LA Knight - Otherworldly Writing @la-knight - Tumblr Blog

Self-Indulgent Sunday

Thanks for the tags, @missfortunetherogue

This is a bit from the new fic I am working on. That's right, a BRAND NEW FIC. Featuring these two goobers

This was certainly not covered in her etiquette lessons, lol.

It's called The Price We Pay, and will start posting in June.

The tadfools had broken apart as soon as the brain hit the water, but it was fine. Natavia Dekarios had found her happily ever after.

Right until her new husband took the Crown of Karsus and disappeared. Not to ascend, not to return to the graces of Mystra, but simply vanished so thoroughly that not even Elminster could locate him.

And left her with an unpayable debt. The price of every magical artifact Tara had stolen during his confinement. The law was clear; she could not pay, and so she was remanded to a labor camp to work it off.

Six years later, her choice to help Astarion ascend, the choice that had dissolved the fragile alliance of the tadfools, comes back to haunt her when he pays off her debt and offers to help find Gale.

For a price.

A little taste:

"Astarion, my mother would never have let me marry down like that." The words came out coldly; a lifetime of keeping her emotions out of what boiled down to the sale of her body. "I was her prize, to buy back the relevance of the family with. A betrothal was being negotiated with the head of House Selemchant in Athkatla when I was kidnapped." His eyes flickered oddly, but he said nothing. "Now, of course, I'm entirely ruined." "If only," Astarion gave her an appraising look. "It would suit you perfectly, being utterly wrecked. A damned shame, too, given that you and the wizard can't even manage a proper kiss." "Astarion!" The hot flush reached practically to her toes. "Merely making an observation, no need for hysterics." He tilted his head. "You know, I could help. Not with the wrecking, of course, darling, but kissing? That I could lend a hand with." "No, thank you." "I really must press you to reconsider my proposal, if for no other reason than it's painful for the rest of us to watch." Tav folded her arms. "You know, Gale isn't complaining."

"Gale practically spends his trousers every time you hold his hand. His judgement is meritless in this arena. I, on the other hand, am an expert." "Astarion…" she sighed, the same old argument about to start. "I promise, I won't make this about how you are much too good for the likes of that sad sap." He gave her one of his rare, true smiles. A little peek of fang on one side, eyes soft and slightly lopsided. "No, this is about you." "It's not appropriate," she whispered. "I'm promised." "But not betrothed yet, are you? No contracts drawn. The wizard hasn't so much as seen your father from across the street." Astarion's voice dropped low, a rough and hungry edge to it. "It's one kiss, darling. And it will be Gale who will be reaping the rewards of your tiny indiscretion, is it not?" This was the problem with her beloved rogue; he could make the most untenable things sound perfectly reasonable. Feeling the full force of his seductive intent turned on her again for the first time since she'd told him no at the party by the river, she understood how he'd taken so many victims. She absolutely would have followed him to her death, she realized. His hand snaked under her chin, a gentle grab, but the press of his cold fingers into her felt like fire. She'd spent a hundred moments with Astarion that no chaperone would have ever allowed, but they'd never touched like this. Never beyond the tiniest incidentals and a few moments of handholding. Seen. That's what she felt under his gaze. Not her smooth skin or white teeth, but the parts of her that mattered. He saw every flaw she hid, and he wanted her in spite of every failure. "You know, now that I'm free to decide who I kiss," Astarion mused, his eyes flicking down to her lips and sending a sudden inferno through her body. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather start with." "This is a bad idea. A terrible idea," she said, silently begging him to ignore her, her own gaze falling to his lips, wondering if they would be as cool as his hands. "Natavia," he said her name like he was starving for her. "I will not kiss you without your permission." A palpable pull formed between them; she knew she should fight, but she let herself fall towards him, their foreheads touching before she whispered, "Then kiss me."

#the price we pay #bg3 fanfiction #gale/tav #astarion x tav #love triangle #astarion

floweryanarchy

I see the requests for 70s Wyll

I’m cooking something up right now and he will be included as a trio and he WILL be wearing one of Prince’s iconic outfits.

So yeah get ready (I might post the sketch before coloring and rendering cuz I get too excited)

I finally am getting some more time on my hands, I’m so ready to actually get finished pieces out once again

floweryanarchy

I should be sleeping rn but ✨TADA✨

The 1970s trio sketch cuz I couldn’t wait. (I’ll probs change some things up once I start rendering and blah blah blah)

I’m chewing on all of them.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 art #bg3 fanart #gale dekarios #baldurs gate fanart #astarion bg3 #astarion fanart #wyll ravengard #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #wyll my beloved

chaushaus

longfic author interview

Thanks for creating this awesome questionaire @njuta! This was an amazing exercise to put together and I really loved thinking about these questions. attached here is the og link for anyone who wants to check out the template: longfic author interview template

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The fic: Threadbare When two souls are destined to be together, they are connected by an invisible thread. No matter the time, place, or situation, this thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break - The Red Thread of Fate Two survivors, kindred spirits, thrown together by accident -Or was it?

Rating: Explicit (please do mind the tags) Pairing (Main): Astarion X Original Character (Nora) Background pairings: Wyll/Karlach, Shadowheart/Lae'zel, Gale/Rolan Minor/Temporary Pairings: Gale/Nora, Gale/Karlach, Petras/Lady Antilia Characters: The entire canon cast of BG3 + appearances by Lord Neifion, Corellon Larethian, Lolth, Ellistrae, Vhaeraun, Lady Antilia, Mephistopheles, and expanded roles for Cazador, Ulder Ravengard, Devella Fountainhead, Counselor Florrick, Lady Jannath, Nine Fingers Keene, and more, along with a multitude of original characters. Completion Status: I am actually rewriting the first version which was 2/3 complete at 437,000 words. The current version is at 73,000 words and updates on Fridays - although it is on hiatus until January 9 2026. I fully expect that this story will end up topping 500,000 words.

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Plot Summary Nora's a 47-year-old woman most recently living in Cleveland, where she teaches math to middle schoolers. While taking the train to Chicago to go help search for her missing ex-fiancé with their army brothers and sisters, she falls asleep, only to wake up in a nightmare. This is a VERY canon-divergent main story line fic, but based heavily in DnD lore. Loreplay is foreplay, babes. ✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

#ao3 writer #behind the scenes #threadbare #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #fanfic #isekai #noraverse #nora feyre #astarion #one of my faves #bg3

bucksfucks

"now, run."

summary: Adam chases reader through the forest after she saves Victor from the monster, until Adam decides he's done playing with Victor and wants to play with her, instead.

pairing: the creature x reader

word count: 5,913 words

themes: dubcon, light non-con, this is a dark fic, unprotected sex, oral, monster sex, talk of murder and death, violence, cat and mouse, alludes to reader being a virgin, victor being a bitch, fear, stalking, 18+ ONLY MDNI

author's note: this adam makes me fear for my life and i love it i wish this was me and my therapist will be hearing about this

You grew up on stories about the monsters in the woods.

Shadows that walked. Voices that mimicked. Eyes that gleamed between the trees, watching from the treeline whenever a light burned too late in a cottage window.

Parents told those stories to keep their children close.

#frankenstein #frankenstein 2025 #adam frankenstein x reader #adam frankenstein x you #dark!adam frankenstein #the creature x reader #the creature x you #writers on tumblr #Tumblr literature

roach-works

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted: Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion. They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees. “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

#tumblr literature #tumblr gold #autism #changelings #fairies #short story

writing-prompt-s

Everyone is born with 3 dates on their wrist. One represents when you will accomplish your life’s goal, one is when you will meet your soulmate, and one is when you will die right down to the second. Yours are all the same day within a minute of each other.

gayahithwen

I was five years old when I found out what the numbers on our wrists were. It was whispered about on the playground, imparted in the same hushed tones that would share bad words, or question the existence of Santa Claus, or discuss where babies really came from.

My best friend’s big brother had just hit one of his dates, at 13. The day he met his soulmate, a boy in the year above him at his new school.

At five, we didn’t use the word “soulmate”. The way Anna explained it to us was instead: “One of them is the day you finish your biggest goal, one of them is when you meet your true love, and one of them is when you’re gonna… die.” That last word was whispered, but we all still heard it and felt how ominous it was.

We compared our dates, because of course we did. Counting on our fingers how far away the dates were. Some of them were close together, some where not. My numbers were special, being all the same day. What a day that would be. But 26 sounded so very far away.

As I grew up, I realized that 26 was not really very old, though. For a while, I felt very put upon. It wasn’t fair that I was going to hit all three milestones within a minute of each other. Not even getting a chance to enjoy my success or my true love before it was time for me to die.

I was there when Anna met her husband to be. We were 19, and she had been talking about nothing else for like a month in advance. But we got lost in conversation, and when he knocked on her shoulder to hand her something she had dropped, she didn’t know what time it was.

But as she turned to face him, I saw the numbers light up on both of their wrists for a moment, and then fade away. And I knew. Of course, I could’ve told by the looks on their faces as well, they were ridiculously and immediately besotted. I don’t know if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy or not, that priming yourself to meet your soulmate might make you more open to it when it happens, but I’ve seen it happen enough times to know that it’s the real deal either way.

It’s kind of strange, knowing what your life expectancy is like. The people with years ahead of them plan differently than the people who know they’re going to die young. I dated a bit, but never got serious. I’ve seen plenty of people have good relationships with people who are not their soulmates, perhaps even marriage and children, knowing that their soulmates are years away still.

But for me, I never got super into any relationship. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. And kids were never an option for me. Not that I didn’t want them, but leaving them motherless so young seemed cruel.

So I threw myself into my work. For me, my goal was to write a story that had a real impact on someone else’s life. A lot of the people I knew who were destined to die young had goals like mine, wanting to leave some kind of lasting impact on the world.

Researching my story, I made contact with a brilliant surgeon named Kathryn. She lived in another city, but we had a good online relationship. She was funny and smart, and didn’t treat me like I was crazy when I came with her with strange medical hypotheticals to work out for my story.

I put her first in the list of people I wanted to dedicate the book to, and invited her to the big release party, and to my surprise she said yes. I hadn’t told her it was on my date. I hadn’t told anyone about my dates for a long time.

I sat at a little table to sign my book for anyone who wanted it, and my publisher’s daughter came up, clutching the book to her chest and with a look of awe on her face that made me smile to myself.

“Miss Daren? I just wanted to tell you, this book changed how I look at myself, and…”

She kept talking, but I could barely hear her, because I noticed one of my dates had just flashed up and then faded away on my arm. So this is it, I thought to myself, as I smiled at the girl and signed her book when she offered it to me. My life’s goal all out of the way.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned around just to come face to face with the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. Tall and dark, with her braided hair in an advanced style and wearing an amazing red dress. I recognized her immediately from the photos I’d seen of her online.

“Kathryn?” I sighed, both so happy to finally see her in person and realize that hey, I actually got to know my soulmate, just without knowing that that was who she was, and at the same time so angry at a world that would give me such perfect happiness just to snatch it away. Angry at a world that would make me hurt her like this.

She had seen the numbers flash up on both of our arms and then fade away. She was smiling at me, and I wanted to be happy, but all I could say was “I’m so sorry,” before the stress of the moment, combined with an unknown congenital defect in my heart made the darkness rise up from behind my eyes and claim me.

And then something I never expected happened.

I woke up.

I woke up in a hospital room full of beeping machines and strange smells, and there was Kathryn in a chair next to my bed, still in that red dress and looking simply amazing, although kind of tired.

“How?” I managed to ask. “I was supposed to–”

“I know,” she whispered, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it gently. “Technically, you did. Luckily for both of us, I am very good at my job.”

“I never realized that it was even possible.”

“It’s rare, but it happens. Us surgeons are a stubborn bunch, and if we have to wrench you out of the hands of Death himself, then we will.”

I turned my arm over and looked at my wrist. A new number. Almost 80 years in the future. I took Kathryn’s hand, turned it over. Saw her one remaining number.

“We’re going to die together,” I said, disbelievingly.

“Only when we’re really old,” she replied.

And after a few moments, we both started laughing. And we laughed until we cried, and then laughed some more.

I can’t believe I get to grow old with her. I can’t believe I’m so lucky.

Perhaps sometimes, the world gets it right.

photographic-imagination

That was fucking amazing I am in tears ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

milomeepit

Oh I’m crying this is beautiful

theniwokesoftly

This is the best version of this trope I have ever seen.

#tumblr gold #tumblr literature #soulmates #wlw

shanastoryteller

cinderella: redo

so i was watching cinderella while doing my nails and waiting for them to dry which was clearly a Mistake because now i can’t help but think -

the evil stepmother was always evil, okay. say her abuse of her own daughters was different than that of cinderella’s - but it was still abuse. giving them impossible expectations, telling them they were never good enough, never pretty enough, never smart enough. and then she gets married, and anastasia and drizella are ecstatic because this man seems kind and warm and maybe just maybe he can temper their mother, maybe with him around she won’t be so cruel. so they’re on their very best behavior in the beginning, they do just as their mother taught - they trot out their best upper court manners in an attempt to get their new stepfather to like them. but it just comes off as cold and snooty and they’re trying, they are, they’re just bad at it. and they see how he is with cinderella, the smiling girl their own age, and they are jealous. they don’t mean to be, they try not to be, they know it isn’t becoming of young ladies. but she gets hugs and kisses and affection and they get rulers slapped on their hands when they reach for desert and sharp jabs to their sides when they slouch and - soon they hate cinderella, not for anything she’s done, but for what she has and they dont

but then her father dies. and it’s all a tumble of things and cinderella is crying and they’ve lost their only chance at escaping their mother’s clutches and it’s terrible. and everything settles and there’s no reason to be jealous anymore but resentment is hard to let go of and they don’t know what to do. they’re only kids too after all. and they’re so terribly bad at comforting people, they can do flowery words and know all the right bows but cinderella is so sad and they just don’t know what to do with that, because they’re supposed to be sisters but they’re not even friends

and slowly but surely their mother starts abusing cinderella, starts making her a maid in her own home, and she’s their mother, what are anastasia and drizella supposed to do? she rules them with an iron fist, and cinderella doesn’t even like them anyway, it’s none of their business.

except one night anastasia crawls into her sister’s bed in the middle of the night and wakes her up. “i was thirsty,” she explains, eyes wide and shiny, and they’re bad at this with other people but drizella has no problems with pulling anastasia into her arms. the younger girl clutches her sister and continues, “i was thirsty and i went down to the kitchen to get some water and - and cinderella is still up! she’s doing the dishes, and she should be asleep, mom is going to make her make breakfast in the morning and -” she cuts herself off with a hiccup and whispers, “it’s not fair.”

“life isn’t fair,” drizella says, echoing one of their mother’s favorite phrases. but her sister is staring at her with wet eyes, and it’s not like their mother is likely to get up before sunrise anyway, she hates waking up, so she pulls herself and anastasia out of bed and off they go.

Keep reading

la-knight

This is beautiful and brilliant

@lorienkittybooks @books-and-cookies

#cinderella #tumblr literature #tumblr gold #fairy tales #abuse tw

elizabeatles

librarian’s assistant — a.frankenstein

fic prompt: modern!adam/the creature’s job

word count: 2,466 | warnings : awkward meet-cute

— summary: you’re a college student in need of some quick printing at the local library. while you’re there, you meet the newly hired librarian assistant: a 6’5 tall long-haired man with a sweet disposition

The compact clock ticks as it hangs over the wooden desk. The space is cluttered with scattered papers and pens as the spine of your back is hunched over it. The cheap plastic chair you bought on a whim for your apartment creaks under the weight of your shaking leg. Your laptop is posted in front of you with your fingers typing diligently away. You pause for a moment and recline against the chair. Your back arches as you bring your arms up in the air until a faint pop echoes through the small bedroom. Your eyes glance down to the miniature time on the corner of your laptop.

“It’s 5:37 PM… Still have enough time in the day to do whatever I want.” You mumble mindlessly to yourself.

Your hands lower to the desk and start clearing off the sheets of notes previously used for the essay. The sheets are placed inside of their designated folders as a faint ding comes from your phone. Your eyes squint in confusion as you read the notification on your lock screen.

ESSAY UPDATED REQIUREMENTS: Needs to be PRINTED and handed in person tomorrow for class.

Your jaw slacks almost cartoonishly, “Printed?!” A gasp leaves your lips. Your mouth open in a continued state of shock.

Your fingers rush to pick the phone up and fumble through your passcode. Your eyes scan the screen as they triple check the email from your professor. An exasperated sound comes out of your mouth while your hands tangle themselves in your hair.

“What do I do? I don’t have a printer!” You cried. You begin to anxiously pace on the carpeted floor. Fluffy socks padding against the wooly ground.

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip out of habit, “I could head to the library? I think it was still open the last I went around this time.” You nod positively to yourself.

With a new sense of self-assurance, you promptly begin inserting your things into a nearby tote bag. Little huffs of air leave from your nostrils as a method to self-soothe. Your feet slip out of your house slippers and into a comfortable pair of shoes. The jacket that was previously thrown carelessly over your bed is now fitted on your body. With a quick look into the mirror, you try to flatten down any stray hairs into a more presentable look.

“Okay! Time to go.” You smile to yourself.

A gush of air flies through you as you exit the front door. The icy wind bites away at your face and you scrunch your nose in displeasure. Walking down the steel stairs connected to the apartment building, you make your way to the still parking lot. You hum a low tone as you unlock your car, trying to distract yourself from the cold seeping into your skin. Shoving your bag into the passenger seat, you situate yourself at the wheel and insert your key. The mechanical machine rumbles awake under your weight. After looking into your blind spots and the rearview mirrors, your foot press down onto the gas pedal. The drive to the college library was steady and peaceful, for a moment you forgot the reason for the late-evening drive. You pull up to the campus building and swiftly park into an empty parking spot. The lights from inside the library were still on but there was an absence of people evident. Pulling onto the handle of the driver’s side, you push the door open while extending your other arm to retrieve the tote bag. After slinging it comfortably on your shoulder, you tread towards the library’s doors.

Your fingers meet the cold metal of the handles as you push them inwards. The humming sound of the building’s AC fills your ears. Your eyes adjust to the intense illumination overhead. Rows of shelves containing books consume your worldview. Your footsteps are the loudest sound to be heard apart from the circulating whirring. Letting out a soft exhale, you pause and twist your head around to find the front desk. As your eyes scan the area, you spot a dark-haired man sitting behind a large desk to the left side of the room. Strands of his umber colored hair hide his features as he hunches over the novel. Large slender fingers tenderly hold the sides of the covers. You pause for a moment before leisurely walking over to him. The thumping of your steps grows louder as the distance closes between the two of you.

“Um, excuse me?” You call out softly.

The man’s figure jolts straight as he lets out a muffled grunt. His head shifts upwards towards the sound of your voice. His eyes are wide as he meets your gaze. Lips partly open as if he were nibbling on his bottom lip ever so lightly as he read. He rushes to stand up with a sheepish smile.

A low-toned voice sounds out, “Welcome. What can I assist you with?” He says with a manner of rehearsed presentation.

Your eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise at the sound of his voice. You feel at a loss for words while you study his previously hidden features. Pale, almost light blue skin, littered with faint red scars across his face with the biggest and prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. His hair length is long enough to fall to his broad shoulders. He brushes a strand behind his ear.

“Huh…” Rings out in your head momentarily before you realize you haven’t replied to the man.

Heat rushes to your face. A sense of light-headiness waves over you as you fumble with your speech, “Oh, I just wanted to know where the printers were at?” You squeak out.

You mentally pinch yourself at the awkwardness, “Since when were the librarians here so attractive?” You rhetorically ask in your thoughts.

The last time you came here was for a study group after a biology class. Although the librarian at the time was an old sweet lady who had poor vision. You wonder if he was going to be a permanent addition to the campus. Your fingers grip the strap of your tote bag, grounding yourself with the rough material between your fingertips. His eyes study your nervous demeanor while his face furrows with a lightly pouted lip. His hands twitch at his side with some of his fingers bending outwards. You assume this as an anxious habit to your reaction and immediately stop your fiddling. You straighten your back somewhat and flash him with a small grin. He seems to relax at the change in posture, his shoulders dropping its tension.

“They are in the computer laboratory, next to the non-fiction shelves but I can lead you to them if you wish?” He steadily responds, an accent clinging to his husky voice.

You nod without a second thought, hanging onto every single word. He lets out a pleased huff and promptly stunters out from the chair. His sweater’s long sleeves drape over his knuckles, swaying with every movement. Your eyes observe the gentle maneuver of his limbs. He turns to you and wordlessly gestures with a tilt of his head to accompany him. A small noise escapes your lips as you pick your feet off the ground and follow behind. Your vision fills with the sight of his broad back. His shoulders drooped and arms hidden under the comfort of his sweater. A pair of black sweatpants hang on his hips and cut at his ankles. A sense of embarrassment fills your stomach as you ogle this poor man. You let yourself gaze over his body one last time but abruptly stopped by the same back. His sudden freeze in movement causes you to bump into him, face first.

“Ouch,” You whispered quietly, an awkward grimace appears on your features.

He lets out a small noise of surprise as he whips his head to you. His body is nearing closer as he brings his arms upwards. A whiff of pine tree and coconut scented soap circulates near you. Slender fingers delicately reach your bumped nose with an evident frown on his face. The full lashes on his face flutter rapidly in clear unsatisfaction.

He speaks out gravelly in an apologetic tone, “Please accept my apologies, I did not mean to hurt you.” His face scrunches up ashamedly.

“No, no! It’s okay, I was the one who bumped into you. I wasn’t watching. I was…um, distracted.” You rambled out clumsily.

You lift your own hands to his gently splayed fingers on your nose bridge. He diligently inspects the skin. An evident expression of displeasure sticks despite your words. His large frame overpowering yours as you take this moment to look closer at his eyes. One of his eyes seem slightly larger than the other, a faint shade of red swirls in it.

Before you could stop it, you mutter lowly, “Pretty.”

His fingers cease their inspecting motions, freezing under the touch of your fingers. His dark eyes widen comically large with a flush painting his cheeks and nose. A croak leaves your throat as you stare at him in shock. Your face burns deeply under his gaze. A knowing but shy smirk curls on his face. You drop your hands to your sides, fingers curling into your palms. He follows suit in an unhurried manner. Long sleeves swiftly fall to his torso as he turns back around. He lets out a shaky breath unheard by you. Fingers that held your nose delicately now twitched.

“The printers are located in this room here. I will be at the front desk if you require any assistance.” His voice deeply resonates out.

“Thank you…” You murmur.

He twists his head to face you one last time, letting his eyes fall over form. He intakes a sharp breath as he catches your eyes. There’s a strange but deep sense of affection in those doe-like eyes of his. You swallow a gulp before forcing yourself to part away from his heavy observation. He takes your reaction as his cue to leave, leaving you with a hesitant smile before rushing back to the front of the library. You stand motionless outside of the doors of the computer lab, watching the muscles of his back shift. A soft buzz brings you out of your frozen state. Your fingers reach into the tote bag slung over shoulder and pull out your phone. The notification was a set reminder to submit your essay on time.

You curse under your breath in annoyance. Twisting the handle of the door, you enter and instantly spot the large printer next to a row of computers. The door clicks shut behind you as you swiftly make your way to it. You draw out a nearby chair and slip your laptop out of the tote bag. Briskly typing in the login, you’re able to pull up your essay with no issue.

“Thank God for good Wi-Fi.” You mutter to yourself.

The printer whirrs and hums while processing the document. Letting out a stream of noise as it ejects the sheets of paper with freshly inked text. They’re warm on your fingertips when you carefully retrieve them. A pleased hum comes from you. After arranging them neatly in a folder, you stuff all your items back into your bag. You exhale dramatically in the quiet room. The recent interactions flash through your head. You let out an exaggerated groan but shake your head sideways as if to expel the thoughts. You press the power button on the side of your phone to briefly check the time. You weren’t sure when the library closed but you didn’t want to cause the cute guy, who helped you, to stay longer than needed. The phone slips back into the tote bag and you silently hype yourself up to interact once again with the unnamed pretty librarian on duty.

You exit the computer lab and start treading to the front desk. You see him sitting down reading the same novel as before but with a half-comfortable position. Almost as he was expecting to talk with someone soon.

You clear your throat before you speak, “How much per sheet? You ask.

He looks at you from under his dark eyelashes and grins sweetly, “It’s $0.15 per sheet.” He recalls with a hint of pridefulness at himself for remembering the detail.

“Okay! Here you go.” You reply cheerfully and hand him your student id.

He holds it meticulously and purses his lips as he reads it. His lips mouth your name in a quiet whisper.

“Hm. Pretty.” He mumbles.

You shift your weight on your feet in a flustered state. To play off normalcy, you continue pulling out your wallet and shuffle through your assortment of coins before you grab the ones needed. Your open palm is extended out towards him expectantly. His own scarred hand hovers over yours for a second. His eyes lock onto the passing touch of your skin as he picks up the coins with care. He counts them under his breath while he transports them from your palm to his. His gruff voice intimately low between the both of you. If you were reading too much into this, you would think he was dragging this exchange with purpose. A silly smile rests on his face as he finishes counting.

You let out a giggle at his expression, “Thank you…?” You pause, hoping to learn the name of this endearing man.

“Adam.” He responds with haste, the low rumble of his voice accompanying it.

He rubs the back of his neck as he huffs a chuckle. His chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he takes between the soothing action. You repeat his name back to him with a curl to your lip. He looks directly in line with your eyes and presents you with a toothy smile. A happy hum passes through his lips at the sound of your voice. He nods as to reassure you that that is his name, the one that so sweetly left your lips.

“Well, goodnight, Adam.” You say to him.

He hesitates before mimicking your farewell, “Goodbye.”

Your body moves away from the front desk before your mind does. Adam continues to stay upright as he watches you step out into the night. Scanning the form of your figure until you’re nothing more than a blob of colors hidden by the dark. He looks down to his hands and tenderly traces the skin of his palm. The same hand that was able to touch you for small but perfect moments. Thoughts of the sweet librarian consume your thoughts even as you reach your car. A hope blooms in your chest for the chance to see him again at a later date.

taglist: @hotnsexyprincess @oopsalltropes @yoncecosmic @jennathearcher @jarsofpluto @bug-and-such @vktrsmonster @for2buns @lxvejae @cervusofjudas @hollipolliyozza @storyyeller @uchihashisuii @mothmire @macaroni-stars

(comment below if you want to be added to the taglist! share any thoughts or feelings! my first long fic ever :3 )

#frankenstein 2025 #adam frankenstein #modern adam frankenstein #Tumblr literature

chaushaus

Tag - Your It: @zombrigit I wanna see Tavikka's @meeshrox thanks for the tag!

Nora Feyre aka Ailioinora Lathanyll Feyre from from Threadbare

More explanations below the pics

#nora feyre #noraverse #threadbare #baldur's gate 3 #fanfiction

bg3-npc

I think once Wyll manages to get rid of the 24/7 demon surveillance he's had since before adulthood, that man is READY to get his Freak™️ on.

Wyll has had years of solitude and endless trashy romance novels to inspire him. He has a master list of sex acts and kinks he wants to experience or explore. They're all annotated and ranked based on how much he thinks he'll be into them. Each is listed from "easiest to do once he's released from non consensual devil chastity" to "practically a quest in of itself to achieve".

Wyll has traveled Faerun and seen all the beings it has to offer. He's canonically a monster fucker. He has a matching journal for his chosen partner so they can go decide what they want to pursue as a couple. Wyll may be old fashioned when it comes to courting but NOT when it comes to the bedroom.

Wyll: "Before we pursue this endeavor the poets call romance, before we decide to write our names in the stars as a shared soul of two bodies, before I call you mine and me yours, I must first ask you peruse this Tome of Desires I have created."

*slams down an absolutely massive book with tabs and streams of ribbon spilling out of it from all sides*

Wyll: "If you would just fill out the accompanying Tome of 'Yes, No's, and Maybe's' our love will begin expeditiously."

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #wyll #wyll ravengard #wyll bg3

badwolf87sworld

thepickledmermaid

Is this what happens when Gale pisses off a sorcerer Tav? 🤣

o-lei-o-lai-o-lord

The opposite of “manic pixie dream girl” is “depressed goblin nightmare man,” and, judging by this site, it’s just as attractive to some.

yokelfelonking

People have known this for decades

cappurrccino

the fact that the end of All Systems Red implies that the entire thing is a letter from Murderbot to Mensah is so outrageously funny when you think about the fact that at some point after she realizes MB disappeared, she gets a gigantic letter from it that starts with "I could have mass murdered everybody, but I discovered TV first instead. Everybody say thank you, TV."

#the murderbot diaries #all systems red

ladymazzy

We should teach children about miscarriage during sex ed. Here’s why

A reported one in four pregnancies will end in miscarriage. Yet miscarriage, like abortion, is not included in most curricula

I feel this in my bones

Miscarriage and still births are still so taboo, which contributes to/exacerbates the feelings of isolation and despair which often follow. And it's not at all helped by the misinformation that's out there.

Some of the most unhelpful types of advice I frequently see involve versions of 'avoid stress', which, if you think about it for more than a minute is not only something of an empty platitude, but also makes no sense given the number of full-term babies born into extremely stressful conditions throughout human history

Properly understanding and talking about the potential vagaries of pregnancy might also go some way to challenging anti-abortion rhetoric, which tends to fetishise pregnancy (always at the expense of the pregnant person. And reality). It was quite apparent that some of them don't understand how pregnancy works when those US politicians started waffling about 're-implating foetuses' during in ectopic pregnancies... I dare say people like that have never heard of a molar pregnancy, for example.

Basically, we need to demystify pregnancy for everyone's sakes

certifiedsexed

Certified Sex Ed Post!

vaspider

Miscarriage is such a lonely, lonely thing, and people so often act like you deserved it. I think if people realized the percentage of pregnancies that end in miscarriage, that might, you know, stop.

wolfertinger666

I think poor people deserve to buy luxuries for themselves

wolfertinger666

poor people deserve to eat glorious yummy food and buy cool technology and games and do fun things

wolfertinger666

removing the option to buy snacks and sweets from people's food stamp budget money is inherently evil and devilish.

penny-anna

i think the reason why the assassination of Julius Caesar is one of the funniest political assassinations is for this very simple reason:

1 guy stabs 1 guy: not funny. that's murder.

2 guys stab 1 guy: even less funny. that's two against one.

60 guys stab 1 guy: uproariously funny. why do you need so many guys.

emmikay

60 guys only manage to stab the 1 guy 23 times: I can't fucking breathe I'm laughing too hard, you suck at this

szkot-pielgrzym

System Collapse, Martha Wells

I think this is the moment I completely fell in love with Iris - I mean, we already know her to be smart, and competent, and brave, and cool under pressure, and very believably ART's sister, but this. This is the passage that truly highlights her emotional depth and how much she loves ART.

And also, this is what made the concept of ART and other ships like it grounded in reality for me. Because, how do you make sure that an almost god-like machine intelligence with free will also has good will toward the humans it's surrounded by and has the power to annihilite on a whim? How do you prevent it from becoming the terryfying, murderous AI overlord we like to imagine when talking about non-organic intelligences?

And this is an answer I'm willing to buy - you love it. You don't just develop it in a lab, you give it a family. You give it loving parents, you make it someone's sibling, and you raise it, and let it grow and mature like you would a human child. You don't just value its utility, you cherish its personhood.

I just have a lot of feelings about ART and Iris's relationship, okay?

#the murderbot diaries #perihelion #Iris & perihelion #ART #Iris & Art

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