#wip: a plague of shadows

[noveldivergence]

Ottilie Khan

28 • United Coalition of Planets

Role in Story: Main protagonist; Ottilie is a human junior diplomat, unaffected by the plague and accomplished in her own right,  who is selected by the well-known Talomar diplomat Ka’lan Tern to accompany the team on a mission to the Nyari Imperium. She is expected to aid Ka’lan in brokering both peace and help to find a cure for the plague; however, she eventually begins to discover that not all is as it seems both with the Imperium and with what she knows about the Coalition and the Talomar.

Goal: Her initial goal is to help broker peace with the Nyari Imperium; this goal persists throughout the story, but is eventually superseded in focus by other goals. The next goal she faces is discovering and dealing with a sedition plot in the Imperium court, and her goal shifts to preventing another Nyari civil war, in order to persist in upholding her first goal. These goals are based in altruism, self preservation, and personal ambition simultaneously.

Physical Description: Ottilie is a cisgender woman of South Asian descent, who is shorter than the average human at this point in humanity’s development, standing at roughly 5 '4". She has darker skin, a prominent Roman nose, dark brown eyes, and black hair, which is long, but almost constantly tied up in a low hanging bun. She is thin and petite, with a flattish chest and few curves. She is not very muscular or athletic either. She has no distinctive scars or tattoos, and only stands out amongst humans for having pierced ears, which is rare and not particularly in fashion at this point in humanity’s development. Ottilie has a very practical fashion sense, and almost never wears makeup or styles her hair. She has a very clipped and precise way of speaking, with little room for misinterpretation but some room for offense to be taken from bluntness. Ottilie is trying to work on this though, particularly in studying the different ways cultures within and outside of the Coalition live their lives and formulate their ethics and morals.

Personality: Ottilie is defined by her hard work, persistence, and ambition. She is generally a decent person morally, letting her work speak for itself, but in past encounters (particularly at the Academy), she has not been above benefiting from the failures and missteps of others to help her succeed in her goals. Despite this, she isn’t one to intentionally sabotage anyone in order to reach what she wants. She is very stubborn in her beliefs and opinions, which she realizes is something she needs to negotiate within herself to succeed more in foreign diplomacy.  She often lacks empathy, can be selfish, is very opinionated, and has a prickly demeanor in casual encounters; these flaws make it difficult to make and keep friends. Ottilie doesn’t seem to mind this much. Gradually, and before the story takes place, Ottilie has been attempting to test and renegotiate her perceived boundaries, in order to strengthen her abilities as a diplomacy broker for the Coalition. While some admire this, and it has caught the attention of those in charge, her divisive personality has not earned her a great deal of friends from the Academy. It has earned her respect in the halls of the Coalition, though, which, at least outwardly, Ottilie seems to value more.

Occupation: Ottilie is a junior diplomat, earning her respect and experience in her field within the Coalition. She is not quite where she’d hoped in her career yet, despite being further along than most of her peers of similar age. While she has surpassed everyone’s expectations for her, Ottilie has yet to meet her own expectations for herself. This fuels her to go above and beyond.

Habits/Mannerisms: Ottilie has several nervous tics that are almost unnoticeable, namely flexing her hand, clenching her jaw, and blinking quickly when annoyed or perturbed. Occasionally, her hands will flutter unconsciously when she is flustered, but when she catches herself, her attempts to suppress it are almost more noticeable than when she just allows it to happen. She does not have any notable vices such as synthetic alcohol or drug use, nor any “bad” habits such as nail biting or hair chewing. Her mother and some of her friends view her love of traditional non-replicated foods as a bit odd, but harmless as far as “habits” go, and it isn’t looked down on as more than a quirk or curiosity.

Background: Ottilie came from a rather typical home for a human from the Coalition. She grew up not on Earth, but on a colonized M-class planet closer to Talome known as Caliban. Her father is an aquaponics engineer, and her mother is an agricultural genetic engineer. While both always had high expectations of Ottilie as their only child, they were very loving and supportive, never herding her towards one field of study or another. When Ottilie became fascinated with Talomar culture and cultural sociology/anthropology in general, they encouraged her to pursue that as a field of study; however, Ottilie soon found her desires went far beyond the scholarly. In her studies about Coalition history in interacting with new worlds, she kindled her own desire to do the same. Human diplomats were of course accepted to the Coalition programs for foreign relations, but few had yet to make names for themselves. Ambitious Ottilie determined she would be the first (or at least the first most notable). While she wasn’t as cutthroat as some of her classmates at the Academy, never choosing to purposefully undercut any of them, she also wasn’t particularly friendly with her classmates, causing her to miss some networking opportunities. However, her impressive work and research led to her catching the attention of several higher ups in the Coalition, who were specifically interested in her research into cultural immersion as diplomacy, as this method is non-standard amongst the majority of Coalition cultures. This is chalked up to her humanity and humans being more physically and mentally adaptable, but Ottilie’s ambition certainly stands out amongst her peers for her willingness to go beyond the standard expectations. When the plague begins, Ottilie is studying at a graduate school on Talome. She is front and center for the damage of the Talomar plague, feeling suddenly helpless to do anything to aid her friends, peers, and compatriots. When Ka’lan Tern, a Talomar diplomat of great note whom she admires, comes up with the idea to contact the Nyari Imperium, Ottilie is shortlisted and eventually selected for the mission to the Imperium. She is suddenly thrust into the spotlight of Coalition foreign affairs, with millions of lives on the line; part of her though can’t help but be excited about the thought of succeeding and all that might mean for her. A much bigger part is terrified of the weight of responsibility in her potential loss.

[noveldivergence]

I'm answering both questions in depth because I'm BORED AT WORK and the other department head isn't answering my emails nor is IT fixing my laptop so I have things to SAY.

On the topic of the death penalty in A Plague of Shadows:

The Coalition doesn't have the death penalty as they view it as barbaric. However, they are also a false utopia, so it can't be that simple. Functionally, most criminals are rehabilitated, but if they are rehabilitation resistant, then the Coalition governing bodies basically chemically lobotomize them. It's pretty horrifying, but also completely normalized within the narrative as the perceived "best option." There is significant evidence that has been concealed that this is a persistent form of psychological torture.

The Imperium does have the death penalty for very particular crimes. Those that cannot be rehabilitated (and they do also have a pretty extensive rehabilitation program!) are usually sent to prison, even in cases of murder. However, certain crimes are worthy of the death penalty which is closely tied to the official state religion. The death penalty is highly rare after the civil war, due to the nature of it and the desire to prove absolute certainty of guilt. It's pretty gruesome, due to traditions and ceremony, but also fairly quick.

On the topic of religion in A Plague of Shadows:

None of the religion in A Plague of Shadows is correct. The Coalition doesn't have an official religions, and most people in the Coalition look down on or are condescending towards it. The Imperium has an official religion, but actually does allow freedom of other religions with no obligation towards the official one. It's also common for people within the Imperium to practice multiple or parts of multiple religions. While most in the Imperium, especially the Nyari themselves, are religious, there religion is not "correct" in that it's not demonstrably true.

What is the most recent huge/inciting event in your world's history?

WRITERS!!

Answer the given worldbuilding question, and then add a new question for the next person to answer!

Does the death penalty exist?

[williamverse]

Jayce in my dishonored au! I’ll leave a few more sketches and wip pics under the cut, along with his lore for anyone curious)

Jayce is an immigrant from Serkonos — he’s a part of an impoverished noble family. They move to Dunwall after Jayce’s father dies. During their voyage, the ship gets lost at sea, caught up in a storm. Death seems inevitable, until a mark-bearer aboard uses his magic to call the whales, who get the ship on their backs and bring it to safety. The mark-bearer than hands Jayce a rune and that’s when his fascination with void begins.

So, he starts studying the void, magic, different runes, their meanings, trying to harness magic and make it do good. At some point he even meets Sokolov, who shares his fascination, but they part ways soon because of moral differences. Once, when looking for new material for study, he makes his way to the Brigmore mansion, but is quickly stopped by a certain someone. “They will eat you alive if you set foot there, boy,” the stranger says.

That stranger is none other than Viktor, of course. He’s from an industrial district. Dirty air, constantly filled with toxic fumes from the factories never served him well and worsened his already weak health. Still, he has a sharp mind, and is known and respected among workers. They know: if something doesn’t work right, he knows how to fix it. However, his genius was never satiated, so when he learned about Jayce’s research he was intrigued to say the least.

The two had to work in shadow as to not get caught by the overseers, spreading their little successes among the poor, in total secret. Then, during one of their experiments, something went wrong, and Viktor touched the void — maybe a bit too deeply for a regular human being. It scarred him, making the two stop their research.

When, the plague comes. Viktor falls victim to it and soon dies. Jayce, however, can’t accept a truth like that and strives to return him no matter the cost. He believes: Viktor’s soul is somewhere within the void and he only needs to find a way to pull it out and tie it back to his body. And so, he looks for an answer, nearly goes crazy, sees visions from the void, while Viktor’s body starts to rot.

Nonetheless, he finally finds a way to accomplish what he had in mind, tying Viktor’s soul back to his body. But Viktor is different. He’s already dead and he’d spent too long in the void — so, even with his soul back in his body, he’s not at home in the real world anymore

[gothcsz]

📹 ── 𝙒𝙀𝙇𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝙏𝙊 𝙈𝙔 𝙇𝙄𝙏𝙏𝙇𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙀𝙍 𝙊𝙁 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙉𝙀𝙏! hola cariños, it’s ya girl,  𝙠𝙖𝙩, and my hobbies include thirsting over javier peña and daydreaming. i also read and write too much smut, oops.

explicit content will be found on this blog. pls don’t interact unless you’re 18+.

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my ask is always open

english isn’t my first language. proud morenita mexicana over here!

i’m a flirt, okay, i call everyone a variety of pet names but if you’re uncomfortable with it please let me know 🖤

this is a sideblog. my main is @fridays13th and so is my discord

divider credit / graphic credit

📺 ──  asks. writing tag. drabbles. me speaking into the void. pinterest. spotify. ao3. wips. fic recs. join my taglist.

detailed masterlist under the cut.

i’m always taking prompts / suggestions / ideas. thanks to everyone who reads my stories, it really means a lot to me 🖤 remember to support your fave authors  🖤 what isn’t listed in the masterlist is in my general writing tag.

⚠️ all of my reader inserts are able bodied, afab, with curvy mid-sized builds! ⚠️ all fics include smut! ⚠️ i primarily write for javier peña! ⚠️

🎞️ ── thoroughfare. javier peña x original female character [ ongoing ]

religious horror!au. crime thriller!au.   after being reassigned from colombia to a small town in rural texas, former DEA agent javier peña takes on the role of deputy sheriff to tackle a series of mysterious murders plaguing the community. as rumors swirl about a sacrilegious group lurking in the shadows, tension mounts among the townsfolk. amidst the chaos, javier finds himself drawn to paloma, the sheriff’s daughter, who captivates him not only with her beauty but also with her enchanting performances at a local bar. as javier delves deeper into the investigation, he becomes increasingly entangled in the complexities of the case and his relationship with her. inspired by ethel cain’s album ‘preacher’s daughter,’ javier navigates a web of deceit and intrigue, uncovering shocking truths about the town and its inhabitants. ── longfic.

masterlist

ao3

🎞️ ── fantasize. javier peña x f!reader [ ongoing ]

set during s3 of narcos. arriving in colombia for work, you didn’t expect to find the man of your dreams there, and you definitely didn’t expect to prowl after him like some horny vigilante. ── mini series.

masterlist

ao3

🎞️ ── unscripted desire. pornstar!javier peña x f!reader [ ongoing ]

you’re a camerawoman that shoots pornos. javier peña is the pornstar you can’t stand. so why is it that you’re always so affected by him? ── series.

masterlist

ao3

🎞️ ── neighbors. javier peña x f!reader [ complete ]

set during s1 - s2 of narcos. what it's like living next door to javier peña. ── collection of random inbox prompts, one shots, and drabbles.

masterlist

🎞️ ── untitled. onlyfans creator!javier peña x f!reader [ ongoing ]

your best friend sends you a link to a very interesting onlyfans page that quite literally turns your world upside down. ── short ‘n sweet two parter.

part one

part two

🎞️ ── worst behavior. secret service!javier peña x f!reader [ complete ]

tired of living in the confines of being the president's daughter— you sneak out, only to be caught by the head of your security, javier peña. ── one shot.

read here

🎞️ ── purgatory. javier peña x f!reader x f!oc [ complete ]

a threesome between you, your bestie and javier peña. ── one shot.

read here

🎞️ ── wandering hands. javier peña x f!reader [ complete ]

javi can't keep his hands off you during a dinner with some friends. ── one shot.

read here

🎞️ ── el cumpleañero. javier peña x f!reader [ complete ]

it's javier's birthday, so you show up to his party and things get fun. ── one shot.

read here

🎞️ ── 𝐈𝐈𝐈. marcus acacius x f!reader x lucius verus aurelius [ complete ]

modern au. lucius aurelius, the stepson of wealthy and renowned architect marcus acacius, falls in love with you, marcus's personal assistant. however, you're already in the midst of a tangled affair with his stepfather. ── one shot.

read here

ao3

🎞️ ── dusk. chief park ranger!joel miller x f!reader [ complete ]

you become a park ranger at a national park in california after breaking up with your ex. you meet joel miller, the chief ranger there, and find yourself absolutely smitten over him. ── one shot.

read here

[kiestrokes]

Day 4: Stardust | NSFW

▸ Idol: Xu Minghao of SVT ▸ Rating: NSFW. Mature (18+) Minors DNI. ▸ Genre: active WIP, smut, monster fucking, dubcon. ▸ Vibe: Hao is the sleep paralysis demon that has been sexually edging you for months. Until one night you decided to edge him back. ▸ Warnings: language, demons, sleep paralysis.

Sexually Explicit Content: MONSTER FUCKING, DUBCON, DNI IF THESE THEMES ICK YOU OUT - IT IS FICTION - KINKSHAMING WILL BE BLOCKED/DELETED - intercourse (penis in vagina), raw sex, demon semen that has special effects, multiple orgasms for both, cum eating mentioned, mostly missionary, some cowgirl, kissing, marking, biting, clit stim, nipple stim.

🗝️ Note: Has not beta-ed by me or anyone else. Ok so listen…I toyed with the idea ever even posting this WIP. But then Hao goes and drops this single. I am bumping Jeonghan and Chanyeol to days 5 & 6 (you will get both at the same time). Minghao is taking day 4. I wrote this over the summer after being plagued with thoughts, that stemmed from an ask about SVT as Sex Workers. Good luck? Be nice.

Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction; I do not own any of the idols depicted below.

「 25 Hours: Hard, Soft and WIP-mas Masterlist 」

Xu Minghao is the sleep paralysis demon that has been edging you for months. He enchants your hands so you cannot get yourself off. Having to seek out men to do the job. As Minghao watches from the shadows.

None of them satisfy you.

He gives you just a little bit more during each of his visits. So close, left with frustratingly damp panties each time.

Until one night you say fuck the panties and go to bed nude.

Catching the demon off guard, his restraint shredding like nylon tights without your usual physical barriers to stop him.

He noses at your slit, a full glide, bumping of his nose against your clit. You moan groggily in your sleep, and he hisses in response.

Pinning your legs to the bed and licking you open. Your hips rock into his steady lapping until you start to come. You try to close your legs, but he won’t let you. His muffled groans as he eats away, pushing you into something far beyond overstimulation. You’re crying his name, body shaking.

Minghao finally relents and sits up to remove his pants. Stroking through your folds until he’s well lubricated.

“Wait-ah” you moan at the feeling of him bursting in.

You don’t see stars, you see swirls of dark purple and pink, a whole galaxy.

“Sorry little human my precum is a little…seductive.”

You come back into yourself to him hovering over you, hips plush against yours as he waits. Suddenly the patient demon you're used to haunting the corner of your bedroom.

“If you cum inside me, will I die?”

He laughs, “no you'll just have a really deep sleep.”

“Ok, that sounds nice.”

You nod and he smirks, “as if you had an option in this.”

Minghao flexes out and you gasp, “so tight.”

He snaps his hips, and you bow against the bed slightly in response. His long fingers grip your hips setting to work. Stroking your insides until you’re trembling on his cock, arousal coating his length with a creamy ring.

“Been that long huh?”

He chuckles at your intimate display, tugging your hips down a little harder enticing you become more vocal.

“Come on little human, come on my cock, milk me a little, let me fuck you sleepy.”

Your body tightens and so do your legs around his hips, “ahhh but wait-wait.”

You want a kiss but you’re coming around him and he’s moaning and picking up the pace as he releases just a little into you. His hips slowing as your body limps and falls into a light sleep.

“That’s it,” he fucks into you lightly as you doze.

Painted hands stroking your breasts and nipples before he lifts you up to sit in his lap. Cock buried deep inside so that he can have access to nuzzle your chest. Lips and teeth and tongue, kissing and sucking each breast and nipple.

Your skin silky under his turning him on so much so that he releases the love bite he had been sucking on your neck to choke out a surprised moan, leaking another release into you accidentally.

He pulls out to lay his dick against your clit, nestled in the valley of your netherlips. Hips rubbing listlessly as he explores your body. Until his palms clench handfuls of your ass to rut against you.

You cry out softly in your sleep at the clit stimulation and he ruts back inside. Fucking into you roughly as he lays you back down

“Mmm kiss” you whine.

Minghao rasps a laugh, clutching your jaw and to kiss your pouting lips before licking inside with a growl. You groan groggily and wrap your limbs around him.

He huffs, hips falling back into a steady rhythm with yours. Deeper this time in your embraced state. Gasping into your mouth between your needy kisses as he thrusts. Eating your moans.

“Could stay here all night, just fucking you like this.”

“Please,” you sigh.

The demon swirls his toned hips and your head presses back into the pillow climax building again. He watches you pumping you through it as you gush around him. Sweat slicking your bodies. His tongue flicks out to lap at your clavicle. Panting into your neck. Other hand tucked behind you on the small of your back.

“Another?”

“Yes,” he groans and sits back on his calves' lips parted fingers biting into your hips “so messy.”

- at one point he finishes but wants to eat you out and accidentally causes himself to fall asleep -

You wake up to him still in your bed and climb on top. He’s surprised that you’re not freaked out and lets you ride him.

“I’m not going to cum, you can fuck me as much as you want.”

You whine, “I want you to cum again.”

Minghao lets out a wispy laugh and cups your face.

“I’ll pull out?”

You nod eagerly. His head kicks back and he lets go as you ride him. Eyebrows furrowing as he watches you through slit eyes. Squeezing your thighs and ass appreciatively as you bounce on his cock. Your climax reaches you frustratingly quick, body falling out of rhythm. Minghao fucks up into you when you can’t continue on top, your muscles tightening on themselves, trying to fold you up. He flips you over, thrusting hard from above.

You’re mesmerized. His hair shimmers a rainbow colors in the morning light leaking through your curtains. You let out a choked moan as you orgasm hits you at the sight of him.

“Fuck, look at you," the demon gasps.

His hips stuttering and stills himself; muscles flexing before continuing.

“Not yet,” he hisses to himself.

Minghao slows his stroke, focusing on burying himself inside you. Stretching your sensitive core in a way that has you clutching the sheets to ground yourself.

“I want to consume you.”

You cry out, “you are, all I see is you, all I feel.”

© COPYRIGHT 2021 - 2024 by kiestrokes  All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced without written permission from the author. This includes translations.

[justanerdy-gal]

"Do You Resent Me?" (Astarion x Tav)

-> pairing: Astarion x Tav -> content: fluff/angst -> summary: In which Tav wonders whether Astarion resents her for convincing him to choose to reject the Black Mass ritual and not Ascend. Full of angsty fluff.

-> notes: The finished version of the WIP I posted yesterday. Astarion & Tav draws all the angst and cheesy fluff out of me 🥹

——————

“Do you resent me?”

Astarion looks up, wearily, from the corner of the Elfsong Tavern room that they had been staying in for some time now.

“Darling….what would I have to resent you for…?”

You slowly walk over to his corner of the room, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed. You observe him as he turns his gaze over to the hands in his lap.

“It…just feels like…you may have made your choice because of…me.”

Astarion turns his head to look back at you, betraying nothing in those crimson eyes at the moment, but listening.

“If I wasn’t around….you would have been free to make the choice you always wanted,” you continued, your eyes glassing over as you ponder the thoughts that have been plaguing you since the moment Astarion made his choice in the Szarr palace.

“The freedom that you always craved… did I take that away from you?”

Astarion’s eyes widened as you made your declaration.

“You… think it wasn’t the right choice?”

“Not that,” you tried to clarify. “Maybe… maybe I don’t know what the right choice is. But what mattered is… your choice.”

“You trusted me. You trusted me with a choice that, in the end, goes back centuries…” your voice starts to shake. “A choice with consequences you must live with for…eternity.” You look up at him as tears finally threaten to pour from your eyes. “What right did I have, to ask you to sacrifice yourself to the shadows?”

Astarion stares at you as he ponders your statement. He looks away from you as he stares at the cracked, drying paint on the wall of the old room.

“I think about it every minute, every moment.” Astarion speaks slowly, softly. “I think about the colours of the city. The warmth of the rays at dawn, beckoning me towards the next day. I think about the sanguine hunger I have suffered for over 200 years, and how I could be free from that pain. Free from all limitations. And how that will never be now… once the parasite is destroyed.”

You look up at him in despair as your body threatens to let out a sob.

“And I think about… how it would never be enough.”

It was your turn for your eyes to widen. His gaze had softened as his fingers move to entwine in your own.

“I see the colours through your eyes, through the stories that you tell me of your adventures. I feel the warmth through your skin as you lay beside me every night.”

“And your blood can sate me better than any power can.” You giggle as he smirks, softly wiping the tears from your eyes.

“Before you, before this nautiloid fiasco … I had no reason to want anything else but freedom and power. I only lived to escape what I was. I had everything to gain. And nothing to lose. So ofcourse, this Ascension seemed like an obvious choice.”

“But everything changed,” Astarion said breathily. “From the moment you wormed your way into my heart…you became a complication that I never expected. Suddenly, I had everything to lose.”

“I would have stayed,” you say thickly.

“I know you would,” Astarion says sadly, “but would you have been happy?”

“I probably would have been happy…happier than I was, for sure.” Astarion stares distantly at the wall as he speaks. “But where would that happiness end? What would sate me, if my happiness was dependent on power? I would have to take more, control more, be more…it is surely the fate that befell Cazador, that befalls all with power…more power than they know what to do with.” Astarion winces as he utters his late master’s name. “The need for power, for control, can never be sated. It would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.”

“But you, with me, here? That is enough. You are enough. We are enough.”

You pause as you ponder his words for a moment.

“Am I?” you whisper weakly as you stare at your entwined hands.

You feel the chill of his hands as they move up to hold your face tightly, and tilts your head up to look at him. The intensity in his eyes at that moment was like nothing you’ve ever seen on him before.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, staring fiercely into your eyes, as if he was speaking through to your soul. “There is nothing in the world that I wouldn’t sacrifice to remain here by your side. You are my eternity. My mad love. Besides,” Astarion smiles as he stares into your eyes. “I still think it was the right choice, regardless. If I could go back and do it all over again, I’d make the same choice. Every time.”

Astarion’s words cause the tears that you were holding back to creep up to the surface, as your body begins to wrack with heavy sobs, as you let out the doubt and fear that you have been holding since you both learned that the Ascension was a thing – since you have contemplated that potential decision every minute of every day, since the moment Astarion asked you to help him, and you convinced him to give away that power, to save those souls, to save himself. Astarion pulls your head to his chest and holds you tightly as you shake against him.

“My darling, why do you weep? Don’t sell yourself so short. No one else has a heart like you. You’re the only one,” Astarion whispers into your ear.

“I love you,” you declare into his shirt, tears still staining the soft, white material.

“I love you too,” Astarion says, leaning backward, pulling you down with him until he was laying on his back, with your head resting on his chest, hands softly caressing your hair. “I can’t imagine another way I would want to spend the rest of my days, my love. I’m not afraid – not anymore. And especially not of our future.”

And that is how you both fell asleep, with the two of you in eachother’s arms and your dreams of the future in eachother’s hearts.

——————

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MASTERLIST

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Alles zu seiner Zeit

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, mentions of death and loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Fifteen years after a plague struck Wisborg, the widower Harding continues to visit his wife and daughter at the cemetery where you work. His devotion spans across seasons but it might be more than those he lost drawing him back.

Characters: Friedrich Harding

Note: this is a new character for me so...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Winter 

Bristles scrape on stone. Each push of the broom tugs in your arms, the layers against the chill inspiring a slake of sweat along your back. The trickle makes you itch as your efforts scratch across the ground, sending clouds of snow into heaps. 

Where once greenery blossomed and flowers smiled at sunlight remain only bristly sticks and frozen dirt 'neath the rug of January's malaise. The sombre grey skies form a thin curtain against the shadow of memories. The spectre of plague and whispers of a curse carry in the winds and swirl the flakes around your skirts. 

You were young the winter the sickness came. You'd known eight up until that blight and your brothers knew no other. They were of the forsaken, left in pine boxes to be buried when the frozen ground could be cracked with a spade. Your mother joined them soon after, though of a different malady; despair. 

Your father suffered the same disease but to a very different effect. At the bottom of a bottle. He lingers there in the depths of distraught distraction.  

You sweep the path clear to the doors of the mausoleum, then perpendicular around the perimeter. When the walkways are done, you will put your mind to the stones. And by the time those are revealed, a new sheet will litter the ground and your work will begin anew. 

Emmett, the youngest of the diggers, sits in wool and a leather cap, drinking hot barley from a cup. He shivers as you pass, mindful not to push the snow his way. He doffs the cup amiably. 

"How's it, fraulein?" He greets. 

"You would know so well as I, herr," you reply, moving the bristles anon. Your mittened hands cling tightly as the cold nips through to your knuckles. You keep your chin tucked into your scarf, 

"Frigid, ja," he cradles the cup and curls into its warmth. Adelaine, daughter of the sexton, must have offered the kindness. She does make certain to know all the diggers' names. "Would you do all this by your own?" He peers around the rolling expanse marked by headstones and monuments. 

"Someone must mind the spirits," you carry on without hamper.  

"For a pretty thaler or so, I'd pray," he remarks and clucks. 

You will not tell the truth. It is a thaler for the whole of a fortnight of sweeping and clearing the cobwebs; of breaking the frost from the keyholes and dusting away the musty leaves and stirred pebbles. 

"I pray you keep warm, herr. The almanac calls for a long winter." You bid as you progress away from him. 

"And you, Fraulein. Mind the ice," he girds. 

You keep careful steps as you press on. Emmett rises with his cup of barley and retreats to the shed with the shovels. A mean gale blows around you, nearly taking you off your feet. 

You steady yourself as you plant the broom and chatter against the deathly gust. There's a shrill whine from behind you. You turn as Adelaine clings to her fur-trimmed hood and hides behind a statue of the Holy Mother. 

"Fraulein," she trills in her creaky tones. "Have you seen Herr Emmett?" 

"Mm," you hum in hesitation. Her father, Wilhelm, warned you against encouraging her comingling. He is a pious man, minding the sacred grounds and all. "I'm not certain where he's strayed, Fraulein Adelaine." 

"Mercy," she huddles down against another violent draught. "The bishops says it's not been so cold since... well, he would not speak of it." 

She makes the sign of the cross and bows her head, clutching her hand where her golden necklace is hidden beneath her dress and cloak. Many would not wear holy icons so gregarious in their clothing. Simple wood or iron is more in line with the protestant pragmatism.  

The gate bell tolls and she cranes to see beyond you. Snow blows across her cheeks as the wind billows in her hood. Your own lets the bitter chill right through its weave.  

"There he is," she exclaims before your mind might follow her previous allusion. That corrupt wintertide. 

You turn to peer across the ivory swathes. Henrick and Emmett approach the gate and open it to the visitor. A figure on a horse rides through impatiently, nearly catching Henrick beneath the hooves. The gentleman wears simple black though the richness of its cut can be seen even from your purview. The breed of his coldblood steed attests to his fortune.  

Adelaine gasps and steps out close to you. You have seen the man before. As often you've seen the drape of his cloak, you would only know him by the emblem pinned upon the horse's harness.  

"It is the widower, Harding." She whispers.  

The man draws his horse around the stone crypt marked with his name. The one barren of any other decoration; no flowers in Fruhling, no ornament upon the door, nor even a cross carved into the lintel. You note the plainness each time you tend its grounds. 

He drops off his horse heavily. His boots send up a cloud and you grip the broom tighter. How quickly it's piled up all over again. Flecks fall along the folds of his cloak as he marches to the doors. You can hear the twist of the key as he lets himself within. The door slams sonorously and casts a pall over the grounds. 

"My father says he was young when his wife and daughters succumbed to the ague," Adelaine says. 

"Do not speak of it," you chide. "It is ill tidings to call upon the dead who wish to remain undisturbed." 

She tuts, "he comes every day. He disturbs them oft enough." 

"They are his to disturb," you sniff. "I should be certain it does not snow him in." 

She would not know what it is to have those beyond your grasp. To spend the nocturne longing for them to be there again. To hear them sing a lullaby or tuck you into sleep.

"Have you ever been inside? Even a glimpse? Father does not have a key." She grabs your sleeve before you can depart. "What do you presume he does within? I've heard him talking..." 

"It isn't of my concern," you tug away from her. "Nor yours." 

"Hmph, mind your lip," she sneers. "Or I'll have father find another broom sweep. Perhaps one more droll, ja?" 

"Apologies, fraulein, I only mean to do my work," you say. "The snow comes more and more. Perhaps you should go within, be warm." 

"Perhaps I might and perhaps I mightn't," she retorts and rubs together her gloved hands. "Very well, go about and do you work, little dormouse." 

You part before her temper can rise. Adelaine can be as prickly as she is pleasant. One moment a giggle, the next a growl. 

You retrace your steps along the path, uncovering the stone with the bristles as you do. You glance over at the yellow crypt as the wind wails as a wraith might. None are permitted within but the widower. It is a rule never broken. Never questioned. All know of the heartbroken Harding and his sorrow, even beyond those gates. Even as he hides within the walls of the house he once made a home of. 

Fruhling (Spring) 

As the annual thaw softens the earth, the frozen ground churns to mud, and the air bristles with the damp threat of rain. The early sprigs of green poke up from the flattened grasses and the cracks between the stonework fill with wet sludge. Your bristles clump with mud and you trade the broom for shovel to scrape it all away. 

Adelaine’s song carries with those of the songbirds, returned from their winter nests. She sits upon a bench and chimes as Emmett and Matthias dig into a new plot nearby. Her ploy is not subtle. 

Even as the season marks rebirth, death is to be expected. The hole is meant for the wife of a cobbler who did not survive her child. The infant, as you heard, is well. A reverence carries on the whispers as the old wives and grandmothers praise her noble sacrifice. It is as close as a woman might come to the bravery of man, though there isn’t much choice in the matter. 

Your mind wanders as the tedium of your work inspires preoccupation. Adelaine will be a wife one day. Will she end up in the ground upon her own sacrifice? Or will she sing then to her child instead of the diggers? 

What of yourself? You are no lady, your father is not rich but a drunkard feeding his demise off your tuppence. Should you have a husband when he succumbs to the rye’s dark tides? It would be practical. You father has no son, his house cannot pass to a daughter. 

With your days spent in the cemetery, you know that inevitability is closer than you should like. Your father should’ve died the night he was kicked in the skull by that old mule he slapped while in his cups. It is a miracle he lived to laugh so bawdily about the farce. 

You sigh and carry on, as you do many things in life. You will need to think on it more thoroughly before Winter comes again. It is a godsend your father did not catch the same ague as poor Frau Elke. You spent wakeless nights listening to his snores, searching for a cough or a choke. 

The day wears on and the burial happens in a bout of sunshine which beams down sardonically on the party’s grief. When the forsaken mother is buried, never to kiss the face of her child, they depart. Emmett and Matthias pat firm the earth as Sexton Wilhelm whistles for you. 

His daughter has been sent away. She cannot stomach the funerals. Ironic given her lot in life. Her family is not from Wisborn, they did not witness the plague, only heard of it. Her mother is well and alive, she never had any sibling, and her father is in fine enough health for a man his age. 

“These flowers are for the woman’s plot,” he gestures to a crate of marigolds. 

“Yes, Herr,” you reply diligently.  

“I will have one of the diggers assist,” he assures and struts off. 

You turn to face the plot. You heard the woman was younger than even you. A new bride. Not even twenty. You trace the cross over your chest and shoulders then pick up a basket of the marigolds 

Matthias comes with two hand spades. You take one and begin your work. You transplant the rooted flowers into the ground carefully. He grumbles as he kills more than he preserves. His hands are not delicate but calloused and well-worn. 

“Herr, I will finish,” you say. “You’ve done plenty today.” 

“Are you certain? There are still very many.” He glances over at the crate. 

“Too many. I will find them homes,” you promise. 

The gate bell rings as if supporting your suggestion. Matthias rises and dusts of his hands. Emmett and Henrick run down to open the doors to the visitor. Black velvet flaps over short bristles of reddish-brown. The widower canters in as the thick hooves clop over the stone. 

You pack down the earth around another stem. Harding dismounts as the diggers keep their distance. The lock grinds and the door drags on its hinges. It closes with a clunk as your shovel bites into the earth again and again. 

When you have lined the plot with the pleasant orange blooms, there is still a basket left. You peer around the fruhling blossom. Your eyes are drawn to the most bland swath among the sprawl. The yellow crypt and its vacant brick walls. Not even the ivy grows upon it. 

You are not so presumptuous as to disturb the soil. You cut the stems and bound them together with a headless one. Little bundles all snug together. You place them along the front of the crypt. They will die and blow away but it is a small blessing for the lost. 

You set above wiping clean the foot of the statue of the splattered mud. As you do, the crypt opens again. The cloak almost seems to float as its wearer remains hidden in its folds. He stops only two steps from the threshold. 

You scrape off dried muck with your fingernail as the clouds shift above. The sudden frantic scuffing and stomping draws your attention. Harding crushes the petals into the ground, decapitating the stems, twisting them into strands with his heels. His hood shifts you think for a moment he is looking at you. 

He kicks away what is left of the bouquets and approaches his dulcet steed. The beast is still as its rider mounts. It trods around the crypt then up the path to the gates. You frown and watch the widower’s departure. You did not mean to offend. You hope that Herr Wilhelm does not hear of this error. 

Sommer (Summer) 

Pollen floats in the air, tickling nostril and throat, mingling with the aromas of June. In the early morning dim, a cool breeze stirs the hem of your skirts and wafts around your clogs. You walk with a stick in hand, using it to traverse the cobbled roadway, chipped by the passing of carriage and hoof. 

Your trek to the cemetery is peaceful in the sommer. In the winter, it can grow quite eerie with the whistling winds like wailing wretches and the spindly branches like skeletons. In the summer, the trees are lush and rustling, waving like companions, and the grass ripples like water beneath the gentle flow. 

That morning, you hum to yourself as you peer ahead at the distant cemetery wall. There are houses along the old street but most still sleep in the dawn’s hue. You must be early to the graveyard so that you may ready the plots and paths. 

As you plod along, the posts of the cemetery gate come clearer over the rooftops. Your low melody is punctured by a sudden tempo. Slow and plodding. You move aside as you sense the nearing horse. The merchants rise as early as you; eager to deliver or claim their cargo at the dock. 

They do not hurry. They do not change measure. You traipse along and await their passing. As the shadow of the great steed nears, you do not count the creak of a wheel or axle. It is only a rider. 

Yet, they do not continue past you. The hooves keep a patient pace in tune with yours. You’ve never heard or seen a horse go so slow. Any beast you ever saw would tremble to be at full tilt amid the meadows. 

You peer over your shoulder curiously and follows the white fur around the wide hoof up the brown leg to the reddish sheen further up, the strands of a well-brushed main draping around the coldblood’s thick neck. Black velvet pleats around its rider but does not catch the wind. The fabric is too heavy for riding and for the season. 

The emblem on the horse’s chest gleams in your eye. It is him, the widower, in his mourning ebon. His hood shrouds his face as ever and he is silent as his horse walks beside you, as if an escort. 

You wait but he does not canter nor trot. He keeps the gait. You look ahead again then back to him. You wouldn’t want to be uncouth. 

“Guten morgen, Herr Harding.” 

As you’ve never heard him speak, you’re not certain you’ve ever heard any speak to him. Not the bold Adelaine or the stern Sexton Wilhelm. He only ever brought dire silence with him to the crypt. And then, as always, he remains quiet. 

You gulp and once more put your attention ahead of you. You are nearly at the gates, though you would not enter through the mainway. There is a smaller door round the east corner.

The gentleman and his horse bear down on you, their shadow rippling in the rising sunlight. Sweat trickles down your spine as a chill speckles across your skin. You feel as if he watches you but dare not look upon him in turn. You don’t believe you would see anything beneath his hood. You do wonder if the widower might indeed be a phantom himself. 

He steers to the gates and you pass them and head for the door behind the English oak. You pull the cord to lift the lever and glance over at Herr Harding. The widower’s hood shifts in your direction. You cannot see his eyes but you feel them. Like worms crawling over a corpse. You press inside and quickly swing the iron door shut. 

The gate bell pierces the early din of tweeting birds and skittering critters. Dandelion dust powders the air and bristles in your nose. You go to the shed to fetch your broom as the gates open at the widower’s behest. 

When you come out, he is gone. His horse is by the crypt and the doors are closed. You are deliberate in your work. Since that day with the marigolds, you’ve not gone near the yellow brick while Harding was as visitation. You always wait and say a silent prayer for his family as you clear the debris. 

There is much to do in the aged cemetery. There is no shortage of dead, forgotten or new. The stones must be cleaned or repaired. Wilhelm takes care to apply mortar to new cracks are to fix an eroded etching, so long as a thaler is offered for the effort.  

You brush the broom back and forth, pausing to watch a bee pollinate a flowerbed or a caterpillar make his slow progress over the stone. There is so much life here despite the purpose of the land. Where others come only to see death, you see what is still there. 

The sun ascends higher and higher. You leave your shawl in the shed and take a can to water the blooms. You marvel at how some petals seem to open and drink in the moisture. In the sommer, there is splendour. In sommer, you can hardly believe that winter could ever be. 

As you come around the path, the horse stands by the crypt, chewing the patchy grass. You pass by its swaying tail as you return the can to the shed. While there, you steal a handful of feed meant for the horses that draw the wagons of the lost. 

You cautiously near the large beast. It has been some hours since your arrival and it is a hot day. You open your palm, curving back your fingers to avoid the flat gnashing teeth. The horse smears spit on your hand as he eats the oats. 

The crypt door whines on the thick hinges and you wince and back away. You tuck yourself into an alcove as the door shuts heavily. You press into the brick as your heart races and you spot the littered trail of feed that leads to you. 

As Herr Harding comes around to mount his horse, he spies it too. He pauses as he bows beneath his hood, the edges of lifting slightly as he follows the seed and oat to you. You stare at him haplessly. You don’t know what to do or say. 

He turns and grabs the reins. He hauls himself onto the hours and clicks his teeth, driving his heels into its belly. The horse snorts and obeys, its hooves dusting along the stone toward the main gates. 

Herbst (Autumn) 

Summer wilts with the crisp bite of Herbst. One last breath of life before the grey winter. The leaves mellow to rustic tones of umber and gold, the pine cones litter the dirt, and the wet grass shine from the kiss of the morning fog. You sweep aside the wet leaves with your broom, skirts sodden along the hem. 

As you follow your usual progress across the grounds, the gate bell chimes. The echo rolls through the air and earth. The steady chafe of bristles guides you through the musty mist. It is a beautiful season but wet. 

You pause to brush leaves that have caught on plinths or statues, to wipe away the twigs across the stones embedded in the flats, and to tidy the plots of the leafy carpet. You can only count the blessing that it is not snow. 

Adelaine’s laughter flutters up to you. Her father helps her into a carriage. She has been entertaining a suitor as of late. She always spoke of a summer wedding but it seems a winter one may be on the horizon. She is off to see the bishop and her betrothed.  

Emmett and Matthias open the gates with little heed to their employer and his daughter. They must feel spurned after so long of her fawning over them. It is unfair of her to give them such false longings.  They shut the gates and stomp off back to their digging.

There was a family that perished in a fire. They will each need a hole among their designated plot. It is sombre and back-breaking work. You do not envy the diggers for more than their wage. Were you a man, you could take a shovel and make at least a thaler more than you do now. 

You shiver again. You’ve not been warm for days. You’ve not the money for fuel so the hearth remains dormant in favour of your father’s habit. The drink keeps him warm and you are left to wool and the friction of your palms. Thank the lord you have walls at the least. 

The voices of the men fade as they climb to the new plot and you come down the low incline toward the main row of the cemetery; the large mausoleum for the fallen soldiers and the next for the vaunted nobles.

As you near the yellow crypt, you are met with a most unlikely sight. The doors are open. You search around the desolate grounds.

The coldblood is not there awaiting his rider. The gate bell rang but you did not see the black hood enter. How can that be? Perhaps he did leave it unlocked the day prior. 

Looters are not uncommon. Henrick chases them off in the mornings as they sleep in an alcove or on a bench. Though, unless they have a chisel, they do not claim much. 

You rest your broom against the yellow brick. You stand before the open doors. Both are drawn wide. You look up at the arch as shadows plume within. As you stare inside, you swear you can see the darkness furling and unfurling. 

You make yourself move. Step by step you approach the doors. You grab the large iron ring on the left one and pull. It is much too heavy. Or you are much too weak. You grunt and try again, shifting it a few inches. 

A scratching noise stills your efforts. You squint as you try see through the thick gloom. 

“Allo?” You call through, “is someone within?” 

You wait for an answer. There is nothing, but then, a skittering noise. A rat, perhaps. 

A swirls of leaves blows around you and skid over the stone floor within. You look over your shoulder, hoping someone might pass and help you shut the place up. There is only you. 

You take your broom and enter cautiously. You hold your breath as you gather the leaves and push them back out. You might shove a door shut from within then use the broom to somehow leverage the other. 

You bat the last of the clutter out and turn to peer out at the red sky. Your feet leave the stone and your cry is smothered by a gloved palm. You kick out in fright as the broom clatters from your grasp.

You claw behind you blindly as you are spun to face the crypts black belly. You jolt back with your captor as he pushes the door closed with his weight, then the other. You writhe and flail, grabbing at the arm hooked around your waist.

He pants but does not speak. He carries you forward as your soles bounce off the floor. 

Your stomach meets something hard. A stone ledge engraved in tiers. You brace it as you’re crushed against it. Your arms shake as you try to shove yourself away, try to free yourself of this treacherous adversary. 

You whimper and wiggle your head helplessly, unable to free your mouth from behind his hand. You know by his strength, by his size that it is a man indeed. He shushes you and squeezes your jaw.

You quiver and splay your fingers on the stone shape before you. It is a sarcophagus. You shudder as your throat tightens. 

He presses flush to you. His warmth seeps through the damp layers of wool wrapped around you as his nose brushes up the brim of your ear. He exhales and his breath wraps around your neck. He sucks in air and nuzzles along your hair. He’s smelling you. 

He buries his nose in you locks and purrs. The deep gristle makes you quake. He continues to smell you, to feel you as his hand spreads on your stomach and grazes up your bodice. You tap your foot around in a frantic search for his, driving your heel down upon his toe. 

He grunts and brings his hand up to tap your cheek. He hums derisively. That noise alone freezes your blood. There’s something so base about it. 

He slips his hand down again and the other follows. He keeps you penned in with his arms and removes his gloves, letting them fall to the floor. His fingertips dance up your bodice and back down. He kneads and pokes and caresses. He fondles you until you’re a trembling mess. 

“Herr, please--” 

He nips your ear and snarls. You close your eyes but it cannot save you from this. You are only deeper into the darkness. He drags his nose down to your neck and nuzzles into you there. His hand curls around your hip, squeezing before climb up your back and down again. 

He draws his face from your neck and his hands descend further. He tugs and yanks at your skirts, bundling them up in his grasp. He pulls them up to your waist and leans into you until your middle is right against the stone, your body bent with his. 

He hooks his arm under the layers of your skirt as his other hand wanders beneath. His nails skim your skin, goosebumps rising with his touch, and traces down to thighs. He pokes beneath them meanly and forces his foot between yours. He kicks your boots wide and you whine again.  

“Herr, please--” 

“Ta ta,” he warns in a hiss. 

He pushes his hand between your legs, cupping it over your cunt. He inhales again as he takes in the scent of your scalp, his nose once more delving into your hair. He slips his middle finger between your lips and rubs you. Gently at first, then firmer, quaking as he pinpoints on your clit, rolling it beneath his fingertip. 

Your legs tingle and tremble. You dip your head down and he growls. He spreads the slickness that rises with his uninvited touch. Your lips form around a silent prayer as you beg the lord for forgiveness.  

He pushes his finger into you, his hand against your cunt as he rocks in and out. He does not heed your babbling pleas or the shattering of your body and soul. He takes what he covets without repentance. 

He continues to pet you, coaxing you until you are heavy, writhing in a maddened state. You do not welcome him and yet it is pleasureful. It is joy like you’ve never known. And it bursts within you like damn, coursing free as a river as it slakes down your thighs. 

You wail between your teeth as you bite down on your shame. Father, Mary, forgive me. I do not want this. I swear it. 

He groans and exhales into you. He pulls his hand back and leaves you hollow and squirming. He reaches between your bodies and fusses with his own clothing. You squeak and try to crawl over the sarcophagus. He keeps you trapped as he clutches the rumpled fabric of your skirt. 

He once more scoops his hand around your pelvis and along your cunt. He spreads you and guides his cock along your bottom. You whimper and reach to stop him. He ignores you as he delves down along your cunt. He stops at your entrance and wets himself with your sinful excess. 

He snakes his hand up to your hip and pushes you onto him. Just his swollen tip. You gasp and gulp as you twitch around him.

He lets go of your skirts and they fall down over the front of your legs, the back caught between your bodies. He tilts and slowly impales you.

His hand crawls up your bodice and he pushes beneath the taught fabric. He squeezes your breast, two fingers framing your nipple as he snarls and burrows into you with subtle and slow thrusts. 

You tense and tremour as he gets deeper, crying out as he breaks past the last thread of innocence. He huffs and bows his head down. His lips brush over the meat of your shoulder close to your neck and he bites into it. You sob again and he bucks his hips. 

He puts you on your toes as he repeats the motion. He pulls back then snaps against your rear. Each time he bites harder, he gropes you tighter. He pumps into you, faster, more furious, more frantic. 

His voice trickles out between his eager rutting. He teethes at you as he pinches your nipple. He bends you over the sarcophagus as his breath billows all around you.  

He pounds into you so that the stone cuts into your hips and stomach. You snivel as your tears soak your cheeks and your head thrums. You grip the lid beneath you and hide your face against your arm. 

He spasms and buckles, his legs seeming to give out, though he keeps his hips moving. He fucks you until he cannot any longer. Until he is weak and panting into your nape.  

He sniffs and reaches to cover your hand on the stone. He slips his palm away and feels the sarcophagus. He slowly eases out of you and leaves you to hang off the lid.

He chokes into the blackness, “forgive me, Anna.” 

Your legs give out and you sink onto the floor. You hang your head as you barely keep yourself from heaping into a puddle. Herr Harding weeps over his wife as you do the same for yourself. 

[turnwheelofthetwelve-if]

Back when the world was whole, it was presided over by the Celestial Twelve. Each held a Relic that bestowed abilities onto it's chosen Warden and provided life and magic through the land and for a while, there was peace. But greed and jealousy corrupted the people and wars broke out over the Relics. Then the Great Fracturing occurred, ripping the world into twelve shards, extinguishing the powers of the Twelve from the world completely, and the Relics were lost to time. Without the powers of the Twelve, the world was plunged into a centuries long Dark Age, suffering from famines, plagues, and wars. Until 500 years after the Fracturing, when all across the world, new Wardens began emerging from the shadows. But without their Relics, their abilities were useless. Enter the Guardians, people born with a connection to the Wardens who were tasked with protecting them as they searched the world for their Relics. For centuries, Wardens and Guardians worked in tandem to search for the Relics, but as they kept returning unsuccessful and the disasters got worse, tensions rose and bubbled over and the powers of the Twelve were once again lost. Now, 1000 years after the Fracturing, Wardens and their Guardians have started to appear again just in time as worse disasters have started to ravage the world. But with the world rife with danger and in such disarray, truly restoring the Twelve seems more like an impossible goal than reality.

The Turnwheel of the Twelve Saga is a WIP collection of 13 interactive CYOA stories all taking place in the fictional world of Astelle, a world that was once lush with life and magic, now relegated to dry empty deserts and dense industrial pollution. Each of the books follow different characters on their journeys to recover the respective Relic.

Note: Because this is still a WIP, some names of characters or places may change during development. Also, this blog serves mostly as a hub to reach all of the other planned books, so there won't be much original content added here and just reblogs.

Genre: Adventure, Romance, Fantasy Post-Apocalyptic

Rating: 18+

Tracked Tag: #turnwheel of the twelve

Current Book: Chalice of the Scales

Status: Writing Book 1

Current Book Demo || FAQ || Ask Guidelines || Tag Navigation || World Lore || Dev's Main Blog ||

Book 1: Chalice of the Scales ( @chaliceofthescales-if )

Book 2: Ballad of the Maiden ( @balladofthemaiden-if )

Book 3: Sword of the Lion ( @swordofthelion-if )

Book 4: Tome of the Moon ( @tomeofthemoon-if )

Book 5: Fruit of the Twins ( @fruitofthetwins-if )

Book 6: Ring of the Heavens ( @ringoftheheavens-if )

Book 7: Horn of the Ram ( @hornoftheram-if )

Book 8: Mirror of the Sea ( @mirrorofthesea-if )

Book 9: Vessel of the Waterbearer ( @vesselofthewaterbearer-if )

Book 10: Sickle of the Harvest ( @sickleoftheharvest-if )

Book 11: Key of the Archer ( @keyofthearcher-if )

Book 12: Crown of the Dark ( @crownofthedark-if )

Book 13: Return of the Twelve ( @returnofthetwelve-if )

[taeaura]

Half-Cocked {WIP} Snippet / Synopsis

No, the title is not a sex-pun {but it could be}

TW: SA/Rape, Groping, Extreme Language, TCM-Canon-Typical Violence, Gore, Period-Typical Racism + Sexism {No slurs}

Here's a snippet of the fic I'm working on. This is essentially a draft so feedback is completely fine! I have no idea how this will go nor when it will be done, I do apologize. Reader is gender-neutral + race-neutral. {THIS IS NOT THE FULL THING; Will most likely be heavily altered once the final product is published} 🫀

____

Not much was left of that forgotten town. The funding was gone, as were the people. After the meat plant shut down, residents lost their purpose in Fuller. It was a shadow of the life previously flourishing there - something only the wildlife could frolic in; Which is exactly why you were here. Miguel, a childhood best friend of yours, wanted to enlist near Dallas. He’d brought you and some mutual friends along promising tickets to a music festival, which you had accepted on the means of exploring the state. It had seemed ideal then but the overwhelming heat of the Texas sun proved otherwise. As you leaned your head on the window; August, who had been sitting in the passenger seat, began to mumble - Something about “needing to fix the air conditioner.” He always was one to complain; Miguel often joked about his ‘particularness’, saying he was a primma-donna at times. Though, he wasn’t too annoying; Not today anyway. A sweet guy with a kind smile, a bit too kind at times. Theia, Miguel’s sister - and mutual friend of yours, had her hair entangled in the wind with her head out the back-passenger window; Flowing in deep curls and coils. 

Driving through the backroads wasn’t too entertaining, requesting a scenic route didn’t make it any better either. You fussed with the lace of your shoe - bending and untying, bending, untying, bending, untyi- 

“Hello, did you hear us?” 

You quickly turned your head, releasing the worn laces from your hands. You felt a small tap on your bicep - It was Edith. Edith was a classmate-turned-girlfriend of August’s, one of Miguel’s friends. She was nice, just a bit impatient, which had been amplified by the unforgivable heat. 

“We’re gonna stop at a gas station in about 3 miles, okay?” 

“Yeah..that’s fine. I needed a break anyway.” You said; Your legs had been feeling a bit numb from the lack of use. Sure would be nice to get your blood flowing. And Lord, did it do just that.

__

It had been hours since that drive; Since you’d made it to the community center; Since you’d felt safe. August was long gone; last you saw of him was his spotted blood-trail leading to the basement. The harsh screeching of that steel door sliding open, paired with the hiss of August’s nails as he dug them deep into the walls, attempting to prolong the inevitable torture. Edith; Dearest Edith. Her throat hoarse as she wailed, bleeding through the walls of the decaying house. Miguel, sweet Miguel. He was tied down the chair beside you, half-conscious. Dried blood painted his right temple, flowing down from the gash which plagued his hairline. His lips looked so mundane, as did his usually deep complexion. His head was tilted towards you, clouded eyes staring weakly. As your head lay defeatedly against the crest rail, the beaded eyes of a deer - long dead, glared. It scowled at the two of you from its head bust, nailed to the middle wall. Below it, two windows and a thin table dressed with picture frames and a cloth suffocated by years of dust and dirt. As you tried to think clearly, a pair of footsteps stuttered behind the walls. Strong and angered footsteps pounded the withered wooden floors, followed by frantic and unsteady ones. The sheriff - pseudo-sheriff - forced Theia into the dining room, her wails of protest filling the already claustrophobic atmosphere. As he threw her into the chair opposite of Miguel, another set of footsteps followed in. The ‘barbaric, chainsaw-wielding psycho,’ as Edith had called him, approached Theia. His swole hands took the rope from the sheriff’s aged ones, binding Theia’s wrists and ankles to the chair limbs. 

“There you go, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?” The sheriff taunted, his perverted eyes traveling down her form. “I tend to prefer blondes but, hell, I know a pretty thing when I see one.” 

The sheriff cupped Theia’s shoulders as he forced his lips upon her head. His lecherous movements didn’t go unnoticed by anyone; Especially not Miguel. Even in his weakened state, he spat at the sheriff, his eyes filled with contempt.

“Get the fuck off her, you fucking whore!” He screamed - The sheriff immediately turned to Miguel, his eyes filled with slight shock. That shock was quickly overturned by indignation. 

“Now who put you the fuck incharge?” He mockingly questioned as he walked over to Miguel, grabbing his hair and shoving his head into the table; “Last time I checked, this badge is the authority around here. I make the demands; I challenge the rules, not candy-ass hippie soy-boys like you.” The sheriff retorted as he let go of Miguel’s head, leaning his arms against the crest rail; “Get a grip on yourself, son; This shit don’t fly in out here, you got that?”

Miguel was now barely breathing, his eyes were glossed over and almost completely closed. 

It hurt so much to see him fade. The light which was once rampant within him had disappeared. He weakly opened his eyes, their lids fluttering under the warm lights. You thought maybe he had gained the strength for something. Just do something. But he couldn’t. His eyes inevitably shut again as he steadied his breathing. 

“Goddamn it..” You defeatedly whined. Your wrists struggled between the rope as it dug into your already stripped skin. 

The brutish butcher had been standing in the corner of the room; Observing. He didn’t seem enthusiastic or encouraging of the matter; Rather - dissociated. His hands grasped onto the strings of his apron, bending and untying, bending, untying; Just as you had earlier. It was an intricate silence between the five of you; The sheriff had already gone back to leeching off Theia, and you couldn’t bear to look. Soon enough, the elderly woman from the community center presented a covered pot amongst the few of you; Placing it down on the aged lace that blanketed the old wooden table. 

“Tommy, set the table for us, dear.” She said as she looked over towards Theia and the sheriff. “And you, give her some room! Don’t want to spoil dinner with your whirlwind of trouble.” 

The sheriff lightly scoffed, but left Theia to rest. He stood behind ‘his’ chair at the head of the table, opposite to you. He mumbled a soft “No need for bellyachin’..” before adjusting his back. 

As ‘Tommy’ returned with the plates, an elderly man appeared behind him. He approached the empty spot at the table and positioned his wheelchair accordingly; His expression often seemed dull and exhausted - That is until he saw a woman he fancied. His smug and slimy eyes would wander up and down as his body heat heightened. It was revolting. Luckily, he had no interest in Theia - he had voiced that many times. 

“Where’d you put that other one? The blonde.” He impatiently asked. The sheriff scoffed in reply, turning his head unamused. 

“In my room, that’s where. Ain’t none of your concern, now is it?”

“What? But you have that one right over there! You know I don’t like ‘em like that-” Monty protested, only to be cut off.

“Watch your mouths! I will not have any fighting at this table, do you understand me?” Luda Mae declared. She wasn’t one for unnecessary confrontation; Especially not over ‘ungodly’ topics such as these. 

Both of them rolled their eyes, parting ways as they sat back. Thomas was sitting beside Theia, though he seemed uncomfortable. He kept staring between you and Miguel, only looking away during conversation. You were terrified to say the least; How could you not be? Your friends, your only support system, murdered in front of you. And now you’re forced to eat with the perpetrators? Tears you didn’t recognize fell from your eyes - mixing with blood and dirt to create a streaky film over your cheeks and neck. You tried to control your breathing, attempting to draw as little attention to yourself as possible. Nothing could’ve prepared you for this. Nothing. You hopelessly looked around the room, gravitating towards Thomas. He was still staring at you. Though his body language portrayed his enervation; His muted blue eyes looked consistently curious, and crazed. The staring continued for some time until the sheriff - Hoyt, interrupted:

“Bow your heads - Let's give thanks for the bounty that's been given us.”

___

This is so ass I'm sorry lmao {Again, NOT THE FINISHED PRODUCT} :)

[theboarsbride]

WIP Re-Intro - GHOSTS PLAGUE THESE HALLS

Title: Ghosts Plague These Halls

Comp: CRIMSON PEAK x Cocteau's LA BELLE ET LA BÊTE

Whitechapel, London 1894.

Sophie Wickes and her family struggle to survive in the underbelly that is London's East End. Melancholia eats away at her ailing father, her work as a flower seller brings no income, and her efforts to sell her hair in an act of desperation prove to be fruitless. After a series of strange encounters in London's streets, and the gift of a mysterious white rose from her pickpocket nephew, she is called upon by the reclusive Lord Edgar Cushing to tend to the gardens of his countryside estate of Rosenthorne Hall. Faced with destitution in a workhouse and the threat of her young nephew being sent to find industrial work, Sophie agrees to play the facade of gardener.

However, the estate, its gardens, and their master is nothing like what Sophie expected.

The house? Rotting, dilapidated, hideous.

The staff? Unfeeling, cold, strange.

The gardens? A graveyard of floral corpses guarded by an army of statues.

The master? A voice from the shadows that refuses to show himself.

With her heart tested by the thorns of anger and fear, Sophie tries to make herself of use in Rosenthorne Hall; something resembling friendship begins to blossom between her and her mysterious employer; she finally has a chance to rescue her family from the East End's grime, and perhaps allow old scars to, at last, heal. But with a lord who speaks kind words from the house's darkened corners whilst pleading to remain unseen, an unfriendly coachman, and the sudden emergence of eerie butterflies, loneliness becomes maddening.

The delirium only threatens to worsen once she starts to receive nightly visitations from a crooked-jawed ghost and moths that whisper of a bloody past, and a plea to rid Rosenthorne Hall of the misery, grief, and love that continue to plague its halls.

-----

Rough updated synopsis (i'm terrible at writing them hhhhsbhbshsbhbs sorry if it be sloppy-) and WIP intro for GHOSTS PLAGUE THESE HALLS! My Victorian gothic horror-romance ghost story baby... with yet another pathetic wet-cat-of-a-man love interest.🥰

[noveldivergence]

Ocean and Sea for the ask game!!

Oh boy, I'm excited about Ocean. The oceans in Nyari are freshwater but go far deeper down than even the Mariana Trench on earth! There are enormous creatures the further down you go, and collectively, a good deal of the Imperium just smiles about it and goes "huh, neat, just gonna ignore that!"

This is not that the Nyari aren't scientifically curious, or that their relgion has anything forbidding it--the level of danger is just so much and the level of terror is just so great of some of these creatures that the Nyari--who have faced war, all sorts of collapse, and various Horrors--are still like "we're fine! we simply do not need to know!"

There's a sort of fringe belief amongst some of the faithful that the deeper you go the more likely you are to wake their planet's god, which would be Quite Bad for Everyone.

For Sea, the Imperium actually does fear many more things than what lives in the depths of the oceans. Primarily, they fear a return to war. They only exited a very bloody civil war recently, and their history has generally been filled with wars. While some glorify this, the majority realize it's time to change the nature of the game in order to thrive outside their corner of their galaxy.

[sorceresssundries]

Young Lae'zel WIP

Thank you for voting in my WIP poll!!!

There were two winners, a lot of you wanted to read some of my Young Lae'zel story - so here are some lines i've been working on over the last few days!

I started this ages ago, and will hopefully publish it by the end of the week. There's also some exciting art to go with it!

Later that night, she sat alone in the Great Library of K’liir. Her ten short years were but a single, unpolished stone against the tower of ancient knowledge surrounding her. She was small, a solitary figure in the vastness, the low orange candlelight throwing shadows that loomed large behind her. In her small hands, still caked with the blood of her kin, she gripped a Githyanki Disc - her gold eyes danced over it, reading the story of her people as though it were a fairytale. To a frail and fanciful human, it might have seemed just that: knights riding dragons, the slaying of monstrous horrors. But, this was her history, and her future. She would be a hero to sail the astral sea and bring glory to her kin. She would drag a mind flayer’s severed head through the halls of her people and mount a dragon whose fiery breath would set the stars alight.

She would not just be a part of history; she would make it.

She read the final passage for the third time. 

There is no other race as proud, as fierce, or as deserving of the stars as the Githyanki. We are the survivors of enslavement, the conquerors of our oppressors, and the raiders of countless worlds. We, who have risen from the chains of the Illithids, stand as the eternal guardians of the Astral Plane.

Without our vigilant guardianship, the Illithid parasites would spread like a blight across the cosmos, an uncontrollable plague that devours life and enslaves our people. These soulless creatures would have turned the stars themselves into a wasteland. It is by our hand, our unwavering resolve, that such a fate has been averted. While other races allow their emotions to cloud their judgement, we possess the strength to cast aside such weaknesses and do what must be done. A Githyanki does not falter.

Our brutality is not born of cruelty for its own sake, but of necessity. We do not shy away from the hard choices, the difficult actions that must be taken to preserve the balance of power. It is our destiny to bring order to the chaos that lesser beings have allowed to fester. 

We are the blade that cuts through decay, the fire that purges weakness, the storm that reshapes worlds.

Vlaakith gha'g shkath zai.

[pocket-vvardvark]

TY for tagging me @skyrim-forever, @theoneandonlysemla, @yansurnummu !! <33

Sorry, it feels like it's been a few weeks since ya'll tagged me! I've got a few WIP headcanon things to share about my favorite gal, Alethia <3 I’m especially interested in her life before the planemeld. A lot of things I glossed over, but would like to give life to.

I'd like to tag: @fangsandsoftgrass, @aviel-the-trans-bucket, @scholarlyhermit and @madamefluffnstuff if you guys got any headcanons or WIPS floating around in your mind! no pressure <333

Lillandril

Alethia’s sickness prevents her from doing much with her family. Desperate for a cure, Alethia’s mother dedicates all her time to research. They don’t get to spend a lot of time together, so auntie Shana takes up the mantle as pseudo-mother. She teaches Alethia about magic, and fills her mind with stories about Summerset. Alethia becomes fascinated by both the flora and fauna, and eventually sneaks out when everyone is asleep. Wandering in a fevered haze, she is drawn to Ebon Stadmont’s beauty. Getting lost in the forest, she huddles against the brush, only to find a curious Indrik sniffing about. Desperately wanting to pet the animal, Alethia struggles to remain awake, but the sheer amount of stress on her body forces her to collapse. Her father, Meriano, visits when he can, and does try to spend as much time teaching her valuable information/skills to survive. Her sisters also spend a good amount of time with her, too.

The illness

I really like the idea that Alethia was born ‘blessed’ by Mara with an affinity for restoration, and inherently has large pools of magicka. But, because her constitution is so weak, she can hardly use any of it. Frequently, she’s left bedridden from bouts of vertigo, fatigue, and among other dire symptoms–hemoptysis. Finally, at age five, her mother is successful in her attempts to create medicine. Crushed up magicka resisting ingredients into a viscous liquid, Alethia takes it four times daily. The fevers subside, and she musters up enough energy to run! During the next two years, her family helps her strengthen her body. This is also the time she is plagued with non-stop dreams from Mara of an older version of herself clad in knight armor. 

Western Skyrim

Auntie Shana catches Alethia sneaking off her last time to Ebon Stadmont. Sensing danger, she shadows her until proven right when a werewolf strikes. They fight, and auntie shana sustains a few scratches. The tension between auntie shana, Ylva, Meriano, the kids, versus their parents/grandparents, they all leave. Meriano dorms in the mages guild, auntie shana and Ylva prepare for solitude. As sad as it is, the kids hardly see their father after that. (Until the summerset chapter >:3)

Benevolence of Mara

Maran knights are searching for someone who matches Alethia’s description. They are led to the temple of Mara in solitude where they finally find her. Their leader begs for Alethia to come back with them. With promises they will take good care of her, Ylva allows it only if it is what her daughter truly desires. Alethia complies, and she tearfully bids her family goodbye. At this time, she’s only twenty years old. A few months into her training, the beginning of the planemeld occurs after she naively attempts to help the ‘benefactor.’ 

[ghuleh-recs]

It was our beloved Bee's (@da-rulah) birthday yesterday! To celebrate I've made us all a mixtape of some of her greatest hits... which ended up being almost everything she's written. Whoops. The only reason I left anything out was to save some for next year! Bee is such a kind, lovely, generous, TALENTED soul and I'm so very lucky to have befriended her. So go forth and read some top tier papa (and Mary!) smut. Leave Bee some comments while you're at it—as a lil' bday gift. ♡

recs under the cut.

Rituale Septem - Terzo (and everyone else) x Reader - 74k

Your faith is shaking; 16 years at the Ministry, and what did you have to show for it? You'd never even heard the Dark One's voice like your Siblings… But what could you do? Well, you could ask the advice of the one person chosen to guide his flock through adversity; Papa Emeritus III. And he has an idea that might work…

Rubenesque - Secondo x Plus Size!Reader - 7.8k

Retirement had its perks. For Secondo, one of those was being able to spend much more time on the things he enjoyed. And there were only two things he truly enjoyed these days; art, and you. Although if you asked him, he’d insist that they were one and the same. So how would he react when he learns that your peers are mocking your sinfully gorgeous body, and you're struggling to love yourself?

A Personal Ritual - Copia x Reader - 2.1k

"With an expert flick of his wrist, it unfolded, a glinting silver blade unsheathing itself from the brilliant red of the marbled handle. When he leaned forward, he stretched his neck with a lean to one side, lining the blade up against his skin and in one quick, clean motion he’d swiped a stripe up to the sharp edge of his jawline. The blade was wiped off on a cloth draped over the sink, then brought to do the same thing again next to the already created strip of clean, smooth skin.   You'd never seen him do this before, but you were enraptured – privileged, even… It was you and you alone that had the honour bestowed upon them to watch the man you loved in his most humble and domestic of moments, to see the parts of him that nobody else in the world got to see just because they were usually saved for him, and him alone. While you’d spent many an intimate night in his bed, sharing your bodies and souls in every way a lover can, these were the moments that felt truly intimate."

The Mayor's Daughter - Mary Goore x Reader - 72k (WIP)

Mary knew the entire town hated him; the metalhead with the freaky make up and fake blood dripping down his face. He was the local menace, the town vandal, the cliché trouble maker. He played up to that image, enjoyed the havoc and the chaos, revelled in it. He loved pissing people off. And so, what better revenge to get on his beloved town, than to fuck around with the Mayor's daughter…

In Cold Blood - Terzo x Reader - 19.4k

Solitude had always appealed. Perhaps that’s why you took on this project… The thought of transforming a dilapidated old Victorian farmhouse into a sanctuary of your own, to live in peace and the romanticisms of a gothic home you fell in love with. After the structural integrity of the house is replenished, you fill your days with DIY and decorating, bringing to life a house that had been frozen in time and left to rot for decades. You could enjoy the solitude of the land already, a few miles outside of a town plagued by disappearances and a fear of the dark. But you couldn’t escape the news of more missing people, nor the strange occurrences happening around your new home. Were you imagining things? Or was there indeed a shadow haunting your sanctuary?

Confessional - Cardinal Copia x Reader - 22k

As a sister of sin, it was your duty to confess at least once a month, to have your sins praised by a higher up member of the clergy. But you only ever chose Thursday nights, when you knew he was on duty. And tonight, you were working up the courage to confess your darkest sin - the dreams you had been having…

Learn the Ropes - Secondo x Reader - 2.4k

Secondo likes to be in charge. He likes to be in control. But you'd always wondered what he might do if one day, you decided to flip the script, and take charge for him…

Copia gets Bullied - Copia x Reader - 2.2k

"I know this trope for Cardinal Copia is over done but I would love, love your take on it. I would like a sister of sin who Copia have had a crush on, come and comfort him after witnessing him getting bullied and embarrassed. But the poor Cardinal is an emotional crying wreck that the sister decide the only way to comfort him is by being sexual with him for the first time🙈"

𖤐 you know the drill--bookmark, read, and leave kudos/comments!

Did I forget your favorite? You've got a standing invitation from me to add your own rec and reblog ♡

[loveisonlyforthebrave8]

i was gonna ask for some fic recs for hyunchan fanfics :'(. but ao3 is down.

AO3 IS BACK, BABY! And boy do I have some fic rec's for you:

Starting off with my absolute FAVE (it's currently a 91k word WIP, the author is SO GOOD and I'm having so much fun with this fic- but just bare in mind its *very dark.* Please please please read the tags.

But if the tags don't scare you, then you're in for a real treat.

Nothing But An Echo by sshhad0w (WIP)

“Getting rusty, hyung.” Hyunjin smirked as he flicked the knife between his fingers, tilting his head with a pout. He couldn’t snap the switchblade back to its open position before Chan had his hand around his neck. Hyunjin’s head slammed into the door and Chan’s fingers tightened as he stepped into the space, his chest rising and falling with calculated calm. Hyunjin just laughed, rolling his shoulders against the restraint. Finally. OR: SKZ are mercs-for-hire and Hyunjin loves the fact he dances so intimately with death for his day job.

we hide the fact that we want to touch by totoroism

Hwang Hyunjin was unshakable. He knew that some friendships were meant to stay as friendships, no matter how badly one party wanted to grab the other and kiss him and confess his love of several years. He was fine. He'd come to terms with it a long time ago that him and Bang Chan were never going to be the couple he wanted them to be, and he was fine. Until he wasn't. - OR: The one where Hyunjin has been pining over Chan This Entire Time, but maybe it's not as hopeless as he's thought. (This is one of my absolute faves)

a song of salt and goldwater (the series) by pacw0man

Hyunjin, the son of a noble, escapes from his home in order to fulfill his dream and promise to his late mother: to draw a map of all the seas. In his haste, however, he lands on the Levanter, the ship for the famous pirate crew the Strays, whose captain, Chan Bang "Silver Eye" he undeniably feels an attraction to, and who deeply intrigues him. (I fucking *adore* this pirates!au, holy shit.)

invisible by endlesswaltz8

Chan has been on alpha hormonal suppressants since he was twelve. None of the members had ever caught so much as a whiff of his alpha scent until a global medication shortage occurs. Hyunjin's reaction isn't quite what he had expected. (This omegaverse!hyunchan slaps.)

bluebird, bluebird by straycty

Hyunjin is a courier from Meridia, the wealthiest city in the RES. His mission is simple: deliver classified documents to the Medical Institute of Concord, then return for new orders. Shit doesn't exactly go as planned. (fucking loved this fic)

i can't cast shadows like you by sshhad0w (same author as the top fic)

Hyunjin tapped his ash onto the patio and tilted his head as he squinted. “Do I know you?” “Not yet,” Chan said, and this time his smile dropped on one side into a smirk. “Are you hitting on me?” Chan let out a huge laugh, the type that made his eyes crinkle in on themselves and almost split his face in two with how wide his grin was, and he threw his head back so that the chains around his neck moved and rippled across his throat. Hyunjin squinted even harder. “Not yet,” he repeated. OR: Hyunjin is an artist fuelled by self-hatred who can't pick up on social cues, and Chan is obsessed with his voice. (this fic is sooooo fucking good)

I Want You To, I Want you Too by sevenbyseven

But of all the scenarios that had plagued him for hours, nothing prepared him for the words that come out of Hyujin's mouth. Chan slowly swivels around in his chair to blink at him. The sleep deprivation must be getting to him; he couldn't have possibly heard right. "What?" Hyunjin licks his lips and repeats, "I want you to choke me."

with mercy you cradle my throat by littleredchain

It’s not the first time Hyunjin has gotten a bit of an erection while being choked. It’s not even the first time it’s happened while being choked by Channi-hyung specifically. It is the first time that the other boy has gotten a bit of one as well. OR The author's obligatory Red Lights fic

red looks like love on you by raethye

Hyunjin’s sexual appetites wax and wane with the lunar cycle, and Chan knows—these days around the full moon? Hyunjin is practically in heat, desperate for dick. According to him, he always wants sex. It’s simply his nature. But on these days, Hyunjin needs it.

make me feel your love by frostednapkin

Hyunjin has been holding a candle for Chan since Red Lights. And then, they start writing Taste.

tear the petals off of you by hynchns

“Am I?” Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the darkness, something much more fragile than the teasing tone he had before. “What?” Chan feels him leave his space just enough to prop himself up on one hand, staring right down at him. He can’t make out much in the darkness besides Hyunjin’s silhouette and the faint lines of his face; even that much he finds stunning. “Am I yours?” (i think about this ficlet a lot.)

drip feed by sentimental_halos

Hyunjin. Bang Chan. Figuring out each other, themselves, and everything else along the way. (this fic is a WIP, but i'm fucking obsessed with it)

run the table by orphan acount

Contrary to Chan’s belief, his thing for Hyunjin doesn’t go unnoticed. Non-famous AU.

until the moon falls asleep by inkin_brushes

“Everything okay?” Changbin asked, voice rough with sleep but still concerned, rather than angry. “Uhm, I— yeah? I uh.” Chan licked his lips, nervous and feeling silly, stupid. “There’s a vampire in my closet.” There were a few beats of silence, on the other end of the line, nothing but the faint staticky crackle of the connection. “There’s a what in your where?” Changbin finally asked. vampire/werewolf au.

a night at your belonging by mecala

Hyunjin should be used to it at this point. It’s been almost a week of looking through his window and finding the guy there, in his apartment, naked. Always naked. Okay, not always, but enough times that Hyunjin should be used to it already. He isn’t. And he knows he shouldn’t be looking, but he doesn’t even feel guilty about any of it. It’s just such a nice distraction to fantasize about the hot guy during work, then look at him–just for a bit–when he’s home.

the creation of bang chan by seathehorizon

Hyunjin is an art student who is holding an exhibition of dick paintings dedicated to his hook-ups, but as he's preparing for it, there's one painting that just doesn't look right. So, for the first time, he asks a hook-up out for a second time so he can fix it - and doesn't exactly regret it in the end.

focus on me by stray_lilly

Chan is Minho's regular client. But when Minho isn't there, Hyunjin takes full advantage of the situation and sets out to replace him. stripper!au

addicted to your touch by goopeculiar

As flattered as Chan is to be propositioned like this, there are just two major problems: one, having sex with Hyunjin in front of a live audience seems kind of daunting. Two, having sex with Hyunjin at all seems kind of daunting on account of the planet-sized fucking crush Chan has on him.

[mistresslrigtar]

I loveeee gothic stories!!! tell me about we kiss in the shadows? what makes it gothic themes :eyes:

Thank you for the ask, @spices28

We Kiss in Shadows is VERY much a gothic romance/horror story. Think Phantom of the Opera meets Beauty and the Beast meets Shrek. Combine the elements of disfigurement, beastly form, and a curse from those stories and you have my current WIP. Obviously, Twilight Princess is the perfect backdrop.

It's a story about heartbreak, overcoming fears, and eternal love.

Synopsis:

Zelda thought she’d always have her best friend, Link by her side, until tragedy struck. Ten years after his untimely death, she catches a glimpse of a hauntingly familiar stranger at a garden party announcing her engagement to historical archaeologist, Shad.  

Not long after, Zelda and Shad accompany a group of soldiers traveling to Ordon Village to investigate a sudden rash of livestock disappearances and to study the fabled Spring of Courage. Sensing powerful magic at the Spring, Zelda ventures into the neighboring forest to investigate. When a sudden blizzard falls, she becomes hopelessly lost in the woods. 

There she encounters a lone wolf with one striking blue eye. Running away in fear, she stumbles and falls. She finds herself in the care of a mysterious recluse residing in the ruins of the late Duke of Ordona’s mansion. As the storm rages on, Zelda slowly begins unraveling the truth of his identity and the curse that plagues him.

Here's a link to art so gorgeous it's now my phone wallpaper I commissioned from illcamp

It's heavy angst (a HUGE departure for me). Will I do it justice and meet the hype? I don't know, but I'm going to try. I'm four chapters into the writing process of what I imagine will be a 10 - 15 chapter story arc.

Thank you again for the ask, excitement for this project, and support!! 🤗