer to that question.

[astarab1aze]

Kírât, of true Sunjatta

     A city built upon the backs of all those cast out of their homelands, unwanted, displaced, or wholly feared by the peoples of Sunjatta, Kírât sits hidden in the Dustveil – which spans from the depths of the furthest easterly reaches of the Diremark to the crux of the Stormlands of Chimeria far to the west – as a monument to Sunjatti undesirables. The streets are cobbled with dusty sandstone carven from desert mountains and solidified spider nests, and every house, home, tavern and hovel is built narrowly to fit; but so, too, are they fashioned of sand and stone, ashen-orange and twilight adorned in cactus wood and flags of spidersilk, red ochre and turquoise in-lays resembling gossamer webs along every doorway in the city, and in the looming shadows cast by a waning sun, there is both heart and great reproach to be seen within the worn architecture itself. Along towering walls reaching far into the sky were great statues of something old and wretched with too-large and too many eyes and even more limbs - countless, some might say - and their figures imposing, foul, but it is widely understood these statues serve as warnings, deterrents against the pitiful beasts plaguing the Dustveil, or even the likes of strange wildlings and the inevitable horns, drums, and trumpets of war.

     Before the city lies hundreds of miles of vast, treacherous desert fraught with ceaseless drought and gargantuan spiders of a mindless breed, which the hardened peoples of Kírât have taken to slaying since first settling in their hard-won castle-city of sand. With iron and blood, courage and wondrous spirit, the people of Kírât rule over the Dustveil, pushing legions of spiderlings and widows into their holes, and the Stormlands and forestry beyond the dunes, much to the dismay of what few elves still maintain their posts at the end of the East Road, the Adamantine Gate, leading into the Fhal'Tiran forest - and they were certainly, previously few. 

     Rains in the Dustveil came on rare occasion and each heralded a new beginning - the Kírâti New Year - and many of the dwarves, humans, elves, and beastfolk living behind sandstone walls would rush out into the streets with barrels and buckets and pots to catch the rain, and a feast of desert rice, fell goat, and cactus fruit would be had in the downpour with the glow of witchlights strewn above on the rooftops. The streets would echo with elfsong and hearty laughter and smoke would brim and billow free of shop windows, tavern chimneys, and the braziers burning at every corner. Taken by the promise of a new beginning, many would dance arm-in-arm and all about the city square around the sandstone fountain, overjoyed by such bounty, but all would bow their heads and give thanks to the gods above, and the feast would carry on merrily. The peoples of Kírât were not known for spirited parties nor any kind of particular extravagance, but exceptions were often made at the start of their new year, and in the roaring of the aqueducts, precious water would be allocated to what few crops they could manage to grow. Canaemery, Black Foil, hopflower, and Dragon’s Breath bloomed in the hot desert sun, and such petals and leaves of verdant green, murk and mud, pale yellow, and breaths of crimson would become the very basis of all trade in and out of Kírât - of which elves and dwarves and men and the odd beastfolk alike would spin into pipeweed, poisons, and ales of a harsh and fiery sort. Such was appreciated and often hoarded at the behest of travelers and merchants wishing to spend their coin on the best Kírât had to offer - although, those of a wiser disposition in so treacherous a land would quite beg to differ - and many were left with riches of little use, wandering a festive city with nothing to show for it. 

     They all were equally left in awe, for Kírâti people were not known for any particular sort of extravagance, generosity, nor grand celebration. They were tough, and with calloused and scarred hands they continued forward as if no party or jubilant feast had ever come to pass. They reaped the rewards of their patience and due diligence, and set aside their gleefulness for every day ahead of them was often violent, terrible, and rife with that which no other people could contend. When twin moons rose high above the endless sands, both round with the fullness of silver light, widows would climb out of their burroughs and the undead would claw free of sandpits, underground caverns, and dunes, and all would trample over one another in search of sustenance - or an end to their pitiful unlife. Hideous creatures, these legions of the darkest corners of the desert, made their way to Kírât, the only settlement for hundreds of miles plump with what they sought, and they would unleash upon them floods of venom and accursed arrows, battering the gates and thrusting their rusted swords and fangs against sandstone walls until, at last, they would crumble.

     But the people of Kírât were of a resilient and steadfast nature, and such was perhaps more highly valued than anything else at all.

     Their adversaries would be met with swift judgment, cold steel and dragon glass, the rawness of magic unknown and ancient, the secrets of the world that’d shunned them. Death was not an option for them but a definitive consequence for all those that dared bring to harm any under the Kírâti banner. The piercing scream of a hail of arrows set free by the elves would herald a first strike and scores of dwarves armed with warhammers and great swords would follow; Beastfolk would come barreling out of the cracks, their truest of shapes seen by the numbers scattered across the battlefield in silver light staining the desert a ghostly hue, and men would ride on their backs with swords, shields, and bows at the ready; but all would stand prepared to defend their home with their lives, as kinsman, as brothers, united not by fear but determination and the will to protect their way of life with their lives. They would not fall to the likes of the shamblers crowding the graveous dunes, nor the spiders whose fangs glistened with fell venom, and their children, their wives, their mothers, sisters, cousins, and all those who kept the hearth warm would live to see the first streams of golden light when the sun should rise above sandy hills and reveal to all the blood that had been spilt. Precious few of their own would be lost in the tides of battle, strewn about in pieces, unrecognizable and delivered home on carts with their weapons to serve as heirlooms, reminders of their sacrifice in grand halls, but the putrid carcasses of the spiders were to be looted, their venom taken to the alchemists, their silk to the seamstresses, and the rest to feed all those who’d gone hungry.

     And so, too, would graves have been dug beneath the city, remains placed in dark tombs and winding catacombs lit only by flickering flame, and a lament would be sung by their kin, a haunting echo cutting through shadow like a knife piercing flesh. All would bow their heads in sorrow, adorned in blackened dress, and the sound of weeping would yet mingle with the agonizing song marking their passing. Shawls of woven spidersilk would then be pulled over the dead, long and wispy, and blooms of dragon’s breath would be set upon their heads as crowns – for in their fall, they would be given the highest of honor no other would have given. In life, they were but soldiers, knights, exiles cast out of their homelands as unwanted, unneeded, or wholly despised, but in death, they would be honored as kings. Many would give fleeting words to express their grief, some unspoken and merely cried out, before the dead would be sealed away in the darkest reaches of the city they built.

     Such pain was not shouldered by their families alone. Rather, all those who flew the Kírâti banner would bow their heads in turn in the days to follow and stories would be shared with great joy, for the dead would never have wished for their kinsman nor their families to sink into despair but remember them instead. It would not do for a people with so few joys to be robbed of what little they’d had, and while Kírâti people were not known for any particular sort of extravagance or song or dance, a party both of mourning and remembrance would be had for the lost and the bereft, for the dead were to be honored as kings.

     Among all things, the people of Kírât felt much more deeply than any might expect, for they stood to lose far more than they had, and as the days came and went, their very lives hung in the balance and they met such losses, such hardships and turmoil, with a strength of heart none else could ever have hoped to covet for themselves. Perhaps it is due to the strength of men, the wisdom of elves, the spirit of the dwarves, and the cleverness of the beastfolk; Or it is the willingness of all to see beyond circumstance and difference and gaze upon the crest of any dune and bear witness to the greatness they could achieve through perseverance, shared ground, honesty, and oaths fulfilled. But no matter what it was that tied them all together, they nonetheless braced the city walls and watched over their lands as though the lives they’d lived before were but forgotten, lost to the ever constant and inescapable ebb and flow of time. Hardened by sandstorms and an onslaught of vicious undead and widows, by the arid sands and blistering sun, their ability to survive is brought on only by a sense of duty rejected by their former homelands, and unfathomable experience and willful cooperation.

     Unexpectedly, most of those who dwell in Kírât are elves, abandoned and forgotten by their hidden Fhal'Tiran kin, banished to the twisting, swirling, ever-changing dunes of the Dustveil, and there are none among their ranks spared any mercy. It is as unexpected a thing as any, for many would think the elves a source of wisdom and utmost maturity - but they send away and discard their own anyway. How cruel, then, that they should banish their people to lands they are not known to withstand, to suffer the harsh winds and days-long sandstorms, sweltering heat and unforgiving journeys through hundreds of miles of it all. 

     Sédalín Sevaaris no longer remembers the oath he swore, driven mad by a grief of his own, and through the terribly long passage of time, his rule has waned, and so, too, has he left in ruin his people. He’d exiled many of his number to the Dustveil, or wherever else they may have gone – it was no concern of his, to be sure – and as such, Kírâti numbers have been bolstered with the skill of elven craftsmanship, magic, and battle prowess, lending strength to not only their fellow elves, but the dwarves, men, and beastfolk who reside there. Such is priceless, such is kept close and adapted to the needs of all.

     Weary are they who take the West and East Roads into Kírât and they arrive weakened and parched by their nigh impossible journey, but they are willing, taken in by their fellow exiles, gifted a freshly cooked meal and a bellyful of mead or precious water, and thus the opportunity to live among them – to win back the life that’d been taken from them. Second chances were offered to all those who collapsed in the shadow of the city’s walls and with clay carafes and blankets of woven spidersilk are they ferried beyond the gates into the heart of the city, where healers and alchemists would see to any wounds and especially those burning and festering as would be caused by any blade of the undead or venomous fang of a widow. Merciful are the people of Kírât, despite their unmatched toughness, for even the roughest and hardest of hearts may soften under the right circumstances.

     Not all who wander into the city are troubled or aggrieved; Some may even be merchants or mere travelers lost among the sands, and such are welcomed with the promise of coin to be spent; though, as one might expect, it is a rare thing in fact to find a Kírâti willing to part with even a small portion of their hoards of Dragon’s Breath ale or reserves of Canaemery beyond the keeper of Khûthd’s Rest. Spidersilk tapestries, expertly crafted swords, hammers, shields, and carapace armor, enchanted blades and cloaks, staves and wands, spellbound tomes and the guidance of herbaflorists, and perhaps much more were open to wanderers, drifters, adventurers, and merchants, but there were none with so cool-burning a hearth as Fuäd, short and stout as he with a wispy white beard and cropped wiry hair, nor so open as to share his supply of prized ales and pipeweed.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Cappadocia

A bit late today but have draft 1 (aka where I fuck around) of an article I'm writing for my club's newsletter! It's short and shitty but that's a problem for tomorrow's Leah. The first draft just needs to exist, after all <3

*****

Picture this: The sun is barely gracing the horizon, painting the sky in lilac and orange. The air is cold on your skin, fire roaring above your head as you sail over a landscape straight out of a movie. That is what local student [REDACTED] experienced when he rode in a hot air balloon, soaring over the hills and chasms of Cappadocia.

Cappadocia, also known as Kapadokya, is one of the biggest attractions in Turkey, and no wonder, for it is a fascinating showcase of both geography and history. Its unique rock formations known as fairy chimneys, alongside peculiarly soft tufa rock, were the results of ancient volcanic eruptions that contributed to its magically alien setting.

On his 3 day visit there, [REDACTED] stayed at a cave hotel, one of the many built right into the cliffside. He reported it to be one of the highlights of his trip, thanks to the magical architecture, gorgeous views, and fascinating history. Every morning, he had the pleasure of waking up to a brilliant sunrise dotted with hot air balloons and dramatic cliffs, going down to one of the many beautiful cafes in the area and having a steaming cup of Turkish black tea. 

He and his family visited many local attractions, including Ozkonak underground city, Goreme national park and several valleys. Though he found every location to be worth its while, he reported it to be his favourite to be Ozonkak, unsurprisingly.

I mean: Just look at its construction! A miracle of ancient technology, like something out of a fairy tale. It boggles the mind just to think about it, and frightens the body just to crawl inside. Thousands of years ago, people thrived beneath the surface, with wineries, kitchens and even stables inside the complex of tunnels.

The food was another spectacular draw of Cappadocia, our interviewee mentioned. Having a pot of still-smoking pottery kebab, a local delicacy, gorging yourself on spiced, juicy meat and vegetables, and tearing into some freshly baked flatbreads are all must-dos. As [REDACTED] succinctly put it, “The kebabs were bussin on god fr.” 

However, the greatest hit with him and his family was in fact the hot air balloons. Long before dawn one morning, he was up and fully dressed, breathing in the fresh frigid air alongside twenty other soon-to-be hot air ballooners. The field they waited in was littered with many other balloons, each patterned and coloured to stand out. 

When they took off, it was one by one, rising in the air like a leviathan from a fairy tale. Hundreds of people floated through the sky that morning, each enraptured by the same fiery dawn above them and heart-stopping drop beneath them.

The ride lasted about a half hour, though some others could go on for far beyond that. One supposes that there is no such thing as too long a ride, that a day on that gravity-defying giant would be amazing, that a lifetime there would be one well spent. Alas, the balloons only take off when weather is good, and [REDACTED] was fortunate to board it even once.

The day-to-day life of Cappadocia held many delights, too. Of particular note would be the massive population of cats, both wild and domestic, found in every place a cat could live. There were fluffy creatures napping on the sidewalk, well-groomed little ones watching over their owners' shops, even cats inside restaurants, begging for some food! Any cat-lover would be enraptured by their abundance, and their friendliness to boot. Though, be warned: they will try to eat your food.

So hop on a flight and come see Cappadocia one day! We promise that the kebabs are ‘bussin on god fr’!

[fictionadventurer]

The more I think about it, the more upset I get that people kept mentioning Vanity Fair as a classic Victorian novel and making it sound all depressing, and not a single person mentioned it contained passages like this:

All which details, I have no doubt, Jones, who reads this book at his Club, ​will pronounce to be excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and ultra-sentimental. Yes; I can see Jones at this minute (rather flushed with his joint of mutton and half-pint of wine), taking out his pencil and scoring under the words "foolish, twaddling," &c., and adding to them his own remark of "quite true." Well, he is a lofty man of genius, and admires the great and heroic in life and novels; and so had better take warning and go elsewhere.

Or this:

I know that the tune I am piping is a very mild one, (although there are some terrific chapters coming presently) and must beg the good-natured reader to remember, that we are only discoursing at present, about a stock-broker's family in Russell-square, who are taking walks, or luncheon, or dinner, or talking and making love as people do in common life, and without a single passionate and wonderful incident to mark the progress of their loves. The argument stands thus—Osborne in love with Amelia, has asked an old friend to dinner and to Vauxhall—Jos Sedley is in love with Rebecca. Will he marry her? That is the great subject now in hand. We might have treated this subject in the genteel, or in the romantic, or in the facetious manner. Suppose we had laid the scene in Grosvenor-square, with the very same adventures—would not some people have listened? Suppose we had shown how Lord Joseph Sedley fell in love, and the Marquis of Osborne became attached to Lady Amelia, with the full consent of the Duke, her noble father: or instead of the supremely genteel, suppose we had resorted to the entirely low, and described what was going on in Mr. Sedley's kitchen;—how black Sambo was in love with the cook, (as indeed he was), and how he fought a battle with the coachman in her behalf; how the knife-boy was caught stealing a cold shoulder of mutton, and Miss Sedley's new femme de chambre refused to go to bed without a wax candle; such incidents might be made to provoke much delightful laughter, and be supposed to represent scenes of "life." Or if, on the contrary, we had taken a fancy for the terrible, and made the lover of the new femme de chambre a professional burglar, who bursts into the house with his band, slaughters black Sambo at the feet of his master, and carries off Amelia in her night-dress, not to be let loose again till the third volume, we should easily have constructed a tale of thrilling interest, through the fiery chapters of which the reader should hurry, panting. Fancy this chapter having been headed THE NIGHT ATTACK. The night was dark and wild—the clouds black—black—ink-black. The wild wind tore the chimney-pots from the roofs of the old houses and sent the tiles whirling and crashing through the desolate streets. No soul braved that tempest—the watchmen shrank into their boxes, whither the searching rain followed them���where the crashing thunderbolt fell and destroyed them—one had so been slain opposite the Foundling.

And then he proceeds to write in the style of three alternate genres for half the chapter before getting back to the story!

There is zero fourth wall here! So much meta-commentary! So much sarcasm! Not since Jules Verne have I encountered an author who was so obviously having this much fun writing his story.

And no one had the decency to tell me that it might be fun to read!

[brightaxe]

kinktober day 6 : watersports. volotramp’s bg3 kinktober prompts. ship : sirra x lae'zel. rating : explicit. words : 1263.

The inn room smelled of cooling sweat and the fragrant bite of wine. Across the floor lay a maze of hastily discarded armor and cloth, along with an overturned chair and a candle that hadn’t been lit. The threadbare rug had been kicked up at some point in the night by hellbent heels – a notable hazard, but one staunchly ignored by the two women inhabiting the space – and the fire was naught but ashes flickering in the cool wind that slipped down the chimney.

The state of the bed was just as tragic.

Pillows spilled onto the floor, crumpling beneath their own weight. The ones that weren’t crushed between the bed’s mattress and the wall behind it, at least. A blanket pooled upon the floor, along with most of the bedsheets, leaving the pair with nothing but each other to keep warm.

They’d managed. All through the night, they’d managed.

Sirra pitched her hips away from Lae’zel’s eager fingertips, twisting them away with a sharp snap of laughter. “No!” she chided, her dark eyes narrowing. “No more, you wretched thing.”

“Wretched thing,” Lae’zel echoed, tasting the words her lover had given her. Her nose wrinkled. The flavor did not prove to be a pleasant one, especially not compared to what she had dined on earlier. “As if you were not begging for more of my tongue an hour ago.”

“I must –”

When Lae’zel grabbed for her, yanking her back into place with the curve of her bare ass settled neatly into her lap, she felt a telltale burning, a desperate urgency.

“You must?” The tip of a tongue followed the barbed edge of her ear. “You must what?”

Sirra attempted to squirm away. She lifted herself up onto her elbow, pulling out of Lae’zel’s grip only to feel the woman’s sinuous body pressing right back against her, as if they were tethered together. Perhaps they were, but that tether did not make the need that set a fire in her belly go away. Anatomy was not so simple as that. 

“The chamber pot.”

“Chk.”

If laughter didn’t jostle her so much, she would’ve been shameless with it. She would’ve thrown her head back and laughed as heartily as one could, watching out of the corner of her eye as darling Lae’zel grimaced at the thought of her partner needing to empty their bladder. It was a waste of time, no doubt, pulling away from an intimate embrace for something that you could easily ignore.

Sirra didn’t realize how close her approximation was until she attempted to climb out of the bed again… only to find that a strong arm barred her way.

She could have overpowered Lae’zel, at least for a moment. She could have torn herself away from the woman and scampered across the cold floor in order to piss in a steel pot. But something inside bid her to stay, and she was learning to listen to that voice between her ears, even if its words seemed ludicrous.

“You need no chamber pot,” Lae’zel insisted as she flopped back onto the bed, hauling her misbegotten prize in her arms. It took everything in Sirra’s body to keep from squawking at being lifted and pulled and handled in such a way, not when her bladder was painfully full. She bit down hard on the inside of her bottom lip. So did Lae’zel – briefly, before drawing back with a smile. “Give yourself to me.”

Give yourself to me.

Sirra focused on catching her breath as Lae’zel organized her limbs, forcing her thighs apart to stretch over her lower stomach, her ass once again tucking into the crook of her lap.

Having her legs pressed apart was almost enough for her to lose control.

“Lae…” Sirra forced her stained lips together, since she could do no such thing with her legs. “... zel.”

The barest hint of pressure beneath her navel made her gasp. Lae’zel brought her fingertips down over the black-flecked skin that led down into the thatch of dark hair that concealed her aching cunt. Her thighs trembled with effort. The muscles in her stomach seized. She held on. She tensed. She curled her hands into tired fists against her knees. They had not stopped for any longer than half an hour, if that. Every inch of Sirra’s body ached.

“Sirra,” Lae’zel practically purred as the two fingers she’d used to press against her bladder dipped down between her legs. “I should not need to repeat myself.”

Sirra remembered. Her mind was a whirlwind of impatience, but she remembered. 

Give yourself to me.

Lae’zel rubbed a pointed half-circle across the sensitive hood of her clit. The spark that shot up into her body from the contact was already too much. A trickle of piss ran down the inside of her thigh before pooling prettily at Lae’zel’s hip, and she bit down sharply on her cheek to keep from letting the rest of it go in an instant.

Her shoulders trembled as she pitched forward, stomach and thighs clenched to avoid the mess.

The fingers inside of her curled. Her body spoke where she did not, and the wet squish that seemed to fill the room left warmth spooling in her cheeks.

Lae’zel stared up at her. Her golden eyes gleamed even in the cold light of morning. Another upward rock of her middle and forefingers pulled the muscles in her arm and chest tight. As ever, she was a sight to behold. As ever, she was beautiful. 

“You don’t listen,” she muttered, bitterness trailing into the hoarse rumble of her voice.

Sirra shifted, grinding her molars together to keep from panting with the effort required to stop herself from drowning Lae’zel’s lap.

“The pot is only feet away.”

“I do not want you feet away.”

“Lae��zel –”

“Here,” she said. Her brow furrowed as her face took a turn for the serious, as her voice took on tones of both intensity and yearning. “I want you here.”

Sirra tipped her head forward. 

A curtain of graying hair slid down to conceal half of her own, conflicted expression. Her obsession with cleanliness had aroused some violent, possessive thing inside of Lae’zel, and the desire to kindle that fire was something Sirra had not expected to find inside of her chest, not when it stood in juxtaposition to something she took pride in. They encouraged each other. They pushed and grabbed and stole from each other. They loved each other, foolishly and fiercely.

Lae’zel’s face softened when a whimper leapt from Sirra’s parted lips, as her thighs shook and her hips shifted forward, unable to take it any longer.

Relief bled through her like fire on her skin as the desperation ebbed.

Only when she heard Lae’zel moan did she open her eyes again.

The length of her forearm was soaked, as was her firm stomach and the bedding beneath them. The fabric had darkened by a fair few shades. A rush of embarrassment crawled up her spine, turning the yellowy-green of her ear points red to match the mottling of color in her cheeks. Her stomach twisted.

And then, she felt the fingers inside of her curl again, felt the pressure of Lae’zel’s thumb against her clit.

“Nnh…!” Sirra reached for her wrist to stop her, but her hands slipped against her skin. The sensation forced a gasp from her throat. “Too much.”

Lae’zel leaned up, drawing their bodies closer together. Stubbornness shone in her pretty eyes.

“Not enough.”

A smile cut through her sober expression, and she murmured an almost hushed, “Give me more.”

[bluegoblinzz]

Releasing the Gentle Beast

The trees were bare gaunt silhouettes in the night, each zig-zagging branch weakly reaching out into the forest path, as if to try and grab passerby’s. The sky was speckled with  stars just as the howling wind speckled the air in white freezing snowflakes, which reflected the silver light of the full moon. Arbor trudged through the thick powdery snow in the dark forest. He was panting from exhaustion, but could not stop shivering. His joints aches, his face was numb, and his armor was covered in the blood of the wendigo he slew along the way. 

After wandering through the night, he finally found what he had been searching for: a small wooden cabin nestled against the mountain-side, with smoke rising from the chimney, and a dim orange light within. There was absolutely no snow that surrounded it, and the closer he got to the cabin, the more the wind slowed down. Animal skulls and bones were hanging from the brim of the roof like lanterns before a festival. 

When he got to the door, he slammed his gauntlet on it a few times. He took off his helm, and attempted to scowl or to look scary. Anger bubbled within, but his face did not move, his lips curled downward and his eyebrows raised in an expression of fatigue. He tried to ready himself, to lift his sword, like he prepared, but he could not bring himself to do so, and simply stood by and waited. 

When the door opened he was hit with a wave of warmth, and relished it for a moment. An old woman with long grey hair and chestnut brown skin answered the door. She was wearing a red night gown and had a black crystal necklace on. 

“Oh no, darling… What happened to you?! Please, come inside, you must be so cold and tired.” She motioned for Arbor to come into the cabin, and feeling tired and defeated, he did so. His face and fingers burned as the warm air greeted him. He took off his armor and stretched, before flopping down into a dark green couch-chair, his legs and back crying with relief as he did. He stared off into space, not registering what he was staring at or what he should be doing. The woman shut the door, and hobbled over to the counter.

“Here, let me heat you up some tea.” She took out a small cauldron, poured water in it and threw in some ground up tea. She raised her thin and wrinkled hands over the cauldron. Green plasma rushed from her finger tips, swirled around the cauldron and heated the bottom of the pot until the water bubbled. Wrapping it in a thick cloth, she picked up the cauldron, and poured the tea through a strainer, into a mug. She then took out a small jar, took out a honey dipper from the jar, and drizzled golden honey into the tea. She hobbled back over to him. 

“Here you go, love.” 

Arbor took the mug into his hands, and warmed up his fingers, but did not take a sip of the tea. The woman pulled up a chair, and scooted in, leaning close to the knight as if he was about to tell her a story. 

“Now tell me,” she said, “what the hell were you thinking coming all this way in the middle of the night, in the peak of winter?!”

He stayed silent for a long time, attempting to gather his thoughts.

“Witch…” the knight whispered, “I beg you to please lift the curse you placed on me. It’s making me lash out at my fellow soldiers, lash out at my friends… It’s caused me so many sleepless nights… I’ve learned my lesson. Please end my pain.” 

“Oh darling,” the witch cooed, stroking Arbor’s messy hair, “I didn’t give you a curse, I gave you a spirit. Were you trying to suppress it?”

“Curse or spirit, I don’t care!” he yelled at the ground. “I want it gone!” Tears streamed down his face and he began shaking as he heaved in sobs.

“Oh no, it’s okay… shhh it’s okay… I can help you now, I promise.” She wiped the tears away from the knight’s face, and then lifted his chin so he would meet her gaze. Arbor felt his shoulders settle with comfort, but also a twinge of fear in his stomach. This was the woman who ruined his life, and could easily do it again. She had the means to harm him and he wanted to get back at her for causing him pain, but he was too tired to do so, and also had not had the same attention and felt the same kind of love in so long. He felt like he was going to be taken care of. Some distant part of him told him everything would be okay. 

“You’re going… to get rid of it?” he asked. 

“I’m going to help you,” the witch insisted. “Everything’s gonna be okay, okay? You don’t need to worry anymore.” 

Arbor nodded slowly, sniffling, and wiping away some remaining tears. 

“Now, I can… make it come out, but you need to relax a bit first, mellow out. Why don’t you drink some of your tea?” 

The knight looked down at his mug and looked back at the witch. 

“How do I know that you didn’t… do anything to this?” 

“Oh, you’ve insulted me now,” she scoffed. “I’m not that rude, I have manners. Besides, if I wanted to kill you or to drug you, I have other spells for that.” 

Arbor paused for a moment, his eyes widening with surprise, unsure of how to react to what the witch had said. He looked down at his mug again and frowned. 

“It’s just camomile tea with a bit of honey.”

“You… you know what that would do to me, right?!” Arbor said, his jaw tightening and his eyebrows furrowing. 

“Well, camomile tea calms you and-“

“No, I mean the honey!” 

The witch tilted her head for a moment, studying Arbors face before her eyes lit up with realization and surprise. 

“You mean you’ve been suppressing it so much that just a little honey makes it come out?” 

The knight turned his head away. He felt his cheeks burn, but this time it wasn’t due to the warmth of the room. 

“It’s… it’s getting worse,” he whined, his voice shaking again. “The curse intensifies no matter what I do. I spend most of my time every day suppressing it.” 

“That’s not good, you shouldn’t do that.”

“Well what am I supposed to do?!”

“Listen…” the witch whispered. “I can help you. I can end your ‘curse’ as you say… but you need to drink your tea, and accept what happens.”

“But it’ll take control and-“ 

“It won’t hurt you, and it won’t hurt me,” the witch stated. “When it does come out, I can help you quell your anger.” 

Arbor’s first instincts told him she was lying, but he remembered what she had said, that she didn’t need trickery to kill him. He knew this to be true as he had seen her abilities before. And also: what other choice did he have? He couldn’t just get up and leave. 

He sat with the mug between his hands for a very long time, just staring at the tea. The witch sat back, waiting for him to say something, or to drink the tea. After a few minutes of just sitting, breathing, and thinking, he had calmed down. There was still dread, fear, sadness and anger within him, but they were all more passive, a dwelling cloud in the back of his mind, instead of a raging storm. 

“I’m still not sure,” he mumbled. “that everything will be okay… I came here to fight. I didn’t expect you to… be so agreeable, so kind. It’s too easy…”

“The only one making it hard is you,” the witch said with a shrug. “You wanted to fight me, you’re fighting the people around you, you’re fighting yourself… Maybe for now you should stop fighting.”

Stop fighting, he thought. He realized he didn’t know how to do that. If he wanted something to be a certain he had to fight for it. How would it be possible to have it any other way? If he wants a monster to stop attacking his people, he fights the monster. If the king turns out to be a tyrant, one would have to fight the king. If a curse is eating him from the insides… wouldn’t he need to fight the curse? 

Surrender, he thought. I need to surrender if I want to survive. 

He brought the mug up toward his face. There was a flowery and a sweet scent to the golden tea. Slowly he brought it to his lips, and took a sip. The flavor of the camomile was pleasant and the honey was… otherworldly. His sip turned into a gulp, and he shut his eyes savoring the flavor, the way it warmed him up on its way down, and the way the tea immediately made him feel settled, tension leaving his shoulders and dread leaving his gut. 

But as he settled down, anxiety came back to punch him in the stomach. His teeth ached, and his nose twitched, and his instinct was to push back, to fight off this magical force, but as he did, he noticed his dread returning, creeping up on him once again, so he took another sip of tea, and sat back, accepting what was happening. 

The pain in his teeth went away as soon as he settled down, and was replaced with a pleasant tickling feeling in his gums. He shut his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, feeling his teeth with his tongue, and noticing that his canines were getting a sharper and sharper. That tickling sensation continued in his nose. His nostrils flared, and he felt his nose shifting and pushing upward slightly, becoming big and round. When he opened his eyes, he could see his nose in the center of his vision, and saw it had become wet and black. The witch smiled at the knight. 

“How do you feel?” she asked. Arbor thought for a moment. He crossed his eyes to look at his new nose, and gently placed two fingers over it. There was a twinge of amusement within him when he did so. 

“I feel… happy?” he mumbled. He looked up at the witch again. “What did you do? I don’t feel rage like I normally do.”

“Nothing,” the witch said, beaming. “What you feel now is all you! You stopped fighting it.” 

Arbor took another sip of his tea. The warmth pervaded his body and his muscles melted. Still he furrowed his brow, trying to process his situation. The ‘curse’ was revealing itself once more, but without its usual pain, how was this possible? 

“I’m a monster,” he mumbled. “Why am I happy?” 

“You’re not a monster. You’re you!” 

“I’m… me…” Arbor thought about that for a moment. He didn’t feel like himself when he was changing like this, but he realized he didn’t know the last time he did feel like himself. Was he ‘himself’ when he was a knight, acting all serious? Was he ‘himself’ when he was being overly polite around his family? … Was he ‘himself’ whenever he tried to suppress something within him? He thought the beast within him, this ‘curse,’ was ugly, and vicious… but now he wasn’t so sure. 

He took another sip of his tea, and shut his eyes, a smile creeping up on his face. A warm fuzzy sensation emerged in his ears, feeling as if he had put on new earmuffs. This same sensation spread around his head, surrounded his face, his chin, and covered his nape, as if he had put on a warm hood. He lied there for a moment, allowing himself long needed rest, listening to the crackling of the fireplace, and the distant howl of wind outside. As he slowly breathed in and out, he caught a whiff of something in the room. He lifted his head slightly, and with his eyes still closed, he sniffed a couple of times, taking in the wonderful scent. His eyes shot opened. 

“Honey,” he mumbled. The witch laughed. 

“Of course darling, you can have as much as you want.” She stood up and hobbled over to the counter again, and picked up the entire jar of honey, bringing it back to Arbor. The expression on his face was as if she had handed him bars of solid gold. His ears twitched, which was not a sensation he was used to, and a rumbling growl came from deep in his chest. 

“It’s no problem, really,” She assured him. “I can always find more.” Arbor popped off the lid of the jar, took out the honey dipper, sticking it in his mouth like a lollipop. The flavor brought him euphoria and satisfaction like that of a child receiving a gift. This was a much greater reward than any bounty he had received for quests. Eager to have more, he stuck his entire hand in the jar, pulling out a glob of honey, and sticking it in his mouth, licking the excess off of his fingers and palms.  

As he ate, he felt his bear spirit revealing itself even more; his mind felt clearer and his thoughts felt lighter, and the physical changes continued as well. His palms darkened, the skin on each palm becoming rough but soft, until black paw-pads formed on each palm. The warm and fuzzy feeling that surrounded his head emerged on the back of his hands, where dark hairs pricked the surface of his skin and grew longer and longer, and then thicker and thicker, until his hands and wrists were covered in shaggy brown fur. Each of his nails grew long, and appeared to be growing grimy and bruised at first, until each nail was completely black and shiny. His nails continued growing until each one was thick and sharp. 

The warmth and fuzziness began to emerge on his face as well, his eyebrows thickening and new dark brown fur spreading across his forehead, around his eyes, and on the sides of his face.  The sticky sensation of honey on his face soon dissolved as new golden hairs sprouted around his mouth and beneath his nose, and thickened out until his face was completely covered in fur. 

His nose twitched causing him to sniff the honey once more, his stomach growling and begging for more. He took another glob of honey and ate some more, except this time, as he ate, he felt his jaw expand, and stretch forward his nose becoming more noticeable in his vision. It felt strange, as there was a lot more space in his mouth, his tongue not resting in the same place and in the same way as it used to. 

“See?” the witch said. “All this time and you just wanted some more honey. You’re not a monster.” 

“Grooawr?” Arbor asked, raising his eyebrows. He felt happy, calm, and comfortable with himself for the first time in a while, but he didn’t know how that could be. Was it really that easy?

“Here, have a look at yourself.” The witch took a small hand-held mirror off of her vanity and handed it to the bear.  He was shocked, at first, at how much he had changed. His face somewhat resembled that of a man, but it had the features of a bear. His head was round and chubby, his face was covered in fur, and his nose and mouth protruded forward into a muzzle, one that was a bit more snub than the muzzle of an actual bear. As he stared into his reflection: is big round black funny nose, his soft brown eyes, his little fluffy ears… he felt a deep instinctive recognition of himself: a feeling of “yes, this is who I am.” He let out a low comfortable growl, the sides of his mouth curling into a smile. He looked away from the mirror and smiled at the witch. He attempted to tell her “thank you,” but find he couldn’t form words anymore. 

“Ruuuhhrgh,” he grumbled. The witch grumbled. 

“I can’t understand what you’re saying, but I’m glad you’re feeling better!” She booped Arbor on the nose, causing him to exhale with amusement. 

“And that’s only the beginning! Come with me.” The witch stood up, and slowly headed toward the door.

“Grurr?” Arbor asked, raising one eyebrow. What was going to happen now? He was reluctant to stand up and go outside, leaving the warm room and leaving his honey behind, but he was curious as to what the witch wanted to show him. Slowly, he stood and sluggishly wandered out of the cabin. 

The witch stood outside the door, and smiled at Arbor, before gesturing to the full moon. Arbor looked up, and tilted his head wondering what was so special. He had seen many full moons throughout his life, and sure, it was pretty, but there wasn’t anything special about this one.

“The full moon is a time for release, a time for self acceptance and forgiveness.” The witch spoke in a hushed voice, as if telling a secret, or as if trying not to disturb a sacred space. 

“It is when the spirit of the moon is closest to us, and when you can speak to Her. You have a powerful spirit, so now She can give you good guidance.” 

Arbor looked back at the witch and up at the moon, skeptical of what she was saying. He didn’t hear any great spirit. He saw a bright and beautiful moon, but he did not see anything sacred about it, nothing that was like the magic that he had seen and felt. 

“Let Her know your secrets,” the witch said. “Open your heart to Her, and She will guide you. She will set your spirit free.” 

Arbor’s eyes watered as he looked up at the moon. He didn’t know what he needed to say, but in that moment, he realized there was a lot of words he held back, a lot he had pent up. He wasn’t sure if the moon would actually be listening to him, but he took comfort in the idea that the moon was there for him. So he shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. Before looking up at the moon once more. 

“Grurroawr… awroaghrawrug…” When he spoke he noticed the words he tried saying out loud merely came out as incomprehensible growls. Still, the words he spoke had meaning to him as he spoke the prayer in his head at the same time. So he continued to speak, pretending he was making sense, but knowing that he would be heard if he prayed in his mind and in his heart. 

“Fair moon,” he had said, “I don’t think people around me know I’m afraid…” 

He paused, and looked down at the dirt for a moment before looking back up and continuing to pray.

“But no one is supposed to know, are they? I’m supposed to be strong… but I’m not. I feel so scared and weak and angry. I want to feel okay, and now I do feel okay in this form, but if this is who I am then I must hide… people who loved me before will not love me now.”

The light of the full moon felt warmer as he spoke, as if it was drawing nearer to him. Staring into the moonlight made him feel as if he was staring into the face of a loved one, as if they were pulling him into an embrace, and the moment this spiritual embrace was complete, the moment he felt his soul wrapped in the arms of the moon, Arbor exhaled a shaky breath and shut his eyes. Tears streamed down his face. He felt so close to Her, yet so far from Her. He was grateful that She was there in that moment, but wanted to be even closer. He gritted his teeth, and then let out a roar, a longing call to the moon. 

Arbor opened his eyes once more, and stared at Her, appreciating Her glow, Her gentle beams, and the presence of Her spirit. Her light made him feel okay. It made him feel protected. In that moment, it even made him feel brave. He knew the longer he stared at it, the longer he would feel okay, the more he would feel whole. 

As he stared for longer, his spirit began to show itself even more. The warm and fuzzy feeling enveloped his entire body, and brown fur grew all over his arms and his back, golden-yellow fur growing on his belly. His entire head expanded slightly but his neck grew short, leaving little space between his head and shoulders. The thick layer of shaggy fur all over his body felt like he was wrapped up in a soft blanket, and protected him from the chilling air outside.  The strength the moon gave him also manifested itself in physical strength, all of his muscles tensing up and then gaining mass, making his clothes a bit tight on him. There was a soft feeling in his lower back, and when he focused his attention there, he noticed a tiny nub tail wagging back and forth. He smiled slightly at this. 

The last of the changes, for the moment, were similar changes happening to his feet as the ones that happened to his hands: where soft pads formed on his soles, and his nails thickened and sharpened into claws. He sighed with relief, having a sense of wholeness and completeness as he had fully changed, that sigh bringing about a sense of deep calm. He was now a bear, but also still humanoid, still standing on two legs, not a complete animal.

“Allow yourself the time you need to grow,” the witch said. “Allow yourself to take in the moon’s advice with grace. And allow yourself to feel peaceful and calm for this moment.” 

Arbor let out a growl under his breath and put on a gentle smile as he continued staring up at the moon. 

“And when you’re ready, you may give thanks to the moon, for the help and guidance She has given you.” 

“Rrhekh roo…” Arbor mumbled. Aside from the thanks he gave out loud, Arbor made sure to thank the moon over and over in his heart, letting Her know how much She helped him in that moment. 

“Now, I can bring you into a deeper state of calm,” the witch said. Her voice was now above a whisper, speaking to Arbor now as opposed to guiding him through his interaction with the moon. Arbor was shocked by what she said. How could he be more calm than he was right now? He felt more at peace and more secure than he had ever felt. The idea of becoming even more calm… it intrigued him.

“You said that you need sleep, that you haven’t slept in days. I can eventually help you reach that deep sleep… but you will need to fully embrace your spirit. You will need to go deep into trance, and you will need to become one with it, ceding your humanity. May I help you reach this state? Are you comfortable with this idea?” 

Going deep into trance, and becoming one with his spirit didn’t sound too bad, but Arbor wasn’t sure what ‘ceding humanity’ would entail. Would that mean he would let go of his thoughts? Would it mean he would just be an animal? Would “ceding humanity” lead to him giving into whatever animalistic urges he had? After his transformation and his interaction with the moon, he didn’t mind that anymore. The ‘beast’ he had become was gentle. Those fits of rage merely happened because he tried to hide the beast away. If it meant being able to be in the best state of mind possible, he realized he would gladly pay whatever price there was. 

Still staring up at the moon, Arbor gave a slow nod. 

“Very good,” the witch whispered. “Keep staring at the moon and focus on my words. Just notice the state you are in right now. Notice how calm, how happy the moon made you feel.”

Arbor took a moment to mentally scan through his body. For one thing: he felt different from normal due to this new form, but every once of his muscles were sluggish, and he was enveloped in a comforting warmth. With each inhale he felt weightless, and with each exhale, he felt as if he would sink into the ground. 

“Now, I want you to imagine with each breath you take, you are taking in more of the moon’s gentle light, taking your current state and amplifying it. You now feel twice as calm… four times as calm… eight times… sixteen…”

Each breath Arbor took made him feel sleepier, warmer and heavier. He began to sway on his feet, as it became harder to stand up straight. He was intent to stay focused on the moon, but his eyelids grew heavy and droopy, beginning to obscure his gaze from Her. His mouth fell open as his jaw muscles relaxed. 

“Drop.”

Arbor fell to his knees and found he couldn’t move from that position. He lifted his head to continue gazing at the moon, his eyes widening for a second with surprise at his fall. 

“Continue breathing, and continue taking in the moonlight, that warm, and peaceful, and calming energy… growing hundreds of times more calm than you were before, so calm that you find you are falling asleep, your thoughts growing quieter, and quieter.” 

Arbor’s eyelids gently fell closed. All of his thoughts were gone, as he had fallen into that first stage of sleep, between wakefulness and dreams, when there was awareness and consciousness, but no sense of self. 

“And with your next inhale, you find some of your drowsiness begins to fade, however your mind remains in this dreamless slumber.” 

Arbor’s eyes opened again, without him even deciding to. At that moment he could not register where he was or what was happening. He did not panic at this because he just felt calm and happy. He didn’t know the name of the silver ball he was staring at, but he felt compelled to keep staring because it made him happy. 

“In your wakefulness now, you find you are incapable of thought… you take my words to heart but you cannot think words yourself. That’s because you are a bear. You may think about hunting, eating, and sleeping… But you cannot form thoughts on your own.” 

A deep growl lazily left his open mouth and he tilted his head, as new bear thoughts and instincts swirled and twisted in his mind, the desire to eat fish and honey, the desire to find a cozy den… It was a confusing yet satisfying shift, his mind going from man to beast, from sharp to simple. 

“It feels so good to be a bear. You feel so big and powerful, so happy to be in the forest, your home. It feels so good to have one thing on your mind at a time, to not need to worry about the complex world around you. Just eat and sleep. Eat and sleep. Eat and sleep.” 

The moon’s light completely took over his vision, and his hearing was entirely filled with the witch’s mantra. The words themselves had no meaning to him, but each time she said “eat” or “sleep” the concepts of each of those actions themselves appeared in his mind, the prospect of them appealing to him, and the desire to do each one growing larger each time. 

“But as you are thinking about doing what bears do best… you remember you are Arbor. Arbor is a strong, brave, and powerful bear. You find that any differences between what you called ‘Arbor’ and what you called ‘the bear’ are slipping from your mind. Arbor is a bear. Arbor is brave. This spirit of a bear has always been Arbor as well. These two different identities are, and have always been, united as one soul.” 

Soon, Arbor’s memories of being a knight, his memories of the judgmental world he had lived in, his memories of fighting anger bubbling within him as he fought off the bear inside him, all of them faded to the background as if it were a dream. What was left in his mind was a certainty of who he was, and what he was, knowledge of a clear and simple life. He knew he was Arbor, Arbor knew he was a bear, and the bear knew he was happy. 

The witch stepped in front of the moon, blocking out the moonlight and smiling down at the bear. Arbor blinked, surprised at the way the moon was so suddenly obscured, unsure of where the pretty light had gone. 

“Oh darling,” the witch cooed. “You did so well. You changed beautifully.” She held the bear’s muzzle and stroked his fur. Arbor shut his eyes and let out a calm grumble. He didn’t know what was happening, but he could tell it felt good and that he felt loved. He nuzzled up against the witch for a moment as she continued stroking his fur. He finally let all his muscles completely relax, allowing the peaceful calm feeling to fully envelop him and his mind, and simply floating in his sea of thoughtlessness. 

This thoughtless calm state was broken as he felt something tough and sticky press up against his nose. He realized he must have drifted off into sleep after he had changed, but he couldn’t remember the moment he fell asleep. He opened his eyes, finding sunlight reflecting off of snow in the world around him, and the sky clear and blue.

“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” the witch said.  Arbor crossed his eyes to look at his nose, and gaze at whatever was pressed up against it. As a bear, he couldn’t identify what the object was, but it looked familiar. It was some kind of stick, with a ball attached to the end, and there was a substance covering the ball, the scent of which was easily identifiable. 

Honey!

The bear’s eyes widened, and he stayed completely still, except for his nub tail which was now wildly wagging. He wanted to grab the stick with his mouth, but he didn’t want to move his nose away from the honey and stop sniffing it. Before he could make a decision on what to do, the witch stepped backward, still pointing the stick at the bear.

“Awrruh?” he asked. He stood up, and took a few heavy strides toward the stick with the honey. The witch pointed it to his left and he turned his head that way to follow the stick. She pointed it to the right, and he turned his head again. She waved the stick in circles, and soon Arbor forgot about the original task, and just bobbed his head in circles as he followed the stick, mesmerized at the sight and by the smell of the honey. 

“Oh you silly old bear,” the witch chuckled. “You can’t get the honey off your mind, can you?”

“Urrgh...” Arbor grumbled. The more the witch spun the stick around, the more confused he became. 

“Your nose follows this dipper as if it is tied to it, as if there is an invisible thread pulling you toward it. In one moment I will put up my finger instead, and your nose will be drawn to that finger.” 

“Rurgh?” Arbor asked. He was attracted to the scent of honey, not an invisible thread. He didn’t believe what the witch said and continued focusing on the honey. But sure enough, when she put the honey dipper down and lifted her finger, the tip of his nose pointed toward her finger instead, unable to look away. She drew horizontal lines in the air, and Arbor shook his head back and forth. She drew vertical lines and Arbor nodded his head up and down. She drew more circles and he nodded his head in circles once again. His inability to look away, and the way his head moved on its own to follow her finger both amused him, and he enjoyed being puppeted in this way.

The witch turned around, still holding up her finger, and slowly headed back toward the house. Lazily he turned around, and walked toward the house, head empty, and not realizing what he was doing, but moving automatically, and instinctively. The witch looked over her shoulder, and cackled at his sluggish and brutish demeanor, satisfied with her work, despite the fact that, as she said before, he had done most of the work. Arbor had been holding himself back which made him angry and put him in pain. Letting himself go is what changed him. The witch’s guided hypnosis was nothing more than that: hypnosis. No magical spell or intrusive mind control. It wasn’t some elaborate spell. It was merely suggestion. 

When the two got inside, there was a cauldron bubbling with tea on the counter, but on the table in the middle of the room, there were two plates opposite each other, a platter of warm scones in the middle of them. Arbor walked in front of the nearest chair, and when the witch dropped her finger down, he dropped into a sitting position. The witch got tea from the cauldron and poured it into an old flowery teacup, handing it to him. He took a sip of it, before wincing and sticking his tongue out, fanning it with one of his paws. The witch chuckled. 

“Not used to spicy foods, huh? That’s my special chai tea. I put a hint of pepper in there too.” The bear held both of his hands out toward the pot of honey, but the witch wagged a finger at him. 

“No, no, no,” she said in a playful tone. “That’s not for you right now.” She took a scone from the platter and dropped it on his plate. She then booped him on the nose, drew her finger back and pointed it toward the scone on his plate. His nose followed her finger and then he focused on the scone on his plate. He bent over and took a big bite of it, before chewing it slowly. It was sweet, soft and buttery, and there was that unmistakable flavor in it. Arbor looked up at the witch with wide eyes, and the witch gave a knowing nod. The bear then bent down again and grabbed the rest of the scone with his mouth and chewed. once he was done chewing and swallowed the scone, he leaned toward the platter and grabbed another scone with his mouth. 

“I’m glad you like them,” the witch chirped. She sat down, and took a sip of her own tea, and a bite of her scone, watching as Arbor feasted on his. 

“I’ve been thinking about how you got here,” she said. “You were in pain for so long as you were afraid to just be you. It is in your best interest to stay in the forest, but that can get lonely, so I was wondering if you wanted to stay here with me.”

Arbor looked up at the witch and tilted his head. Her kindness showed no bounds. The night before he was so awful to her. He had come to her house originally with the intent to kill her! And now she was offering him space to live? He wasn’t sure how he felt, as he still didn’t know her that well. It wasn’t a distrust as much as it was a fear of feeling awkward, and not knowing how to interact. Just as quickly as these thoughts came, however, they slipped away, and a wave of bear-ish thoughtlessness washed over him. He wanted to find his own den and place to stay, but for now: a friend sounded nice. 

“Gruh!” he grunted, enthusiastically nodding his head up and down. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” the witch whispered, beaming. “There are so many beautiful sights I can show you, there’s a nice river right nearby for you to catch some fish. You can help me with my spells, we can bake together, there’s so much to do!” 

The two then ate in silence, Arbor eating a few more scones and the witch finishing her one scone and finishing up her tea. Once the two were done, the witch held up a bony finger, and the tip of the bear’s nose gravitated toward it. She drew a vertical line in the air a couple of times and Arbor nodded his head to follow. He didn’t mind at all, and he treated it as a silly game, trying to look away, but finding it satisfying, effortless, and natural to just follow. 

“That’s it, you silly old bear,” she cooed. “My bookshelf is a mess… Tomes are next to stories, and stories are next to grimoires, I can’t reach that high, and I’m too old to lift so many books. Can you organize my books by size please? Novels are the thinnest and grimoires are the thickest.” The witch wagged her finger up and down and Arbor found himself nodding to follow her finger.  Arbor let out a deep throaty laugh when he did. The human part of his mind that was left wanted to say that this wasn’t fair. Despite this, he found it amusing and would have helped her if she just asked.

“Good, now move along then.” 

In the following days, he continued working with her and spending time with her. Sometimes she would ask him to help him cook or gather ingredients for her spells. Other times he needed to fetch water, or lift something heavy that she couldn’t lift. In return, she would always pet him, comfort him, clean his fur, and feed him all the honey he wanted. It felt good to have that much kindness be shown to him, to feel loved and taken care of again. He couldn’t reliably identify his feelings anymore, but whatever he was feeling: it was good and he wanted to continue feeling that way. 

The witch would often hypnotize him before getting work done. He always helped her out willingly, but on occasion he was less upbeat when he wasn’t hypnotized, so she would use it to lift his spirits. When he wasn’t working, or spending time with the witch, he would go hunting for fish himself, and go eat berries and roots. He ate massive meals to make up for the fact he was late for hibernation. Each day his face grew chubbier, his stomach grew rounder, and his arms and legs grew thicker. His stomach sagged over his belt line and eventually his shirt didn’t fit him anymore. The chubbier he got, the more drowsy he got as well. Eventually, the witch stopped asking him to work, and let him rest, which was when he finally went into hibernation, and achieved the best sleep of his life. 

[bellafragolina]

Last one, I swear. But also thank you 🙏

reader being injured in a completely preventable way, due to someone else's stupidity. and while at home resting, Cyllene comes home to a sloppily made meal

And you're panicking, apologizing, that you just wanted to help since she's so tired and everything.

And she breaks down cause she very easily could've lost you.

- Jes💕

Hhhh i love <3

warning! description of injury

🍓🍓🍓

The air smells of smoke. It's barely noticeable, but Cyllene can sense it. The stark stench carries on the evening breeze, and it sends a chill to Cyllene's very bones.

She can see it again, you slumped and burned, skin pink and dark black, smeared in ash and blood. You were carried in by hallowed Security Corp, all pale and trembling before Cyllene with you cradled between, apologies on their tongues.

Cyllene marches towards her home, shared with you as you struggle to recover from your burns. The home is still standing, with smoke billowing in a thin stream from the chimney.

She expects to see one of those damned members in her home, endangering you, killing you once again, but there's no one. No one but you, stomping out the remains of. . . something.

"Cyllene!" You rasp, scooting the whatever-it-is behind you with your foot. "Ah, welcome home! I. . . made dinner?"

You don't sound so sure about it yourself. Cyllene sees why when she glances behind you and sees a plate of burnt. . . Cyllene thinks it might be gyoza?

You wince at her furrowed expression. "Sorry. . . I wanted to make you dinner and I don't have full strength back in my arm." You give a sour look to your right arm, heavily covered in bandages.

Cyllene rasps your name, exasperated and so on edge from all that's happened. "You are still recovering. You shouldn't be trying to lift the pots and pans! I would have made dinner when I returned!"

"But you're exhausted!" You argue, picking at the bandages on your sore, stiff arm. "You work all day then you come back and have to take care of me-!"

"I do not have to." Cyllene snaps at you. You step back, eyes wide as her expression twists with pain. "I want to, because you are injured and in need of help and I want to help you."

You frown, shuffling your feet as your hands clench and unclench by your sides. "But I don't want you to burn out. If you keep doing this, you'll collapse!"

"I am stronger than that." Cyllene grumbles. She doesn't move as you approach her, accepting your lean into her. "You will rest. I will make dinner for us."

You huff. "You should rest too." There's a pause. Cyllene sighs against you, so you nuzzle her shoulder. "It's not your fault."

"I should've accompanied you." Cyllene responds immediately, like she was expecting you to say it. "Protected you from the wild Pokémon, and from the incompetent Security Corp."

You snort. "It wasn't their fault either. Like you, I wanted to help them, protect them. All of. . ." You wave your injured arm a little. "This was an accident."

Cyllene hums. You can tell she's not convinced, not entirely, but you're getting there. She doesn't resist your tugs, moving towards the futon laid out. The two of you settle down, still leaning into one another.

"I will get us something from the Wallflower soon." Cyllene finally says, smiling when you do. "And then I will help you clean up."

"Sounds good!" You chirp, laying down in her lap. Cyllene rolls her eyes, but strokes your head like she knows you want. "I love you."

"I love you too." Cyllene says, far more matter-of-fact than your singsong carol. But as she continues, emotion seeps into her voice. "Thank you for following orders and not. . . dying."

You smile up at her, and press into her legs, a grounding weight. "I wouldn't dare think of disobeying you."

"Good."

🍓🍓🍓

wehhh i love herrrrr

~Renee

[ladysif8]

Primal Attraction 18+

One late night, as I was aimlessly scrolling through TikTok, I came across those pheromone perfume ads and, of course, a steady stream of Logan TikToks. It sparked something, and thus, Primal Attraction was born.

•Pairing: Logan Howlett/Witch Original Female Character

•Rating: Explicit

•Tags: X-men Universe, Mutants, Wolverine, Witchy Vibes, Familiars, Pheromone Perfume, Smut, Possessive Logan, Kitchen Sex, Unsafe Sex,

•Summary:

Join Logan and Indica as they navigate wild magic, pheromone-fueled chaos, and all the possessive, steamy moments you could ask for. 😏💜 From kitchen counters to sweet (and spicy) moments, this fic is packed with love, laughter, and just a little bit of trouble! 😉

Nestled near the quiet town of Banff, Alberta, stood a small stone cottage that looked as if it had been plucked straight from a fairytale. Its walls were made of weathered gray stones, framed by black trim that outlined the windows and roof. The front door, painted a dark, enchanting shade of purple, seemed to beckon visitors into a world filled with secrets and stories. Towering spruce and cedar trees shaded the house, their branches swaying in the breeze and casting playful patterns of sunlight over the stones, adding to the cottage's timeless, rustic charm.

A large white fence surrounded the cottage, its posts carved with runes—symbols of protection that whispered quiet magic. Just inside the gate, the air was fragrant with rosemary, planted in neat rows that flanked the entrance. Beyond the herbs, a lush garden thrived in vibrant shades of green and purple, showcasing the bounty of each season under the careful, loving care of its gardener. Vegetables and herbs of all kinds flourished, while chickens wandered freely, pecking at the earth and clucking softly, adding a lively touch to the serene scene.

The front porch creaked softly as if welcoming every step, and the feeling of stepping into another time deepened once inside. The cottage was a Victorian-style marvel, with ornate trim that framed doorways and windows, and each room was washed in deep, cozy hues that contrasted beautifully with the streams of natural light pouring in from large windows. Despite the dark colors, the abundance of light bathed the space in a warm, inviting glow, creating a perfect balance between light and shadow. Plants cascaded from every available surface, their leaves catching the sun, adding vibrant splashes of green that enhanced the cottage-core vibe of the home.

The kitchen, a true heart of the home, featured wooden butcher block countertops that gleamed softly in the morning sun. Open shelving lined the walls, filled with an array of jars containing dried herbs, spices, and bubbling jars of sourdough starter. Fresh herbs hung drying from hooks overhead, filling the air with their earthy scent, and vintage copper pots were neatly displayed above the stove. This space invited creativity and comfort, blending Victorian elegance with rustic cottage warmth effortlessly.

Through an open set of double doors, the sunroom awaited like a secret garden within the house. Tall, arched windows lined the walls, reflecting the greens of the outside garden. Sunlight streamed in, warming the terracotta tiles underfoot and casting dappled patterns across the room. Whitewashed wooden beams arched overhead, adorned with delicate hanging plants that swayed gently with every passing breeze. Potted herbs and flowers thrived in every corner, reaching toward the sunlight, while vintage wicker chairs with plush cushions and cozy throws invited you to sit and soak in the serene beauty. The room was alive with the scents of lavender, rosemary, and warm earth—a space where the line between the indoors and nature blurred effortlessly.

In the living room, a large stone fireplace with a sturdy chimney served as the focal point, radiating warmth and comfort. Above the mantel, antique candlesticks and a collection of small curios told stories of the past. A large flat-screen TV subtly blended into the old-world charm of the room, perched on a wall opposite a small, cozy sectional. The sectional was draped in soft throws, flanked by vintage side tables topped with lamps whose intricately detailed shades cast a soft, golden glow. The walls were adorned with pictures of ancestors—sepia-toned portraits in ornate frames, their eyes peering out from the past, lending a sense of history and belonging to the space.

The bathroom was a moody retreat, its dark-painted walls making the space feel like a comforting cocoon. A large window overlooked the side yard, where bees buzzed around vibrant plants that fed them. In front of the window stood a clawfoot tub, its porcelain surface gleaming—a perfect spot to soak and watch the play of light and shadow outside. Plants trailed from shelves and perched on windowsills, their lush greenery offering a refreshing contrast to the deep, moody colors. The tile shower featured eucalyptus hanging from the showerhead, releasing a fresh, invigorating scent with every hot shower. Fluffy towels and neatly arranged bath bombs promised relaxation, making the bathroom a haven of comfort.

Across the hall from the bathroom was the master bedroom, an enchanting space where modern comfort met Victorian elegance. The walls were painted a rich, dramatic black, which made the white ceiling feel all the more expansive. A large, old black vintage iron bed frame took center stage, its frame sturdy and elegant, dressed in soft, inviting bedding. Faux ivy intertwined with delicate fairy lights trailed along the headboard, casting a soft, magical glow that made the room feel like a dream. It was a space designed for rest and escape, every detail thoughtfully considered—from the textures of the bedding to the gentle twinkle of lights that sparkled like stars above.

In one corner of the room, a vintage vanity with an ornate oval mirror stood, its wooden surface polished and rich with age. The vanity was adorned with candles, their soft light flickering gently, casting dancing shadows against the walls. Bottles of perfume, each with intricately designed glass stoppers, sat alongside antique trays holding an array of cosmetics—creams, powders, and delicate brushes. The scene was completed by a plush stool tucked neatly underneath, inviting moments of quiet reflection. It was a space that whispered of old-world glamour and everyday rituals, adding a touch of personal charm to the room.

Tucked away at the end of the hall was a second bedroom, currently storage but maybe one day there would be a little one sleeping in crib.

Sound asleep and nestled in the king-size bed, Indica Howlett lay wrapped in sage green bamboo sheets, a thick, cozy duvet draped over her. The morning sun rose steadily, its rays filtering through the large windows, casting a soft, golden light that danced across the room. Indica shifted slightly, stirring against the warmth of her bed. Her auburn hair, streaked with hints of blonde and woven with a few delicate dreadlocks, fanned out across the pillow in a tousled halo. The sunlight caught the different textures, giving her hair a warm, golden glow. A light dusting of freckles graced her pale skin, adding a touch of character to her serene, peaceful expression.

Beside her, sprawled comfortably on the bed, was a massive ball of black fur: Ranger, her devoted 100-pound German Shepherd. He lay with his legs stretched out and his head nestled near her side, his thick coat shimmering under the morning light. His deep, steady breaths matched the gentle rise and fall of Indica's chest, a quiet rhythm of comfort and companionship. Ranger's ears twitched occasionally, half-listening to the waking world while still lost in his own dreams. His calm, watchful presence added a sense of security to the tranquil setting, his protective instincts ever-present even in sleep.

As the sun climbed higher, Indica slowly drifted from sleep, her mind gradually surfacing as she stretched her limbs under the soft duvet. She arched her back, feeling the satisfying pull of a full-body stretch. Ranger, waking with her, let out a deep, lazy yawn, his jaws stretching wide as he blinked his eyes open. He hopped off the bed with a soft thud, his paws landing lightly on the wooden floor. Stretching out fully, he extended his back legs behind him, his front paws spread wide in a perfect downward dog pose, a picture of relaxed contentment.

Indica shifted to the edge of the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cool floor. She reached out to Ranger, her hand smoothing over his head and sliding gently down to his snout, her fingers sinking into his soft fur. Leaning down, she pressed a light kiss to the bridge of his nose. "Good morning, handsome," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. Ranger's tail wagged slowly at first, then picked up pace, a steady rhythm that matched the easy, calm start to their day.

Glancing at her cell phone on the bedside table, Indica noted the time—a little before 8 AM. She smiled softly, setting the phone back down as she turned her gaze back to Ranger. "Guess what, big guy? Daddy's coming home today." Her voice was filled with quiet excitement. Ranger's ears perked up at the familiar words, and his tail wagged a little faster, as if he understood and shared her anticipation.

Indica pushed herself up from the bed, her long auburn hair tumbling down her back, brushing just above her waist. The soft dreadlocks mixed with loose strands gave her hair a unique, natural look that suited her free-spirited style. The oversized tee she had worn to bed slid up her bare thighs, a cozy, well-loved favorite that moved easily with her every step. She stretched her arms above her head once more, feeling the satisfying pop of her joints as she fully woke up. With a contented sigh, she walked over to the window, her bare feet making a soft, whispering sound against the floor. She paused there, gazing out at the day unfolding beyond the glass. Her heart felt light with the thought of her partner's return, and Ranger by her side, ever her faithful companion in their quiet cottage home.

Her steps were slow and unsteady as she made her way to the bathroom, eyes still half-closed. She relieved her aching bladder with a sigh of relief, the early morning quiet wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. Returning to the bedroom, she caught Ranger's expectant gaze. "Alright, let's get you outside," she murmured, her voice soft with lingering drowsiness. She opened the side door, letting him trot off into the yard with his nose to the ground. She propped the door open slightly, allowing the crisp, cool fall air to creep into the house, its chill brushing against her bare legs and waking her up a bit more.

Indica headed to the kitchen, still groggy but comforted by the familiar routine. She started the coffee pot, the sound of dripping water and the rich aroma of brewing coffee filling the air. She leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely as she waited, savoring the peacefulness of the morning. The early sunlight filtered through the windows, casting soft shadows across the walls and floor, painting everything in gentle, warm hues. Once the coffee was ready, she poured herself a steaming cup, the warmth seeping into her hands as she held the mug close. She called Ranger back inside, and he followed her up the stairs, his nails clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floors as they returned to the bedroom.

Indica settled down at her vintage vanity, the oval mirror reflecting her sleepy expression. She placed her coffee mug carefully beside her, the steam curling up in lazy tendrils. Her reflection showed the early signs of the day—hair tousled with a mix of loose waves and a few dreadlocks that framed her face, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Her gaze shifted to the photo tucked into the corner of the mirror, and a soft smile spread across her lips. The picture captured a perfect moment of herself and her wonderful husband Logan Howlett to the rest of the world Wolverine. Indica's hair in the photo was shorter, falling just past her shoulders in a mix of loose waves and dreadlocks. Her sapphire blue eyes twinkled behind thick-rimmed glasses, radiating happiness and a touch of excitement. The picture captured the moment perfectly—the day they had closed on their little cottage. Indica's smile was wide and genuine, her joy almost leaping off the photograph. Logan stood close behind her, his broad frame nearly enveloping her as he held her tightly, their happiness reflected in the way they clung to each other. His strong arms wrapped snugly around her thick waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. His broad, muscular frame easily dwarfed her, his 6-foot-4 stature slightly hunched to meet her height. His messy brown hair was tousled as if he'd just run his hands through it, and his hazel eyes sparkled with warmth and a touch of mischief, a look she knew well.

The cottage had been a dream come true for both of them, a cozy sanctuary nestled away from the bustle of everyday life. Indica remembered the way Logan had looked at her that day—his hazel eyes soft with love and pride as they signed the final papers. She'd been nervous about such a big commitment, but with Logan, it had all felt right. The excitement of that day still lingered in her mind, and every time she looked at the photo, she could almost feel the warmth of Logan's arms around her again, the thrill of their new beginning captured in that single, perfect moment.

Indica traced her fingers along the edge of the photo, her heart swelling with affection. Logan's presence in the picture felt almost tangible, his grin infectious even in stillness. "Just a few more hours," she whispered to herself, her voice tinged with anticipation and a bit of impatience. The thought of Logan's return filled her with a warm, fluttering excitement. Ranger nudged her leg gently with his nose, his tail wagging softly as if he could sense her mood and shared in her joy.

She took another sip of her coffee, savoring the rich flavor as it spread warmth through her body. The oversized tee she wore to bed shifted slightly, brushing against her bare thighs as she adjusted in her seat. Indica glanced around her bedroom, taking in the soft, golden glow of the morning light that bathed everything in a gentle brightness. The vintage vanity with its oval mirror and scattered candles, the bottles of perfume and cosmetics neatly arranged, the comforting mess of her life—everything felt just right.

Indica hopped happily down the steps, the hem of her high-waisted sage green skirt fluttering with each bounce. The soft cotton fabric swayed around her thighs, catching the morning light as she moved with a buoyant energy. A playful sliver of skin peeked out between the waistband of her skirt and the dark gray square-neck crop top that stretched snugly across her chest, highlighting her natural curves. Around her neck, layers of delicate necklaces shimmered, their pendants catching the light as they gently clinked with her steps, adding a subtle melody to her cheerful rhythm.

Draped over her shoulders, a long black cardigan flowed with her movements, its cozy fabric trailing behind like a soft, comforting shadow. Her bare feet, with black-painted toes peeking out from beneath her skirt, softly tapped against the floor as she hopped down the stairs. Indica's auburn hair was pulled into a carefree bun, beads, and charms woven into her dreadlocks, peeking from the back of her head, adding a touch of whimsy and individuality to her look. The beads glimmered with each step, catching the light, a small yet personal statement of her unique, effortless style.

Indica felt light and free, the crisp fall air brushing against her exposed skin, adding to the sense of renewal that filled her with every step. She couldn't help but smile, her lips curving upwards as she descended the stairs, the thought of Logan's return filling her with a warm, bubbling excitement. Everything about her felt right and true to herself—from the effortlessly chic outfit to the playful sway of her skirt, and the way her jewelry softly tinkled like a gentle reminder of her happiness.

Ranger followed closely behind, his tail wagging in sync with her upbeat pace, his ears perked and alert as if sharing in her joy. Indica glanced back at him, her smile widening at the sight of her loyal companion, and gave him a quick wink. Ranger responded with a soft woof, his tail swishing even faster, matching the light, carefree energy that filled the room.

Indica grabbed her long, wide wicker basket from the kitchen, the familiar weight resting comfortably against her hip as she made her way out the back door. The cool morning air greeted her, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly turned earth.

Indica stepped off the path out her side door and into the dewy grass, the cool moisture kissing her bare feet as she walked further into the yard. She set down her basket and stood still for a moment, arms lifting to her sides with elbows tucked in, palms facing upward. Her chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath as she closed her eyes, her toes flexing into the soft earth beneath her.

She felt it immediately—the hum of energy from the land beneath her feet. The power of Mother Nature surged up from the ground, flowing through her like an ancient current. Indica exhaled slowly, focusing her mind, letting herself connect deeply to the earth. She imagined the energy like roots from a tree, spiraling up into her body, and she soaked it in, drawing it into every fiber of her being.

The warmth of it spread through her, filling her with an undeniable sense of peace, strength, and belonging. The soft energy wrapped around her, soothing, healing, and energizing her all at once. She smiled faintly, feeling the pulse of the earth underfoot, her body vibrating with life as she continued to ground herself in the moment, in the energy freely offered to her.

Like her husband, Indica was a mutant—though her gifts were of a different nature. While Logan's abilities were grounded in raw physicality and survival, hers were ancient and elemental, deeply intertwined with the world itself. She was a witch, and a powerful one at that. She had walked the earth for over a hundred years longer than Logan, carrying the wisdom and power of centuries in her veins. Time had taught her the secrets of nature, the elements, and the mysteries that lay between life and death.

Her skin began to glow faintly, shimmering in the soft morning light, as if absorbing the energy of the earth like a flower soaks in the warmth of the sun. This was not a grand display of power, but a quiet communion with the forces that surrounded her. The centuries she'd lived had taught her patience, control, and a deep respect for the magic she wielded. She knew that true power was not in the loud, explosive moments, but in the quiet, steady strength that came from being in tune with the world around her.

Unlike most mutants, Indica's abilities weren't just tied to her DNA. They were rooted in the ancient magic that had been passed down through generations of witches before her. She could feel the life force of everything around her—the trees, the wind, the animals hidden in the forest—and she could call upon that energy, bending it to her will if the need arose.

But today, she needed nothing more than the peace of connection. Her glowing skin was a testament to the energy she drew from the earth, a soft aura of magic that surrounded her like a protective blanket. Despite the peaceful scene, there was always a wildness in her—an untamed force, like a storm waiting to be unleashed. It was the kind of power that lay dormant until it was needed, and when it was released, it was devastating.

Logan knew that side of her well. He'd often teased her, saying that while he could survive almost anything, it was Indica who truly scared him when she was pushed too far. Her power, unlike his own, wasn't something that could be fought or overpowered. It was subtle but immense, like the slow rise of the tide that you only notice when it's already swept you away.

She wore that power with a quiet grace, moving through life as though she carried the weight of the world effortlessly on her shoulders. And in many ways, she did.

Indica stepped into her garden, the dewy grass cool under her bare, and took in the sight of her plants, thriving in the warm spring sunshine. This was her favorite way to start the day—hands in the soil, surrounded by the quiet hum of nature, and the sense of peace that came with nurturing her little piece of the world.

She crouched down among the rows of vegetables, the hem of her skirt brushing against the soft soil. Carefully, she plucked ripe, plump tomatoes from their vines, placing them gently into her basket. Next, she moved on to the peppers, their vibrant colors standing out against the green leaves. She selected a few zucchinis and squashes, their firm skins still cool from the morning air. A large head of cabbage, nestled among its leafy companions, found its way into the basket as well, along with a few heads of broccoli, their bright green florets crisp and fresh.

Indica then made her way to her herb garden, where the fragrant scent of thyme and lavender filled the air. She snipped generous bundles of each, tucking them carefully into the basket, their earthy and floral scents mingling with the vegetables. She paused for a moment, inhaling deeply, letting the soothing aroma ground her in the quiet morning.

With her basket now brimming with fresh produce and herbs, Indica walked to the chicken coop. She set the basket down on the ground, glancing at Ranger who was never too far away. His watchful eyes tracked her every move, his ears perked and alert, always on guard and always protecting. She smiled at him, a silent thank you for his steadfast presence.

Indica opened the coop, stepping inside to greet her flock. The chickens clucked softly, flapping their wings and pecking at the grain she scattered on the ground. She moved carefully among them, her hands deftly collecting nearly a dozen warm eggs, each one nestled gently into the straw-lined sections of her basket. The chickens clucked in approval, their gentle noises creating a peaceful soundtrack to the morning's tasks.

With her basket full and her chores nearly complete, Indica paused for a moment, soaking in the serenity of her surroundings. Ranger trotted up beside her, his nose twitching at the scent of fresh eggs and herbs. She gave him a gentle pat on the head, appreciating the quiet companionship he offered.

As Indica turned back toward the house, the sun had climbed a little higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the garden. The light filtered through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the ground as she walked. She glanced down at Ranger, his loyal form trailing just a step behind her, ever watchful.

"Come along, Ranger," she said softly, her voice carrying the gentle authority of someone who knew he would follow without question. She adjusted the wicker basket on her arm, its weight a pleasant reminder of the morning's harvest.

Ranger perked up at her words, his ears twitching as he fell into step beside her, his presence a comforting shadow. Together, they walked toward the cottage, its cozy silhouette framed by the early morning light. The cool breeze brushed against Indica's skin, the scent of freshly picked herbs and earth mingling in the air, making her feel connected to the land she cherished.

As they approached the back door, Indica paused for a moment, taking in the peaceful scene around her. The garden, the chickens pecking contentedly in their coop, the quiet hum of nature—it was all a part of the life she and Logan had built together.

Pushing the door open, Indica stepped inside with Ranger trailing close behind, his nails clicking softly against the wooden floor. The familiar comfort of the cottage wrapped around them like a warm hug, the scent of home mingling with the fresh air she'd brought in from outside. She moved into the kitchen, the cozy heart of the house, where sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a soft glow over the rustic wooden countertops.

Indica set her basket down and began washing the vegetables she'd just picked. The cool water splashed over the tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, squash, cabbage, and broccoli, washing away the last traces of garden soil. She worked with practiced ease, humming softly to herself as she laid each piece out to dry. Once the vegetables were cleaned and set aside, she moved on to her herbs, bundling the thyme and lavender with twine and hanging them by the window to dry. The fragrant bundles swayed gently in the morning breeze, filling the kitchen with their fresh, earthy scent.

After washing her hands, Indica reached for one of her prized jars of sourdough starter sitting on the counter. She cradled it carefully, knowing the effort and care that had gone into nurturing the culture over time. She could already imagine the tangy aroma of fresh bread filling the cottage—a scent that always made the house feel like a true home.

With her sleeves rolled up, Indica began the familiar process of making two loaves of bread and a dozen bagels. She measured the flour with precision, her movements fluid and sure, a dance she had perfected over countless mornings. The dough came together under her hands, soft and pliable, as she kneaded it with care, folding in the promise of a hearty, delicious meal. Ranger watched her from his spot nearby, his eyes tracking her movements, content to keep her company as she worked.

As she shaped the dough into rounds for the bread and bagels, Indica felt a quiet joy settle in her chest. There was something deeply satisfying about creating with her hands, about filling her home with the warmth and comfort of freshly baked bread. She glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of the sun now fully risen, bathing the garden in golden light. With Ranger by her side and the simple, soothing rhythm of her morning chores, Indica felt at peace, eagerly awaiting the moment Logan would walk through the door and make their little cottage feel whole again.

After finishing the bread and bagels, Indica carefully transferred the warm loaves and golden bagels onto the cooling rack, the rich, yeasty aroma filling the kitchen and spilling into every corner of the cottage. The scent mingled with the lingering hints of thyme and lavender from her herbs, creating a comforting, homely blend that made the space feel alive. She wiped her hands on her apron, glanced at the clock, and saw there was still plenty of time before she needed to meet Logan. Deciding to make the most of the morning, she grabbed a light sweater and stepped outside to check the mailbox at the end of the brick path.

Ranger trotted beside her, his ears perked up and tail wagging, alert to every sound and scent around them. The morning sun was now bright and cheerful, warming Indica's skin as she strolled down the brick path lined with wildflowers. Their colorful petals swayed gently in the light breeze, adding splashes of purple, yellow, and pink against the lush green backdrop. Indica couldn't help but feel a sense of peace; mornings like this were what she loved most about their little cottage.

Reaching the mailbox, she opened it and found a small stack of letters along with a neatly wrapped package addressed to her. Curious, Indica tucked the letters under her arm and carefully opened the small box. Inside was a delicate vintage perfume bottle, ornate with a golden cap and a beautifully etched glass design that caught the sunlight. It sparkled softly in her hand, looking like something out of an old movie. She spotted a folded note inside and pulled it out, her heart warming as she read the familiar handwriting: "To Indi, love Nessa."

Indica's smile widened, and a warm feeling spread through her chest. She gently uncapped the bottle and brought it to her nose. The scent was divine—citrusy and sweet with just a hint of wildflowers, bright and refreshing, yet grounded by a soft floral undertone. It was the kind of fragrance that instantly lifted her spirits, light and invigorating, like a small burst of sunshine captured in a bottle. She couldn't resist spraying a little on her wrist, inhaling deeply as the scent settled on her skin. It felt like a personal little gift of happiness, a reminder of her friend's thoughtfulness.

Back inside, Indica set the mail on the kitchen table, still smiling as she glanced at the perfume bottle again. She carefully wrapped the fresh bread and bagels in soft linen cloths, tucking them neatly into their places in the pantry. The kitchen felt cozy and complete, with the fresh loaves on display like a testament to the simple joys of her morning. She paused for a moment, just enjoying the sight and smell of her work, the way the sun streamed through the windows, making everything feel warm and golden.

Realizing she still had a few things to take care of before meeting Logan, Indica grabbed her bag and checked her list of errands. She needed to pick up a few essentials in town—fresh produce, a couple of things from the hardware store, and perhaps a quick stop by the local market for some special treats to welcome Logan home. The day already felt full of promise, and she was eager to make the most of it.

She gave Ranger a gentle pat on the head, feeling the soft fur beneath her fingers, and grabbed her keys from the hook by the door. With a final glance around the cozy kitchen, she headed out the door, her thoughts already drifting to the moment when she'd finally see Logan again. As she walked down the path, the citrusy, floral notes of the perfume lingered in the air around her, mingling with the fresh morning breeze.

Indica climbed into Logan's old, beat-up blue Ford truck, its paint slightly faded but still holding a certain charm. The engine rumbled to life with a reassuring growl, and she steered the truck down the gravel driveway, the wheels kicking up tiny clouds of dust behind her. She drove along the winding road, the crisp mountain air filling her car as she rolled the windows down. The morning sun bathed the landscape in a warm, golden light, making the journey to town feel like a serene escape. As she rounded a bend, she spotted a small roadside stand brimming with fresh produce. Her gaze was immediately drawn to the baskets of peaches, their vibrant orange hue gleaming under the sun. She smiled, thinking of Logan and his love for her peach cobbler.

Pulling over, she parked and stepped out, the earthy scent of ripe fruit filling her senses. The old man running the stand greeted her with a friendly smile, and she picked through the peaches, selecting the ripest ones that would be perfect for her cobbler. She paid the vendor and placed the basket of peaches gently in the passenger seat, giving them a fond glance before getting back on the road.

The road into town wound through the picturesque town, framed by the dramatic peaks of the surrounding mountains. The sun shone brightly, casting long shadows of the jagged peaks across the streets. Banff was a quaint, charming place with a mix of rustic and modern elements. Small shops with colorful awnings lined the main street, their windows filled with local crafts, souvenirs, and cozy café signs. The streets were busy with tourists and locals alike, giving the town a lively, vibrant atmosphere.

Indica parked the truck in front of the hardware store, a modest building with a red and white striped awning that offered a touch of old-fashioned charm. She stepped out of the truck, taking a deep breath of the crisp mountain air. The town's fresh scent, a mix of pine and the faint aroma of brewing coffee from nearby cafés, filled her senses.

Indica strolled through the hardware store, scanning the shelves for the items on her list. It didn't take long for her to notice the way the male employees' heads turned as she walked by, their eagerness to assist almost palpable.

One of the workers, a lanky guy with a name tag reading "Evan," approached with a bit too much enthusiasm. "Can I help you find anything, miss?" he asked, his eyes darting over her face and lingering on her form longer than necessary.

Indica offered a polite smile. "Just browsing, thanks," she said, moving on, but she caught him leaning in subtly as if trying to catch a whiff of her perfume. She arched an eyebrow but kept walking, shaking her head slightly.

Further down the aisle, another employee, stockier with a mop of curly hair, was stacking bags of mulch. His eyes drifted south the moment she passed, staring shamelessly at her chest. Indica shot him a pointed look, and he quickly turned back to his task, cheeks reddening as he fumbled with the bags.

By the time she reached the checkout counter, the young cashier couldn't have been more than nineteen and looked utterly flustered. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he stumbled over his words as he tried to make small talk.

"Uh, hi, ma'am! I mean—hey! Uh, find everything okay?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Indica nodded, placing the bags of chicken feed and dog food on the counter. The cashier's hands shook as he scanned the items, his fingers hitting the wrong keys on the register repeatedly. He mumbled an apology, cheeks turning pink, clearly overwhelmed.

"Uh, s-sorry," he stammered, glancing up at her with wide eyes. He knocked over the pack of gum by the register in his haste, and Indica bit back a small smile, trying not to let her amusement show.

"It's okay," she said gently, passing her card over the reader. The cashier nodded, his hands still shaking as he bagged her items, practically tripping over himself to finish.

Indica smiled softly, trying to put him at ease. "Don't worry about it," she said, watching as he finally managed to ring up her items.

The cashier fumbled with the receipt, dropping it twice before finally handing it over. "Uh, have a great day!" he squeaked out, avoiding eye contact as Indica gave him a kind nod and walked out of the store, the sound of his relieved exhale following her out the door.

Indica took her bags, giving the cashier a nod of thanks as she turned to leave. As she stepped outside, she exhaled a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. The over-the-top attention was almost comical, but she wasn't about to let it get to her.

Driving to the liquor store, Indica noted the mix of calm and hustle that marked the late afternoon in Banff. The store, a modest establishment with a faded sign that read "Banff Liquor Store," had been a regular stop on her errands. Inside, the aisles were neatly stocked with everything from local craft beers to imported wines, and the familiar clinking of bottles filled the air.

As she scanned the shelves for Logan's favorite Molson beer, she became aware of the attention she was drawing. A pair of frat boys, clearly tipsy and a little too eager, followed her movements, their whispers and low chuckles not going unnoticed. Indica kept her focus on the task at hand, pulling two twelve-packs off the shelf and setting them in her cart.

"Hey, sweetheart," one of them called out, a smirk plastered on his face. He was tall, with messy blond hair and a backward cap, the epitome of college arrogance. "Need some help with that? Looks heavy for someone like you."

Indica rolled her eyes internally but maintained a polite smile. "No thanks, I've got it." She pushed her cart forward, trying to ignore the way they continued to trail her through the aisles.

The second one, shorter but stockier, with a jersey that looked like it hadn't been washed in days, stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "You know, we could use some company tonight. What do you say? You, us, a couple of drinks... maybe more?"

Indica sighed, her patience wearing thin. "Not interested, guys. Just here to grab some beer and go."

Undeterred, the first guy leaned closer, his breath reeking of alcohol. "Aw, come on. Don't be like that. We're fun. You should give us a chance."

Before Indica could retort, a voice boomed from behind the counter. "Indica! Hey there, kiddo!"

Indica looked up to see Mickey, the store's owner, an older man with a grizzled beard and a cap that seemed permanently affixed to his head. His eyes were sharp as he took in the scene unfolding in his store.

"Everything all right over here?" Mickey asked, his gaze fixed on the frat boys with a steely look that could cut through glass. "These fellas bothering you, Indi?"

The frat boys exchanged uneasy glances, suddenly looking like school kids caught by the principal. Mickey's reputation as a no-nonsense guy—and his long-standing friendship with Logan—clearly struck a nerve.

"Uh, no, we were just talking," the taller one mumbled, his earlier bravado quickly dissipating.

Mickey didn't budge. "Well, how 'bout you talk yourselves right outta my store? Ain't got time for any funny business today."

The frat boys muttered a half-hearted apology, shuffling out of the store with their tails between their legs. Indica watched them leave, shaking her head slightly before turning back to Mickey.

"Thanks, Mickey. Those guys were getting a bit too friendly," Indica said, her voice laced with relief.

Mickey nodded, a wry smile breaking through his gruff demeanor. "Ain't no problem, Indi. I've known Logan too long to let punks like that give you any trouble. You're practically family around here."

As Mickey rang up the beer, he glanced over his shoulder at a small display behind the counter. "Oh, by the way, just got a fresh batch of Logan's cigars in. You want me to add a pack?"

"That'd be great, thanks," Indica replied, genuinely appreciative. She watched as Mickey added the cigars to her purchase, his weathered hands moving with the ease of someone who'd been in the business far too long to be rattled by much.

He handed her the bag, his expression softening. "Take care of yourself, Indi. And tell Logan I said hi. Don't need folks like those boys bothering you 'round here."

Indica smiled, feeling a warmth that came from more than just the friendly gesture. "I will, Mickey. Thanks again."

She headed out, beer and cigars in hand, reflecting on the odd string of encounters that seemed to shadow her day. With a sigh, she started up the truck, the engine rumbling to life as she set off for the small-town grocery store, hoping the rest of her errands would be less eventful.

Indica moved through the grocery store with the ease of someone who'd been through these aisles a hundred times before. She grabbed a bunch of bananas, added them to her basket, and moved toward the leafy greens, mentally going over her list. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, blending into the hum of the store's atmosphere. It was supposed to be a routine trip—get in, get out, and go home. But something was clearly off today; she had been approached multiple times by men she'd never talked to, some men she didn't know from around town.

She could sense him before she saw him.

Indica spotted him lingering by the cucumbers, pretending to look at the produce but clearly watching her, waiting for a moment to pounce. Indica sighed, her grip tightening on her basket. She wasn't in the mood for this.

She ignored him and moved to another section, trying to make it clear she didn't want any interaction. But, of course, that didn't stop him. He followed her, slithering through the aisles like an unwanted shadow. Every turn she made, he was right there, just a step behind.

When she stopped to pick up some apples, she felt his presence even closer than before. She turned, ready to give him the standard cold shoulder, but he was standing too close—way too close. Close enough that she could smell the faint, stale scent of cologne on him; before she could step back, he leaned in, took an audibly deep breath, and sniffed her.

Indica froze for half a second, disbelief flooding her mind. The guy actually sniffed her. This had crossed a line.

"As if the fuck off stamped across my forehead wasn't clear," she said, her voice low and firm, "to leave me alone."

He sneered, his smile creepy and self-assured, as if he thought her irritation was cute. "Aw, come on. I'm just tryin' to talk to ya," he purred, his eyes roving over her in a way that made her skin crawl. "You smell good, by the way.....really...really good."

That was it.

Before he could react, Indica's hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. His cocky expression shifted to shock, his mouth opening in protest as he realized that he wasn't just being grabbed—he was being lifted off the ground.

His feet dangled helplessly a few inches above the grocery store floor, eyes wide with panic as the realization of what was happening sank in. The basket in her other hand dropped to the ground with a thud, apples rolling away, but she didn't care.

"You've been warned," Indica growled, her voice low and deadly. "I've had enough of you following me around like a creep. I told you no. That means no."

The man's eyes flickered in terror as he stared at her, now fully aware that she wasn't just some ordinary woman. There was something else about her, something dangerous. His lips trembled, but he was too stunned to speak. His hands clawed at her grip on his shirt, but it was no use.

"And if you don't leave me alone," Indica added, her voice dropping even lower, "you're going to regret it."

Then, as if to punctuate her throat, her eyes began to glow—a soft, fiery amber that lit up her face with an ethereal intensity. The man's breath hitched, his entire body going rigid as he stared into those glowing eyes, realizing he was dealing with something far beyond his understanding.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice shaking as he scrambled to get his words out. "I—I'll leave you alone. I swear."

Indica's lips curled into a tight smile, more predator than anything. "Good."

She released him, and he stumbled back, nearly falling on his ass in his hurry to get away from her. He turned and bolted toward the exit, not bothering to look back as he disappeared into the parking lot.

Indica took a deep breath, the glow in her eyes fading as she collected herself. She glanced around the produce section. A few other shoppers had noticed, some staring wide-eyed, but no one dared approach her.

Grabbing a few items from the ground, Indica shook her head. "Freaks everywhere," she muttered to herself, turning her attention back to her groceries.

She was more than done with this trip—time to head home.

As the X-Jet, the Blackbird, descended smoothly toward a secluded clearing near Logan's cottage, the engines' soft hum filled the cabin. Storm expertly guided the jet down, landing on a tranquil stretch of land surrounded by dense forest, with the rugged peaks of the Rockies visible in the distance. The hatch opened, and Logan was the first to step out, the crisp Canadian air hitting him as he stretched, rolling his shoulders. Scott followed, still grumbling about something Logan had said earlier.

"I'm just saying," Scott argued, his voice tinged with irritation. "There's no way the Leafs are making it to the playoffs this year."

Logan scoffed, grabbing his duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "Shows how much you know, Slim. That new goalie they got? Kid's a wall. Mark my words; they'll be there."

Scott rolled his eyes, clearly not interested in Logan's sports opinions. "Yeah, sure. Just like you said, the Bears would win the Super Bowl last year, right? How'd that work out?"

"Hey, that's different," Logan shot back, pausing at the edge of the jet to pull his last cigar from the box. He bit the end off and spat it onto the ground, fishing in his pocket for a lighter. "Bears had injuries; the whole season was a wash."

Scott made a face, crossing his arms as Logan finally got his cigar lit, the tip glowing brightly in the early morning light. "Excuses," Scott muttered under his breath.

Storm, watching their back-and-forth with an amused smile, followed them down the ramp. "Do you two ever stop arguing?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with humor. "You're like an old married couple."

Logan smirked, taking a deep drag of his cigar. "He's just pissed 'cause I'm always right." He exhaled a thick plume of smoke, the scent of tobacco mingling with the crisp mountain air.

Scott snorted, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

Storm turned her attention to Logan, a playful gleam in her eyes. "Speaking of impossible, you got anything special planned for Indica's birthday?"

Logan's expression softened slightly at the mention of Indica. He grinned, his eyes glinting with a mischievous light. "Yeah, I got plans," he said, winking at Storm. "Gonna keep her in bed all day if you catch my drift."

Storm laughed, a musical sound that echoed in the open space around them. "That sounds like you, Logan. Just don't forget the flowers—or something a little more romantic."

Scott made a face, his expression a mix of exasperation and disbelief. "I don't know why she puts up with you, Logan. She deserves better."

Logan shot Scott a pointed look, his smirk widening. "Wouldn't you like to know, bub?" he quipped, taking another puff of his cigar. Scott grimaced, looking away with a disgusted shake of his head as if trying to banish the thought entirely.

Jean, Rogue, and Bobby emerged from the jet. Next, Jean's red hair caught the morning light as she descended the ramp. "What's all this about flowers and picnics?" she teased, catching the tail end of Logan's conversation. "You going soft on us, Logan?"

Logan's grin widened as he tapped the ash from his cigar. "Nah, just got a special day planned for Indica," he said, his voice taking on a rare, softer edge. "Found the perfect spot—a field full of wildflowers, tucked away from everything. Place looks damn near magical like it's out of a fairy tale or somethin'."

Rogue smiled, her Southern accent slipping through as she spoke. "Well, ain't that sweet. Ah, never pegged ya for the romantic type, Logan."

Logan shrugged, playing it off. "What can I say? Indica's got a way of bringing that out in me." He took another puff of his cigar, the scent mixing with the fresh mountain air.

Bobby nudged Rogue, smirking. "Logan's got a soft spot; who knew?"

"Watch it, Iceboy," Logan warned, though his tone was more amused than threatening.

Jean looked at Logan, genuinely impressed. "That sounds lovely, Logan. I'm sure she'll love it."

Logan nodded, a flicker of pride in his eyes as he thought of Indica. "Yeah, she will," he said confidently. "Gonna pack a picnic, take her there, and let her just soak it all in. Ain't nothin' she loves more than a place that feels like it's got a story to tell and that field—it's got somethin' special."

Storm gave him an approving look, her smile full of warmth. "That's really sweet, Logan. You know, sometimes you surprise me."

Scott, overhearing the exchange, made a face as if the conversation was almost too much for him. "Wildflowers and picnics? Who knew you had it in you, Logan," he muttered, half-sarcastic but tinged with a reluctant acknowledgment.

Logan shot him a sideways glance, a sly grin still on his face. "Like I said, Slim—you'd be surprised at what I got in me. Indica's just got a way of bringin' it out."

Scott shook his head, his exasperation clear as he turned back toward the jet. "Whatever you say, Logan. Just don't screw it up."

Logan's smirk didn't falter. "Not a chance," he called after him. "See ya around, Scott. Try not to be so uptight."

Storm chuckled, giving Logan a knowing look. "You're a piece of work, Logan. But I think you've got this one right."

Logan nodded, his eyes glinting with determination. "Damn right, I do," he said.

As the group reboarded the jet and took off, the roar of its engines fading into the distance, Logan turned his gaze toward the dirt path leading to his cottage. The wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their vibrant colors popping against the lush green of the surrounding forest. It was quite peaceful, a hidden gem tucked away from the rest of the world. Logan took a moment to breathe it all in, imagining Indica's reaction when he brought her here.

Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, Logan set off down the dirt path toward his cottage. He'd already planned every detail down to the last sandwich in their picnic basket, and he couldn't wait to see the look on Indica's face when she saw it all. The thought kept him going, his steps steady as he made his way home, the scent of wildflowers lingering in the air and mingling with the faint trace of cigar smoke. Logan couldn't help but smile—it was good to be home.

Logan approached the cottage, the faint crunch of gravel beneath his boots, the only sound breaking the stillness of the morning. The air felt crisp, carrying the earthy scent of pine and damp soil, but as he crossed into the boundary of their property, something else tingled in the air.

It was subtle at first, like the quiet hum of electricity just beneath the surface, but Logan could feel it—an almost tangible buzz of energy. He paused for a moment, taking it in. The sensation was familiar, a steady, comforting pulse that surrounded the land like a protective blanket. Whether it was the intricate protection spell Indica had woven around the property, making it impossible for anyone—man or mutant—to find them unless she allowed it, or whether it was simply Indica channeling her powers today, Logan couldn't quite tell.

Either way, it felt like home.

The energy hummed in his bones, warm and steady, like a quiet heartbeat that matched the rhythm of the forest around them. It wasn't intrusive, just there—always present, always protecting. He knew that as soon as he crossed the invisible line, he was safe. No one could track him here. No one could find them. The spell was old magic, ancient and powerful, like everything Indica did. It wasn't flashy, but it was unbreakable.

As he took another step closer to the cottage, Logan's lips curved into a faint smile. The sensation of the spell, or maybe just the natural energy Indica drew from the earth, wrapped around him like a familiar embrace. He'd never been one for magic, but this? This was different. This was her.

He could feel her essence in the land, in the way the leaves seemed to sway a little softer, in the way the sunlight filtered through the trees just right, casting warm, golden rays across the ground. There was a peace here that he hadn't felt anywhere else—a calmness that settled deep in his chest, reminding him that he wasn't just a wandering soul anymore. He had a place, a home.

And that home was with her.

The closer he got to the cottage, the stronger the buzz became, like a low hum thrumming just beneath the earth. Maybe she was channeling today, grounding herself as she often did, drawing power from the land and sky. Or maybe it was just her presence—her very being—that made everything here feel alive, like the world itself bent to her will in the gentlest, most natural way.

Either way, Logan found comfort in it. It wasn't just the protection or the magic that made him feel at ease. It was knowing she was here that she had created this space for them—a sanctuary away from the chaos of the world.

He took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs as he reached the front door, feeling more grounded with each step. Yeah, this was home. And whatever buzz of energy lingered in the air, he'd never get tired of it. It was Indica. It was them.

And it was exactly where he wanted to be.

As Logan pushed open the cottage door, he couldn't help but announce himself. "I'm home!" he called, his deep voice filling the cozy space.

Almost instantly, Ranger was there to greet him, tail wagging and eyes bright. The German shepherd nudged his leg affectionately, the connection between them more than just a man and his dog. Ranger had been Indica's familiar for as long as Logan could remember, a loyal companion who had walked beside her through countless years. In his past life, Ranger had been a sleek, black cat named Nightshade, or Spicy Cat; Wade liked to joke. Logan had heard the stories of how Nightshade had prowled beside Indica, full of attitude and sass, just as Ranger was now, though in a different form.

"Hey, buddy," Logan murmured, scratching behind the dog's ears as he closed the door with a gentle push, the familiar thud of the purple wood hitting the frame making him chuckle.

That damn purple door.

Logan still remembered the day Indica told him she wanted to paint it purple. He had stood there, paint can in hand, brows furrowed in confusion. "Why in the hell are we painting the front door purple?" he had asked, popping the lid off the can with a little more force than necessary. "Doesn't that throw off the feng shui or whatever?"

Indica had only laughed, that melodic sound that always made him feel lighter. She'd grabbed the paintbrush from his hand and dipped it into the vibrant color. "Purple is a symbol of wealth, prosperity, and peace, Logan. It also represents the magic that lives here, in us, in this space. It's an invitation for those who understand and a warning for those who don't," she explained, her eyes sparkling with that ancient wisdom she carried so effortlessly.

Logan had scratched his chin, still skeptical but trusting her judgment as always. "And the runes? All those carvings you did in the doorframe and throughout the cottage?"

Indica had smiled softly, her fingers tracing one of the intricate symbols carved into the wood. "They're protection. Each one has a purpose—to keep us safe, to ensure no unwanted visitors find us, and to help the house feel... alive. A home, not just a place to live."

Logan had stared at her for a moment, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Well, alright then. Purple it is."

That memory always made him smile. He still got a kick out of how serious she was about those little things, but in the end, it all worked. The cottage was their sanctuary, protected by her magic and the love they'd poured into it.

He was pulled from the memory by the warm, inviting scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. His stomach rumbled in response, the smell filling the small space with a sense of comfort and home. "Babe?" Logan called again, his voice softer this time as he headed toward the kitchen.

"I'm in here!" came Indica's reply, her voice warm and full of life.

Logan smiled, giving Ranger one last pat before making his way down the hallway, eager to find her and sink into the warmth of their little home once more.

Logan stepped into the kitchen and stopped, his gaze falling on Indica. She stood at the counter, her delicate hands working a crumble mixture as she leaned slightly over a bowl filled with sliced peaches, the golden fruit glistening with spices. The sweet scent of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the air, mixing with the warmth of the freshly baked bread she must've pulled from the oven earlier.

Without a word, Logan crossed the small space and wrapped his arms around her from behind. His presence was solid, comforting, as he pulled her against his chest, rumbling a low, content sound deep in his throat. "Missed you," he muttered, his voice rough but soft with affection.

Indica smiled, her hands stilling for a moment in the bowl of crumble. Logan lowered his chin to her shoulder, having to hunch down a bit to accommodate the height difference between them, and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. Her warmth, the scent of peaches, spices, and the faint trace of lavender in her hair—it was all home to him.

"I missed you too," Indica murmured, her voice soft and full of that deep connection they shared. She paused her work, wiping her flour-dusted fingers on her apron before looking over her shoulder, her gaze meeting his.

Logan didn't need an invitation. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. It wasn't rushed or hurried, just full of the quiet love they'd built together over the years. His lips moved softly against hers, and for a moment, the world outside their little kitchen seemed to disappear.

When they finally pulled away, Logan rested his forehead against hers, a content smile on his face. "Smells good," he rumbled, glancing at the peaches. "But you smell better."

Indica laughed softly, the sound as warm and comforting as the kitchen around them. "Flatterer," she teased, nudging him playfully before turning back to her task, but not before stealing one last kiss.

Logan nuzzled into the crook of Indica's neck, pressing soft kisses along her warm skin. The familiar, intoxicating scent of her hair—lavender and something earthy—mixed with a new, sweeter aroma that hit his senses all at once. It was citrusy and bright but with an underlying note of wildflowers that seemed to wrap around his mind, making it hard to think of anything else.

He inhaled deeply, the scent taking hold of him like a drug, stirring something deep and primal inside. "Mmm, what's that smell?" he murmured, his voice already rough as he buried his face deeper into her neck, his lips moving against her skin. "You smell... different."

Indica didn't get a chance to answer before Logan's instincts kicked in. The sweet, wild fragrance wrapped around him like a vine, pulling him closer as his hands began to roam over her body. His fingers found her waist, his grip tightening as he pulled her back against him, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric of her cardigan. A low growl escaped his throat as his lips brushed her pulse point, his nips turning more urgent, more possessive.

He nipped at her neck, teeth grazing the soft skin before soothing the sting with a slow, heated kiss. "You're driving me crazy, darlin'," he rumbled, his voice thick with desire as he moved to the other side of her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste her. He couldn't get enough, the citrusy sweetness making his senses hum and pushing him closer to that dangerous, feral edge he kept so well hidden.

His hands moved up, one sliding under the hem of her shirt to grip her bare skin, the other slipping over her chest, pulling her even tighter against him. "Damn, Indica," he growled as he sucked a mark onto her skin, the scent clouding his mind, turning every thought into need. "Smell like sunshine... like somethin' wild..."

He groaned low in his throat, the scent flooding his senses, making him want to devour her, to claim her in every possible way. His lips returned to the sweet spot just below her ear, nipping and sucking, his body pressed flush against hers as his hands wandered, possessive and hungry.

Whatever that scent was, it had him hooked, pulling him deeper into her orbit, where nothing else existed but her.

Indica felt Logan's warmth seep into her as his lips moved hungrily along her neck. Her breath hitched, and her fingers instinctively gripped the edge of the counter in front of her, trying to steady herself against the surge of heat flooding through her. The scent of peaches and spices from the crumble she'd been working on faded into the background, replaced by the intoxicating mix of Logan's rugged presence and his rough, demanding touch.

She melted against him, her body surrendering completely to his. The strength of his arms around her, the way his hands roamed over her skin, made it impossible to focus on anything else. Every nip and kiss sent shivers down her spine, a soft moan escaping her lips as she pressed her back into his chest, wanting more, needing more.

Logan's growl rumbled through her, vibrating against her skin as his teeth grazed her neck again. Her knees weakened, and she clung to the counter for balance, her knuckles turning white as she tried to ground herself. But it was useless—he had her, completely and utterly, and there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

Her breath came out in a shaky exhale as she tilted her head to the side, giving him better access to her throat. "Logan..." she whispered, her voice trembling with desire. She arched her back, pushing herself closer to him, feeling the hard lines of his body against hers, the possessiveness of his touch igniting something deep inside her.

He responded with another growl, his hands gripping her tighter, pulling her even closer. She gasped, her fingers slipping from the counter for a moment as she leaned into him, her body pliant, her heart racing. Logan's scent—earthy, raw, masculine—mixed with the sweet, citrusy wildflowers clinging to her, enveloping them both in a heady cloud of desire.

Indica's breath hitched again as she let herself go, surrendering to him completely, the world around them vanishing until all that existed was the feeling of his lips, his hands, his body pressing her deeper into that primal, electric connection they shared.

Indica's heart throbbed fiercely against her ribcage, each beat echoing Logan's intense desire. Her hands reached up, tangling in his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp in a way she knew drove him wild. She could feel the rumble of his growl against her skin, a vibration that spurred a deeper arousal within her.

"Logan," she breathed out again, this time a plea mingled with exhilaration. His response was a deeper groan, almost animalistic, as he pressed his body harder against hers.

His kisses moved with more urgency now, tracing fiery paths down her neck, over her collarbone, each one stoking the flame higher. Logan's hands were relentless and gentle all at once, exploring with a familiarity that only heightened the thrill. The edge of his fang-like canines grazed her skin softly, dangerously, reminding her of the wildness within him that matched the storm he stirred in her.

The sound of her heartbeat filled the kitchen, mingling with the crackle of the oven behind them and their labored breaths. Indica's fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to erase any space left between them.

With a growl, Logan lifted Indica effortlessly, his strong hands gripping her hips as he hoisted her onto the counter. Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist as she clung to him, their lips crashing together in a heated kiss. Neither of them noticed the chaos they were creating—too lost in each other to care.

As he leaned into her, one of Logan's hands swept the counter, knocking over the tub of flour. It tipped and spilled, sending a white cloud puffing into the air around them, dusting their skin and clothes. Indica let out a breathless laugh, but it was swallowed by Logan's hungry kiss as he pressed even closer, his lips capturing hers with unrelenting intensity.

In the midst of it all, the sugar tub teetered, then fell, scattering across the counter and onto the floor in a sticky cascade. Eggs, forgotten from earlier, rolled across the counter before slipping off the edge, landing with soft thuds on the hardwood floor.

Neither Logan nor Indica seemed to notice—or care. Logan's hands roamed over her waist, her back, her thighs, pulling her closer, deeper into his embrace as he nipped at her lips, his breathing ragged with desire. Indica's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him in as she kissed him back just as fervently, her body arching toward his, eager for his touch.

Flour dusted her dark skin, and she barely registered the soft crunch of the sugar under her bare feet as Logan pulled her further to the edge of the counter. The mess around them grew, but their focus remained entirely on each other—on the electric connection that sizzled between them, making everything else fade away. His strong hands ran up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher, his touch sending electric shocks through her veins. Indica moaned softly, her body reacting with an intensity that surprised even her; she was lost in the sensation, in Logan, in the overwhelming desire that coursed through them both.

Logan's eyes, usually a calm sea of blue, now mirrored the storm raging inside him. His gaze was intense, almost predatory, but filled with an undeniable love that made Indica's heart swell even as her body ached for him. He kissed her deeply, passionately, a kiss that spoke of raw need and fierce protectiveness.

Her fingers traced the muscles of his back, feeling them tense under her touch as he deepened their kiss. The world outside this burning circle of passion might as well have ceased to exist—they were here now, everything else fading into insignificance.

Breaking the kiss, Logan trailed his lips across her cheek to her ear, whispering words thick with emotion. "You have me spellbound, darlin'. Completely."

Indica's response was a mix of laughter and breathless desire. "And you have me... more than spellbound, Logan. You have me enchanted, ensnared." Her words tumbled out between gasps as his mouth once again found her neck, sending tingles spiraling down her spine.

Logan chuckled, the sound dark and enticing. "Ensnared, huh?" He teased lightly, his breath hot against her skin. "Just where I want you." His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of her skirt, each touch sending waves of anticipation coursing through her body.

Indica felt a surge of power well up within her—a wild, thrilling energy that seemed to pulse in sync with Logan's own feral intensity. She leaned back slightly, looking into his eyes with a daring smile. "Maybe," she whispered huskily, "it's where I want to be."

The heat in Logan's gaze intensified, a flare of desire so strong it nearly took her breath away. He leaned in, his lips brushing hers softly, teasingly. "Is that so?" he murmured against her mouth, the words barely audible yet laden with promise.

Indica nodded, her eyes locked on his, reflecting the fire she saw burning within them. She pulled him closer, eliminating any remaining distance between them. Their lips met again, this time in a kiss that was nothing short of explosive. Logan's hands moved with purpose now, tracing the contours of her body as if memorizing every detail through touch alone.

"Need you," Indica all but whined, her voice breathless as she clung to Logan. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in lightly as she pulled him closer, her body trembling with anticipation. The raw need in her voice sent a shiver down Logan's spine, his desire for her flaring even hotter.

"Yeah?" he rasped, his lips brushing against her ear as his hands roamed her body, tracing her curves through the fabric of her clothes. "You got me, darlin'. Always."

Logan's voice was low and rough, the primal edge in his tone matching the intensity in his eyes. He leaned in, kissing along her neck, each press of his lips more urgent than the last. Indica's body responded instinctively, arching toward him as she whispered his name, her need for him a palpable force between them.

His grip tightened around her waist, and he kissed her fiercely, swallowing her soft whimpers.

Her hands wandered down Logan's back to tug at the hem of his shirt, seeking skin, craving the warm contact of flesh on flesh. He obliged without hesitation, pulling the garment over his head and discarding it carelessly to the floor.

As the shirt hit the floor, Indica's breath caught at the sight before her. Logan, bare-chested, was a sight to behold. His muscles rippled beneath his skin, his broad chest covered in a layer of coarse hair that only added to his raw, rugged appeal. His physique was a perfect balance of man and beast—primal, powerful, and utterly mouthwatering.

The deep grooves of his abs led down to his waistband, each muscle flexing as he shifted closer to her. His arms, thick with muscle, bore the marks of countless battles and the strength that came with being Wolverine. There was a raw energy about him, something untamed and dangerous, but beneath that wild exterior was a man who loved her fiercely.

His chest rose and fell with each breath, his body exuding heat and power. Indica's eyes traced the scars scattered across his skin, faint reminders of the wars he'd survived, only to heal and come back stronger. But it wasn't just his strength that made her heart race—it was the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered in his world.

Logan stood there, every inch of him dripping with masculinity, and she couldn't help but bite her lip at the sight. He was raw, untamed power, yet the way he was with her—the way he surrendered only to her—made him even more irresistible.

"Like what you see, darlin'?" he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, a smirk tugging at his lips as he caught her staring. His eyes glinted with that feral edge, a promise of everything to come.

Indica reached out, her fingers barely brushing over the surface of Logan's chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath her touch. "Always, my love," she whispered, her voice filled with both admiration and desire. His skin was warm—hot, even—like the very heat of him was rising to meet her, pulling her closer with every pass of her fingers. The muscles under his skin rippled with each subtle movement, every breath he took vibrating through him like restrained power waiting to be unleashed.

Indica's hands moved slowly, savoring the feel of him, her fingertips gliding over the firm planes of his chest and down toward the valleys between each sculpted muscle. There was a raw energy in him, an untamed force that hummed beneath her touch. With each stroke, the connection between them grew deeper, more tangible, crackling like electricity in the air between them.

Her fingers mapped his chest, lingering on old scars that told stories of battles fought and survived, her touch soft and reverent. She was in awe of him—of the sheer strength and resilience that radiated from his body, yet how he allowed himself to be so vulnerable in her hands. It was an intimacy few knew, a side of Logan that only she was privileged to witness.

As her hands moved lower, trailing over the ridges of his abdomen, the air around them seemed to hum with a potent energy—a spark ignited between them that only grew hotter. Logan let out a low growl, his body responding to her touch, muscles tensing under her fingertips as if aching for more. The tension between them was almost too much to bear, and yet Indica savored every second, knowing that this moment was theirs alone.

Logan's hands were not idle either; they moved up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, teasing her over the fabric of her crop top, which suddenly seemed far too much of a barrier between them.

The scent of her—sweet and citrusy with a hint of wildflowers—hit him again, and this time, something snapped. Logan's grip tightened on Indica's hips, his breathing turning ragged. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with feral intensity, pupils blown wide with desire. The perfume that clung to her skin, mixed with the raw magic he could feel pulsing through her, was driving him wild.

Without warning, Logan's hands moved with rough urgency, tugging at her clothes, fingers gripping the fabric as he pulled her shirt over her head, his growls low and primal. He wasn't gentle—not this time. His need was too strong, too immediate. The sound of fabric tearing filled the air as he yanked her closer, his lips crashing against hers, swallowing the soft gasp that escaped her.

As the fabric fell away from her body, completely exposing her large breasts to the cool air of the kitchen and then to the heat of Logan's gaze, a sense of vulnerability swept over her, quickly chased away by the depth of desire she saw reflected in his eyes. His touch was reverent as he traced the lines of her body now laid bare before him.

Indica leaned back on her hands, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each heated breath. Logan's fingertips danced across her skin, exploring every curve and contour as if he were mapping a precious terrain.

"Beautiful...most beautiful thing I've seen in my life," His lips followed, pressing against her flesh with a mix of soft kisses and slight nibbles that drew small, delightful sounds from her throat.

As Logan's broad, hairy chest pressed against Indica's, he could feel something more than just the heat of her body. It was a sensation that pulsed just beneath her skin, a subtle energy—her magic—coursing through her and into him. His muscles tensed slightly as he felt it, a tingle that began at the point of contact and spread outward like sparks flickering through his veins.

The deeper his fingers dug into her hips, the more the sensation grew, as though her magic was responding to their closeness to his touch. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was impossible to ignore. He could feel the hum of power she carried within her, like electricity dancing beneath her fingertips, sparking against his skin.

It was intoxicating, the way her magic blended with the raw physical connection between them. Logan groaned softly, burying his face in the crook of her neck as the sensation intensified. "I can feel it," he growled, his voice thick with desire, "your magic... it's in me."

Indica smiled, her breath coming in soft, uneven gasps as she trailed her hands down his muscular arms, fingers tingling with the same power he felt. "It's always been yours," she whispered, her voice laced with a mix of passion and something deeper, a connection that went beyond the physical. "You bring it out of me."

The warmth of his mouth journeyed across her collarbone and delicately down the center of her chest, hovering over her heart as if he could feel the rampant beat echoing his own. Indica's body arched towards him, seeking the pressure of his touch, craving more of the intoxicating mixture of pain and pleasure only he could deliver.

Logan's gaze met hers, intense and unyielding. In that look, she saw the wildness of the beast within him, restrained but palpable, held back only by the thin thread of control he maintained. It thrilled her; it terrified her—a delicious terror that only fueled the flames higher.

He lifted her slightly, his hands firm under her thighs, shoving her skirt up, bringing her even closer, the strength in his arms unquestionable. Logan's lips found hers again, the kiss deep, consuming as if he could somehow draw her very soul into his.

Indica responded with equal fervor, her own passion matching his, stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss. Her hands roamed over the broad expanse of his shoulders and down his back, feeling every muscle tense under her touch.

Her fingers shook as she struggled with the button and zipper of his Levi's, her mind consumed by the searing heat of Logan's lips on her neck. Each kiss left a trail of fire that burned through her body, making it nearly impossible to concentrate on the task at hand.

As the button finally gave way and the zipper descended, a rush of excitement surged through her veins. With a swift movement, Logan tugged down his jeans and boxer briefs.

His thick, flushed cock erupted from his pants, pulsing and throbbing with desperate need. The intense pressure and heat burned through every nerve in his body as he ached to release his desire.

Indica's gaze locked onto him, her eyes dark with want and a touch of wonder. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she touched him, her fingers wrapping around his girth. Logan groaned, the sound deep and guttural, filled with raw need. His eyes closed for a moment in sheer pleasure at her touch.

His rough, calloused fingers traced a path up her trembling inner thighs until they reached the fabric barrier of her panties. With a primal growl, Logan hooked his fingers in the waistband and yanked them down with a force that left red marks on her skin. The scent of her arousal filled his senses as he exposed her throbbing wetness.

"Indi, darlin'," he whispered hoarsely, his voice strained with desire. He opened his eyes, locking on to hers with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. "Please."

The single word was a plea filled with longing and anticipation. Indica nodded slightly, understanding his need, feeling it mirrored in her own body. She shifted her position slightly, guiding him closer with a gentle tug of her hand. Logan obliged, stepping forward until he was nestled between her thighs.

Indica throws herself back onto the counter, knocking over the vase of flowers and scattering sugar across the kitchen. She bites down hard on her lip, eyes locked with her husband's as he leans in and sucks a pert nipple into his mouth. The scent of citrusy perfume fills his lungs, clouding his mind and igniting a primal urge within him. His higher brain struggles to maintain control as the beast inside of him roars, begging to be unleashed and ravish Indica without mercy.

"I'm going to devour you, my little witch," he snarls, his voice dripping with primal hunger as he positions the thick, fat head of his cock at her sloppy entrance.

With agonizing slowness, he begins to press inside her, torturing her with each millimeter of penetration.

Indica bites down hard on her lip, suppressing a whimper as she feels the pressure building inside her. The anticipation coils tightly in her body, setting every nerve on fire and making her ache for release. With a shaky breath, she nods in consent, giving him the permission he seeks.

"Harder...fuck me harder, my beast," she gasps out, surrendering herself completely to the wild desire that consumes them both.

Logan's response is immediate and powerful, his body responding to her plea with an intensity that matched the ferocity of his nature. He drives into her with a primal force that leaves no room for gentleness; each thrust deeper and harder than the last. The sound of their bodies colliding fills the kitchen, blending with Indica's gasps and moans.

The kitchen becomes a blur around them, the world narrowing down to the intense connection of flesh on flesh, the raw, nearly animalistic sounds filling the air: the slap of skin against skin, their mingled breaths, and growls of unrestrained desire.

Logan sets a punishing pace; each thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through Indica. He leans into her, his hot breath against her ear. "Mine," he whispers fiercely between gritted teeth, each word punctuated by another deep drive that sends shivers racing down her spine.

"Yours," she whimpers.

Indica feels herself spiraling toward oblivion, every nerve ending screaming as she clings to Logan, her fingers digging into his muscular shoulders. The world tilts and spins, every sensation heightened to an almost unbearable intensity. She feels as if she's teetering on the edge of a precipice, one more touch, one more thrust away from plummeting into ecstasy.

"Logan," she gasps, her voice breaking with the force of her passion. "Don't stop."

He growls in response, a sound so primal and unrestrained that it sends another wave of desire coursing through her. His hands grip her hips firmly, guiding her to meet each of his thrusts, the connection so deep that it feels as though they are merging into one entity driven by the same wild hunger.

"Won't stop.....never gonna stop," he growled in response, hips snapping forward hard.

Above them, the kitchen lights flicker as if resonating with the energy they are generating, a low hum filling the air alongside the scent of citrus and arousal. Indica's senses are overwhelmed; the scent of Logan's skin, the taste of his kisses, and the feeling of him moving within her fuse together in a dizzying crescendo of sensation.

Each thrust pushes her closer to the edge, and she can feel her body tighten around him, her climax building like a storm on the horizon. Logan senses it too, his movements becoming more desperate, his balls heavy and tight, the growing pressure at the base of his spine; he became more focused as he seeks their mutual release.

Indica's world narrows to the electric connection between them, each point of contact sparking with raw energy. Her cries grow louder, less inhibited as she nears the peak of her desire. She grabs Logan's face, pulling him down for a fierce kiss, their teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance in a dance as old as time.

The tension in her builds to an almost painful degree, her entire body wound tight as a bowstring. And then, with one final, deep thrust, Logan sends her over the edge. Her climax washes over her in waves, powerful and relentless.

"L-Lo—nngh," she cries out back arching off the counter.

Logan groans deep in his chest, feeling her velvety blood hot walls massage his aching cock. "Fuck!"

She clings to him, nails digging into his back as she rides the waves of her release, each contraction pulling a deeper growl from Logan's throat. His own climax follows close behind, spurred on by the clenching of her body around him. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, his body shuddering with each pulse as he empties himself into her, cum spurting out in thick milky ropes marking her as his in the most primal way possible.

The world seems to pause, their heavy breaths and the slowing thud of their hearts the only sounds in the now silent kitchen. Gradually, they come back to themselves, the haze of lust dissipating slightly as reality begins to seep back in.

Logan lifts his head to look at Indica, his eyes still dark with residual desire but softened with something deeper, a tender yet fierce affection that sends a warm flush through her body all over again. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead before easing back slightly to look at her.

"We might have gotten a bit carried away," he says with a rough chuckle, his voice still husky from their exertions. A sheepish grin crosses his face as he takes in the disarray around them—the overturned vase, sugar spread across the countertop, their clothes discarded haphazardly on the floor.

Indica laughs, a light, joyous sound that fills the kitchen. She reaches up to brush a damp lock of hair from his forehead, her touch gentle and affectionate. "Maybe just a little," she agrees, her eyes sparkling with amusement and love. "But I can't say I minded it."

He nods, his eyes locking with hers, intense and burning yet filled with an emotion so deep it makes her heart swell in her chest. He bends down to capture her lips once more, this kiss tender and loving, a stark contrast to the passion-fueled ones that had preceded it. It's a confirmation of something beyond their physical desire—an affirmation of their deep, unwavering connection.

Logan took a deep breath, that scent hitting him again, he felt his cock stir. "What the fuck are you wearing? Smells too damn good..." His voice was rough, teasing, but there was a glint in his eyes—like he still hadn't gotten enough of her, even after everything.

Indica chuckled softly, sliding off the counter and pushing her skirt down her legs before pulling on one of his t-shirts. The shirt, oversized on her, fell to just mid-thigh, and she padded barefoot over to the kitchen counter, where the small bottle of perfume sat. She picked it up, sniffing it once more just to test how strong it was before handing it over to him. "Here, see for yourself," she said, smiling.

Logan didn't even need to remove the lid to catch the scent; it hit him full force. He took a deep breath, his nose flaring. "Smells like pheromones," he muttered, more to himself than her, as his brow furrowed in curiosity.

As Indica leaned on the counter, her gaze dropped to the floor. A small brochure, glossy and folded, lay there like it had been waiting to be noticed. She picked it up and read it quickly, her eyes widening before she burst into a fit of giggles. Leaning heavily against the counter for support, she couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling up.

Logan raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. "What's so funny?"

Still giggling, Indica handed him the brochure and the little card that had come with the perfume. "Here, read this," she said, trying to catch her breath.

Logan scanned the brochure, his expression shifting from confusion to amusement as he read the bold print: Pheromone-Infused Perfume: Enhance Attraction, Elevate Desire.

Logan held the perfume bottle between his fingers like it might explode at any second, his brow furrowed as he stared at it before glancing back up at Indica. "Who the fuck sent you this?" His voice was gruff, laced with curiosity but edged with a little annoyance.

Indica's lips twitched into a knowing smile. "Vanessa," she replied, watching as his reaction shifted from confusion to that trademark grumpy scowl.

Logan grunted in response, his face hardening as he handed the bottle back to her like it was some sort of dangerous contraband. "She's almost as meddlesome as her husband," he muttered, shaking his head as if dealing with Wade's antics in spirit, even when the man wasn't physically present.

Indica couldn't help but laugh at that, setting the bottle back on the counter. "You know they mean well."

"Yeah, sure," Logan grumbled. "Well-meaning chaos, just like Wade."

Indica grinned, still laughing softly. "That's probably why every guy in town was acting crazy around me today. I didn't realize I was walking around wearing literal pheromones."

Logan let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head as he tossed the brochure on the counter. "No wonder. Damn near drove me feral myself." He pulled her close again, his arms wrapping around her waist as he buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply. "But hell, I don't need pheromones to want you, darlin'. You do that just fine on your own."

Logan stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Wait... what do you mean 'acting crazy'? Was somebody hitting on you?" His voice grew rougher, a low growl slipping into his words.

"Logan—" Indica started, trying to calm him down, but before she could say more, she was hoisted up and slung over his broad shoulder with no warning.

"I'll be damned if someone's hitting on my old lady," Logan grunted, marching through the kitchen and living room with determination.

Indica giggled, lightly tapping his back. "Where are you taking me?"

"To bed," he rumbled, his grip tightening possessively on her thighs. "We aren't leaving this house again until you smell like mine," he declared, giving her a playful slap on the ass as he stomped up the stairs, each step filled with intent.

Indica's laughter echoed through the house, warmth filling her chest. She knew Logan was serious, but his protectiveness had a way of making her feel cherished. She relaxed against him, content to let him be feral and wild, knowing all too well how much they belonged to each other.

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