#ornate fireplace mantel

[lawlietisawesome]

Living Room - Music Room Mid-sized elegant enclosed light wood floor living room photo with a music area, multicolored walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace and no tv

[le-temps-plus-que-parfait]

Formal Providence Example of a formal, enclosed, mid-sized beach-style living room with dark wood floors and brown walls, a corner fireplace, and a plaster fireplace.

[elinkling]

Formal in Providence

[tartarugadesign]

Get custom hand-carved mantels by Tartaruga Design.

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[bigbangbloom]

Craftsman Family Room Inspiration for a huge craftsman enclosed family room library remodel with a standard fireplace and a stone fireplace

[elise-rosy-unicorn]

Living Room Loft-Style (Chicago)

[yiiyiiwrites]

🗡️ | Relics and Ruins | 7 |

Part 7 [series masterlist]

Summary: you’re a mender from the dawn court specialised in cursed or broken relics. When Azriel enters the dawn court the truth-teller is silent, it’s not till he asks for your help that realises who you are. 3317words

The autumn court was not what you’d expected, the soggy leaves squelching beneath your boots. You weren't on your feet for long though, before strong arms lifted you, the side of your head lulling into his warmth.

Eris Vanserra carried you through the brown stone courtyard, ancient tree’s twisted branches spiralling out of the centre. Gold and browns fluttered from above, leaves as dark as blazing flames raining down.

A fox weaved its way through his legs and disappeared underneath a dying hedge, bushy tail swiping the dry leaves to the ground.

“You should not have come,” Eris mumbled, his grip on you tightening as he slipped past a group of patrolling guards. The hounds behind him silent, not even the sound of their paws hitting the tiled floor.

“You make me feel safe though, I just wanted somewhere to heal.” You grasped the lapels of his overcoat, clinging to that small source of comfort and warmth radiating off of him.

“The bargain makes you feel safe, you should not feel that way here.”

He didn't say how you should not feel safe with him, the autumn court another prison like under the mountain for him. You heard the tales of his father and lived to be at his brothers mercy.

Calling in the bargain felt as natural as breathing, like he needed you in this moment as much you needed him. You wondered sometimes if he was your mate, if the bargain had twisted the thread of fate between you making it harder for you to feel it.

You’d been there before, the day after you were freed from under the mountain. Unable to leave, lost in the familiarity of the autumn general and your need for security, which you found in him. Eris let you stay, returning you to the dawn court before nightfall. He’d warned you not to step foot in his home again.

The sun glaring through the stained glass windows, scorching hot against your face. Eris carried you through the intricate maze of narrow halls, if you didn't know any better you'd think he was doing it, so that you could not map out the palace. He nudged a set of double doors open with his shoulder, your leg falling from his grasp.

Eris shifted you in his arms, taking you through a circular entryway and ducking under thick velvety draped curtains to a large bedroom. A green marbled fireplace roared to life, ornate oak mantel framing the red flames, twirling leaves carved into the dark stained wood.

He was alway so put together, not a strand of hair out of place or crease marring his clothings, something you envied him for.

"You know, I didn't think I'd be mending you," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. He laid you onto the bed, elbows either side of you as he caged you in. You sunk into the plush blanket, sinking your fingers into the tufts of fur. Your eyes trailed his hands that traced your thigh, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

His fingers hooked onto the double knot of your bandage, untying and lifting your leg, palm cupping the back of your thigh so he could unravel the ribbon of material. Eris hesitated, "this will hurt."

You clutched his wrist, his amber eyes snapping to your hand. He pried your fingers from him, "you know how it goes," he mumbled, placing his palm on top of your thigh.

"Just be quick." You yelped as he pressed his weight into the wound, flesh burning beneath his touch. The fire licking around his fingers and curling from under his palm sealing whatever injury it touched. You'd been here before, manipulating his fire to mend or heal, you could feel your skin weaving itself back together.

Eris's touch lingered, the pad of his thumb soothing the tingles away from your thigh. The wound closed and skin meshed back together, a lighter patch of scarring in its place. "Do I want to know?" He asked, laying down beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped and your body rolled with his, closer to him.

You turned, swinging your leg and hovering above him, hands resting on his chest. "How can I even repay such kindness?" You smiled down at him. His fiery red hair splayed out like a halo against the fur blanket, but he was not as angelic as the image laying beneath you.

You'd always wondered what type of person he'd be when he'd become high lord. His hot and cold demeanour throwing you off each time you saw him. Today however, he seemed happy to be with you. Even if it was unplanned.

He tugged the chain dangling from your neck. "You know," he said, pulling you down by your necklace. His gaze on the pendant and the small blob of fae light spiralling inside. "We're not under the mountain anymore." He tugged you, lips crashing into yours, touch burning.

"I like it," you said, stuffing the pendant under your fitted tunic. "Besides, it's actually really useful." He hummed, stroking your cheek, but his gentleness did not last long as he gripped your chin.

"Scared a certain shadowsinger, will torture you in the darkness if you kiss the enemy?" he said, kissing you once again. Staking his claim, knowing that you would go back to the night court and smell of him.

You tensed at the mention of Azriel, you'd easily forgot his position in the night court. Maybe his charm was part of the game, you knew he was dangerous and risky, but you couldn't help but think of him.

"I don't mind playing the villain, if I get some intel in return."

You didn't bite the bait.

A pawn in every other high fae's game, seemed to be something you couldn't escape even above the mountain. Eris Vanserra a lesser evil though, you knew where you stood with him. The inner circle and the night court, you wasn't so sure. Too early to tell.

You'd play your part, trust Thesan and then spend the rest of your days in the Dawn court.

"I'm just telling you to tread carefully, whether it be the shadowsinger, brute or Rhys," Eris said, names dripping from his tongue like they were coated with poison. He tapped you leg, pushing it back so he could stand from the bed.

"I know my place don't worry, Vanserra." You were frequently reminded, if it wasn't him it was the tattoo staring back at you on your forearm. Those damned scars that littered your body, sometimes felt like they were on fire some nights.

A persistent knock rapped on the door, Eris ushering you into a secret panel in the wall. The light left with him and your scrambled for the locket under your tunic, sighing as the light calmed your racing heart.

Eris opened the door, grabbing your arm and hauling you out. His amber eyes were darker, whatever fuel added to his anger wasn't something you wanted to find out. "Bloody shadowsingers raising hell in search for you." His fingers dug into your arm, your boots leaving the ground in a blink. The forest spinning around your vision as you stumbled to the ground.

"No he wouldn't come for me, there must be something else," you said dusting the mud from your trousers, you side stepped a foxes den nearly falling in, in the process. Eris sighed, dragging you through the forest by your arm, you struggled to keep up with his long strides.

"Don't be stupid, he's come unannounced. I'm going to have to get to the guards before my father's men and try to save all our asses," he seethed, mumbling a string of curse of words as he dragged you deeper into the autumn borders.

You pulled yourself out of his grasp, "I have no idea why he's here."

Eris spun around, towering over you. "What did you make a bargain with him too?" He spat, smoothing his hair neatly behind his pointed ears. His hounds snapped at your ankles playfully, one in particular sitting on you muddy boots.

"Oh because that's the only reason people will ever help me, you don't have to be so cruel."

You didn't get a chance to debate, yells sounded on the path leading to the both of you. The glimmer of fire flitting through the breaks between the trees.

Eris shoved you in the opposite direction. "Go, I'm sure he'll find you first."

You didn't question it, you ran through the forest. Leaping over the mounds of roots, the sole of your boot lodged into the uneven ground. You tripped, knees slamming down but you stood back up and pushed your legs harder.

A darkness beckoned you, one you didn't second guess as you ran through it. It wasn't till you gave into the shadows, did you realise their owner was not there.

Azriel hated the shift in the air, the rustle of leaves twirling in circles around his shadows. The ground squelching beneath his boots, he shook the mud caking the stiff leather and scanned his surroundings.

Trees, each one looking the exact same. A stray dark wisp tore towards him and curled around his ear, her blossom scent merging with it.

The shade under the canopy of leaves shifted under the wave of grey clouds above. Azriel flitted through the dark planes like the wind carrying the leaves on the forest floor. Her scent becoming stronger as he tracked the stray wisp’s movements.

Muffled voices filtered through the cloak of darkness he wrapped around himself. Concealing his figure on the edge of the forest. An open scrap of land of rolling hills, golden brown and rusty reds merging into the horizon. In the centre, atop the towering cliff stood the Autumn courts palace.

Azriel had only ever stepped foot in the surroundings of autumn, never strayed too far from the dark oak trees. The daylight wouldn’t offer him much room to travel through the shadows, he’d have to go the long way and stick to the edge of the forest.

He’d lose her scent, but he needed to know that she was safe and protected. His forehead prickled with heat, a bead of sweat rolling down his hairline. It washed away as quick as it came, he wondered if it was another snap of the bond twisting his stomach and yanking him forwards. Without thinking he stepped out into the Autumn fields.

Fuck. A guard yelled at him, a ball of fire charging for him. A charred spec of ash burnt through his fighting leathers on his arm and he snuffed the spark out with his gloved hand.

Azriel fell back into the forest floor, letting the overgrown darkness carry him away. He had no choice, but to hunt.

Shrinking into the base of a tree trunk, Azriel waited for the voice to travel closer. He circled the tree, avoiding the flicker of flames. One wrong step and the light would announce his arrival.

Azriel commanded the shadows, roots ripping from the ground curling them around the guards ankles.

Three heavily armed guards slammed to the forest floor, metal armour clanging against their swords. The fire dropped to the mossy ground, flames chasing their horses away.

He felt the heat behind him before he saw the leaves alight. Fuck, the fire spread wildly, eating away at anything its path. His shadows retreated back over his shoulders hissing and pushing him back out into the rolling hills.

Rhys was going to be pissed, Azriel might have upped Cassian’s tearing down a building. All by setting the whole of the autumn forest alight.

He tore away from his shadows and ran away from the edge, he’d already been walking the tightrope with his mate. One more step would mean war in this court, in order to see her he’d have to take his time and not be found. Oh how he wanted to take the quick and dangerous route, but he was no use to her if he got caught.

Azriel swore he could hear the crackling of flames catching the roots behind him. He didn’t dare glance back, the thought of her and finding her scent the only thing keeping his legs going. He tried to stay ahead, jumping between the shadows, but he’d never been this far before and didn’t want to go too far that he’d not be able to find his way back. He could only travel to places he’d been before, so learning a new path threw him through the wringer. His head pounding, throat burning and eyes stinging.

Trees drew closer together, branches snatching him back as he ventured deeper into the darkness. The sun was beginning to set, an advantage for him not her. He did not want her lost to the darkness.

His shadows leapt forwards, not a flicker of a black wisp surrounding him. He frowned, summoning them back but they never returned.

And then she stepped out of the dark hurricane containing her, hand reaching for his and he took it without hesitation.

The wisps circled them like bats, the world around them disappearing and she closed her eyes as one pesky wisp curled down her arm, resting on their clasped hands. The ball of fae light escaped her locket and floated between them, it bobbed in the air and danced behind them as Azriel pulled her through the dark abyss.

The cold wind nipped his cheeks as he opened his eyes, boots crunching on the hard snow. Her body shivering against his, clinging to his warmth.

"Where are we?" She asked, tucking her hands under her arms. Her gaze swept the mountain, a blanket of fresh white snow tainted by their footsteps. No one else had stepped foot up here and the cluster of clouds in the sky were screaming the warnings of a blizzard.

"The Illyrian mountains," Azriel said, he slung his arm around her shoulder and tucked her into his side trying to shield her from the chilling breeze. He couldn't travel close, the small trek something he didn't think about in his state of panic. It was the first place he thought of.

Azriel stilled, pulling her away to check her thigh. A gaping rip hung from her trousers and the wound nothing, but a light scar against her smooth skin. He didn't ask her how, he scooped her up in his arms trying to fight the smile as she squeaked in surprise.

"What are you doing?" Her fingers clutched the hair at the nape of his neck like they were meant to mould together. His shadows hovered over her bare skin as if they were trying to generate some extra warmth for her.

"There's a cabin," he said nudging his head to the small wooden house tucked between the two upper fangs of the mountains. "Sorry, this is the first place I thought of. It won't take long to get up there."

Azriel could still hear the crackles of the forest setting alight, he wondered if she too had seen the blaze she was running towards, that she was running to him. Did she only see him in the moment, like he did her?

"Looks like we might have to stay the night, blizzards drawing in."

The trek did not take him long, he flew up the steep incline and walked the pebbled path shielding them from the roaring wind. Her eyes darted along the trail, Azriel reassuring her that she was safe. He opened the cabin, placing her down as soon as he closed the door.

She slipped off her boots, fuzzy socks padding along the wooden floor. "This is your home?" She asked, her gaze flitting from the kitchen to the living area. She collapsed into the leather sofa, hand stroking the fur blanket hung over the back.

"Rhys's, but I grew up here with him and Cassian." Azriel leant on the edge of the dining table and crossed his arms over his chest. She flinched as the glow of the fire flashed to life, her gaze lost in the dancing flames. Her head bobbed in response, but she was still somewhere else, deep in thought toying with the locket around her neck.

Two steaming hot cups of cocoa clinked to the table, he offered her one and she held it between her palms, face hovering over the rim to bring some heat to her face. She sipped the hot drink, her back relaxing back into the sofa as if the cocoa had thawed her out. He couldn't help the tug of his lips, but he hid it behind his cup.

She stood from the sofa and placed the cup on the table. "Your face," she gasped pointing to his cheek. Her touch feathery light as she turned his face in her hold. "You have ointments for them? Ohh thank you," she chuckled as they appeared beside her, the house dropping a sweet on the table.

Azriel blinked, lips parted as she dipped her finger into a tub of healing balm and smoothed it over the cuts on his jaw, cheek and brow. He hated the overpowering menthol scent, but he stared at her positioned between his legs. Something so innocent and caring felt oddly intimate in the moment. He cleared his throat and she hesitated placing the strips on his brow.

"I'm sorry," he said, head lowering and heart thumping in his chest. He'd wanted to say it ever since they'd opened that bloody sword, the guilt eating away him much like the worm that feasted on her flesh.

"Whatever for?" She said, nervous laugh trembling through her hands as she tipped his chin up with her finger. Her amber eyes roaming his face. So gentle and calming in her presence, something he wanted to lean into more.

God's he wanted to kiss her. He clenched his fists, but could not look away from her.

"For not protecting you when the time come." He'd replayed the moment over and over, his only source of help was the ball of light leading him to her in the mist of the library. It seemed to be only constant in her life, the white light. He wondered if he would ever be that for her one day.

"It's not your fault Azriel," she said placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it in her hold. "That thing had centuries on us. No way of knowing what it was. Don't be so hard on yourself, not everything has to fall on your shoulders." She shook his shoulders as if trying to shake some sense into him.

She combed back a strand of his hair away from his forehead, withdrawing as she realised what she'd done. "I mean I'm not sure if its got centuries or decades on you, I'm still quite spry. Five hundred and twelve."

Azriel leant back trying to capture the smile spreading across her face. "Oh is that so?" He inched closer, nose a hair-width away from hers. His shadows trying to tug them both closer.

"I didn't know you were a relic too." She glanced down to hips lips, hand lacing at the back of his neck.

"Does that mean you want to study me too?" Azriel asked, palm pressing into her spine as he tugged her closer. Her warm breath fanned against his face, but he tensed. All he could smell on her lips was Eris Vanserra's scent, but he kissed her anyways trying to rid her of the autumn generals mark.

Their bodies were like two hurricanes merging together, he lifted her and sat her on the table. She dragged him closer trying to chase his movements so that she could keep his lips upon hers.

She pulled away trying to catch her breath, "that was unexpected," she whispered touching her swollen lips.

taglist: @rcarbo1 , @st4r-girl-official ,@azrielswhore , @cynthiesjmxazrielslover , @shizukestar , @wolfbc97 @thecraziestcrayon , @i-am-infinite , @krowiathemythologynerd @nebarious @sidthedollface2 @sttvrdustt @negomi123 @clementine11102

Ahhhh, lots is happening but she's also very confused 🤪 Hope you enjoyed this Chapter. And thank you for interacting/reading, love reading all your comments.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

WTH House. This is the most bizarre conversion I've ever seen. It's a 1910 former school that was later used as a Levi jeans factory in the 60s. The current owners turned it into a home in New Market, Alabama. 6bds, 4ba, $915K. You gotta see this one.

The entry hall still looks like a long school house layout.

And, this is the sitting room

Pay special attention to the fireplaces. The firebox on this one looks like the entrance to another dimension. Where did they get such fancy carved mantels?

The dining room. With the checkered floors, it kind of gives Alice in Wonderland vibes.

Somebody had a vision when converting this house. Total elegance.

Look at the mural in the kitchen. It looks like they spent a lot of money on this conversion. The exhaust hood is so high and open. I wouldn't want to climb up there and reach inside for the filter.

The marble floors in this home. Here's another sitting room with niches for life size statues, stained glass windows, a tray ceiling painted with clouds and an ornately carved fireplace.

I've never seen fireplaces with high hearths and an opening in the middle like this.

Interesting bathroom. What is that tarnished bowl on the floor?

The halls are definitely long school halls.

This room is like an office.

Is that a fish tank in the fireplace? I don't understand the loose stones scattered on the floor.

Large marble shower with a vintage corner china cabinet.

Interesting bedroom setup.

Looks like the primary bedroom.

I thought that this was a guest house.

But, it's just one big room.

This is just weird.

Very large porch with Greek columns, and a path to a round patio with an elaborate fountain.

Statuary and murky water dot the property.

A lacy gazebo.

More statuary.

There's a lot of land- the lot is 5 acres.

[damedechance]

𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜 𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖌 (pt 6/12)

𓇢𓆸 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑜3 || 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

Pairing: Gwynriel Status: Ch 6/12 (Read from Pt 1) Rated: E (Explicit) Summary: Three years ago, Gwyneth Berdara became the ward of the Night Institute, a band of hunters led by Rhysand who work to rid the world of vampires. After one fateful night where Gwyn unwittingly welcomes one such creature into their home, she strikes a deal with Azriel, one that is just as likely to condemn them as it is to save them.

Massive thank you to @climbthemountain2020 for beta'ing this chapter, and for overall being amazing and sweet and kind!

𓇢𓆸 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑠𝑛𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑡

VI.

Today, the sun blared bright and relentless in a powdery blue sky, and the unexpectedly pleasant winter day has rendered the inhabitants of the Night Institute lethargic, and to a hopeless degree. The three Archeron sisters–having appeared no more disturbed by Gwyn’s sudden and frantic entry than they might an errant fly–lie strewn about the music room in various states of inertia.

Elain, having stirred only to flutter her fingers in a half-hearted wave upon Gwyn’s arrival, naps in an armchair by the entrance. Both of her legs dangle over one end, while her hand is flung delicately over her face, blocking out the midday sun which stretches lazily across her upper half. A crumpled up ball of paper lies on her stomach, slowly rising and falling in time with her dozing breaths.

The ball of paper–and its numerous companions–can be traced back to Feyre. She sits cross legged on the ornate persian rug with her sketchbook propped up in her lap and her pencil scratching furiously over the pages. In fits of irritation, she groans before tearing a page from her sketchbook and tossing it carelessly onto the rug, the settee, or the low table placed in front of it. One of her trashed drawings has found its way into a bowl of fruit on the table, and another rests beside a crystal vase on the fireplace mantel.

Gwyn tracks the iridescent refractions scattered by the faceted surface of the vase. Notices how they cast soft colors over the sleek mahogany finish of the piano, or how they slant across Nesta’s pensive face–the prismatic effect softening the eldest Archeron’s usually sharp and angled expression. Blurring the edges, almost.

Nesta sits on the piano bench with her back to the keys, and stares down at a velvet dress lying across her lap. One of the many things Gwyn has ruined, the bodice is marred by a gruesome stain.

Fidgeting once more, Gwyn swallows against a lump in her throat and watches as Nesta scrapes at the stain with a fingernail. Dried mud flakes off, illuminated by the sunbeam that Gwyn avoids, and drifts to the ground. Gwyn’s foot slides forward, grinding it into the carpet with the toe of her leather boot.

“Is that all?” Nesta asks finally.

“Yes,” Gwyn says, her voice rising in unnatural inflection. She tugs the edge of her sleeve even further down. “I’m so sorry, Nesta.”

Nesta hums, nodding contemplatively down at her lap while Gwyn fails in repressing memories from this morning. The sun hanging low, practically scalding against her back as the mud seeped cool into the knees of her skirt. She kneeled in that garden, rubbing filth into the fibers of the most beautiful dress she’s ever worn, until even the smallest dot of blood was obscured. The pungency of the wet earth clings to her skin even now, despite an hour spent scrubbing her skin raw in a hot bath while she rehearsed this apology over and over–each iteration proving more and more inadequate than the one that came before.

She told Nesta she fell in a mud puddle while walking home from the gala. And now that the lie has left her mouth, all that remains within is a tongue pressing heavy and useless against her teeth, and lips groping for a suitable explanation that will never come.

Finally, Gwyn forces out, “I can take it to be laundered.”

Gwyn flinches, not only at how shrill her voice sounds, but at how the words ring so hollow. Gwyn has not left the Institute in all the nights she’s lived here, save for the one she wishes never happened. She certainly would not leave the house to see to a dress being laundered.

“What?” Nesta, usually so stern, lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “Laundered?”

Nesta’s stare is cold as ice against the side of Gwyn’s face. Gwyn swirls her tongue in her mouth until it is pressing against the inside of her cheek, and she stares vacantly at the crystal vase. The center of her palm feels like it is burning, and surely Nesta can see it. Gwyn’s transgressions, playing so blatantly across her face.

“Gwyn,” Nesta says finally. Firmly enough, that Gwyn reluctantly flicks her gaze back to her friend. She watches Nesta shake her head and set the dress beside her on the piano bench. “Truthfully, I don’t care about the dress. The stain will come out, or it won’t. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Gwyn voids her lungs, feeling them shrivel up in her chest as tears begin to sting at the corners of her eyes. She lifts her chin so that she is looking at the overhead light fixture, and allows it to spot her vision instead of looking into the forgiving face of her only and greatest friend.

Tightly, Gwyn says, “Are you?”

“Yes,” Nesta says, pushing up to stand.

Panic constricts Gwyn’s veins, her blood running cold as Nesta snatches Gwyn’s hand out from behind her back. Gwyn is so sure that Nesta is about to turn it over, will shove the sleeve back to reveal the bandage wrapped around her wrist, that the panic does not recede even when Nesta surprises her by clasping Gwyn’s hand in both of hers.

“You disappeared,” Nesta says, anguish flashing briefly in her expression. She presses a glancing kiss to Gwyn’s knuckles, and smooths it away with the brushing of her fingers over Gwyn’s rings. Nesta continues, “I looked for you all over. I worried something might have happened, or that you were scared.”

Gwyn flushes, unsure whether it is from embarrassment or the sight of the cuff of her sleeve slowly slipping down her wrist. She can see the edge of the hastily wrapped bandage visible through the lace, and she swallows.

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Gwyn breathes through a clenched jaw, barely restraining herself from tearing her hand out of Nesta’s grip.

“Nevermind that now,” Nesta says dismissively. “If falling in the mud is the worst to have happened to you, I am glad for the stain. It means you must have had a splendid night.”

“I did,” Gwyn says, stretching her mouth into a smile in the hopes it will sufficiently convince Nesta before any more of her wrist is revealed. Of all the members of the Institute, Nesta is the one Gwyn wants to keep it from most.

“Good,” Nesta says. “It’s settled.”

Apparently satisfied, Nesta finally releases Gwyn’s hand, and it is promptly replaced behind her back once Nesta returns to the piano.

“Any requests?” Nesta neatly slides herself onto the bench.

Gwyn allows for a moment to pass before she answers, her heart still thundering in her ears and all of her focus attuned to forcing her breaths out evenly. Every passing moment serves to wind her nerves tighter and tighter, a festering coil at the center of her belly–and she wonders just how much of it she is expected to endure before they snap completely, their ends fraying.

Gwyn steps forward, that poor imitation of a smile still plastered on her face, and watches Nesta listlessly strike a few discordant notes at random.

“Beethoven,” Gwyn murmurs, tucking her hand into the folds of her skirt. “If you have any prepared.” From the armchair in the corner, Elain suddenly emits an uncharacteristically loud and very beleaguered groan. “Beethoven is all she has prepared,” Elain gripes.

˖⁺‧₊˚⸸˚₊‧⁺˖

[nocasdatsgay]

The Price You Pay For Power Ch. 3

Pairing: Neris

Word Count: 3767 | Warnings: Beron, minor NC slander because of Beron| Chapter Rating: T

Story Summary: Eris revises his bargain with Rhysand: Nesta for Autumn Healers. He agrees and Nesta is sent to Autumn under the guise as Eris’s new bride in order to assist with removing Beron for good. Now she has to navigate a new court and also decide just how much she will trust her new husband

AN: I am terrible with descriptions but I think I did okay with this chapter. Shout out to google so I could look up smells and color palettes

Chapter Summary: Nesta enters the Forest House and is forced to swear loyalty to Autumn

MasterPost | Read it here on AO3 | Previous Chapter

Or read below

Eris did not wait for her. He walked ahead, hands behind his back. She picked up the skirt of her dress to keep it off the dirt path. She followed him up the stairs, doing her best to keep her head high and back stiff. They made it to the doors and Eris nodded to the guards. 

The large hall that appeared through the doors was nothing like anything Nesta had seen before. High vaulted ceiling with panels of windows to the right and left almost floor to ceiling. Like a brightly lit tunnel that would lead her to her doom. The ceiling was a light gold, beams dark wood. A long, large ornate rug, colorful as the Autumn trees with gold, orange, and rust red swirls stretched out to the end where the hall split to left and right corridors. There was another set of large doors at the end of the hall, closed. 

Eris stopped and looked at her. “The throne room is at the end there. I will escort you to your rooms. I wasn’t lying when I said you smelled.” 

Of course she was forced to be made presentable- acceptable to their standards. Like she always was. 

His eyes raked over her. “The servants will provide you with less drab clothing.” 

“I will wear what you ask but I want to keep this dress,” she looked down her nose at him, heart beating fast. One of the few dresses she owned that she loved. 

He considered her for a moment. “No one will be taking your dress from you.” 

“Good.” 

The moment of silence that followed, and she held his gaze wondering if he would lash out at her. Instead he broke first, turning and walking towards the end of the hall. She followed him. The house was a maze and definitely more like a castle than a ‘house’. Numerous doors lined each hall they passed through, no windows to be seen save for the first staircase they ascended.

“Who all resides here?” She dared to ask as they walked. 

“Autumn families have always been large, second to Winter. My brothers and I all have a set of chambers of our own. Some prominent court members and their families live here as well. Servants reside on the farthest end.” They ascended another staircase. “There is a large courtyard and orchard in the center. The house surrounds it.” 

This hallway only had four doors, spaced greatly apart from one another. They stopped at the first one on the right. 

“These will be your chambers.” Eris opened the door and held it for her, guiding her in. 

The door opened to a massive sitting room. The walls were cream colored, the beams similar to the ones in the entry hall lined the roof. A sole large window graced the wall in front of them with a sitting cushion on the window sill. There was a door to the left. Nesta assumed it led to her bed chambers. A fireplace was stationed centered to the right from that door. It had a beautiful onyx mantel. The polished wooden floors were covered with large burnt orange rugs.

A couch, sitting tables, plush chairs- her eyes ran over them with disinterest. Then she gasped when she glanced at the right wall. The entire wall was shelves covered in books with potted flowers scattered in between. She was not Elain and could not tell what most of them were; she only knew they were beautiful to look at. She recognized the roses and the daisies, though their coloring was something she’d never seen before. 

Eris’s voice drew her out of her thoughts. “Is it to your standards?” 

“I suppose it will have to be,” she replied without thinking, sarcasm getting the better of her. She looked back at Eris and couldn’t read his expression so she added, “Yes. It is.” 

“Through that door,” he nodded his head to the left. “Is a hall. You’ll have a study, bathing chamber and bed chamber.” He paused. “There is a door that leads to an empty room in your bedchambers. You won’t have to worry about it.” 

“What is it?” 

Though his expression was unchanged save for a slight crinkle of his nose when he replied, “A nursery.”

Right, Nesta thought. She let the realization wash through her- she remembered this was for show. 

“And your rooms?” She asked. 

“Across the hall.” He waved his hand and she felt the magic casted in the room. “Your rooms will be warded but only for tonight.” He then reached into the air and pulled forth a pouch. He held it out to her. 

“What is this?” She said, taking it slowly. It felt full of coins. 

“Your wages.” 

She frowned. “You’re paying me?” 

Nesta looked back at the coin purse in her hand with a harder scowl. It felt wrong to accept it. It reminded her of solstice; money in exchange for the presence of her body, like a common whore. 

“Would you rather I pay Rhsyand?” Eris’s voice brought her back to the present. When she didn’t respond, he smirked. “I suspected you’d want to save your actual wages. I will provide them to you for every week you’re present. You will have access to my accounts once we are wed for anything you’ll need while here.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll run up your tab?” She didn’t stop the bitterness that laced her remark. 

He studied her for a moment. Something flashed across his features. Nesta swore it was a brief understanding. 

“My credit is only good within this court and honestly- it would not hurt for some of the money to go back where it belongs. Just don’t spend a thousand marks in one go and no one will be the wiser.” Eris added, “we may be getting married but you are working. I can’t speak for your high lord but I pay the people who work for me, female or not.” 

Nesta scowled at his tone but didn’t comment on his remark. Thankfully a knock came at the door. 

“You brought that with you, understood?” Eris said sternly, glancing down at the purse. She nodded and he went to the door. 

Two females came in, heads bowed and not looking up. They were pale like Eris, but their hair was a deep brown. She could see their ears poking out their hair. They were high fae. They wore plain ruby red linen dresses, with white aprons. Eris looked down at them with contempt. 

“These are the assigned servants for your chambers.” Nesta’s eyes widened at the horrible realization. “They will help dress you. I’ll retrieve you for dinner shortly.” 

Nesta only nodded. She felt her shoulders relax when he slipped out the door and shut it. She looked at the servants, who still did not lift their heads. 

“I’m Nesta,” she said, breaking the silence. They didn’t reply. “Do you have names? You can stand up straight, I won't harm you.”

She watched their heads tilt towards each other. Finally one of them spoke. 

“We are not allowed to look our betters in their eyes, Lady Nesta.” The one on the left whispered. “It’s easier if you simply pretend we aren’t here.” 

Nesta frowned. “I don’t want for you to be in trouble but I would like to at least be able to address you. If that’s acceptable.” 

Another pause and the other female spoke. “My name is Opal.”

“Opal. And you?” Nesta didn’t want to push but she also did not wish to say ‘you, female’ any time she needed something. 

She shifted her feet. “You may call me Lynn, if that’s acceptable.”

“Lynn. Pleasure to meet you, Opal and Lynn.” Nesta let her shoulders relax. She didn’t realize she had held them tensely. “I was told you would help me get ready for this evening.”

“Yes,” Opal nodded. 

They both lifted their heads finally but neither looked her in the eyes. Nesta did not have time to linger her gaze; both went to the door to the right and opened it to walk through. It was a small hall. Eris was correct that there was an open study, with a desk and more sitting chairs. The hall ended in another door. 

She followed them through and her eyes widened. The bedroom was enormous. The four post bed was as large as the ones made to hold the Illyrians. A blood red duvet and matching pillows covered it with a peak of white sheets folded over at the top. There were red curtains tied to the headposts. Near the bed was a privacy panel. It was decorated in a simple fashion to the rug in the entry hall. 

Two doors were on opposite ends. The one on the right was opened. She could see the tiled floor and assumed it was the bathing chambers. Which meant the other door was the nursery. She decided she would avoid it. The two girls scattered, one to the bathing chamber and the other to one of two massive wooden wardrobes along the wall. Nesta watched her open the doors and her eyes widened at the amount of dresses inside. 

“Lady Nesta. I was informed you will need to wear blue. Once you are finished with your bath, would you like to choose your dress or would you prefer we lay out the options?” 

Opal kept her eyes to the ground. She could at least see her face now. Opal had a round face, small lips, simple nose, and wide flat cheeks. Nesta’s mother would have called her plain. 

“Lay out the options.” It was easier than she thought to slip into the persona she held when she was human and running the household. “I prefer long sleeves and a modest bodice.” 

Opal nodded. Nesta left her and went to the bathing room. It was the most plain room, white tiles and a large tub, sink, and toilet. Lynn was bent over running the water and Nesta stared at the tub. She could bathe now without much issue but already being on edge made old thoughts skirt the outer edges of her mind. She stepped forward and saw the water was already close to where she would be comfortable. 

“That will be enough.” Lynn startled and turned off the faucet. She knew she sounded condescending but she couldn’t let them think she was weak. “I would like to bathe on my own, thank you.” 

Unlike Opal she did not lift her head. She curtsied and went quickly out the door. Nesta went to the door and shut it. She took a deep breath and looked back to the tub. She walked up to the tub and stuck her hand in the water. It was too warm- almost scalding. With a quick debate in her mind, she decided she would weather it. 

Bathing was easier once she was in the water. She scrubbed at her skin until it turned pink. The smell of the soap caught her off guard. It had a faint wooden undertone, but mostly smelt of vanilla and something citrus. A strange combination; something she would not have anticipated for Autumn. Yet it worked. She refused to wash her hair as she did not have the time to dry it. Eris could fuss at her if he wanted to.  

Nesta found a robe to wear once she was done and dried. She came out with her dress on her arm and found the maids had laid out two dresses on the bed. She sat her own dress and coin purse from Eris on one of  the end tables. 

Opal came up to her. “I spoke with the other servants and Lord Eris requested you pick from the two.” She gestured to the bed. 

“Was he in here?” 

“No my Lady,” she shook her head, downcast eyes wide. “He specified the color.” 

Nesta wrinkled her nose. “Will he always be choosing the color?” 

“No, my Lady. That is the Lady of Autumn who manages the weekly dinner color schemes.” 

Nesta hummed and looked at the dresses. They were both a varying shade of dark teal, more blue than green. She picked up the one on the left and studied it. It was warmer in tone and would probably look better against her skin. The sleeves were long as requested; high neckline and a faux corset when she turned it. The fabric was soft but thick. Simple and safe. 

“I will be fine with this one.” She looked back at Opal. “Where is Lynn?”

“She went to retrieve some refreshments for you.” 

“And how much longer until dinner?” 

Nesta stayed and ate lunch with her sisters one last time before leaving. It was Feyre’s request; it postponed the meeting with Eris by at least three hours. Of which Cassian and Rhys made themselves scarce while she and her sisters contemplated on what information Nesta could gather while there. 

And what horrors might await her. 

“In a few hours. However I was requested to help you get ready as soon as possible. Shall I help you into your dress, Lady Nesta?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

Nesta ended up being thankful for the help. Two layers- her underthings and a shift, were required before she was helped into the dress. It was as heavy as she anticipated. Lynn came back with a pitcher of water and some fruit. Nesta muttered her thanks and the female scampered off again. Opal left once the dress was tied and new white heeled boots laced onto her feet. 

Now she simply had to wait with nothing to do. 

She went to leave but a noise startled her. A letter had landed on her bed. She froze for a moment, before grabbing it and ripping it open. Her chest was in knots seeing it was Gwyn. 

Nesta

I went and waited for Cassian to return the moment I got your letter. I was wondering why training was canceled. I’m livid I didn’t get to say goodbye. He did clear a few things up once I was able to corner him. You should have seen him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cassian cower before. He says we need to be vigilant on how we communicate and what we say. I wish you could see my eyes rolling as I write this. I suppose I should congratulate you on your marriage. I wish I could be there with you as you take this next step. Emerie too. I didn’t see her today but she wrote to me to discuss your announcement. 

We love you Nesta. I hope we can visit sometime after your ‘honeymoon period’. 

Nesta held the letter close to her chest. Tears welled in her eyes, from what she couldn’t pinpoint. It was possibly the notion that her nor Emerie were angry with her. Or that her friend left the library to hunt Cassian down. She pulled it back and looked it over again. 

She needed to learn how to send letters through magic. She dreaded what Eris would ask in return for such assistance. She folded the letter and placed it under her dress and coin purse. She didn’t need the maids seeing it and reporting her. 

Satisfied, she left her bedroom and went to the sitting chamber. She was startled to find Eris waiting for her. His coat was the same color as her dress, his pants the same white as her boots. Oddly, it didn’t wash him out. If anything it made him look somewhat appealing. His eyes raked over her quickly. Nesta scowled when he leaned in towards her and sniffed the air. 

“You smell better. That alone is a vast improvement.”

“I cannot say the same for you,” she replied, crossing her arms. “I was told dinner was in a few hours.”

“It is. However, we’re meeting my family in the throne room. Beron is going to make you swear your allegiance.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“You don’t have a choice,” Eris replied darkly. “Come, or we will be late.” 

—————

The throne room reminded her of the one in Hewn City. Only the pillars mimicked massive tree trunks and the tile was crimson red. At the end of the room sat Beron on a golden throne. His wife sat beside him on his left and the Vansera brothers flanked both sides. All of them except for Beron, wore varying shades of the same dark blue she and Eris wore. 

Nesta’s gaze lingered on a female she didn’t recognize next to one of the stocker brothers at the end. Her dark blonde hair looked out of place amongst the row of dark brown and red hair. That must be the wife Eris mentioned. Soon Nesta would be up there looking just as out of place. 

Eris walked in front of her and stopped a few feet from the steps to the dais. Nesta stood behind him. 

“High Lord Beron,” Eris said, cutting through the silence. “I formally present my betrothed, Nesta Archeron.” 

Nesta curtised. 

“Nesta Archeron,” Beron’s voice rang out through the hall. “My son told me you accepted his proposal. Quite a shock you willingly left the Night Court.”

Nesta did not reply. That seemed the correct thing to do. Beron stood and came down the steps, stopping in front of them. 

“You will swear your loyalty to me if you wish to remain in this house.” 

Just like with Rhysand, she felt the pull. The fae part of her wanting to submit. She curtsied deeper than before and bowed her head. 

“I swear my allegiance to the Autumn Court. And it’s high lord.” 

Ancient magic washed over her. She tried to not vomit from it. She straightened and stared Beron in the eyes. He sneered at her. 

“Show me your powers, girl.” 

Nesta’s eyes widened. He laced his words as a command. She looked at Eris beside her. He simply nodded at her. Could he not see the fear in her eyes? Gwyn’s voice was suddenly loud in her mind. I am the rock against which the surf crashes. She repeated it in her mind. Numbly she held out her left hand. She kept repeating the phrase and she dug deep into herself. To the part she buried for so long. It seemed like everyone in the room waited on bated breath. Finally a silver ball of flame manifested itself. 

Beron approached her, his hand covered in flames. He held out his own flaming hand over hers. She extinguished her own fire before he could touch it. 

“I agreed to allow Eris to bring you here because the crone Briallyn has expressed her desire for you.” He lowered his hand, putting out his own flames. “She thinks you are the reason her youth was stolen in the cauldron.” 

Nesta lowered her own arm and stood still, back straight and unmoving. She did not answer him. A test. 

Beron chuckled to himself darkly. “I think you’re a valuable asset. Much more valuable here than with her. Much more valuable alive. After the wedding, you will show me where on a map this prized city Rhysand has kept secret is located. You will explain to me its inner workings.”

Nesta laughed. She didn’t even stop when rage graced Beron’s features and flames rose in his eyes. 

“High Lord, I was the eldest daughter of a wealthy merchant. I was raised to marry and run a household. To bear children. I do not know how to read a map nor do I understand the workings of a city like Velaris. It was not becoming of a female to do so.”

The lie fell easily off her tongue. Beron did not seem to buy it. 

“Your sister is High Lady.” He said it with such venom she almost recoiled. You were at the High Lord’s meeting and you were present during the war.”

“I was forced to be present for the war. My sister being High Lady has nothing to do with my own abilities. And even then, they are incomparable.” 

“What exactly are you suggesting?” 

Nesta needed to play this right. Beron was scrutinizing every word she spoke to find a fault. She wished she could glare at Eris. He could have warned her. She calmed herself and responded. 

“I am suggesting Rhysand is a fool. My youngest sister was practically raised feral. Youngest and least beautiful of three daughters; my mother had no time nor the patience for her. She didn’t even know how to read until recently. He puts her on a pedestal because she is his mate. He lets her play pretend. She only understands a map herself because it has pictures.”

One of the brothers snickered at her comment and Nesta felt the bile in her throat. She prayed to whatever gods were listening that if this got back to Feyre, she would understand. Understand she said these things to keep them all safe.  However, she kept going, her harsh tongue knowing no end once it began. 

“Rhysand despises me. I was not allowed into the city. I was sequestered to a house built into the side of a mountain. House of Wind, he called it. The only way out being ten thousand steps or to be flown down. Punishment for my sister’s inability to read and her feral behavior which got her caught by a fae in the first place. He forced me to work in its library. The only time I was allowed to leave was during Solstice. I was flown directly to their home and only at Feyre’s request. He was looking for an excuse to be rid of me without killing me.” 

Beron studied her for a moment, taking in her words. “Show me your flames again. This time do not extinguish them.”

She did not let her expression change as she held her arm out again. The flames came forth easier this time. Beron manifested an apple. He reached over her hand and dropped it into the flame- onto her palm. Nesta willed it to not burn- to not turn to ash. She had no understanding of her powers and she knew whatever Beron saw, he would use against her. 

Her power cooperated. 

He plucked the apple out of her hand and turned it, studying it. She let her flames die and hoped he would not punish her for it. He finally looked back at her, a gleam she couldn’t place in his eye. 

“Welcome, Lady Nesta. I look forward to having you as my newest daughter-in-law.” 

Next Chapter

[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.

Mood Board

Go back to Sif's Masterlist

[heavensbeehall]

"Mockingjay", Chapter 23

Part 3: The Assassin

Chapter 23: ... so everyone is dead including the random lady with a sausage that Katniss shot. What is left of Squd 451 has made it to the City Center. They play dress up in the dead woman's apartment. Cressida leads them to Tigris. You remember Tigris, right? From the Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes! Tigris hides them in her shop. Katniss confesses that she has no assignment to kill Snow and everyone is like, "Duh." Peeta says they really thought she could kill him and I have questions about that. Tigris gives them food. Then Katniss overhears Gale and Peeta talking. Gale gives a somewhat harsh--in my opinion--assessment of who Katniss will pick.

One glance at my companions tells me this is no time for a stealth attack on Snow. Gale's still losing blood from the neck wound, which we haven't even cleaned. Peeta's sitting on a velvet sofa with his teeth clamped down on a pillow, either fighting off madness or containing a scream. Pollux weeps against the mantel of an ornate fireplace. Cressida stands determinedly at my side, but she's so pale her lips are bloodless.

Squad goals, amirite? (Also lol at the two women being the only ones to hold it together. Cressida is probably the Victor of the 76th Hunger Games? Any objections? I love Pollux but I think his head isn't in the game since his brother died.)

Behind a counter sits the strangest person I've ever seen. She's an extreme example of surgical enhancement gone wrong, for surely not even in the Capitol could they find this face attractive. The skin has beenpulled back tightly and tattooed with black and gold stripes. The nose has been flattened until it barely exists. I've seen cat whiskers on people in the Capitol before, but none so long. The result is a grotesque, semi-feline mask, which now squints at us distrustfully.

Here's my Tigris headcanon: She starts as a stylist to help her Cousin. She believes he will stop the Hunger Games when he becomes President. ... Except he doesn't. She makes excuses for him for awhile. She loves him. Being part of the Games every year makes her anxious. She turns to her mother's fur coat, and later other fur items (as Katniss does with the pearl) in her anxiety.

Eventually there comes a breaking point, probably at the "earliest Games" Katniss remembers when she was last a stylist. Tigris is probably a stylist for 1, 2 or 4 because we know them to be the most successful districts and we know Tigris to be a bad bitch. Given that she is part of the Rebellion and 4 is the only Career district part of the Rebellion, it's likely things came to a head whens she is told what the Victors have to do... sexually. The same things Tigris herself had to do for Snow, who was also once her boy.

Snow tries to convince her of his dark view of humanity--that the Hunger Games is humanity "undressed" (as Gaul says in the film). That this is who we are. Tigris doesn't want to believe this. She doesn't want to be part of humanity if that is what we are. She makes herself look like a cat. Because if the Hunger Games is who humanity is, then she doesn't want to be human. She probably helps with the attempted rebellion through Finnick, which gets put down by Snow and is then banished to this sad corner of the Capitol, where she waits, hoping for change but not truly believing it will come--when Katniss Everdeen walks through her door. Tigris can't kill her Cousin. (Perhaps murder is not in her?) But Katniss can.

Tigris gives a low growl, not unlike one Buttercup might greet me with.

I like how Buttercup (who Katniss hates!) is associated with Tigris and Katniss, who are our heroes. Be more like cats. They might be mean and dumb, but have they ever committed genocide or done a Hunger Games...?

[leedamandy]

Aemond Targaryen x fem!OC (blonde strong) /

Aegon II Targaryen x fem!OC (blonde strong)

°• Hēnkirī •°

(Together)

Part 15

Warning : extreme angst, self harm, suicidal behaviour

                                         •*•

It seemed to Mhaenyra that everyone was avoiding her.

The message she had overheard had not yet reached her officially.

Probably it was due to her head injury. Or the fact that she would react terribly, even have to.

Possibly also both.

After a few times of blinking, the queen noticed that she was sitting in the bathtub, brought close to a burning fire of her chamber.

But she was alone.

That's right. She had asked the maid to leave her to her thoughts.

Only she didn't even have thoughts. At least not really.

Her eyes fixed on a point, in this case, the mantel.

She recognized crevices and cracks in the stone. White cracks, dark cracks. Then stone again.

A new stone, with new cracks, edges and indentations.

Then another.

Her whole chamber she had studied so insistently since the news.

To escape her own thoughts, to give them no room.

Her eyes slid to the door as it opened, but they did not realize for a longer than proportionate time who entered.

Only the significant eye patch brought her back to reality.

Instantly, Mhaenyras heart began to pound.

Her chest rose and fell in panic as she tried to forget the name of the intruder, to not think of him.

Fear took over her senses and her rapid breathing made her dizzy.

Mhaenyra's empty eyes widened in fright before she opened her mouth to scream. She didn't know what for herself. Probably for her mother, her brothers.

For Aegon.

Before even a sound left her throat, Aemond began to speak.

"Your knight in shining armor has sunk into his cups. If it is his presence you beckon."

His voice sounded just as it did when she liked the sound of it.

Before memories could creep into her mind, she averted her gaze. Back toward the fireplace. Her chest stopped rising and falling.

A stone. Another stone. More brownish than the one before it.

The sight that presented itself to Aemond pained him.

Part of him had hoped she didn't know yet. Then he could have explained it to her, if that was even possible.

He was unable to express this. Not now.

Aemond had never seen a more traumatized person. He hadn't wanted any of this.

"I'm going to come back. When you're done." He murmured, overwhelmed, and left the queen's chamber.

Only when the door slammed into the lock did the woman sharply suck in the air that was available to her.

Then an almost black stone took her attention. Next to it, a nearly round one.

Seeing her own goose bumps, Mhaenyra noticed that her water had gone cold.

As if automatically, she rose, got out of the tub and dressed.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

She was dead. Her gaze swept across the room, along the ceiling.

She stretched her arm up in the air and saw her fingers clutching the air. Death.

She had been dead for several days.

The thought of being dead did not frighten her.

It surrounded her, almost warmly, and wrapped her up.

When she was dead, she could see anyone she wanted. She could do anything she wanted. Free.

She liked the thought.

Her eyes fell on the ornate casket that she had treasured some time ago, but which now gave her no such feeling.

Still caught in a surge of automatism, she reached for its content.

Never had she cut herself on sharp steel.

It couldn't feel any worse than her current sensations.

Unlike earlier, she was clearly startled when she heard the door open at her back.

Panicked by the interrupting sound, she wheeled around, the dagger in her trembling hand.

Aemond quickly analyzed the situation.

Before she could attack him, he bridged the distance between them with a few steps.

"This is not a good idea." He spoke calmly.

With a swift movement, he grabbed her wrist, twisting it dangerously far outward.

She was forced to release her grip, and the ringing sound of steel on stone echoed through the room.

In his mind, she would have wanted to turn the blade only against him, but that was not the case.

The next words he addressed to her only made the situation worse.

He tried to express that she should not be afraid of him.

"Don't attack me. If I had wanted to, you would have been dead long ago."

His words missed their point, however, and again dragged the young woman into deep distress.

Mhaenyra could no longer manage to maintain the dam that held back the flood of emotion.

Before she knew it, tears were running down her sunken cheeks.

As if she could shake her feelings away, she swung her head from side to side. White-blond hair clung to her face as horrible, gurgling sounds left her mouth.

Aemond's eyebrows drew together painfully. He became wholly aware of the consequences of his actions, if they did not do so before.

He had broken her with it. Every part of her he had liked. Had loved.

The Targaryen was all the more surprised when she addressed her first full sentence to him since he had set out. Since she had told him to take care of himself.

"You killed him. You took his life. Took it away. Like it belonged to you.

His life. You took it."

Toward the end, her voice broke off.

Aemond didn't want to hear those words, any of them. Each one was like a stab with a sword. She trusted him to do it. Without doubting.

"I didn't kill him. It was vaghar-"

"VHAGAR IS YOUR DRAGON!"

Her shrill cry interrupted him, in his attempt to explain.

At the same time, the desperate queen had wrenched herself from his tightened grip, heedless of herself.

A sickening crack was heard, but Aemond seemed more concerned about it than Mhaenyra herself.

The young woman ignored her hanging hand as if she did not feel it. Now the magnitude of her emotional state became clear to Aemond.

She staggered to the dagger lying on the ground, swiftly picking it up with her intact hand.

To his horror, she apparently harbored no intention of turning the dagger on him.

With incredible determination, the blade found its way to her own throat, pressing against the pale, smooth skin of her neck.

Now it was the prince's chest that was rising and falling rapidly, panic written in his eye.

With unsteady steps, Mhaenyra moved backward, toward her window.

Aemond's change of attitude no longer affected Mhaenyra.

She had no faith left at all.

Not even in herself.

She was dead. Not much was missing and it was time. Then she was free.

One last time she thought of Aegon, hoped that he would avenge her. If he had ever liked her.

"Wait, stop. Mhaenyra. Don't do this." Aemond's voice trembled as it hadn't in a long time. He was no longer in control.

"Do you want to do it?" Her monotone voice frightened even him. He heard out her willingness. Her decision.

The prince immediately raised his hands defensively. "No, no. Put it down. Please."

He let his mouth speak freely, to say what he thought.

A knock sounded and Mhaenyra's maid entered.

The expression on her face changed abruptly as she recognized both figures in the room, and she instantly stood rooted to the spot. Her anxious gaze fell on the clearly stricken queen, examining her with concern.

The instruction Aemond straightaway gave her turned his own stomach.

"Bring the king here. Search for him. In the wine vault. In the kitchen. Anywhere there's alcohol and mugs."

He hated to admit it to himself but he had a feeling his brother would have more success saving the young queen from herself.

Mhaenyra on the other hand, hadn't even realized anyone had entered.

Her eyes had gone blank again, searching the room for things to think about without feeling.

With cautious steps, the maid ran off after nodding in agreement.

When she disappeared, the prince dared to take a few small steps towards the absent young woman.

"Ao ȳdra daor jaelagon naejot gaomagon bona." (You don't want to do that.)

His High Valyrian words were the only thing he could think of. He had to stall for time.

"Be quiet! Silence!"

Needless to say, it wasn't working.

"Please, don't be hasty. Hate me forever but spare your life."

To Mhaenyra, his words were just sounds. Loud sounds. She didn't want to hear them, she didn't want to hear anything more.

She pressed the blade further against the thin skin of her neck, underestimating how sharp the blade was.

The young woman suddenly heard her brother's laughter when she told him a funny story, and she knew she could do it again soon.

Something wet ran down her cleavage. A warm liquid that smelled strange.

"Mhaenyra-"

The heavy door flew open and an enraged Aegon staggered in.

The maid must have informed him well, he did not seem surprised. Nevertheless, he was shocked by the picture that presented itself to him.

With hasty steps he hurried toward Mhaenyra.

"Are you insane? You leave my wife alone, do you hear me?" Aegon hissed venomously at his brother as he pushed him out of the way with both hands.

Aemond allowed it, otherwise the king would not have succeeded.

Then he devoted himself completely to the injured girl.

"It is I, my queen. I am here."

He was now familiar with this kind of outburst. He found it easier than the first time.

A mocking laugh escaped Aemond when he heard his words, which made Aegon's blood boil.

But he had other things to take care of first.

Without fear of contact, he reached for her left hand and she let the dagger slide into his hands almost without resistance.

"My love..." He murmured strained as he used the blood-wetted weapon to remove a piece of her dress and place the fabric on the small cut on her neck.

It wasn't deep, she hadn't hit the main vein.

She began to cry bitterly again, but relaxed considerably with Aegon near her.

Aemond watched the two of them, his heart breaking as he saw how she reacted to his brother.

He clenched his fist angrily, but immediately regained his composure when he realized that at least she was doing better than she had been moments before. Even if it was his good-for-nothing brother who was responsible.

Aegon had put his arms around the trembling woman and pulled her close to him. He had even been careful not to move her broken wrist.

His eyes were still fixed on Aemond.

Hate met hate.

Aegon knew he held what his brother wanted in his arms and it gave him strength. She was the only person who had cared for him, and then she belonged to him alone. No one would come between them.

His brother thought about the fact that she was only with Aegon because of the disaster he had tried to avoid. His brother could only give her comfort if Aemond himself was to blame.

"Get out of here brother before I have your head taken."

A threat that failed to impress Aemond.

Provocatively, he took a step forward.

"Come get it yourself."

The door swinging open again, startled everyone involved except the distraught Mhaenyra.

In stepped Alicent Hightower, followed by the maid who had already led Aegon to them.

                                         •*•

Part 16 inc

Part 1

TAGLIST

@nctma15 , @roroswitherose , @missusnora @the-avengers-ate-my-tongue , @underatreedrinkingtea , @m1ndbrand , @chittakii , @sustisama , @omgkatherine97 ,

@tired-ninfa , @curiouser-an-curiouser , @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz , @midnightrqin

(if you wanna be tagged, just tell me :3)

[forever-powertools]

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[fridaythe13ththeseries]

Reflecting - Chapter One

Reflecting - Chapter One

The room filled with the bright light as it did every morning. Catherine stirred, not wanting to face yet another day here, in this room, in this place. Eventually, she threw back the white comforter and white sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Sitting gently, she looked down at her white, lace nightgown. Not her choice, but nothing here was her choice. Sliding her feet into the white slippers on the floor, she stood and looked at the ivory clock on the painted white mantel over the fireplace. Early, as usual. But it didn’t matter. Time stood still here.

Slowly walking to the long window, framed with white linen curtains, she tried once more to see the outside world. Only a blinding whiteness lay beyond the glass. Daytime was complete white, nighttime endless black. Always the same, always the same.

She pulled the white curtains closed over the window as if to block out the white beyond and turned away. Her eyes slowly scanned the room, as she had done a thousand times before. An ornate and old bed, painted white and dressed in white. A chair, upholstered in white. A white table, with a white lamp. The mantel was white, a bookcase was white, the floor, the ceiling, the walls: all white, white, white.

Only four things in the room broke the endless emptiness the monochromatic color scheme offered. One were the words in the novels on the bookcase. While the books themselves where bound in white, with white pages, the words were black. She could, at least, read.

Second, the flames in the fireplace danced in a white painted wood frame around just as white bricks. Strange white logs sat inside, but the flames were bright colors: orange, yellow, red. The colors were welcome here, as was the heat, but they did nothing to alleviate the desolation and loneliness she felt.

Third, she still had her fair complexion and soft, auburn hair. She would look at her hand sometimes for hours, savoring the break from utter whiteness and wondering how long it would be before she too faded away.

At night, it was the opposite. Blackness filled every space until all she could see was the fire. The room would then seem endless, a void where nothing mattered. She had nightmares of disappearing into the darkness, of losing herself and never finding her way back.

But then morning would come again, and the brightness would fill the darkness once more. Two opposites that both left her feeling empty, alone, scared.

She walked away from the mantle and toward the full size antique mirror that stood in the corner of the room, the fourth thing to have color. The mirror itself was painted white, the frame ornate and intricately carved, with strange faces of what she had at first thought were cherubs. Over time, she had seen the demonic visages for what they really were. More like gargoyles than cupids.

Gazing into the mirror, she didn’t see herself looking back. Instead, she saw him and the world of color beyond. She knew the man’s name was Rafael. She knew other things about him she wished she didn’t. She knew he was in the real world, the world of color and life, and that she was trapped here, in this strange, lonely copy.

He sat dressed in a black suit, on the bed that mirrored the one here, but with maroon and gold linens. On the opposite side of the looking glass in the antique frame, Rafael watched her and smiled at her, his crooked, sad smile. Then he stood and walked away, to the door in his room that was the one thing missing in her room. She had no exit, no escape.

Catherine watched him go out the door and shut it behind him. As he did, the room she saw reflected shimmered and vanished, the glass once more solid white. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned away from the mirror. She was alone again. Nothing but the endless white, at least until the endless black replaced it.

[shoshiwrites]

AU prompt week (as it's unofficially become) is a go! Original post here.

AU: Joe is a cemetery groundskeeper and Jo is back from the dead. May or may not involve a (very) cold case and a dash of reincarnation. Prompt/s: "teatime," "fireplace." Requested by: @mercurygray.

He’s got a space heater.

It makes the whole living room smell like dust and also sort of like feet, if he hasn’t cleaned too deeply, but it’s the quickest thing he has for warming up the place. She must be used to fireplaces, right? Some kind of ornate shit with pokers and a mantel. 

She must be used to fancy dresses too, if- if what she’d been buried in was any indication. The delicate lace lies on the hardwood floor of his bedroom, as neat as he could make it, like a chalk outline. He’d been too afraid to try hanging it. 

He blinks a little, and his eyes don’t feel used to it. 

Fireplaces, and fancy dresses, and tea, right? That was what people drank? He doesn’t have any tea, although if he did a deep enough dig into the cabinets there’d probably be some old packets of Lipton left over from the previous tenant. Back in the cobwebs. 

He’d made coffee.

He sips at his own mug, too distracted to register the taste. He’ll be up all night on this stuff, not that it matters. Well, Ma, you asked me last week when I’d bring home a nice girl.

He doesn’t know if she’s nice. All he knows is that her face has more color now, sitting on his couch, in his sweats, drinking coffee out of a mug Bill got him that says Certified Shovel Operator. 

What is she thinking?

His brain can’t grasp at anything long enough to answer. He watches the shadows under her chin, gaze darting to her eyes as she sits transfixed by the heater, the dull red glow. 

“It’s almost like an electric brazier, isn’t it,” she asks. 

He doesn’t pull out his phone to make sure he knows what that is. Brazier? Is that how you pronounced it? He huffs a little shock of a laugh that doesn’t feel like his own breath. 

“Isn’t it?” she repeats, more softly, stroking her index finger along the side of the mug. 

“Yeah,” he says, and she nods, something like a smile flitting across her face. Like she’s happy to know something, happy to have something familiar, or close to it. He thinks he makes one back at her. She dips her head in reply. 

If he has any hope of an hour or two of shut-eye before the morning he’d better try now. …Nope. Not happening.

He thinks about asking her if she wants more coffee. Maybe some toast. He thinks about turning on the TV. The game would probably be on a replay now. Out the window, stars shine in the cold clear sky. 

How long has it been since she’s seen stars?

He swallows every question. Is she tired? Does she want to sleep? Is she afraid? Maybe coffee wasn’t so good for nausea, if that’s what this is.  

She looks human, doesn't she? Even in this terrible light he can see pink in her cheeks. He’s relieved; that means she’s getting warmer. He thinks there’s an extra blanket at the back of the closet. Maybe two.

For now though, it’s impossible to move. Impossible to do anything but sit here with her, stave off the night a few hours more, make it so she isn’t alone.