#dark fic ongoing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itsokbbygrl · 2 months

Text

Proper Education: A Dark!Joel Saltburn AU Chapter 1: Fair is Foul, and Foul is Fair

Pairing: Dark!Joel Miller x OFC!Reader (written in 2nd POV)

Chapter Rating: M for foul language, underage drinking, mentions of sexual activity and drug use

Word Count: 1.1k, just a baby chapter to kick things off (don't get used to this, most of these chapters will be monsters)

Reader Immersibility: OFC is insanely white coded (frankly this whole story is full of white nonsense), she is from an old money wealthy family that owns an estate from the Gilded Age in New York, she is 18 years old, a college freshman at University of Texas at Austin, and is considered beautiful by society's standards in 2006 which means she is thin, has long hair, and is able bodied. She is relatively smart, but by no means a scholar. She is very sociable and often uses her charm to get her way. Story is written in 2nd person POV so the reader can feel what she is feeling as the story progresses and to keep the reader’s perspective limited as things start to get weird whacky and wild, but it will be difficult for the average reader to see themselves as her physically (myself included, trust me).

Chapter Tags: 18+ MDNI, foul language, implied drug use, underage drinking, mentions of sexual activity, college freshman aged OFC, rich white people doing rich white people things, author is requesting that you suspend your disbelief for some of these things!!!, OFC's family estate is a real place but is not a family home, liberties are taken with regard to UTA student life, inspired by Saltburn

Dividers by @pommecita, story is not beta'd, just written and edited by yours truly

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. -Lady Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 5

The car slows to a stop in front of the familiar old tower. The stone structure bleached by unrelenting ultraviolet rays from the unrelenting sun baring down an omnipresent heat. You’d almost forgotten what it was like, the Texan summer. Almost.

Your driver removes your luggage from the trunk of the black town car as you exit from your seat and step into the perpetually sticky August air, shading your eyes with a hand at your brow so you can properly thank him before you reach for your purse and leave him with a generous tip. You can’t remember his name, but you’re thankful for his service nonetheless. You’ve long become accustomed to a variety of faces in your family’s employ weaving in and out of your life; he is simply another face and name to add to the ever-increasing register.

Your family sent the majority of your things ahead of move-in day, the university easily agreeing to transport them to your suite in student housing, a benefit of having your last name on one of the buildings, you rationalize, leaving you with a single suitcase and weekend bag to attend to on your own as you make your way to the designated key pickup zone.

You were regretting your choice of attire the farther you strode across campus. You’d spent the last three months of your summer break idling at your family’s Long Island estate. The cool sea air making you quickly forget how unabating the summer heat was in landlocked central Texas. Your family had escaped the annual calefaction just after your graduation, retreating from your home in the rolling hills of Austin to the cool serenity of the Island. The estate is grandiose, passed through generations and now belonging to your mother and father. A bit gaudy in its opulence, in your opinion, but you harbor many fond memories from your summers spent there throughout your life—running through the vast gardens, sunning yourself on the meticulously manicured lawns, learning to golf and play tennis and swim, and as you grew a bit older, partaking in the many lavish parties hosted by your parents and grandparents alike, kissing boys in secret corridors, drunkenly losing your virginity in the grand library, gleefully breaking your D.A.R.E. pledges with your dear sister and cousin in your bathroom the first time someone brings over a tiny plastic baggie full of unlabeled white powder.

Your exposed skin glistened with sweat; low rise denim skirt clinging to the skin at your hips, skin beginning to chafe uncomfortably between your thighs. You were glad you’d opted to clip your hair up in a classic twist before you’d gotten off the plane, keeping your neck free from being insulated by your thick tresses. You’re thankful for the many trips to campus over your lifetime as you head towards the designated booth for freshmen to pick up their dorm keys. You’re a fourth generation Longhorn, a legacy, and you know you have a reputation to uphold. You try to keep your face poised, relaxed, friendly, as the growing beads of moisture begin to drip in tiny rivulets between your breasts and along the central dip of your spine.

You introduce yourself to the upperclassman working the table for your building and complete the requisite paperwork before you’re handed your keys—one for your door, one for your personal mailbox—and instructed to stop in the lobby before you drop off your items so you can have your student identification badge issued.

“Your ID works like a key to get into the building after 10pm. Don’t lose it,” you’re warned by the table attendant.

“Thank you, I’ll be careful,” you answer congenially, leaving them with a charming smile before you head in the direction of your dorm.

You find your building without issue and reluctantly have your picture taken by the residence hall staff for your student ID. They give you a rundown of the general building rules—curfew is 10pm, after which time only residents with their programmed ID badges will be permitted entrance, all overnight guests must be checked in at the front desk with a government or student ID, no alcohol or illicit drugs are permitted on the premises, smoking is not permitted inside the building—and you maintain eye contact with the staffer and smile and nod while you let their words flow in one ear and out the other.

Once you finish signing your agreement to follow the established residence hall code of conduct, your student ID has been printed and programmed. You take the badge with kind smiles and ample thanks before you haul your luggage to the elevator and make your way to your assigned room. A private double room all to yourself. Your parents insisted, making sure you’d have enough space to study and relax in equal measure.

“Sweetpea, you know how it is there, those RAs are not gonna be as lenient as your daddy and I with the,” your mother stops her sentence and gestures, mimicking smoking a joint with one hand and drinking from a bottle with the other. She had sat on the other end of the plush sofa with you as you debated which residence hall to choose after coming home after your new student orientation the previous spring.

You scoffed and kicked out a leg, painted toes bumping her thigh.

“What? I’m just sayin’, babydoll. You’re a good time, college is a good time, but the RAs can be real,” she lowers her voice, “cunts.” She snickers a laugh at her own crudeness.

“Mama, I know. I just thought it was part of the,” you raise both of your hands, forefingers and middle fingers miming quotation marks in the air, “college experience to have a random roommate or whatever.” You look back at the brochures in front of you and sigh before relenting. “I guess you’re right. The privacy will be nice.”

“Damn straight, baby. Plus, you don’t have to worry about a roommate being around when you bring a nice young man home to fu—”

“MOM, jesus,” you cut her off, shaking your head as she laughs.

“What?! Baby girl you are my daughter, that means you’re half of me, and I fully know what that entails, ok? No reason to be ashamed of it, you’re young and gorgeous. Enjoy it while it lasts,” she tips her glass of white wine in your direction. You reach for your own on the coffee table, lifting it to hers, allowing the crystal to clink and chime in cheers as you both take a sip.

You use your new key to unlock your door and haul your bags inside, finding boxes stacked neatly in the corner for you to unpack. “Welcome home, I guess,” you say to the four walls you’ll call home for the next year.

Navigation: Chapter 2: coming soon | Series Masterlist

a/n: thank you for reading! this is a multi-chaptered work in process with new chapters being posted approximately every other Friday at or around 7pm CT (pending my work schedule changing to late shift). please consider not only liking, but reblogging and leaving a comment or tags to give me some feedback! reblogs are the only way content is circulated on this platform and are always appreciated!

follow @itsokbbygrl-notifs and subscribe to notifications to receive notice when new chapters are posted.

#LJ writes #joel miller x oc #joel miller x reader #joel miller x original character #joel miller x you #joel x reader #joel x oc #joel x you #dark!fic #dark!joel miller #WIP #fan fiction #ongoing #ongoing series #proper education fic

61 notes · View notes

bhaalbabebardlock · 29 days

Text

Daisies On My

Nightstand

| AO3 Link | About Ilara |

| Writing Masterpost |

| Daisies Playlist |

Summary:

The story of a Bhaal-Spawn who only ever wanted to be free.

Ilara would do anything for the people she loves, having never been freely allowed to do so before- including killing her past, denouncing her God, and damning 7,000 souls. Can she save herself, let alone anyone else?

The story of my resist durge Ilara, and everything leading up to the netherbrain and after.

Important tags: named dark urge, violent thoughts/urges, death, having no control, murder, smut, dom/sub themes, memory loss, grief, trauma, a terrible past, whipping, knife play, character death, self hatred, ascended astarion, mind control. I promise there's some happy stuff. Sometimes. Please read all tags on AO3!!!

Romance with Gortash, Astarion, Shadowheart. A devil she can't get away from. This story leaves canon behind in the dust.

Because this story is so long now, ongoing, and has daily updates I don't intend to list every chapter on this post like I was doing (which is why I've made a new post!) I will continue to sometimes post teasers of chapters; I stopped doing that a while ago.

Daisies on my Nightstand on AO3

(as I begin uploading them, this post will be edited with links to the teaser chapters)

Chapter 99- Aching

Chapter 105- Sending

Chapter 111- Voided

14 notes · View notes

elleomoonchild · 1 year

Text

Red Seoul Captive - a dark ot7 AU

Bunny Hybrid Jeon Jungkook, known only as the White Rabbit, is the top performing soldier and assassin in the wonderland-like kingdom of White Seoul.

And he's just been given a new mission: travel to the parallel universe of Red Seoul and take down the mafia Bangtan...one by one.

But a stupid mistake blows Jungkook's cover and he soon finds himself the captive of the very mafia he was targeting.

He was ready to be tortured—killed even, but nothing would have prepared him for the dark temptation the six attractive Red Seoul mafia lords offered.

But now caught between parallels on the brink of collapse, Jungkook will begin to realize that everything he thought he knew is nothing as it seems...

This AU is ongoing and is currently at 163k words with 30/46 chapters posted. This fic will be continued in 2023.

#bts fanfic #ao3 fanfic #bts ot7 #rated e #dark fic #hybrid fic #jungkook centric #polyam Bangtan #this fic is very dark please see tags before reading #ongoing #long fic #fantasy #sci-fi #dark romance

109 notes · View notes

thetalesofno-one · 2 months

Text

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. IV -Deadman's Path-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 4/5 ~4.8k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary At the fork in the road, the Deadman's Path is chosen. The messages of tallies and arrows followed like a promise into the mists where the land drinks of their spirits. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Evie stares at the empty air where Roshan and Evrrot should be. Where any sane person would still be if they hadn’t fucked off into the crazy weird fog without a thought for how sound an idea that could possibly be. The fog is exactly what started this mess and she doesn’t think getting home will be as easy as walking right back into it.

She doesn’t so much as blink, searching that creepy slithering fog for any signs of the fools. There’s nothing there. Literally fucking nothing. No little angry swirls where they passed, no blurry shadow of their silhouettes being eaten alive. Nothing.

She hopes the bastards beyond are still alive to hear it if for no other reason than to let them know she will chew their ears off next she sees them. Who looks at a wall of churning, slithering fog that swallows all like a damn hydra and goes, ‘Let’s go this way’.

Evie catches the giant ponce looking at her with that long suffering look that’s becoming more and more common between them. She hates that she’s wearing it too.

A string of curses creative enough it would’ve raised her father’s brows from his grave face find their way to her lips, but under her breath because she’s still a temple girl even if she’s not exactly sure where she stands with that. To his credit, the tree of an elf beside her doesn’t so much as raise one of his immaculately sharp brows. She wonders a moment if he shapes them himself or if he’s just born that way. Probably the latter. Pure blood elves and their useless handsomeness. She hopes he can swing that broken glaive as well as he fondles it. She swears his hand never leaves the busted thing. Oh he hides it well enough beneath that dark cloak of his, the worn rag draped over one shoulder to hide his blade arm. But she’s short enough to catch a glimpse here and there when he walks and sure enough, his hand hasn’t left that thing since he strolled into the barn with his lifted chin and judgy eyes, looking down on them all.

He looks down on her now. Granted he’s about two feet taller than her, but that’s beside the point.

Evie sighs, “It’s not like we don’t both know we’re just going to follow them.”

He stares at the fog a moment, watching it writhe and swirl in strange patterns before their eyes. For a moment she thinks he’s going to turn back and abandon her—wouldn’t be the first person—but he seems to resign himself and steps into the fog without looking back at her readied glare. She expected him to put up a small resistance to walking ahead of her in his strange, quiet, if misguidedly protective way. Waste of a glare.

She follows in his shadow immediately, not taking any chances with fucky fog in weird forests. It swallows everything, even threatening to swallow each other despite their proximity. She moves closer and feels him tense as her arm brushes his gloved hand, but even right next to him, he is difficult to see through the thick haze, half gone from her sight. It is far too easy to lose each other in this mess and any sign of the others mere moments ahead of them is entirely impossible.

The mist paws at them, crawling over their skin, and sweeping through their hair. The more they breathe it in, the more it feels like something is being stolen away. Evie forces her lungs full, but the choked air only tightens her chest leaving her feeling more empty than before. The strength seeps from her bones like blood from a wound. Even Emet seems more slouched.

The air is too thin, her head growing heavier with each laboring breath. Exhaustion floods them and Evie is reminded of her early days in the temple. The first time she put on armor, it felt like she’d drown in it. The first time she carried a weighted casket, she thought she’d be in the grave herself if she had to take one more step. They made her carry that weight daily until she could bear it. And not just physically. But in this mist she feels like she’s back on that first day, fighting for her life to get the casket on her shoulder even with the aid of another, the familiar strain burning in her lungs and filling her legs with lead.

She and Emet—the moon elf bent and slouching, suffering quietly as he tries not to look like he cannot breathe either—trudge through for what cannot possibly be longer than a handful of minutes, and yet when they finally exit the blinding and sapping fog into the normal unending mist, they feel as though they’ve both run the length of a city in full plate armor.

She pants and catches her breath shamelessly. Emet finally gives up the ruse of not suffering and sinks his back against a tree, leaning far too heavy for someone who’s not dying with her. They both spare a lungful to curse out Mr. “I think I’m so sexy” tiefling and the crazy old man for abandoning them. But their misguided leaders are nowhere to be seen.

“This was a mistake,” Emet snarls, breathing in deep, trying to fill his lungs. It is taking too long for the burn to fade, “Never trust dead men.”

“It’s taken you that long to work that one out?”

“No. There simply wasn’t much other choice.”

Evie takes one more lungful, savoring the strange bitter sweetness of this air. Cemetery air. Air of cold stone and faint rot, sharp and empty with a lingering taste of sorrow, the same air she’s breathed since Daggerford fells into the mists hours ago. The same air that told her they were far, far away from home. But at least it isn’t choking away her every breath. Her strength slowly returns.

“There’s always another choice,” she whispers.

Somewhere else beyond the vampiric mist and lost in the forest, Evrrot and Roshan fight off the same drain on their body and spirit. The fog doesn’t so much as pull away from them as simply end between one step and the next. One moment consumed and blind with the air stolen from their lungs and the next beyond the slithering snakes of fog into the slightly less slithering fog of the deadwood forest.

Roshan quickly spins behind him to check on the others, his loose white robes swishing around his ankles. Evrrot pants heavily beside him with hands on his knees looking as though he just outran the guard. That seems like a thing the devil boy would do. He acts like someone who has outrun many a guard and not just because of the horns. His personality tells a story all its own.

Gulping in the mildly stale air like a parched man finding water in the sands of Calimshan, Roshan puts on his best grin for his next joke before realizing that Evrrot is the only one with him. He spins in a circle, searching along the fog wall’s edge.

“Where are the other two?”

“Probably lost in the mist,” Evrrot pants, gulping loudly.

He lifts his glowing staff, “But I shined a light for them to follow.”

“I don’t know.” Evrrot tosses up his hands and leaves down the path without a second thought for those missing. “I’m gonna keep going, you good to keep up?”

“I am not old,” he says by way of answer.

Roshan’s brow furrows, looking again to the place where the others should appear any moment if they are not lost. But they do not come and Evrrot is already walking away.

“Should we not try and find them?”

Evrrot’s steps end and he sighs.

“If they are in the mist, surely they will come out soon,” Roshan continues.

Though he is stopped, devil boy does not turn back. It is as though he hoped Roshan would simply forget about the people who were just with them and move on. The tiefling chews his lower lip with an air irritation, tail swishing as he impatiently settles his weight from one foot to the other. Roshan wonders if Evrrot must actively force his feet from walking away. As though waiting for others goes against his very nature. Devil boy stares pointedly ahead with the longing of a starving man restraining himself from a hot meal. It is like watching someone decide between cutting off their own hand or taking a slice of honeyed pastry. The choice is no choice at all. Roshan doesn’t need to be a seer to sense Evrrot’s struggle to find a reason to care about the others is a difficult one for him.

“Numbers are better in this sort of situation,” Roshan offers gently.

Evrrot continues to stare pointedly away from where they came. He bites his lip a bit more, devilish fangs worrying the edge before clicking his teeth together.

“Alright, fine.”

He clenches his jaw then loosens, shaking off the tension and grabbing hold of Roshan’s words to force himself back. At least the boy’s mind is capable of seeing the practical and logical value in having a few more bodies between them. It is a start.

Roshan pats Evrrot’s shoulder like a father does a son’s head, “Good lad.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Why are you so angsty? Do you have a bad relationship with your father?”

“No, it was a pleasant one, but…” Evrrot glares, “Why are we even talking about this?”

Devil boy storms off to go find the missing people he’s been told he’s supposed to care about and Roshan sighs. It is a start, he reminds himself.

“Can’t believe those guys went off without us!”

Evie sets her fists on her hips and sneers as she mocks the assholes who left her with the giant ghost. If she can’t tear them a new one, then she’ll settle with complaining about them to Emet instead.

“I thought we were supposed to be sticking together! And yet I can already hear the sound of that damned Evrrot walking away and fucking off into the mist like a twat. Probably thinks he’d do just fine without any of us. Wankers.”

Evie chews a nail then stops herself, “We weren’t that far behind were we?”

She hates how she can hear the worry in her voice when the anger burns itself away. As if all there really is—all there’s really been—is worry. But worry is fear, so she sets it aflame and calls it rage. Because she doesn’t want to be afraid. She wants to be angry.

Emet runs a hand across his face, the metal gauntlet getting tangled in the loose strands of his long white hair a moment. He shakes them free, “No, a few seconds at most.”

“Maybe they’re hiding or some shit.”

“I swear, if one of them jumps out of the mist, I’ll stab them.”

She doesn’t think he’s joking and some part of her respects that. Evie begins calling out for ‘old guy’, making it very clear this isn’t very funny and daggers will be involved if they jump out at them.

She’s about to get more creative with her threats when a strange noise fills the space between her calls. Something like metal whirring and spinning wildly against glass. Evie turns to Emet first wondering if the towering bastard has gone and done something, but his eyes are cast down at her hips. She’s about to curse him out when he wordlessly points and her eyes follow the line of his finger to her pocket. The compass.

The strange sound grows louder as Evie removes the tarnished copper thing. The needle—once erratic and stubbornly refusing to point North—now whirls in a frenzy as though caught in a storm. The sharp red needle now a blur beneath the glass. Small scrapes cut the surface from underneath.

“Well, that’s great. It’s even more useless,” she says.

Evie shoves the broken thing back in her pocket and goes back to loudly and obnoxiously calling out for ‘old guy’, not quite wanting to say her nickname for sexy tiefling out loud since he’d probably ignore the sarcastic nuance and take it as a compliment. No one replies of course, but she and Emet wander aimlessly around the border of the sapping mist in the hopes the other two haven’t actually abandoned them.

She hopes not.

Expects so and yet still hopes not for some stupid reason.

One stolen glance at Emet and she can tell he’s already given up on the others—if he ever expected them to come back for them at all. Abandonment issues isn’t something she wants to have in common with him. It isn’t something she wants at all and yet believing they’ve been left behind is an easier pill to swallow than thinking anyone would come looking for her…them. Come looking for them.

“…get very irritated very quickly. Who hurt you?”

The sing-song melody of Roshan’s accent carries through the still air. Not close, but not far either. She glances up at Emet silently wondering if he hears it too, or if the mist is playing tricks again. But he’s staring off in the same direction she heard the voice. He heard it too then. They pick up their speed, Evie half trotting toward the sound of Roshan’ melodic voice, the human asking something about why Evrrot does not like authority figures as the tiefling trudges into view alongside Roshan. Evrrot wears the expression of someone deeply regretting a decision.

Relief floods Evie like a cool drink on a hot day. Warmth poured over her heart and bones in a brief flicker at seeing them. She almost smiles. Almost. And out of the corner of her eye she catches Emet’s mouth quirk up into a faint grin as though he’s about to make some sarcastic comment before he glances over to her and the smile falls into something else. Like remembering something lost.

She senses the softness on her face before he can say anything, her expression open and unhidden behind the sharp barbs she set in her heart to keep moments like this from happening. To keep people from realizing she still has one. Evie’s eyes sharpen into knives. She’s about to cut Emet first for that look before Evrrot finally spies them, offering a fake smile and an impatient tap of his foot saying, “Alright, we got everyone? Then let’s keep going.”

That’s it? Let’s just go like you’ve been keeping us waiting. No question of what happened or are you alright? Evie wants to snarl at Evrrot and give that tapping foot of his a trim with her short sword or maybe pry out a fang or two from that fake ass smile. She wants to scream and roar and cut something—anything to get away from that moment of letting her mask of steel slip.

Roshan halts his psychological analysis of Evrrot, “Where have you been for the past three minutes?”

Evie blinks, hearing the exact words she wanted to hear but her anger has gone too far already. “Where did you go? You just fucked off!” Evie bites back, venom sharp.

Evrrot’s fake smile turns into a frown matching her own offense as though he has any right to be offended at all.

“We’ve been here!” He yells loudly, “Waiting for you two.”

Evie is about to tell him exactly where he can wait for her booted foot before Roshan starts patting the air like he can put out the flames, “No, no, no. We walked around for a bit hoping to find you.”

“We were right behind you,” Emet gestures to the mist, a little irritated himself if Evie is hearing that faint sharpness in his tone correctly. “Barely a few steps between us.”

Something like concern crosses the holy man’s face, and at least when he wears it, Evie believes it.

“It was more than a few minutes for us,” Roshan answers, “We waited a few minutes and you were nowhere to be found.”

“Minutes?” Emet scoffs, “We were seconds behind you. How could you have had minutes to wait?”

A day and night’s weariness of travel and strangeness wears at the ends of Evie’s nerves with a faint building static. She’s tired. She’s hungry. And all of them are at the very edge of whatever hospitality they had to begin with, which wasn’t much. Roshan tries to explain how time went for them a little better, but his story and their just don’t add up and as tired as they all are, it probably never will. None of this does.

Emet runs a hand through his hair, resigned and looking twice as tired as the rest of them. She wonders if he always looks tired, but the thought is cut short as his eyes catch on something beyond them. Evie turns and spies an eerily familiar tree, with 43 tallies and an arrow. She isn’t sure if she should be glad or furious.

“Either we continue with these endless trees or we risk the fog again and try to find our way back. So which is it,” Emet says flatly, as though he knows that whatever he chooses the tiefling will likely decide the opposite for no other reason than spite. Or perhaps it’s some weird kink for control and this is how he flirts. She doesn’t know anymore and doesn’t care. At least for now, they need to stick together and preferably that will happen someplace away from all this damned fog.

Roshan shakes his head, “The fog is a bad, bad place.”

“All of this is a bad, bad place.”

Without anyone having really decided, they all trudge through the muddy path toward the tree with their feet heavy and minds burdened by the frustrations this day has brought upon them.

Evie’s fingers wander absently over the brooch about her neck, twisting it back and forth on its black velvet cord knowing she can never take it off. Can’t take it off. Her fingers trace the familiar shape of the smooth surface, the last time she’s seen it outside of a mirror or reflection being when her father put it on her. Before, she never cared to take it off. And the first time she tried only weeks ago, she couldn’t. No one could unlatch it or cut it. And soon after her father left, it started to tug at her. She might not know where this heirloom of her father’s is leading her, but she never would’ve guessed it would be to a barnful of strangers forced to rely on each other in some strange land. And without any kind of rest.

Tensions are high.

Sleep and food. That’s what they need. Something hot to fill their bellies, something warm and comfortable to wrap around their shoulders, and something soft to lay their heads upon. Maybe things will make a bit more sense after that. But for now they’re still lost on this cyclical path with heavy eyes and frayed nerves, teeth bared and ready to latch onto each other’s throats. Only the old man seems to have any sort of calm about him as though this is just a casual stroll through winter woods with friends and not a bunch of tired and angry strangers thrown into some kid’s messed up bedtime story.

Sexy tiefling and old man find their way to the tree first, though this one is slightly different than the rest they have encountered. Stabbed into the gnarled and cracked bark of the tree, an old dagger of a style unfamiliar to any kind Evie has seen rests above a crude carving of a man atop a horse. The phrase ‘The horseman rides, the Seer spoke true’ carved below, and once more another 43 tallies with another arrow.

“Well, that’s not ominous,” Emet growls.

“Do you think the horseman is that man we found dead?” Roshan studies the carving a bit closer, “Or that silhouette of the man with the flaming horse? And who is this Seer?”

Evie’s eyes widen, “Oh shit, do you think it’s the same guy? His horse wasn’t on fire though.”

“No, but horses are not usually on fire.”

Fair enough.

“Which one do you think it is then, old guy?”

“I think that man is dead. He is not the problem. He is probably the one who gave this message though. I think we should find this Seer and that we should follow the arrows.”

Evie eyes him. That’s a lot of ‘I think we should’ for someone she just met hours ago. All she wants is to get to some semblance of safety, figure out what part of Faerûn the damned mist spirited them off to, and then be on her way.

“I don’t see why any of this is any of our business.”

“We do not know where we are, any help would be grateful.” Roshan looks around the mist again, nodding to himself, “This place is bad. Bad, bad.”

“I’m with you there.”

The weariness of the day—days?—sets in. Roshan is the first to search the sky for any sign of what time it could possibly be since they entered the parasitic mist. Not like Evie expects anything. Since the air turned from the sweetness of Daggerford celebration to misty cemetery air, they’ve been wandering for what must have been five or more hours by Evie’s estimation, and yet the sky remains a stubborn endless dark grey somewhere between night and day. Only faint greyish light filtering through the tangled barren boughs of the gnarled trees indicates that it might be daylight somewhere above that low blanket of clouds.

“Surely the sun should have risen or set by now, no?” The holy man rubs the burnished metal sun hanging about his neck as though the action might summon the sun emblazoned on it. With no tangible response, he adjusts his robes and points after the next arrow.

“Right, come along children. Let’s go.”

Children?

Evie rolls her eyes. Being twenty-five doesn’t make her a child no matter how young she looks with her half-elven blood. And sexy tiefling has got to be in his thirties with the way he seems to still prize being an asshole. Too old to be smooth faced and full of lies and too young to have gained any maturity or wisdom, clearly. And poncy boy the seven foot giant elf? The man may look like an untouched by time young thirties, but he’s a pure blood elf. He could be 300 years old for all Evie knows and she’s only partially certain the old man doesn’t have quite so many years under his belt. Evie finds herself assessing Roshan once more, trying to determine his age.

“I thought you were 32?” Evie asks.

“Yes, but you keep calling me old one, so I might as well accept it.”

“There’s just something about you,” Emet adds, “You must have an old soul or something.”

“I have never heard that one, thank you,” Roshan says with such a deadpan expression, Evie can’t tell if that’s sarcasm.

The group, all wishing in their own way for a bed and some sort of hot meal continue along the muddy footpath with less and less motivation to bother. How many more trees with 43 tallies will they pass? How many more cryptic signs carved in bark with no sun or hint of where or when the hells any of them are?

Evie hangs her head with a dramatic sigh, groaning loudly incase anyone has any doubt about how done she is with this endless day, when she stops in her tracks. They’ve been walking this muddy foot path since Roshan decided with his magic feather that this was the way to go, but Evie never really gave the path any kind of investigation. Why would she? A path is a path right? Unless the path is worn by only one person.

She stares into the mud, hoping she is wrong. But whether she looks behind where they’ve walked or ahead where they’ve not yet trampled some of the tracks, it is the same.

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling, guys.”

“You are only starting?” Roshan asks.

“No, a new bad feeling.”

“Ohhh.”

“I mean I’m not the smartest but other than ours, I’m not seeing any tracks that were made by more than one person,” she points at the hoof prints, “and one horse.”

Evie squats down on her thick platform heels, fingers tracing above the footprints that came before theirs and the ones that lead further beyond, “This path was made by one man. Look, these are the same shoes over and over.” Her finger finds hoof prints next, “And this is the same horse. The horseshoe has that knick in the metal in every track.”

Emet seems to make the connection first as she lays out the points. The deadman and horse made this path, wore it into existence with endless repetition. Forty-three times, Evie would hazard to guess. Forty-three times through that draining patch of fog before they finally had nothing left.

Evie stands up from her squat, wiping the mud off her hands, “I don’t know, this seems wrong.”

“But it means we will likely make it back then, no? If it is a circle?” Roshan asks.

“I hope. We should have followed the other path.”

“When we make it back, we will go the other way.”

“If we make it back,” Evie bites back, but a little more gently, “The dead guy didn’t.”

Evrrot slings his bow across his back and steps up to one of the taller trees, kicking his boot into the trunk to test for any softness or give.

“I’m gonna see if I can get a better vantage point.”

Look who’s taking some initiative.

“Do not fall,” Roshan calls out as the tiefling swings himself up to the lowest dead branch and begins scaling the tree with familiarity. Evie half wishes it would break under his weight and drop his ass in the mud. It holds, to her disappointment.

It doesn’t take Evrrot long before he reaches the higher canopy, the tree full of easy branches to scale and most of them still strong enough to support his weight—unfortunately. A few close calls as weaker dead boughs snap beneath him, but always another branch not far from hand.

Balancing himself against the thinner and weaker boughs near the top of the tree, Evrrot carefully stands above the canopy.

“Well that’s fucked,” Evrrot calls down.

“What?” Evie calls up.

“There’s nothing. It’s just fucking fog everywhere.”

Evrrot calls out his view. All around him, a sea of endless tangled branches pierce the fog like thorns. And behind, where that wall of vampiric fog tried to sap them of what little energy they have left, a massive roiling pillar of white climbing endlessly into the overcast skies still stubbornly caught somewhere between night and day. Seems there is no escape from that impenetrable fog. Even from above.

He carefully, if a bit angrily, makes his way back to the ground. If there’s any sort of settlement in this place, the fog hides it well. They have no choice but to follow whatever damn path they can find. Roshan is quiet as Evrrot explains the situation, closing his eyes a moment as he grasps that burnished sun once more in his calloused hands and whispers something beneath his breath. Evie’s sharp ears only catch the last word, “Are you there?” Whatever he is seeking, Evie knows he did not find it. The old man’s shoulders droop almost imperceptibly.

“Does he typically answer?” Emet asks softly.

“I usually feel his warmth. Now there is only cold.”

He nods as though expecting as much, “That must be the way of gods.”

Roshan’s eyes are dawnsteel.

“Not this one.”

Emet quietly assesses him, perhaps seeking a weak point to exploit. Perhaps looking for any waver in his conviction, but finds none and keeps his silence.

With nowhere left to go, they press on to follow the arrows in the hopes that they will cross the abandoned wagon trail once more.

Several minutes and several more 43 tallied trees pass before all breathe a hesitant sigh of relief. There, ahead of them, the lonely wagon trail that started them in these misty lands cuts across the deadman’s path. But that relief is quickly overshadowed.

The deadman—once still and rotting, nothing more than a feast for crows—is gone.

#dark fantasy #gothic fantasy #gothic fiction #curse of strahd #barovia #d&d campaign #dnd campaign #vampire #vampire fiction #ongoing fic #fantasy fiction #creative writing #fiction writing #my fiction #adventure fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #my writing #Tales of No One

5 notes · View notes

midnightdemonhunter · 7 months

Text

Finally a guy with my sense of humor!

#miraculous ladybug #le chien kim #dark humor #akuma #midnight draws #ml derision #posted months after watching this ep in honor of my ongoing delightful struggle to write kim Exactly Right in my fics #ive got the double unpopular opinion of liking Derision as a kim fan. like yeah it makes me go ?? but also honestly. mostly in character on #kims part. for how consistently the term In Character can be used to define kim. but like. guys the episode is honestly being really nice #ive seen people say they hate kim now and its like really? this is the ep? the one where they specifically make it super clear that he #originally had nothing but good intentions? looking back at s1 kim Derision Kim is. not quite written the same but he's the same shade of #Jerk. which i personally deeply enjoy. ALSO this ep gave him struggles with taking things seriously and romance which. honestly all i could #ever want. peace and love on planet earth.

6 notes · View notes

latrodectal · 8 months

Text

i remember a supernatural/dark angel bnf who bragged about working in hollywood and knowing so much about everything and who was tbh kind of a giant snob and an asshole who flipped out at the reference to the exorcist in the episode that featured linda blair because she didn’t get that it was a reference.

#like i’m sorry you’re that much of a snob and you throw a hissyfit about not knowing a very basic reference?#this is the same person who hated the albas so much she brought krit back to suicide bomb terminal city #(in her ongoing m/a fic that i’m pretty sure never got finished and i don’t think is up anymore)#the 2000s were an even darker time for dark angel/max fans than it is now fic writers HATED max so much #dark angel #supernatural #i kinda hope she finds this tbh i know she’s still writing

4 notes · View notes

darke-faerie · 7 months

Link

New weekly fic! Omegaverse - a/b/o

HAPPY 100TH OMEGAVERSE FIC TO ME!

Ch1 *WARNINGS* suicide attempt

Ahh my 100th omegaverse fic! The start is a little dark but I promise it gets happier! ^.^

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs) Characters: Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs) Additional Tags: Omega Verse, Alpha/Omega, Omega Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Alpha Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Port Mafia Boss Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), canon adjacent, kinda an au, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Dazai-Typical Suicide References (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai-Typical Suicide Attempts (Bungou Stray Dogs), Angst, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mpreg, Birth, Implied Mpreg, Post Mpreg, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Honeymoon, Tropical Islands, Mentioned Port Mafia Ensemble (Bungou Stray Dogs) - Freeform, Mentioned Armed Detective Agency (Bungou Stray Dogs), Armed Detective Agency and Port Mafia Have a Truce (Bungou Stray Dogs), Fluff, soft, Facing Fears, Thunderstorms, Happy Ending Summary:

Omegaverse - A/B/O

HAPPY 100th OMEGAVERSE FIC TO ME!!!

Two weeks into Dazai starting his job with the ADA and the day after his and Chuuya's wedding, an accident befalls Mori, and due to some outdated paperwork Dazai becomes the Port Mafia Boss.

9 Years later, he is still Boss. His and Chuuya's plans of starting a family have long since stalled and Dazai is beginning to struggle with the stress of being Boss.

After a misunderstanding on the anniversary of Odasaku's death, it finally becomes too much for him.

To help Dazai's recovery, Chuuya decides it is time to finally go on their honeymoon, and for once, relax as just the two of them...

*updates Thursdays*

5 notes · View notes

winterwells · 11 months

Text

Major Ego Death (Eater) Chapter 3 on AO3 by winterwells

"You do realise I can easily vanish these chains with wandless magic," says Draco. "I'm displaying a huge amount of restraint given there's an itch on my fucking chin – as a gesture of goodwill, of course."

Weasley pulls out some parchment with a sigh. "We are in great debt to your impressive amount of self-control, Malfoy. Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix - you passed the test," he says sarcastically, still fucking staring at Draco.

"Right," says Draco with an eye roll as he vanishes the restraints to finally take care of the itch. "The Order has some serious safety issues. If I were to –"

"You know," cuts in Weasley as he sits back in his seat while crossing his arms, ignoring Draco's attempt at a helpful critique. "This is the second time I've had a heated argument with mum about not using the Killing Curse on you. She told me what happened at the Battle — when you nearly sent an Avada to our backs. The jury is still out on who you were really aiming for."

#dramione #fanfic #draco x hermione #original work #romance #slow burn #ao3fic #draco angst #dark with snark fic #ongoing war #draco malfoy

5 notes · View notes

lunarharp · 2 years

Text

a random draft where i was ramblingg about witch hat & art to myself for myself :)

rare time i feel like actually going off about the thing i’m having fun with right now in more detail ... but not on twt where strangers might try to discuss back at me lol sorry but that is scary. (not that you even have the room to soliloquy on there)

i love how there's characters for varying types of artists to relate to. people like agott who have been adept at drawing from a young age but feel overwhelmed by feelings of not meeting their expectations. and are driven mostly by feelings of wanting to prove their worth..

people like oru who have always been around the art but now are burnt out from commissions and wondering just what they're drawing for... and ones i relate to the most personally like coco and qifrey, who started drawing at an older age to the skilled people around them. like coco i'm so happy that i'm in the world of drawing(/magic) now and excited every day but also weighed down by fears that i'll never get to what i where i need to be after starting at this late stage and also whether i'm really cut out for this....

and like qifrey i only started drawing after a narrow escape from trauma... i started drawing to make sense of what my life is now, just as he was invited by beldaruit to become a witch because it was the only safe path he could take. (although i've not been through anything quite like what he's been through... ouagh)

and there’s tetia who just wants to draw to make other people feel happy about what she’s made, to have fun, and spread hope and happiness and gratitude. who feels so happy whenever someone thanks her for what she’s created - i understand now how it feels to want to thank them for thanking her and how making art, when you get a meaningful response, can be a truly warm communal type experience. but you do need that response - her overwhelming happiness when the dragon thing was happy and she said it was the first time she’d ever felt fully appreciated for her magic and it made her soooo happy. she had been drawing until then, but it was the last puzzle in place to make her realise the breadth of what magic can be for her.

and riche who is determined to not lose the “her”-ness from her art, doesn’t want to learn new techniques and become more regular and orthodox in style if it means she feels she’s losing something... i get that!!! precious autistic-coded child... the ways we feel about our art differ depending on our own mental landscapes. hahhhh... shirahama said she began this series because she was having a conversation with artist friends about how it feels like drawing just really is magic. i mean..... it is.

i think writing feels like magic too, and i’m glad i can do both now. any creation is total magic. i’ve drawn scenes that were in my head and that’s let other people see them and if i can trust their comments about it, has moved them in some way or at least let them imagine a scene or a situation that they wouldn’t have imagined otherwise. but it’s different from just telling someone about it. when you draw something, or write something it really exists now - outside of you. THAT’S SO WEIRD.

i liked drawing a lot of takarazuka things (before i realised i got kind of burnt out drawing all this transcore stuff that people were not exactly responding to because it’s so niche and weird lmao) but drawing fanart for something that also ONLY exists in art is so special. it’s not acted by real people. like.. they’re just little people that someone drew and now i draw them too. total magic. and she gets up and draws them every day the same as me...

i love that a manga isn’t just art, it’s storytelling too. doing both writing and drawing at the same time - it feels like such a perfect and fascinating combination of skills and facets of creation. i’m better at writing than drawing, so i don’t feel like i can express my original stories well enough in comic form just yet. but i might just get there.

the world is so confusing and overwhelming and terrible every day. only creation is something i can understand. sometimes i can’t understand it - when i feel REALLY bad, it’s definitely like, what’s the point. and i wish i had more things to experience at present than just creation - i want to be outside and just feel and be as well as create. and at some point i’ll definitely stop posting my creations online. but creating has become something that i don’t need to understand the reason for it - so at those times when i wonder what the real point to any of this is.... lately, i usually still create anyway. just as you’d still breathe and sleep even though you’re hurt and confused by the horrors of the world. it’s becoming how i express myself. i find myself drawing pretty much every day because it’s part of how i make sense of shit now and i naturally want to do it. not doing it is painful.

i hope this magic continues. i hope it becomes far more wonderful than i can even imagine from here.

and i won't lose.

#things really are different if you start drawing in your mid/late 20s or onwards.#you haven't developed your idea of yourself as an 'artist' at the time your brain was developing your identity.#but reading something that is basically saying- it's not too late and you have your own magic that only youan do... is so heartening.#also the manga is very gay. it's not THAT shockingly original and fascinating a story- but like...#i just don't know many ongoing fun series with interesting lovable characters where there are also major representations #for disability race queerness etc.#esp if tetia is trans. shirahama-sensei you can tell me...#MOSTLY IM LOSING MY MIND AT WHERE THE SERIES IS GOING LIKE I AM SCARED. my theories are dark and i fear for qifrey SOMEONE HELP HIMMM..#ONCE AGAIN LET SOMEONE HLEP YOU YOU QUESTIONABLE AND TRAGIC GAY LITTLE SKIRT MAN #i hate that i had to just let my fic be so short. I CANT WRITE ANY MORE RIGHT NOW...i would have to make up so much plot stuff #bc orufrey CANNT happen they cant freaking KISS until so much is sorted out between them which requires the plot moving forward and..#AUGHHH !!!! sensei please just tell me what happens please please please please please please please please please #the next chapter looks hella plot-ful but STILL..it's going to take YEARS..i just want to know if qifrey IS GOING TO SURVIVE THIS SHIT !!!!#if the brimhats [redacted] then he'll [redacted] and THEN WHAT IF [redacted] has to [redacted] I FEEL LIKE SENSEI'LL DO THAT !!! SCARED #SURELLLY she'll have [redacted] have to [redacted] but i dont think shed go as far as [redacted] ??????#i plan to go to japan next year if possible anyway but what if it's too early for an anime-fuelled merch section in animate. please #this is like the first new and non-zuka thing i've been hyperfixated on for years. i need official qifrey and oru items. I need the items #once again i feel weird putting my personal feelings and theories on the internet to an audience of nobody but once again we will die.#am i going to be on my deathbed thinking 'oh i shouldn't have happily gone off about witch hat on tumblr that time how embarrassing' no.#do you know how worthwhile it is to enjoy something. and to basically avoid other fanworks for the most part so you're just surrounded #by your own pure and enjoyable feelings.#i actually went to a local queer art place yesterday and like. man i was very different to them but #there are people somewhat like me out there huh. somewhere. i'm going to make zines and art and express my world. even if just a bit.#literally why would you priv reblog something like this i think there is something wrong with you? i feel better about myself now #i will find the ones like me not the ones like you <3

8 notes · View notes