Cottagecore Fantasy Novels & Stories

I commented. “You’ll get used to it. These are some hardcore lesbians. If it’s got a dick, they don’t want it.” André chuckled. I arched an eyebrow. “But there are children.” I nodded to a small park with little girls playing on a playground. “Oh, men have their use, but beyond getting knocked up, they don’t want them. Think like the Amazonians of ancient Greece lore.” He shrugged. I shuddered. That’s fucked up. André chuckled as he pulled up in front of a stone cottage straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale. She certainly likes to stay on point, making it very known that a witch lives here.

Not his usual open and happy-go-lucky belly laugh, but something tight and stressed, a residual of the fierce predawn battle we only narrowly escaped alive. Fuck off, Ian, he chuckles. It’s a double front door on the cottage too, when we reach it. Like the moon gate, it’s wood hung with wooden hinges and with a clever wooden handle and latch, but this one has been left the natural color. The cottage is mortared stone, collected for the two-story building from the rocky slopes into this secret valley. Though the fragrance of the garden is still strong, beyond the cottage door the smell of my mate is stronger. My wolf half, side by side with me in my head, is bouncing around like an excited pu

A storm was coming, and just when I thought I’d have to curl up beneath a tree again, I spotted it, a structure hidden by vines and rot. A cottage old, abandoned and broken I approached cautiously. The colorful rags still hanging at the windows were faded but distinct tribal patterns, not decorative. Not touristy. This wasn’t a holiday retreat. It had belonged to someone, someone spiritual, a shaman. The cottage had two rooms. One side of the ceiling had caved in completely, rain already seeping through the rotten wood. But the second room held firm, at least enough to shelter me from the storm. I stepped inside, the musty scent of old herbs and dust wrapping around me. The floor creaked, an

I could see it now through the branches, a small stone structure that had once housed the pack's groundskeeper before my father had modernized the maintenance systems and made the position modern. The cottage looked empty and forgotten. The windows were dark, and the roof bent a little from many years without care. Plants grew all over the walls, and the small garden around the house was overgrown and wild. But there was something else. Something that made my witch blood sing with recognition. Magic. Dark magic. It was thick and heavy in the air around the cottage like an invisible fog. I could feel it pressing against my skin, taste it on my tongue; it was metallic and wrong.

Without a second thought, I step into the cottage and breathe in my surroundings. I wipe the tears from my eyes, as I look around the cottage. It is exactly what you would expect a witch’s cottage to look like. A fireplace roars in the corner with a black cauldron sitting off to the side. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling. Tiny jars fill the shelves, each one containing a different materials. Some larger jars sit above the fireplace, each one with a different creature exploring the glass of the jar, trying to find a way to escape. Mismatched wooden furniture fills the room, that has patchworked cushions on each. None of the cushions match, each one looks as if it has been c

'This doesn't feel right, Liam,' he says, making me grimace at him calling me by name that way. He was serious, but something was magnetizing me in this direction, and I couldn't help it. Finally, we come up on a small log cottage. You could tell it was older by how the wood looked worn down, and the stain that had once made it vibrant was worn off. Smoke is coming from the chimney. The porch is quaint, with ferns creeping and lacing around the railings and edges. Small purple flowers bloom through the vines, making the aesthetic feel magical. 'More like a nightmare,' Bo comments.

This style was simple and unadorned. Although it was called a ruler, it was more like a boat paddle. The magic weapon tossed in his hand. Caspian looked thoughtful. "Crape Myrtle Sect has twenty Grotto-heaven Paradises. Of course, I can't go to all of them." That was impossible and unrealistic. I can only fight for some exotic minerals and produce for the parts that I need to improve. And during this period of time, fights were inevitable.

Jasmine savours the moment of being the first, and not only recently that three hundred more feral werewolves had managed to accept Francisco’s blood, which made them rogues, the lethal hybrid. She was still waiting on the whole queen thing, however, she acknowledged wryly, moving through the main room of the cottage shrouded in the gathering gloom. It offered nothing more than a ratty couch, one overstuffed chair, and a small stone kitchen. There wasn’t even a picture hung on the rough wooden walls. It was about as far away from the palace she dreamed of as the squalid boardinghouse she’d once shared with three other whores.

Six months passed in the quiet stillness of the woods. What had once been a barren clearing slowly transformed into a breathtaking sanctuary. The cottage blossomed with life under my hands. Soft moss carpeted the stone paths, and dark, ethereal flowers, blooming in shades of deep velvet crimson and moonlight silver, clambered up the wooden walls. In the sprawling backyard, I planted rows of wild berries, sweet root vegetables, and fruit trees that grew unnaturally fast, nourished by the faint, pulsing magic that bled off my skin whenever I touched the earth. From the outside, my life seemed peaceful. I baked fresh bread, harvested my gardens, and spent long, quiet afternoons sitting on the p

That this is a bad idea. Eventually, through the dense green, the cottage appears. It’s… beautiful. More beautiful than I expected it to be. The wooden frame is dark, well-kept, like it’s been treated and retreated with care over the years. Ivy climbs the stone chimney and flower boxes hang from the windows, overflowing with lavender and some pale blue flowers I can’t name. The roof is steep as if it jumped right out of the pages of a fairytale my mother read to me as a baby and smoke curls gently from the chimney. The cottage sits there as if it has been waiting for me to arrive for centuries.