#snippet Sunday

[roguishcat]

Snippet Sunday

Thank you so much for tagging me @inkymoonbunny! Can't wait for the next chapter of 'Branded Blood'! 💖

I'm currently working on @the-lady-mienshao 's ask (Astarion finds one of fem! Reader’s books (romance about a human and vampire of course) and she’s terrified that he’ll think she’s with him to sate a vampire kink)

I'm very slow, but I do get things done!😊 (eventually), so this is going to be Part 2 of 'What books don't teach you' (18+ MNDI).

Shelves upon shelves of novels. The biggest and most impressive collection in all of Faerûn. You scoured Sharess' Caress, picked up copies during your travels, and traded with other enthusiasts. You collected the books with fervour others reserve for collecting priceless trinkets and hid these away from prying eyes in the basement of your house.

To say that Astarion was impressed would be an understatement.

"And how exactly are these arranged, my sweet? Knowing your penchant for keeping things in order, one might expect to find a system of sorts."

"Thematically, actually. Started out alphabetically, but then it got confusing once I got my hands on tomes in Elvish and other languages."

"Elvish, you say? I didn’t realise that you are a master of tongues."

"I'm not," you admitted readily, the innuendo going completely over your head. "But I love how beautiful they are. And I figured that wanting to read these might be motivation enough for me to learn."

Astarion hummed in appreciation and ran his fingers along the spines. The books were truly a work of art, fine leather and beautiful designs that winked playfully at you when you tilted your head even a little.

"Whilst this is very impressive, I don't understand why you were never tempted to try the real thing."

"Well," you cleared your throat and pretended that you were very busy going through the scrolls on the table, "maybe I was waiting for you. Waiting to be swept off my feet by a charming, dreamy elf."

"And I'm absolutely certain that I was worth the wait. But enough flowery words."

Astarion looked at you intently, making you fidget and drop a couple of scrolls. He didn't look away from your face. You being clumsy was not news to him. However, Astarion seemed to have great interest in your answer.

Although you confessed your feelings - not that it wasn't obvious to everyone who cared to look that you were completely in love with Astarion- actually talking about the said feelings was still difficult. But you didn't want to lie to him either. So, you chose to settle for something as close to the real reason as you were ready to tell him.

"I told you. I don't have that confidence that comes so easily to some. And I did try once, you know."

"Yes, with the man who was lacking in both skill and manners."

The look on Astarion's face became a touch softer. He put his cool hand on top yours, long digits strocking smooth, warm skin. The comforting gesture was sweet, his nearness welcome.

"Well, at the time I thought that I was the problem. And then I was lucky enough to have you teach me." You took a step towards him and tilted your head up. You very much wanted a kiss but did not know if now was the right time. In spite of you 'being well and truly taken', you still felt nervous about asking Astarion for affection.

Fortunately, he did not seem to notice you nervously chewing on your bottom lip as you tried to think of best way to put your wants into words.

"Oh? What's this?" Astarion moved past you and reached for a book. "Caught in the night?" He raised his eyebrows and then started reading the titles of all the books on that shelf. "Blood to remember? The Count's Courtesan? La petite mort? Darling, it seems that you've had a taste for creatures of the night before we met, hm?"

"Pardon?" You said dumbly.

"Well, my sweet. If I may be so bold, by my very rough estimation, you have at least thirty books with damsels of all shapes being kidnapped and devoured by vampires."

"Forty-two, actually."

"And that is why I feel it's safe to assume that you've got a type. Fangs? Crimson eyes? Eternal hunger that can only be sated in one way? And fortunately for yours truly, I just happen to fit that description."

No pressure tags💖 : @obsessedwhyyes, @rahuratna, @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @arzen9, @clazberryk, @khywren, @vixstarria, @hellethil, @nyx-knox, @pursuitseternal, @busy-baker, @deadly-diminuendo, @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate, @bloodinwine, @xxnashiraxx, @charmandabear, @anacdoce, @larvasmoon, @vividiana, @davenswitcher, @funniestbitchinfaerun, @verbenaa, @pinkberrytea, @dramatiquechipmunk, @nerdallwritey, @marlowethebard, @bardic-inspo, @forget-me-maybe, @whiskeyskin, @lanafofana, @fangbangerghoul, @rivereverie, @starlight-rogue, @bum-dragon, @alwaysmauria, @bhaal-battle-beer-bard, @dez78, @shandoratheexplorer, @ravenswritingroom

[albatris]

snippét sundáy

Diazepam, Olanzapine. Nat swallowed the tablets dry. They'd take twenty minutes or so to kick in, and then hopefully the sedative would be enough to knock him out. He couldn’t be hungry or dissociating if he was asleep. He curled up under his blankets again and waited.

Pain continued to sing in his core, ringing and bright. A new pain found his mouth, made his teeth ache. A third pain began to burn at his eyes. Nat groaned.

I should go back to the hospital, he thought. I should never have left. Something is wrong with me.

Breath heaved in his ears. That strange voice moved inside him as if in response to his thought, though it was less a voice and more a presence this time—something that leaned over him, pressed into him, wrapped around him as tightly as his blankets. Cradling him.

No ambulances. No cops. A fresh wave of anxiety stormed through him. His pulse stuttered. He couldn’t leave his apartment. No way. He was safe here. He was safe here.

He tried for hours to sleep. He did not sleep. Nat lay awake, knowing the world was rapidly darkening around him as afternoon sank into evening. The pain dogged him; the presence leaned over him.

Was he safe here? Was anywhere safe? He chewed on the thought and the inside of his cheek and tried not to notice the squirming, twisting feeling rising inside his gut. Is something alive in there?

[hawkeykirsah]

Forgot to share this snip of a Married-Before-MW19 Ghoap AU I'm working on for WIP Wednesday, so have it for Snippet Sunday instead.

“Think you need to have your eyes checked,” Simon said, voice dropping a few notes. It was almost a low, rumbling purr. “Gotta look inna mirror if ya want to see somethin’ handsome.” “Dinnae talk pish,” John mumbled, feeling heat rise in his face. He was sure he was blushing. Simon smirked, and John kind of wanted to kiss it off his face. “English, MacTavish.” “Ye can understand me jus’ fine, ye bawbag.” Simon hummed in agreement, an amused glint in his eyes. He met John’s gaze and parted his lips to let smoke curl lazily out of his mouth on the exhale, “Maybe I just like watching you blush, Johnny.” Johnny. John’s breath hitched. Nobody called him Johnny. Fucking nobody because he’d deck anyone that did for sure. And here he was, not only allowing Simon to call him that without reprimand but even liking it. It just…sounded right when he said it.

[tideswept]

sunday snippet

still working on the fluffy obikin au! not sure if I can finish it tonight, so figured a preview might be okay. ;]

Starring service dog Artoo being a menace, in a very inappropriate service dog ways.

---

Anakin let his shoulders slump against the seat and accepted that these days he was no longer part of the magic and the grit and the oil and the excitement. 

Lame.

“Excuse me. May I?”

Anakin instantly gripped Artoo’s vest with stiff prosthetic fingers. He glanced up.

The man standing in the aisle was—fuck. 

Yeah. That about sums it up, Anakin thought, resigned. He slouched further, vaguely self-aware in that biting way that sometimes hit him out of nowhere, that impostor syndrome existentialist despair.

Usually when he met an actual adult. Someone who had their shit together in the way he wished he did.

Like now.

“Sorry?” he said, rewinding the conversation. “Oh. Yeah. Go ahead.” He poked Artoo. “He’s not going to bite.”

The man smiled thinly in reply, a bit dubious. He was trim for his age, though Anakin wasn’t sure what that age was. Early forties? Mid-forties? There was a lot of gray interwoven through his beard and hair.

He wore a suit, a dark navy jacket folded neatly over one arm, revealing a simple white dress shirt underneath—rolled at the sleeves, cuffs sharp against forearms that strangely looked like they didn’t just come from a gym membership. 

“Wonderful to hear,” the man said, vaguely conspiratorial as he gestured to the aisle seat. “As I hadn’t come prepared for a siege. With your permission…”

The man promptly set down a bag, the sort that smelled nice, like leather—because it was leather—and cologne—

Ah. No, that was the man’s aftershave. Oaky and clean. Anakin wrapped a whole arm around Artoo, firmly caging him.

“Right,” he said. His voice cracked. Oh, fuck him sideways. “You woulda brought armor if you knew.”

Artoo growled. In Pom, that was armor will spare no one from my wrath.

He shifted the dog further into his lap. “Sorry, it’s his first time flying.”

The stranger settled in. “Fret not. I wasn’t any better on my first flight, and it was considerably less tolerable from me than it is from this fine fellow.” He flashed another smile, wider, highlighting the boyish gap between his teeth. 

[aconfusedkitten]

Snippet Sunday

In theory, it shouldn't be hard to find a power module that's compatible with Aventurine's systems.

There are hundreds, if not thousands of broken androids scattered across the city, and one of them is bound to have the right parts. Even if Aventurine is an older – or newer, really – model, he can't be the only one of his kind. Statistically speaking, that would be highly unlikely.

Or at least, that's what Veritas keeps telling himself.

In reality, he's never met an android like Aventurine before. In reality, Veritas has never met anyone so utterly human before.

Because how else is he supposed to describe him?

“Where to find another power module,” Veritas mumbles absently.

His eyes flicker around his makeshift workshop. Parts scattered across every available space, two cots set up in the corner – topped with their cloaks instead of a blanket, but that was a luxury he couldn't afford – and scarce, battered walls that would hopefully keep them safe for as long as they stayed here.

No matter what precautions Veritas takes, it will never be safe to leave Aventurine here alone.

Not when he still hasn't woken up. Not when there's still a goddamn hole where his eye should be. Not when his body – his lively, always moving body – is limp in Veritas’ arms, never responding when Veritas tries to fix his circuits, and-

Not when the world still wants Aventurine dead for doing nothing at all.

[smoosey]

Snippet Sunday

Fussing around in the Hanahaki fic this weekend:

The next morning, Cody wakes with a petal on his pillow. It's small and soft and orange-gold, and barely larger than his thumbnail. But in the gray sterility of the barracks, the cramped solitude of his officer quarters, it's out of place. It's unmistakable. He stares at it, his body rattling to the beat of his heart like he's under the thunder of canonfire. With shaking hands, he tucks it into the collar of his blacks, and holds himself empty inside, and doesn't think of it, won't think of what it means — what it's meant, what it will mean, the blood on the mats, or the blank and strange manner of the reconditioned, the resected. He holds himself empty, shakes out his hands until they settle, and forgets.

Absolutely no pressure tags to @raphaerolo @aquaticflames @picktheonesthatlast @eightbitpale @frostbitebakery @snowywinterevenings (if you feel like it!) and also to anyone else who'd like to play :) I would love to see what everyone is working on!

[obsessedwhyyes]

Snippet Sunday

EDIT: The first chapter can be found here!

I've been tagged by some incredibly gorgeous, lovely people this week! Thank you to @khywren, @nyx-knox, @larvasmoon, @yennefer-of-vengerbergs, and @amoremagnificentbastard (both for the tags and for some especially juicy snippets 👀👀)

OKAY SO, I may or may not have a secret WIP in the works and... It's Bloodweave. I'm finally braving Bloodweave waters. I've got two chapters written (both in first person from Gale and Astarion's POVs), so I'm gonna tease the premise in the goofiest way I can by giving you the very start of both their chapters!

Firstly, the start of Gale's...

Aaand, Astarion's...

You get the idea 😂

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat @busy-baker @pinkberrytea, @honeybee-bard, @davenswitcher , @deadly-diminuendo , @pickel182, @lady-vincent, @caffeinatedmunchkin, @verbenaa, @xxnashiraxx, @rahuratna

[tracle0]

hey writerblr

Snippet Sunday? Is that anything? Post a snippet on a nice Sunday and maybe pick out a few - say, three or five - other snippets from others to comment something nice on? Could be cool and groovy? Oughhh you want to do this so bad

[heylittleriotact]

snippet sunday (but monday, because it's a holiday)

Still plugging away at the next chapter of i heard people are dying to get in here. Hoping to have it ready this week. But here's an appetizer in the mean time.

Sorry I've been so quiet/inactive lately. Super busy with work/life/etc. I miss you guyyyyys <3

The hours ticked away filled with delicious drinks, festive music, and a sumptuous cheese fondue shared at the table in the breakfast nook. Emmrich had wanted to set the sprawling ebony dining room table for their dinner due to the holiday, but Rook insisted on the smaller one: it was more intimate - simpler… the way she liked it.  

The name of the game on Wintersend was killing time with your loved ones until midnight, or more precisely - the middle of the longest night of the year. The darkest hour. The blackest day. But on the other side of that twelfth chime was change: the infinitesimal tilt in the planetary axis towards a day that would not be so dark, and a sunrise that would appear only a few seconds earlier than the last, over and over again until the pendulum swung the other way and there was more light than darkness in a day.  

A cyclical reminder - held dear by Nevarrans - that harkened to their deeply rooted appreciation for the order of things: life and death; the changing of the seasons; and the sanctity of the Great Mysteries beyond their knowledge or control.

The stroke of midnight also meant gifts - it was considered bad luck to exchange them any earlier in the day.

Try telling that to a five-year-old who’d spent the entire day getting utterly wired on sugar and anticipation - Rook remembered being small and chomping at the bit before she could even tell time.  

“Soon?” She’d ask her Dad from her cross-legged vigil in front of the digital clock on the VHS player in their living room.

“You asked me that thirty-seconds ago,” he’d laughed. “The number hasn’t even changed. It’s still 10:21.”

Things were quite a bit different for a twenty-five year-old who was desperately in love and well into the third bottle of wine that had been opened and shared that night.

She was oblivious to the clock on the wall behind her that read 12:07 as she straddled the skinny hips of the man who’d opened and poured the wine, making out with him like their lives depended on it, their most recent hand of Wicked Grace forgotten on the table behind her.

Emmrich was fucking garbage at cards.

The least she could do to take the sting away from his fourth consecutive loss was give him a kiss - he was so graceful in defeat… and everything else.

She whined against his lips, both her hands woven in his hair, kissing him ardently as he clutched the table with one hand to keep the chair they both occupied from tipping backwards due to her enthusiasm.

He just looked so sad...

How could she not plant herself on his lap and lick the frown off his face?

She coaxed a muffled and rather surprised grunt from him when she rolled her hips against his. His fingers tightened on her ass and he flinched slightly, jolting the table and causing the Bordeaux in their glasses to sway.

He seemed to summon the willpower required to pull away from her at last, and looked up at her, head tipped back enough that his lips were out of her reach.

“Don't you want to open your gift, my dear?”

When he looked at her like that - down his nose with half-lidded eyes… a bit smarmy… no. No she didn’t.

“This gift?” She purred, hand resting over his semi-hard cock.

His head tipped forward, and a few strands of hair that Rook had disheveled slipped over his brow. “As deeply flattering as it is to know that I’m all you wanted for Wintersend, I did think to buy you something that falls outside the definitions of carnality.”

“Shame - I was gonna give you sex for Wintersend: a hard, sloppy fuckin’.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. He pinched her side and her foot jerked up so hard it hit the bottom of the table. “Ah! Fuck! Asshole.”

Emmrich reached past her to steady a wobbling wine glass. “Careful, darling. Wouldn’t want to make a mess, now would we?”

“‘Wouldn’t want to make a mess’,” Rook parroted, doing a ridiculous imitation of Emmrich’s voice, letting out a clipped yelp when he dug his fingers into her side again, taking full advantage of the exact spot he knew was incredibly ticklish.

“Keep that up and I’m not giving you your present at all!” She panted.

“Ohhhh - so you did get me a gift?” Teeth flashing as he went to tickle her again and she batted his hands away.

“Well… I got one for Manfred. He’s been such a good boy, you see.”

His hand stilled. “Did you really?” 

“Of course I did. Can you imagine being subjected to those sad green eyes while he longingly watches us open our gifts? I can be bitchy, but I’m not mean.”

“Rook…” a sappy smile pulled at his lips. “That’s incredibly heartfelt of you. You didn’t have to.” 

“Don’t thank me till you see what it is."

"Oh dear."

"Don't worry - it's nothing too dangerous." She slid off his lap and straightened, grooming some of his hair back into place simply to enjoy the softness of it again. "I'll go get it... and I suppose the thing I got for you too..."

[jinnybinghamsghost]

anyway here's a very very short snippet for snippet sunday for a body horror short story i'm writing inspired by every interaction with a doctor i've ever had

[elvensorceress]

sunday snippet

I meant to have this fic done ages ago but it's now somehow three times as long as it was, I've rewritten it five times, and I'm still working on it 🫠 oh well. have a snippet from snickerdoodles.

@tizniz @hippolotamus @eddiebabygirldiaz @daffi-990 @exhuastedpigeon @spotsandsocks @kejfeblintz @smilingbuckley @sofa-king-lame @chaosandwolves @smilingbuckley @belasmalhotra @bekkachaos @blutterlie @sazanahashi @livinginsunnyhell @epicbuddieficrecs @sparklespiff @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @dangerpronebuddie continued from Wednesday

Eddie tries again, but still sounds rough and hollowed out. “I don’t want to drag you down. Okay? You should move on and forget me and— and it’ll be better.”

Not so much for Eddie. He’s never let go of anything in his life. It’s all there hiding under the surface, stuffed in cages. But Buck should move on. Buck should survive him. 

Is this their only future? It feels like losing everything. Eddie is losing everything. He’s kidding himself if he thinks he hasn’t already lost Chris. What if Eddie doesn’t survive this time? What will happen to everyone he loves? Everyone who loves him?

Does anyone love him? Does he mean anything to anyone? Has he ever meant anything?

“Forget— I should forget you?” Buck snaps, his anger un-contained fire now, not just a hint of smoldering kindling. Vicious, spitting, sparking, living flames that will turn everything to ashes. 

Maybe they should actually fight and say awful things and then it would be easier to walk away. 

Eddie’s not sure he could even manage that right now. There’s nothing left in him. No fight, no fire. It’s all shattered, scattered pieces. But he would try. If Buck needs that. 

He might need that. He snaps again, “Like you’re a pair of socks that disappeared in the laundry? Or something I meant to pick up at the store and spaced? Like it’s easy? Like you’re nothing? Like this? Us? You and me? Means nothing?”

Okay, when he puts it that way… it sounds dumb. But how else can Eddie stop hurting him? “No,” Eddie says. Not fiery, not loud, not anything. “No. Just. Something that doesn’t—”

“You're my best friend. You— you’re— I’ll let you go. Okay. Whatever. I’ll do that because I know you and I know you need Chris and I get it. I wouldn’t want you to do anything but love him exactly the way you do. But I won’t, will not and can not pretend that you aren’t my best friend and my partner and the person I love more than anything. All right? I’m not going to do that. I’ve spend years—literal— almost a whole decade of years loving you more than anything. I’m not going to just forget that or forget you. I’m not throwing that way. I’m not ever going to lie and say otherwise. This is not a ‘move on and grow out of it’ scenario. I love you more than anything in the world. Okay? You told me I wasn’t expendable and I had to deal with that so you have to deal with this. You mean everything to me and I love you, and that isn’t going to change even when you leave.”

“—hurt you,” Eddie finishes. It doesn’t really sound finished now. He says it because he was already saying it. 

But that the fuck does he say now? 

Eddie doesn’t usually think of himself as small, quiet, or fragile. But he feels like that now. His feeble words sound like it even in his own ears. Small. Inconsequential. Torn apart.

Buck steps back toward him. Not enough that they’re touching, but enough that they’re closer. “Hurt me. Drag me down. I don’t care.”

Eddie recoils. No. No, he hates that idea. He is not doing that. Not intentionally. Not. What the fuck. 

He knows he said the words. He said them because his mother said them and they stuck and haven’t left his head or his heart and it’s all he does. Ruin people he loves. 

Buck shakes his head. “Be in the way. Burden me. Share whatever weight you’re carrying. Be something that stays even if you’re not here. Be part of my life even if it hurts. I don’t care if it hurts, I need you to be something to me. Having nothing of you would be a hundred, thousand, million times worse. I am in this with you. I always have been. Don’t shut me out just to spare me. If you’re facing the fire, I want to be right there with you. Please don’t make me lose everything of you. Please don’t— please. Don’t pretend this is nothing. I can take you leaving, I can’t take this,” he motions between them, “meaning nothing.”

Eddie stares and doesn’t move. And stares harder like it will help him understand. 

He knows he’s breathing still because there’s air. 

Maybe he’s not breathing. But something is making air flow in and out of his body. Like rescue breaths? Supplemental oxygen? It’s not Eddie doing it, he’s not taking in air, but it happens anyway. 

He doesn’t understand. Maybe he never has. Maybe his brain stopped processing information when he stopped breathing because the brain can’t function without oxygen. Something like that. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t. 

Buck wants something of him even after everything? After all the people who have walked out on him and treated him like he doesn’t matter? Even with how Eddie fails and hurts people who care about him? He means something to Buck? Even though he’s hurting him and abandoning him and losing him? Eddie’s just another person who leaves him. He can’t hurt Buck. He can’t keep doing it. Buck doesn’t deserve this. And Eddie deserves no loyalty, no forgiveness. 

He doesn’t deserve anyone’s love. Not in any form. He shouldn’t have it. He’s never had it. 

“I don’t—” Eddie tries to say. He has to say. He has to make the words come out. “I don’t want to hurt you the way Abby hurt you. I don’t want to do that.” 

Buck shakes his head again and starts to say something.

Eddie beats him to it. “I know it’s not the same. I know I’m not— I know you don’t— It’s different. Still. I know how she hurt you, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t know how to not do that. I’m leaving you here. In my house. Just like she did when she left you. And I have to—” Do the same fucking thing? Give him up? Walk away? Destroy everything they made together? And maybe the only way to survive is to do what Eddie does best and ruin everything? 

He looks back at Buck and doesn’t mean to say it. He wasn’t going to say anything. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He should be mean and nasty and he should tell Buck he means nothing, this means nothing, and then Buck can just be justifiably angry and hate Eddie properly. 

And it would spare him. Whatever pain and tragedy that is associated with being near Eddie. It would spare Buck. 

That’s what he should do. 

That would be mercy and kindness. Pick up the weapon and blow this all to hell. 

Eddie can’t breathe. He can’t do this. Any of it. 

He can’t let go. He can’t lose Buck. 

And then he’s suddenly confessing, “I don’t want to do this."

It’s too late. It’s always too late. And what he actually wants has never mattered. He doesn’t matter. He never has. He twists his hands together and has nothing else to hold onto. It’s too late, so none of this matters. Eddie doesn’t matter. But he meets Buck’s lost gaze, stares into his eyes for three seconds, and he can’t keep it in.

“I want to be with Chris. I miss him so much. Every minute of every day. But I don't want to leave here. I don't want this. But it doesn't matter what I want. It never has. The one time I said, 'What about me? Why didn't you think of me?' Chris left. He left because I hurt him. And my dad says, ‘don’t wait thirty years to listen to your son.’ So I listen. I don’t know what the hell else to do. I listen, and I do what all of them ask. Even when it’s the last thing I want and I’ve already said, no, please stop, I need more time, please hear me. They don’t listen to me. I’m still nothing to every single one of them. And I just keep thinking why don’t I ever count? Why don’t I matter even a little bit?

"You think you aren't everything to me, too? Do you think that I don't love you just as much as you love me? But I don’t get to pick you. I don’t get to have anything of you. I hurt everyone I try to love including you and Chris. I’m not enough for anyone, in any way. I can’t love anyone the way they need or the way I’m supposed to. You say you’re defective parts, well I’m fucking broken.

"That’s why you should forget me. I don’t matter. You shouldn’t care. I should mean nothing because I am nothing. I’m not worth this. If I were a better, stronger person, I’d make you hate me. But I can’t even do that. I don’t want to hurt you more. I have to lose you and I don’t know how to lose you. I love you more than anything and it’s not enough. I don’t know what else to do but say, you should move on and forget me.”

Eddie turns away and covers his face, tries to hold his head because it’s aching. It’s too much. That was too much. He’s not supposed to be falling apart. Everything is supposed to be getting better. 

Shards of ice crack and fracture and break underneath him. Everything in the cage around his ribs snaps and he’s crying into his hands, trying to keep it together. Trying and failing. Always failing. His face is already wet. He was already broken. A long time ago. So many times. 

Buck is suddenly behind him. Not distant. Close behind him. He touches Eddie’s back gently and then steps around until he’s standing in front of him. He reaches between them and rests his hand on Eddie’s chest. As if he can stop the never-ending bleeding that’s somehow always pouring from Eddie’s heart. “You are enough, Eddie. You’re more than enough."

[roguishcat]

Snippet Sunday

Thank you for tagging me @arzen9, @verbenaa, @feedthepheasants, @clazberryk and @xxnashiraxx! 💖💖

Here is my contribution, a snippet from 'Part of his plan' Part 2.

Astarion lowered Tav onto the bedroll, one hand behind her head, the other on her hip. Slowly, taking his time to savour the softness of her skin, he trailed his fingers up. The fabric of her shirt bunched as his hand traced the contours of her body and settled just below her breast.

“Are you sure?” He felt warm breath against his lips as they broke apart.

Instead of replying, Astarion put his mouth on Tav’s neck, fangs grazing sensitive flesh, her heartbeat strong in his ears.

He would tell her everything. And he would tell her soon. Because the thought of him being in any way like that vile male who dared to use her and scar her, to put that dejected look on her face, was something that Astarion could not bear.

His movements grew more frantic as he removed the last of the barriers between their bodies, wanting, needing to do enough that she would stay.

Because whilst he didn’t want to examine his feelings for Tav too much, not daring to hope for anything, he was terrified of what the consequences of his deception would be. 

No pressure tags: @bardic-inspo, @obsessedwhyyes, @busy-baker, @cinnamontails-ff, @larvasmoon, @anacdoce, @vividiana, @obsessedwhyyes, @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @lanafofana, @caffeinatedmunchkin, @silent-words, @waterdeep-weavemoss, @ladyduellist, @coyote-mint, @funniestbitchinfaerun, @inkymoonbunny, @khywren, @kalmiaphlox

[albatris]

snappet sonday

hehehehehehe

“Can I help you?” one of the receptionists asked him.

Nat hopped forward.

“I am unwell,” he announced, “in so, so many ways. I need a medical certificate so I don’t have to go to work.”

“Alright,” the receptionist said, and handed him a clipboard with a form. “Fill this out and bring it to us when you’re done, okay?”

Nat took the clipboard and found a seat in the corner of the room. He pulled the front of his hoodie up over his mouth and nose with one hand, breathing through it. He filled in his details with his other hand, shaking.

At the bottom of the form, he was asked to give a brief description of what had brought him in today. He hesitated, then wrote.

Muscle pain. Stomach pain. Blurred vision. Sensory overload. Excessive hunger. Skin irritation. Blackouts.

He returned to the desk. He returned to his seat.

He waited.

He waited.

He waited.

He tapped his foot. He scratched his hands. He scratched his face. He ground his teeth. Pain. Hunger. Pain. Hunger. Someone brushed his arm as they sat down next to him and the touch crackled against his aching skin like an electric charge. Someone cleared their throat. Someone coughed. Nat wrapped his arms around his head and covered his ears. Pain. Hunger. Pain. Hunger.

Panic closed a tight fist around his throat. Tears burned at his eyes. Nat rocked back and forth, trying to calm himself. This room was too small, too stuffy. This room was going to smother him. Were the walls getting closer together?

Get out, get out, get out, GET OUT.

He’d just—step outside for a minute. He needed air. Fresh air. He’d tell the receptionists. Call me inside when you’re ready for me, please. I’m having a panic attack. He stood too fast, his vision dipping into black for a moment. He managed a single, staggering step towards the desk.

And the carpet met his face. Nat was on the ground, on his knees, his head pressed to the floor. He tipped sideways, agony spasming through him, his muscles twitching and uncooperative. He slipped dangerously close to unconsciousness, but didn’t pass the threshold. 

Motion swarmed around him. Faces. People. Sweet scent. Voices. He thought he could hear the reception staff shouting at people to clear off. No one was clearing off.

Pain advanced through his jaw and something cracked. He ran his tongue along his teeth, and found one of them out of place. Pushed aside. His hands flexed involuntarily. His nails ached. There were so many people all around him. Soft. Weak. Close. Comprised of blood and meat and flesh. All so unsuspecting and all smelling so good.

Fight.

“Don’t touch me,” Nat hissed out. “Get away!”

[deadly-diminuendo]

Snippet Sunday

Thank you so much for the tag, @bardic-inspo! 🥰

I've been slowly trudging along in my quest to complete A Fitting Reunion (I PROMISE IT WILL BE DONE EVENTUALLY), but today I spent a bit of time working on one of my other projects:

Really, it could be any manner of monster or miscreant lurking at your balcony door. But, if this night is like so many that have come before, you suspect your nocturnal visitor is the vampiric kind. You step carefully to the door, poker held high in hand (just in case of course), peeking around the curtain—and, through the glass pane, you spy a familiar toothy grin. Astarion. His hair is wind-swept, and he is covered in snow, and yet somehow you still feel like you are the one outside looking in on him. Sighing, you push the curtain aside and unlock the door, pulling it open. "Please, my fair maiden," he begins, pouring all his charm into this little act of his. "Would a pure, kind soul such as yourself take pity on a poor, starving man and let me in? The night is bitingly cold."

No pressure tags: @saucy-scribbler, @xxnashiraxx, @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @anacdoce, @eraserspiral, @obsessedwhyyes, @kalmiaphlox, @meeshrox, @pinkberrytea, @nerdallwritey, @hellethil + anyone else who would like to share something! ❤️

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Sunday Snippet

Tagged by @vspin to share some WIP snippets. Let's go!

[WIP - One-Shot from a "First Time" ask] Emperor damn him for even thinking the question, but how the hell was he supposed to leave her? When his summons from the Lord Inquisitor came, how was he supposed to let her go knowing he’d never hold her again? The mere thought of it caused a cold ache to wrench tightly in his chest, and Heinrix’s arms reflexively tensed around Visenya – careful not to wake her, yet needing the reassurance of her body flush against his. He pressed his face into her hair, the comforting smell of her reminding him of sunlight and wildflowers from that day on Janus when she’d stared awestruck at the first forested world she’d ever seen. Eyes bright. Beautiful. Heinrix closed his eyes, as if the act of doing so could hide them from the world beyond their shared bed. He knew it was shameful to want such things, and yet he still did. There was a part of him – a small, selfish, terrified piece he was disgusted with himself to even acknowledge – that hoped he might die before he was forced to leave Visenya’s side. He’d already experienced the grief that followed heart-rending loss, and he’d barely managed to put himself back together in the aftermath. He honestly didn’t know if he could survive being ripped asunder a second time.

[WIP - Mongrel Hearts, Chapter 17] In her absence, Heinrix’s thoughts had lingered on Visenya more than he’d like to admit. He’d find himself walking the ship’s corridors late into the night, avoiding his restless sleep under the guise of keeping a watchful eye on the activities of the protectorate. Where his mind used to busy itself with speculation over current Imperium events, or theorizing about how best to achieve mission objectives, Heinrix now caught himself preoccupied with musings about the Lord Captain. Whether she too wandered the corridors in these silent hours, as she was sometimes known to do. If she did, he never ran across her. And so Heinrix did his duty. He wrote his reports, checked in with his agents, followed up on various investigative tasks and requests – including an encrypted enquiry for more details related to the Port World of Rallion and its military and security records. The strange corpse found on the lower decks remained unidentified, and getting any information from the Calixis Sector through the Maw was going to take considerable time – if communications made it through, at all.

Gently tagging @plethomacademia @lilac-lich @icasticonoclast @amasec @avas-poltergeist @eregar @lamortwrites @chronurgy @lizziemajestic @cawyden-gaming and anyone else who wants to share!

[xxnashiraxx]

Snippet Sunday 🩸

I have been so busy these past couple of weeks and have not had a chance to post on a Wednesday, but making up for that today!

Thank you for all the tags over this past week, guys! Especially to @obsessedwhyyes @vividiana (I SAW YOU POST YOUR FIC, I'M ON THAT) @deadly-diminuendo @heylittleriotact @andromedaancunin @emmg -I hope I got everyone! 🖤

Here is a little snippet from Chapter 18 of With Stars to Fill My Dream! I'm a few words shy of 10k and I'm still not done 😬 Very close though! I still intend to post the chapter this coming Saturday, so I'm just juggling the ending since it was supposed to cut off at a certain event, but if I add that this chapter may turn into 15k and I don't think anyone needs a 15k chapter lol, so 19 will have my big cool secret that I'm excited to write!

Anyway! Here is just a bit from the creche! 🖤

A bump to her back shakes her out of the rapid devouring of self-hatred spreading into every cell in her body, stumbling and almost collapsing onto the ground below. “Watch it,” Astarion hisses, pressing up more firmly against her once her knees steady. “What are you-” “Draw your blade, we’re being surrounded.” “What blade? I have a goddamn knife, in case you haven’t noticed,” “It’ll be close combat soon enough,” He bites back bitterly. With cruel acknowledgement, she realizes he’s right, and she holds her dagger defensively, the feel of Astarion mimicking her stance as they lean on each other for support sending waves of confidence and dizzying uncertainty sparking through her veins. The pair of them really aren’t suited to this kind of punishing rhythm- the dance they weave teetering in and out of their favor with each blow and evasion. Constantly shuffling feet, ducking, and bending lend a kind of bizarre grace to each cohesive attack. He stabs, she parries. He parries, she stabs. A month ago, she’d been shaking in her boots at the prospect of some stranger following her through a dimly lit alley or confronting her for money. Now? She’s slashing her dagger and catching a chunk of githyanki ear in the cheek, sputtering and spitting the metallic liquid from her mouth onto the ground below. “Here, you need something,” Ofelia tosses over her shoulder, knowing he’ll hear her over the loud grunts of a woman who constantly swings her spear- as if she’d be lucky enough to land a successful hit on their cunning rogue. Ofelia presses the hilt of her dagger between gritted teeth before deftly swinging her lute to the front. It takes her but a moment to recall the spell, and the blink of an eye to choose something appropriate. Whether by her estimations or the surrounding enemies, she isn’t sure. Quick digits splay over the neck of the instrument with a prowess stemming from years of habitual repetition. The tune she defaults to when lost in thought—its weeping melody and slapping of skin to wood—floods her brain with familiarity. Like an old friend, it caresses her ears with a comfort long and lost. Emboldened by the teal magic that sinks into his pale skin, Astarion makes short work of the soldier before him with only the loud tearing of sinew and tissue being ripped from bone to indicate her termination. Ofelia turns to him, blood covering his face to paint his gaunt features in a shadowy mockery of the one she knows best. Polluting her thoughts of him, he does nothing but stare. If she’d been of clearer mind she would have paid more attention to the Inquisitor out of his periphery, elbows thrust backward as he lines his blade up with Astarion’s abdomen. “No!” She juts her hip out to knock him off balance, lute lowered in a measly attempt to block the blow. Aged wood and rusting strings do not, a proper shield, make.

If you're wondering what Ofelia strummed, yes it's the guitar solo from Bulls in the Bronx 🤙🏻

No pressure tags for my lovelies! 💗 @pinkberrytea @khywren @caffeinatedmunchkin @bby-bel-art @nerdallwritey @verbenaa @inkymoonbunny @elinorbard @badbloodwitch @justabiteofspite @bloodinwine @ladyduellist @preciouslittlebhaalbae @lanafofana @bardic-inspo @busy-baker @marlowethebard @alwaysmauria