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cookie-crumblr · 3 months

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G/N Yandere Reader x Werewolf OC

In Crestfell Forest

Part 1~

Synopsis: GN yandere reader in a dark cottagecore AU x my werewolf OC, Ace

CW: GN!Reader, no body/genitalia descriptions for reader, SOME PARTS WILL HAVE SMUT. Not really anything in this part to warn about i think! Enjoy!

!!MINORS DNI!!

Managing your way through the dark just barely, you pull your thick, velvet lined cloak tighter around your body, trying to snuggle back into some warmth.

Just through the trees, Your cottage that once was your grandfather’s, sits in waiting for you.old It’s too quiet, with not even a peep from your wolves tonight. White flowers on cross crossed wooden trellises bloom in the full moon’s beam, becoming a beacon of light in the void.

Squelch-Crack!

You look down but aren’t surprised by the fact that you can’t distinguish anything from anything else in this darkness. If you had to guess, aided by the metal in the air, it was something dead and freshly eaten.

Directly behind you a deep reverberating growling starts, and you feel a hot breath on your shoulders seeping through the fabric.

You almost fall over in a sudden fright, stumbling and tripping on your cloak, you finally end landing on your butt. A massive beast-shaped-man is on all fours above you, yet still standing at least five feet tall. You can infer by the awkward way his legs are bent and the length of his arms that he’s also bipedal. Imagining what his full height must be, you shudder slightly and pull your cloak closer.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking for him… Though you are far from the only one searching for him.

Your heart beats harder, and it slowly climbs up your throat, at the same time you reach up to the wolf man’s mane. After seconds that feel like an eternity, your hand connects with pale corse fur. Your fingers press down into the thick layers of hair and still dont reach skin.

He’s so warm…

It isn’t hard for you to imagine being in the middle of a cuddle pile with him and your wolves. Would you even need blankets? probably not.

Mesmerized, you don’t even realize his growling had stoped some time ago.

He pads backwards way too silently for his size.

“Don’t go…” Just a whisper comes out at first as your heart is slowing back to normal. “The whole village is out hunting you…”

Furry ears lay down flat in response as he glances back into the forest to briefly assess.

His long neck sways, tilting his massive head to reface you before he points his snout to the sky, sniffing deeply.

How he can smell past the metallic aroma is beyond you, but the fact that he’s done so, calms you.

Durning the long hike home you can’t see too well, but you see clear enough that he isn’t leaving tracks somehow.

Eventually, you’re home and, with a tiny bit of ducking and uncomfortable shoving you manage to get the massive bodied guy through your gnarled knotty wooden door without damage to the integrity!

However, you and the man-beast don’t pass the tension filled time quickly.

Will the hunters show up here? at your cabin? Your wolves are curled up with him by the fire, surrounded by all the cushions and blankets you could get your hands on.

You pace.

Bolted crossbow in hands, pointing toward the floor, but ready to be aimed. Until you hear something cut through the silence outside. Even the fire crackling quiets as you hold up the heavy thing in the direction of the sound.

Without another sound to guide you you aim at the door.

What you don’t notice is the werewolf behind you still peacefully snuggled in, as if the noise is just that; a noise.

But, before long a strawberry blonde man kicks the door open wide, his throat aligning perfectly with your bolt’s piercing point. He throws his hands up in submission, and looks behind you with a relieved smile on his face, “Oo, I like this one, Ace”

You sigh in relief.

“Ace” you infer, is the man under the ginormous beast hide. His tail wags at the man and accidentally smacks Fiona, one of your wolves.

She didn’t seem bothered.

You calm, and the crossbow lets out slight wooden and metal rattles as it relaxes with you, and facing the ground once again.

It isn’t long before the air is tense and stagnant again.

You’re all listening, waiting for anything and everything to be ripped to pieces all around you.

You only have to make it maybe another hour or so before the full moon is far enough away again to release him from that form.

Even Ezra, the man that barged in, seems tense, though you can tell, he’s hiding it well. He must have to be the strong one a lot.

“Alright,” Speaking of Ezra… He claps his hands together and stands, “‘m sick of this. Y/N, got any playing cards?”

“Does tarot count?”

“even better,” His smirk is devious.

shlip, he flips the top card over, after shuffling.

“Death,” He pauses for effect, eyes closed in faux contemplation, and head nodding as if listening to the card itself speak. You roll your eyes, “Says change is coming. Upright, so most likely a good change. Gotta let go of the past though.”

Before you can retort he’s pulling another, “Now it’s Ace,” On the table lay a reverse tower card, “Um lets reshuffle” Again, he pulls a reverse tower, and again…

“What’s wrong with the tower?” You don’t remember what your grandpa said about that one, but it does look a little hectic.

A whine from Ace and his now flat ears greets you, before Ezra cuts back in,“Hah, uh nothin, now it’s my turn! five of pentacles, hah! imma make a ton of gold,”

“I don’t think that’s what that one means…” You state.

Ace perks up suddenly with a quiet huff, ears on alert. Both Ezra and you freeze instantly in response.

Your heart is pounding in your ears and you hold your breath in effort to hear any better but…

Crunch… Crunch… Crunch….

The footsteps in the leaf litter and fallen dried out pine needles couldn’t be any louder.

#cottagecore #werewolf #werewolf x reader #oc ace #oc ezra #my oc #yandere #oc x reader #oc x you #yandere reader #werewolf oc #my writing #my fic #cottagecore au #tw yandere #yandere smutt

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cryptidcasanova · 2 years

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Strange Magic

Fae!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The cottage has been in your family for many years, but your return has caught the interest of more than just the wildlife.

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: Dubious Nature, Dark Themes, Fae Trickery, Soft!Dark!Fae!Bucky

Strange things started happening when you inherited the little cottage your family owned. It was originally your grandfather’s, and your parents had used it as a summer home when you were growing up.

But the cottage was always on the back burner. Up until recently, you were completely happy with your little suburban life. You liked the noise and the quick pace, and for a long time, you let the cottage fall to the wayside.

When you finally took the time to visit, tending to the cottage was only supposed to be a part-time job, but it surprised you. You had quickly fallen in love with its simplicity. It reminded you of the times you had been brought there when you were little.

The strange things first started when a stranded fawn happened upon the outskirts of the property. It was just a babe, helpless to the elements, and the mother was nowhere to be found. Instead of turning a blind eye you fed and nurtured it and sheltered it for the night. It wasn’t much, but you couldn’t just leave it out there all alone.

By the time the sun rose the next morning the fawn was gone. You didn’t expect it to stay, but it disappeared without a trace. As you were cleaning up the nest of blankets and rags you put together you found a stone. It was small and opaque and perfectly smooth, and you marveled at it as you crouched down into the dirt.

The fawn wouldn’t have brought this to you. Your careful fingers plucked the stone from the nest, and you turned it over in your hand.

It was moonstone.

It was a stone of protection. A stone for lovers.

But how did you know that? You paused with a careful breath, mechanically returning it to the spot you found it. It wasn’t natural. Cautious eyes scanned the line of the cottage out to where the property backed up to the trees. You weren’t as alone as you thought.

The stone was a gift.

It was one you could not accept. One that you would not accept.

You weren’t typically superstitious in the city, but with this place, you held it with high regard. Call it your father’s intuition or your mother’s careful nature guiding you, but you were not going to actively seek out any trouble in these woods.

Without sparing another glance at the stone or the woods you hurried inside. A nagging feeling in the back of your mind told you that there was work to be done.

The early rays of the afternoon sun eventually bled into a long, orange sunset against the west side of the cottage. The delicate curtains were drawn tight, and the house was locked up.

You didn’t stoke the hearth that night.

The only telltale sign of life from the cottage was that you left a small basket on the edge of your porch covered in a pleated red cloth. You had used up the last of your apples to bake something sweet. The buttered pie was left on your porch to extend an olive branch. All you wanted was peace and never meant to disturb the unseen creatures of the woods.

Sleep was hard to come by. Every rustle in the trees and flap of wings made you jump, and you eventually took to burrowing in a number of heavy quilts to block out the noise.

You felt like you were going to be sick, that the creatures outside would tear the doors off the hinges and drag you into the night. Your parents used to talk about the unseen forces that lived in the forest, but this was your first encounter with them. You didn’t have any idea of what to expect and were only armed with the knowledge that the forest folk had a sweet tooth.

The night dragged on and try as you might, your thoughts kept drifting back to the moonstone. You had never before grabbed the attention of the unseen, and you so desperately wanted to be swallowed up by the dirt.

You just wanted them to take the pie. You wanted them to take it and leave you in peace.

The morning met you with a warm swell, even without the heat of the fire. With sleepy eyes, you knew it was time to face the music.

The porch was bathed in a yellow glow as you unlocked the door and stepped into the sun, and the basket was exactly where you left it. Upon closer inspection, you noticed the pie was gone.

With a lofty exhale you hurried down to the stack of blankets you had left the day before. Tossing aside your fears you rounded the side of the cottage. The moonstone was also gone.

You couldn’t contain your sigh of relief. It was a good sign.

The following days passed without fuss, and you slowly fell back into your routine with a pollyanna heart. You were at peace with the woods once more.

You read books and baked bread and tried your hand at chopping wood. You sang songs from your youth and wrote and were content. If only your parents could see you now. They would be so proud of how brave you were, of how smart you were. That was why you moved out here, after all.

In a way, it was one last attempt to get close to them.

But no amount of city living could have prepared you for the overwhelming energy of the woods. Was it always this way? You couldn’t remember. You thought that it would be cold and lifeless and quiet, but it was the opposite. Everything was alive and watching. The birds sang and plants grew quickly, and everything was rich with life.

You would have thought it disturbing if not for the overflow of comfort that tended to wash over you when you felt all alone. Maybe it was your dad looking after you, even now. Maybe your mother was helping you with the gardening and the foraging. It was a soft reminder of them.

One afternoon when the wind was particularly strong the cries of baby birds could be heard throughout the forest. They must have fallen from their nest. You had been weaving together stretches of cloth in an attempt to repurpose the old material but were pulled from your work when the crying didn’t stop.

Your heart lurched in your chest. You were going to help them.

The nest had been blown from a high branch in one of the pine trees and had been overturned at the bottom of the trunk. You turned over the nest with caution, only to find three baby robins cooing and crying at the disturbance.

You frowned. The mother was nowhere to be found. The baby birds must have been scared half to death.

You were careful not to disrupt the nest and scooped the hatchlings up in your work apron as well as the nest, setting them down altogether on a sturdier branch. It was a branch at eye level, careful to keep the babes from the danger of the forest floor. You left your apron there for extra protection and warmth, and you came back not long after with berries for the hatchlings.

It was the least you could do. One of the biggest differences in city living was just how quickly you got the gratification of getting a job done. Making appointments over the phone, sending important emails, and having dinner delivered to your door. It was so fast in some ways.

At the cottage, everything took extra effort, and for a small moment, you felt that similar rush. It was gratifying.

It was all in a day's work to help, and you were no stranger to simple comforts. Your parents had raised you here, just like this. It was quaint. It was just as rewarding.

Just the same as before, you checked up on the hatchlings the next morning before tending to the rest of the cottage.

The apron was still there, lodged into the tree branch with the nest but upon closer inspection, the babes were gone. There were no birds nor berries or feathers, and instead, the stem of a flower was carefully tucked into the nest. It was no ordinary flower, no. You were familiar with the kind. Dicentra.

Bleeding hearts.

The pink strand of flowers was a stark contrast to its surroundings. You knew the plant well enough to know that they grew only on the far side of the forest. It was farther than you had traveled in a long time.

A shiver spiraled down to your stomach and your eyes scanned the tree line once more. This time you didn’t even dare to touch the gift left for you.

Again, you turned in early for the night. This time you left half a loaf of bread with a berry jam and a jar of honey in the basket.

It all felt like a delicate dance.

The night was cold, much colder than the last time you decided to let the fire rest. The quilts helped to keep you warm, but your body was overcome with shivers, nonetheless. This time it came in the form of listening to howls outside the front door.

Something was out there. You felt it. You knew it deep in your bones.

You could almost hear something beyond the howling, something softer. It was the quiet hum of wind chimes, but each time you thought you heard it the sound faded into the night. And then you remembered; you didn’t have wind chimes.

Sleep claimed you faster this time, almost suddenly. You couldn’t have prepared for it, and your dreams were extravagant.

The dream had been filled with sweet songs and comfort, and then it dissolved into the darkness of the woods.

And then you were barefoot, stepping away from the cottage onto a bloody patch of dirt and grass. Your dream led you down to the spot where you first tended to the fawn, patches of blood and fur marring the nest of blankets you had made. Your legs were propelling you away before you could get another good look, and when you peered ahead a different trail led you to bloodied feathers and the broken remnants of the bird’s nest.

It was a disaster. It was as if a fox had gotten into the henhouse.

Tossing and turning, you were suddenly hot. The chill in your veins was replaced with a hot ache, feeling it in your belly and down to your toes, until you entirely forgot about the carnage you walked through.

Your nerve endings were on fire. You knew you were dreaming. You needed to wake up.

The blood had faded away into warm daylight, but there was no solace. You weren’t alone. There was a snap of a twig on your left.

You needed to wake up. Now.

A pair of dark eyes, almost glowing against the trees had found you. You turned, running blindly into the brush, but it was only getting closer. You could hear whatever was behind you catching up. You could feel its hot breath on the back of your neck. You tried to scream.

Wake. Up.

With a jolt you startled up, taking a moment to realize you were still in your bed. The cottage was locked up tight. You were safe.

A broken cry had gotten stuck in your throat as you held a hand to your chest. You were overwhelmed and terrified.

It was still early, well before sunrise, but there was no way you were going back to bed. Not after that.

Never, and you swore never had you felt such dread. And you had never once felt that way in the cottage. What once housed feelings of comfort and peace were twisted into such horrific dread.

A terrible realization dawned on you. You were all alone in the middle of nowhere.

You thrashed the blankets off your body, suddenly too heavy against your skin. You felt trapped. The weight of it all was too much, even if the rest of the cottage had only gotten colder throughout the night.

Perhaps you could build a fire. Maybe you would take a hot bath to distract yourself. Damn the fear of the outside; you were convinced your dreams were the biggest threat to your safety.

Your body was flushed, rattled from the aftershocks of the nightmare. With a pant you let your body collapse against the pillows, letting your arm cradle behind it for extra support before you froze.

But there was something there, under your pillow. Sitting up in alarm you tossed your pillow to the ground.

No.

There, carefully placed under your pillow, were the moonstone and the bleeding hearts.

No.

“You are going to freeze, doll.”

Your eyes snapped towards the direction of the voice. There, leaning against the fireplace a distinct figure hugged the shadows. Tall and imposing, the shadow dwarfed the room. Strong shoulders and dark hair drew your attention first. The voice was lustrous and masculine, making you blink twice before listening to the gravity of his words.

You could feel the temperature of the room drop. The figure wasn’t lying. It was much colder now, and a puff of cold air was pulled from you when you exhaled. You reached for a blanket almost mechanically.

When you didn’t respond you watched as the figure crossed one leg over the other in the dark. Your eyes had adapted as best they could, but with the curtains closed and the fire snuffed out your vision was still limited.

“Let me help.” The figure offered with a hum.

As if by magic the fire roared to life at his words. The room was illuminated in warmth and light, and you held a hand up as your eyes squinted shut.

This didn’t make any sense. This couldn’t be happening.

Your body was tense, and once your eyes adjusted to the light you could get a good look at the figure, at the man. His skin was pale against a dark head of hair and thick eyebrows looked curiously at you behind bright, blinding eyes. They were blue as the spring water. You couldn’t deny that there was a sharp edge to them. All of his features were striking, from the curve of his lips and the stubble along his jaw to his taught arms and thick legs.

His clothes were dark, maybe blue or black, but you couldn’t be sure. He was a shadow in the night.

A palpable concern ran through you.

Against the firelight, you couldn’t deny a glowing tint in his eyes. It was too similar to the eyes in your dreams.

He was no man at all.

Your parents could have never warned you about this.

“Did you not like my gifts?” You dared to ask, your heart beating heavily in your chest.

A smirk curled at his lips. The man pushed off the wall, towering over you.

“Oh, I loved them.” He emphasized with a hum. This time he stepped forward, and you watched with careful eyes. Your confusion must have been clear as day. His tone was jovial, almost teasing. “But I thought you would have liked mine a little more. I will have to try harder.”

You were so overwhelmed that you missed his last sentence altogether.

“I was taught to not accept anything from the forest.” You stuttered out with an air of innocence. And obviously, ignorance.

You couldn’t understand him, how he liked your gifts but wouldn’t leave you alone. Your parents’ worries had swarmed in your mind. All of your careful preparation was in vain.

The man looked at you, confident that you knew that he knew exactly what you were thinking. Dark hair fell in his face, and he tilted his head.

“I wonder why that would be?” He speculated with a formidable grin. Those blue eyes pulled you back, filled with mirth and mystery. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Goosebumps pricked at your arms and for a moment you were at a loss for words.

You couldn’t remember.

There must have been a reason why you didn’t take his gifts. Why would your parents tell you not to accept anything from the forest? Your head felt heavy.

“I -” You paused, confusion settling into your features. “I don’t know.”

At your admission, the man’s grin only widened. His hand moved up and under his chin. His cunning voice swelled around you, and he stalked forward with an animalistic prowl.

“But you did like my gifts?”

The softness of his question made it sound like it wasn’t a question at all. You hummed out a breath before looking up at him.

“I did.”

You figured there would be no trouble in playing along.

His lips curled up into a smirk, showing off white teeth against the light of the fire. His eyes were teasing again, clever, and full of mischief.

“Then what do you say?” He asked, almost condescendingly. “You’re sweet. You’re kind. You must have been taught your manners.” He urged the words out of you, his startling eyes locked on yours.

The man was hauntingly beautiful.

You couldn’t look away if you wanted to. You...you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

“Thank you for the gifts.”

The whisper was so faint that it faded off before you realized it was you that spoke. Your head was foggy, slowly realizing the trap that you were falling into. It was almost as if you could hear him when he didn’t even speak.

That wasn’t so hard, was it?

He had stolen away at your senses with a clever wink.

All of a sudden, your parents’ warnings were swimming through your mind.

“It is dangerous in these woods. Don’t accept anything from the forest. The forest folk will twist your intentions. They are clever and powerful.” “They can trap you in the forest and make you lose yourself.”

“Don’t give them your name. Don’t accept their trinkets, and don’t thank them for their kindness.”

What was happening to you? Your hands slumped forward against your thighs, and you could hardly hold your head up. A wave of nausea made you steel yourself to the bed frame.

“Who - who are you?” Your tongue was heavy against your teeth, and your breathing was labored. Your body was shutting down against your will.

Yours. I am yours.

His words pulsated against your temples. He was shushing you now, gently to calm you, taking a step closer to the bed.

“Doll, you are taking care of everything out here. This cottage is a treasure, but who is taking care of you?”

A shiver ran down your back. Your mind was flooded with images of the moonstone and the flowers, and how you helped the fawn and the hatchings. Then it shifted back to the tremors in your dreams.

You watched helplessly as the man’s blue eyes completely darkened, a golden ring shining around his irises. It was him all along. He was watching you the whole time.

You couldn’t find your voice, a startling noise catching in your throat. You couldn’t speak. Trying to back up against the wall your limbs were heavy.

You couldn’t move.

Physically immobilized, it was as if he had all control. How was this possible?

He was closer now and you could smell the grass and the salt and the rain against his skin. He crouched down in front of you, eye level with you, sitting on the bed. His cool breath fanned against your face and with a gentle hand, he brushed a thumb against your bottom lip.

Soft lips curled into a sinister grin, showing off a set of sharp, white teeth. With as much strength as you could muster you looked back up into his eyes. The blue in his eyes was completely gone, swallowed by dark, glowing pupils.

It was stunning and terrifying all in the same breath. It wasn’t human.

Closer still he leaned in, moving his thumb down to your jaw. The ghost of his lips was against your own before he claimed his prize and your rapture.

His kiss was poisonous. It was earthy and powerful and it shifted into something saccharinely sweet. You were helpless to it, melting against him as his tongue lapped at your own.

A breathless groan passed from his lips and settled against your skin. He was all-encompassing.

Against your better judgment, your arms were pulled up from your thighs. Like a puppeteer was commanding the strings, one hand settled against his chest and the other was curled around his shoulder for support.

It was what he wanted.

With newfound strength, you held on to him with all of your might as he kissed you again. This one was exploratory, lingering from the corner of your lips to the apple of your cheeks and down your jaw. Your body was buzzing like a lightning strike.

It was him. All of the heat and power were emanating from him.

A dark fog swirled in your mind, fully possessed by the man that held you close. If you could only look back and see yourself, you would have seen how your eyes had gotten dark, mimicking his own. His free arm rested along your lower back, sharp nails digging against your skin. There was no escape.

You could hardly think as the soft rumble of his voice settled over you.

“Your heart is the softest place on earth. Let me take care of it.”

#strange magic #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #Fae!Bucky #fae x reader #soft!dark bucky barnes #softdark!bucky #cottagecore #cottagecore au #fae #fae folk #cryptid

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corner-stories · 4 days

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aruani 10 for the april prompts

April Prompts 🐞

10. Basil am continuing the Aruani Seaside Cottagecore agenda

Annie thinks she's been spoiled lately. For starters, the weather has been rather nice, the last few days at their seaside home being blessed with clear skies and sun. Warmth is returning to their little corner of the world, making her daily walks even more pleasant than usual. It's almost too convenient, and she wonders if she should start getting suspicious or just lie back and enjoy it.

Armin seems to be treating her the same as well, though he'll never admit it. In early evening he stands at the kitchen of their cottage, very meticulously adding chopped basil to a sturdy mortar, alongside other ingredients. Behind him a pot of water boils on the stove, the sound of which hums in the background as he continues to work.

Annie watches him cook. She's not helping, though not from a lack of trying. There's just something so solidified about the way Armin prepares food, from the way he toasts the pine nuts to the way he refuses to break the dried pasta before boiling it.

At this point, she's long given up on popping in to lend a hand. Who is she to complain over Armin's meticulous way of working cooking? It's her least favourite chore anyways.

She ends up drawing him to the pass the time, remaining at the table with her trusty sketchbook. Art is only a hobby of hers, something she picked up out of pure boredom. At least it soothes her in more ways than one. The feeling of peace it gives her almost makes up for the fact that she's utterly terrible at it, in her perspective anyways.

Though Armin moves around to add pasta to the pot and garlic to the mortar, Annie manages to depict him in his happy place through lines of charcoal. She always thought Armin had pretty eyes and makes sure to draw those accordingly. If only she had some of those fabled coloured pencils she had heard so much about, then perhaps she could add an extra hue to her piece.

But for now, the charcoal sticks do their job and leave Annie with a finished drawing and black smudges on her hand.

Armin begins mashing the basil, pine nuts, and garlic with the mortar and pestle. As he labours away, Annie stands up and goes to the sink. Her shoulder brushes his just before she turns on the faucet and cleans her fingers of charcoal stains.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can help you with?" she asks, though a part of her already knows the answer.

"Very sure," Armin confirms, not looking away from the pesto. "But if you're looking to do something, do you think you can pick some wine for tonight?"

Annie nods her head. "White, right?"

"Of course," Armin insists. "Couldn't be anything else."

Annie can't help but smile as she dries her hands. She walks across the kitchen again, in the corner of her eye she spots Armin looking away from the mortar.

He raises an eyebrow and asks, "What?"

"Nothing, nothing..." Annie insists, turning away and heading towards the entrance to their cellar. "I'll see what we have."

#aruani #armin arlert #annie leonhardt #snk #post canon #cottagecore au #i guess?#ask box memes #am still taking prompts!

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sillyvisioncorner · 4 months

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Cottagecore! Ronnie doodles 🍄✨💙

#sillyvisoncorner #sillyvison art #heathers #heathers the musical #heathers 1989 #heathers fanart #veronica sawyer #heathers au #cottage aesthetic #cottagecore #cottage core #cottagecore au

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dramioneasks · 6 months

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I’d like to recommend Far From Shore by beaubashley on AO3. Very creative with an original plot line and the writing is lovely. Just completed a couple of days ago and a prime candidate for binging! Criminally underrated rn, hope others have a chance to read.

Thanks!!

Far From Shore - beaubashley - M, 13 chapters - There are two houses that sit on opposing ends of a sea. But the thing—the occurrence, really, that these two homes share besides the sea and the polar shores on which they sit, is that they are connected, and they are connected because they love each other. So, it is an unfortunate situation, indeed, that Hermione Granger has no prior knowledge about this unique feature of her recently purchased property. But what she does know is that there is a man standing in her home. A man where no man is meant to be. ... A dramione au. Updates every other week.

#anonymous #fic recommendation #cottagecore au #no voldy!#scorpius #harry #ron #neighbours #parallel universe

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cheesy-cryptid · 2 years

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Soft moments 🫣🤲😩💖😭🥹

#cottagecore #cottagecore au #artists on tumblr #digital art #original characters #oc #digital illustration #digital artist #digital painting #character design #character illustration #soft colors #farm #vintage #nik's art

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bnbc · 1 year

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did they compete in harvesting pears? yeah did she start it? m-maybe did she lose? not really xD

_____

don't reupload my content to other sites

#cottagecore AU #rised from the ashes #to disspear again sdfsfhskdf #cyberpunk 2077 #goro takemura #oc koulin #v x takemura #gigilpunk #otp: artificial nocturne #takemura x v #takemura #shippy everyday #takemura goro #cyberpunk oc

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asarigg · 1 year

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the agnst of this fic 😭😭

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39773772

#dmmd #dramatical murder #kouao #koujaku #aoba #aoba seragaki #cottagecore au

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feraltuxedo · 2 years

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Summer's End by FeralTuxedo

My sex worker Aziraphale AU set in a post-apocalyptic Tadfield has just started posting! This one's got everything you'd expect from a cottagecore AU: - cosy gardening montages - greeting the sun with cups of tea on the patio - hordes of zombies roaming the fields at night

Summer's End by FeralTuxedo Rating: E Chapters: 1/15 Summary: 2095. Britain is a post-apocalyptic wasteland ravaged by droughts, the collapse of civilisation, and hordes of the undead. Despite that, Aziraphale’s life is actually pretty good. He has his caravan, his books, and his work, offering his services to the men who stop by Tadfield on their arduous journey north. One day, a mysterious stranger knocks on his door. Crowley is charming and handsome and he appears to know his way around a vegetable garden. He comes with the tempting offer of a mutually beneficial arrangement. But it’s in Aziraphale’s best interest not to get too attached. A dystopian cottagecore sex worker AU.

#good omens au #my writing #good omens fanfic #sex worker aziraphale #zombie apocalypse #cottagecore au

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micheladee · 1 year

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Deathshipping cottagecore au! Ryou finds an intriguing timberman in the woods. He invites him to his cottage for tea over a long conversation about deadly nightshade and other plants in his garden. It's a good thing Ryou isn't afraid of axes and Amir isn't afraid of poison. Art by me.

#Deathshipping #Yu-Gi-Oh #Ryou Bakura #yami marik #Yami Malik #Cottagecore au

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auideas · 2 years

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A Crooked Cottagecore Fairytale AU

Time and time again, it’s always the witch kidnapping the princess and the prince saving her, but not this story, not this time.

The witch has kidnapped the princess, but in a surprisingly wholesome twist, she’s saved her from an arranged marriage, causing the princess to feel indebted to the witch. She helps her around the house with chores, brewing, and errands – slowly but surely, they fall for one another in this inadvertently quintessential cottagecore life.

The prince, however, was not all too pleased with losing his bride. He hunts down the witch, “saves” the princess, and arranges for the sorceress’ execution. In a fit of rage, the princess fights her way through her family, political treason, and life itself to save her witch and ensure their own happy ending.

(Edited by Admin M)

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corner-stories · 1 month

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mama salamander

Mikasa Ackerman. Jean Kirschtein. Post-Canon. Ponds. Cottages. Hazel Eyes. 1723 words. (ao3.)

Near the cottage on the edge of the woods is a stream that trickles down the hill, where the water flows until accumulating into a pond. Surrounding it are either trees with broad branches, natural structures that cast shadows upon the world below, or patches of tall grass. In warmer months the depths of the pool are heaven-sent in the heat, whereas in the winter it freezes over and invites any willing participant to skate across the surface.

But in the time between seasons, the days where winter transitions into spring, the pond is simply nice to look at. After months with shorter days and clouds of gray, the sight of sunlight shimmering on the surface is a welcomed gift to the eyes.

While summer is still far away, there’s enough warmth in the air for Mikasa to feel at peace. She sits on a blanket spread out near the pond, enjoying everything from the blue hue in the partly cloudy sky, the breeze that makes the wildflowers sway, or the sound of the stream trickling into the pond.

Next to her is a sketchbook and a piece of charcoal — provisions supplied by her loving husband — yet despite being surrounded by nothing but beauty she can’t find a thing to draw. The last hour had been characterized by her holding the stick of ash above an unblemished page, wavering on the edge of an idea but being unable to make a mark. Perhaps she is plagued by a feeling of indecision, an inability to settle on what to draw — or maybe Mikasa’s just too nervous to sully the book, a present from Jean for her most recent birthday.

As a result, the sketchbook and piece of charcoal lay forgotten on the blanket, untouched as Mikasa puts her attention elsewhere. Fortunately, she’s not too worked up over her lack of artistic inspiration or the black smudges on her fingers, as one of her main priorities in life is at the pond’s edge.

Little Sasha is kneeling by the water, her hands partially submerged as her legs are obscured by the blades of tall grass. Ever since her Papa promised to teach her how to swim in the summer, she’s been eyeing the pond with the utmost glee. The temperature of the air and water are the main things preventing the child from removing all her clothes and jumping in anyways, much to her mother’s relief. Though it’s hard to tell what will happen once the world gets the slightest bit warmer.

Soon Sasha clasps her hands together and lets a mischievous smile creep onto her face, causing Mikasa to stand from the blanket and approach her daughter. When she arrives at the water’s edge she kneels down, the look on her face is warm and amicable as she eyes the amphibian in the child’s grasp.

“Caught another one, did you?”

“It’s a water lizard!” Sasha says proudly, as she usually does whenever she gets her hands on a new friend.

On one hand, Mikasa thinks there’s something endearing about her daughter’s inherent ability to bond with animals — whether it be their rambunctious dog, a hatchling that fell from a tree, or the occasional deer that would walk by their cottage. But on the other hand, the week-old incident of bringing several frogs into the house to give them a home in the bathtub had forced a line to be drawn, no matter how kindly Sasha’s intentions had been.

With that in mind, Mikasa takes a closer look at the salamander on Sasha’s fingers, a creature with dark skin, short legs, and beady eyes residing in a handful of water. She recalls seeing them back when she and Jean first moved into their cottage — fortunately for everyone, the creatures do not appear to be the poisonous kind.

When Mikasa looks back into Sasha’s eyes she can’t help but see parts of herself in her own kin. As far as her own childhood can feel, she can still recall the youthful need to bond with tiny things, whether it be a doll with one-eye or a grasshopper in her mother’s flower bed. She would be lying if she said she never attempted to adopt the butterflies or squirrels she found in the backyard, much to the amusement of her parents.

“That’s called a salamander, Sasha,” Mikasa soon corrects, then reaches over to affectionately tap her daughter’s nose, a gesture she does when she feels like teasing. “And you know what we’ve asked you to do when you catch those, right?”

Sasha’s eyes are dark and glassy, just like hers, and as the sound of wind resonates in the air, Mikasa can see the childlike joy in her daughter’s gaze slowly being replaced by a knowing look. For a three-year-old, Sasha’s surprisingly good at understanding the lessons that her parents — or namely, her Papa — take the time to explain.

“I know,” the little one says, and soon she’s lowering her new friend back in the water. The salamander in her hands slips away the second it’s submerged, effortlessly disappearing back into the pond without a trace.

Mikasa can see the saddened look in Sasha’s eyes, and to that she leans over to press a kiss to the girl’s cheek.

“You did the right thing,” Mikasa assures her. “Mama Salamander probably wants it back.”

Sasha looks at her mother with a puzzled look on her adorable face. “How do you know that?”

“Because if someone took you, I’d want you back, too,” she promises, tapping her daughter’s nose once more.

When a smile returns to Sasha’s face, mother and daughter hear a familiar noise amongst the soundscape. Behind them a dog barks, and when Mikasa looks towards the cottage atop the hill she can see a blob of brown fur dashing around the grass. As Hugo runs amok like a majestic idiot, Mikasa and Sasha watch as a person exits the front door of the home.

Jean walks onto the grass with a bundle in his arms, the breeze gently lapping at his hair and shirt sleeves. He holds onto the baby like the wind could whisk him away at any moment, safely cradling little Asher in the crook of his elbow.

The smile on Mikasa’s face gets just a bit wider as she stands up. She taps Sasha’s shoulder and urges her daughter to follow her back to the blanket.

Sasha ends up running forward, happily meeting Hugo in the grass. When the dog begins rolling in the blades, effectively collecting little bits of green in his black and brown fur, Sasha lets out a laugh of unbridled joy before doing the same. Sometimes it’s exceedingly easy to believe that the two operate on the same wavelength.

As the dog and the child play in the field, Mikasa approaches Jean near the blanket. Asher is awake in his arms, the baby looking at the beauty of the homestead with an utterly blank expression on his face — unsurprisingly, the four-month-old has exactly the amount of depth perception as one would expect.

“How was nap time?” asks Mikasa, looking lovingly at her tiny son.

“Well, he enjoyed it,” Jean replies, tipping his head towards the baby in his arms. “I — however — was giving Hugo his bath.”

Mikasa and Jean then look behind them to see their dog and daughter rolling in the grass, effectively gathering even more debris into Hugo’s once well-brushed fur.

Jean lets out a sigh. “And I guess I’ll be doing that again tomorrow.”

Amused, Mikasa hums before reaching towards the baby. “At least let me take him off your hands.”

The exchange takes slightly more effort than necessary, as Asher recently developed the habit of clinging to his father at the most inopportune times. At least the sight of a baby grasping the untrimmed ends of Jean’s beard will never cease to be adorable and hilarious.

Once Asher is laying his head on his mother’s shoulder, Jean runs towards the dog and the daughter on the grass. Mikasa holds Ash as gently as she can, moving to the blanket with slow steps. Once she’s sitting she holds the baby up, her hands feeling impossibly large as they support his tiny torso. He had only been born a few months ago, yet he already feels like a far cry from the bundle of skin and hair he was back in autumn. The strands on his head are jet black, just like his mother and sister, but his eyes are hazel — the kind with just the slightest specks of green — just like his father’s. The contrast is stark, darkness against light, yet like his father Asher’s eyes have an uncanny sense of warmth, tenderness, a sweetness that cannot be denied. It makes Mikasa wonder what other parts of her and Jean she’ll see in her children once they both get older.

Mikasa looks over to see Jean kneeling in the grass with his daughter and dog. Affectionately, he rubs Hugo’s stomach while giving Sasha a fun-loving look. When Sasha speaks it’s the kind of babbling that only toddlers can muster, yet Jean listens to every word like it’s the most brilliant thing he’s ever heard. He nods happily as Sasha rambles on about the Mama Salamander that lives in the pond, explaining that it would miss Baby Salamander if she took it to live in the cottage. Internally, Mikasa just knows that he’s relieved their bathtub will no longer be a home for wayward amphibians, and to that she has to agree.

Mikasa watches the scene in silence — it’s charming, idyllic, like something of a dream yet it’s right in front of her. With the way Hugo pants in bliss as Sasha continues to babble about salamanders, or the way Jean pets the dog as his daughter reaches over to play with his beard. Like her brother, she curls her fingers around the longer strands, though she tugs a lot more lightly, doing so in a manner that’s more playful than harmful.

Little Sasha doesn’t have her father’s eyes like her brother, but the way she fawns over the dog or always speaks her mind makes Mikasa think of Jean. It’s moments like this, watching her daughter play in the grass or observing the hazel in her son’s gaze, that makes Mikasa look forward to the future.

#jeankasa #jeanmika #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #mikasa ackermann #snk #post-canon #cottagecore au #could we start calling Mikasa a milf? asking for a friend

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