#Snippet Saturday

[preet-01]

I wasn’t going to post this snippet until Saturday, but it’s been a very shitty day so I’m trying to find joy in the little things that I can control and won’t catastrophically destroy my life

Here is a snippet from the first draft of a current wip that has drastically changed since I started it a few weeks ago. While none of this will be in the final fic, I did like this snippet a lot.

The actual wip now focuses on hopeless romantic, model Daniel over the course of 15 years as he continually gets his heart broken by multiple formula one drivers until he finally finds the one who loves him just as much he loves them. All of this began from the line: some Australian model that Seb’s been fucking

Max remembers the first time he saw Daniel.

He hadn’t been in Formula One then, no, he’d been in Formula Three battling his demons (a shitty car) and Esteban Ocon (another demon if he was honest). Red Bull and Mercedes had both been courting him — there really wasn’t a better way to say it. Mercedes was dominating that year and Red Bull was on the back foot after dominating for so long. One would think that his best option was Mercedes, but his dad and manager didn’t seem to think so.

Mercedes already had two strong drivers — a world champion and the man who’d beaten his Uncle Michael. A strong and not old line up meant that Max wouldn’t be the first choice. Not for them, they’d put him in F2 and have him fumble around in the Williams for years until either Lewis Hamilton or Nico Rosberg left or retired. Red Bull, however, had a seat for him for the coming year. Not in F2, but in F1. Red Bull had a junior team — Toro Rosso — with a seat that could be his if he (his dad and manager) picked them. And unlike Mercedes, the main team line up gave him room for promotion because everyone knew Red Bull’s champion, Uncle Michael’s protégé, would eventually go knocking on Ferrari’s door. As for the 2nd seat, the Frenchman currently occupying it wasn’t someone the team expected to win championships with.

The first time Max sees Daniel is in 2014 as he tests with Toro Rosso in a young driver session in Suzuka. He’d seen Daniel in the Red Bull garage nodding along to something Sebastian Vettel had been saying to him.

“Some Australian model that Seb’s been fucking,” one of the mechanics had told him when Max asked who Daniel was.

From there on, Max continued to see Daniel around the paddock. Always on the arm of Sebastian Vettel and hopelessly in love with him despite the number of others that Sebastian paraded around when Daniel wasn’t present.

[khywren]

Snippet Saturday

thanks so much to @xxnashiraxx, @hellethil, @nerdallwritey, @roguishcat, and @obsessedwhyyes for tagging me this week and sharing some truly amazing work!

i've got a spicy little NSFW preview for you all this week from my upcoming one/two/whatever-shot, which still has no name but if you've seen most of my other recent WIPs you know what this one is from. 😅

no-pressure tags: @kalmiaphlox, @busy-baker, @vividiana, @verbenaa, @ladyduellist, @nyx-knox, @bloodinwine

[meyerlansky]

tagged for snippet saturday by @erythriina, thank you so much! 🖤🖤🖤 here's some of the earlier-mentioned 1100 of smut—lead-up to some body worship stuff:

“You callin’ me a liar?” Curt says, voice sharp. Bucky’s whole body jerks, snapping to attention at the tone, ‘cause Curt doesn't pull it out much. Except for when Bucky’s being a brat. And they both know where that ends up. “C’mere,” Curt adds, only a little less sharp. Not a question. He watches Bucky shift his weight—probably deciding whether he’s gonna argue some more or if he’s ready for whatever Curt’s gonna give him—and then Bucky does it, stops with his knees against the mattress. Curt jerks his chin at him, says, “Sit.” Bucky sits, perches on the edge of the bed. Curt reaches out, hooks his fingers in Bucky’s belt loops, pulls him in. Bucky doesn't fight it, just lets Curt arrange him how he wants in his lap, breathing slow and deliberate. He’s half hard in his slacks, just from gettin’ bossed a bit, and the way that's all it takes hasn't stopped driving Curt crazy, but he ignores it for now. Instead he slides his hands up Bucky’s thighs, drags his thumbs along his inseam and listens to his breath shiver. “Hands on the headboard.”

they're having fun 🥰

alright let's get a wide fandom spread on this one: @goatsandgangsters @platoapproved @inkpot-demigod @sweaterkittensahoy @stoportotouch @corrosivesaints @samuelroukin @redbelles and anyone reading this who wants to share something 🖤

[wickedsmille]

snippet saturday

I got tagged by @takemetomyfragiledreams for a Snippet Saturday! (I love getting tagged in these things. You spoil me so good. 🖤) And I did a thing. Like a continuation of my jaytim one-shot monster mash kind of thing. And what's under the cut is probably more than a snippet but, hey, short and concise just ain't my thing and I've made my peace with that. That being said, enjoy this heap of dragon!Tim riding in to save his damsel familiar demon!Jason. (I didn't edit nuffin' so beware, probably typos afoot.)

Idk who to tag 🥲 So, if you're reading this, I tag you. No take backsies.

-

Most people wear their glamors whenever they’re out in public. The mixing of humans, creatures, humanoids and all those in-between has come a long way. It’s harmonious, almost. Not everywhere, not all the time. Crime against creatures and hybrids is higher still than humans and those creatures human enough to pass for normal. So whether out of fear or consideration or conformity, glamoring is as prevalent as it has always been.

For Robin, for Tim, that is doubly true. 

Dick and Jason were witches. It didn’t matter for them. The ethereal, glowing eyes of a witch in their half and full forms are hidden by the dominos. For all anyone else could tell, Robin was something but no one could ever pin down exactly what. There’s too many magical beings now openly living shoulder to shoulder with humans for it to matter. Too much magic freely floating through the air to definitively pick out a specific thread and follow it from the vigilante to the person behind the mask. Being witches allowed them the freedom to fully spread their wings without fear of giving away their identities whether they were Robin or Dick or Jason. 

Bruce has the world convinced Brucie is a bumbling idiot of a human while Batman is very obviously more but there’s enough creatures out there like daevas to muddy the waters. 

Of course, Tim’s parents wanted a flashy hybrid to parade around the balls and galas they bothered to attend when they were in Gotham. A new treasure his father could point to and boast about, proof of his mother’s superiority over the other children of the elite. They’d hoped he’d even get the unique ability to function without a familiar afforded to creature and humanoid hybrids. Rarely, the tempering magic of a humanoid would be enough to balance and tame the raw, electric power of creature magic. Then there’s no need to balance the scales through unnecessary attachments. 

Tim visited enough doctors as a kid, paid enough to keep their mouths shut to do procedures typically only done after seventeen at the limit of when bonds form, for his parents to come to the early conclusion Tim wouldn’t be one of the lucky hybrids. They got their trophy to stuff into stiff suits and march across marble floors but their disappointment in the knowledge Tim wouldn’t be able to function independently was a weighted, palpable thing. 

It’s always been customary for the wealthy to hide their true forms but, after that, they gave him a talisman to wear to events on top of his own glamors.

Becoming Robin and having Bruce harshly demand he always keep his glamors up wasn’t jarring because he’d already grown used to it. The magic started to itch if left too long. Sometimes Tim would forget to remove them even at home despite the cold, empty rooms being his only company. Sacrificing the truth of himself for Robin wasn’t a hardship. Nowadays, it’s second nature. He hardly even remembers what he looks like in his half and full forms. But he does know a half dragon, half elf is too conspicuous to ever be seen as Robin. It would be all too easy to connect the dots between such a rare hybrid and Tim Drake. 

Even just the thought of breaking his glamors, in public no less, is enough to make his heart race and his palms sweat but his bond is screaming familiar in danger over and over again as pain dances along every nerve. Tim can’t see any other way to neatly wrap up the mess Jason has created. From his vantage point perched on a billboard across the street from a nondescript warehouse on the southside of the docks, Tim counts at least fifty heavily armed mercenaries and one Red Hood.

Jason is powerful. Incredibly so, but everyone has their limits. The relative stability of Tim’s fused magics, his more prominent elven blood making the powerhouse magic of his dragon side more docile, compared to the volatile churning of Jason’s does come with the perk of not needing contact with his familiar as often. Which is all the better since Jason has made himself scarce since their last meeting. He’s posited that Jason likely doesn’t enjoy the same benefit given the incendiary nature of his magic, where the demon side reigns supreme and feeds, feeds, feeds off the magic of the witch. 

He can’t imagine what state Jason is in. Tim had already drafted a plan to hunt Jason down again for his own damn good. 

Now he’s being forced to speed up his timetable and make what seems like an impossible choice. Fifty guys, most likely armed with bullets and magic themselves, is something Robin can’t handle with a handicapped Red Hood. The thought of calling in Batman and Nightwing for back up rankles. There would be no hiding the bond with him and Jason close to one another, not from Bruce and, by extension, from Dick who serves as his familiar. Tim isn’t ready to share this part of himself yet. It’s a tender, open wound Jason tore open again, a weakness he hasn’t created a workaround for yet. 

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t, though. 

Heaving a long, weary sigh, Tim straightens up and hops down off the billboard while casting a temporary veil of invisibility over himself. With deft fingers, Tim does the latches on the Robin uniform and stuffs them into a cache stored inside the defunct AC unit nearby. Left with nothing but his undershirt and tights, Tim stands at the edge of the roof and grimaces. He can feel the swell of magic bubbling under his skin, equally soothing and irritating the pain channeling through the bond into him. 

Man, he really hopes he isn’t making a terrible mistake. 

Mind already made up, Tim shoves away his self-doubt and leaps off the roof with his arms spread. He closes his eyes and wipes away the haze of the glamors while pulling on his own magic to wrap around himself. To embrace himself and what he truly is. It’s pain and relief rolled into one, like scratching an itch viciously enough to bleed. His skin ripples and stretches, bones breaking down and knitting back together while muscle and sinew stretch to accommodate. As much as it sucks, because it does, Tim feels freer than he does swinging from his grapple through Gotham’s skies. 

He wants to laugh but it comes out as a chuff because of his snout. His paws slam into the concrete of the road, claws digging in and ripping it up. Bounding towards the warehouse, Tim decides to go for shock and awe. Most people don’t expect a full-fledged dragon to run into them head on. He knows even as a drake he's on the smaller side for dragons and doesn't have the added bulk wings would give his silhouette. Still, a dragon no matter the sub-type is a dragon and their reputation as an apex predator has been well earned in and out of the magic community.

Running on four legs is weird, especially with the unwieldy weight of his tail thumping clumsily against the ground behind him, so Tim stumbles the first couple steps but he settles into a loping run as he closes the distance between himself and the warehouse. The spines along the top of his head and down his spine shift with each powerful push of his legs. By the time he’s throwing himself bodily into the wooden bay doors of the warehouse, Tim has even managed to wrangle his tail into some semblance of order so it's not throwing off his balance so badly. 

The wood gives way easily, no match for Tim’s plated scales and thick hide. He skids across the warehouse floor, claws leaving gouges in his wake. Everything inside the building stops as Tim settles in the center of the room. No one so much as moves, too busy gaping at Tim to fire their guns and shoot off a burst of magic. His inner elf wants to preen at the stunned attention but Tim squashes the stupid impulse. 

Instead, he roars into the silence of the warehouse. The sound of it reverberates off the glass of the windows, completely destroying the ones closest to Tim. Tim’s tail swings back and forth agitatedly as he bears his teeth. The deep black of his smooth scales explode into a brief starburst of color when the light catches them like he’s been armored with plates of black opal. Tim rears his head back and roars with his whole chest this time as his tail slams into the floor and cracks the concrete.

The first roar was an announcement of his presence. The second is a warning to stay away from what is his.

[chimneyz]

Snippet Saturday

for chapter two of to think we could stay the same:

“Firefighter Buckley, what a nice surprise,” Tommy giggled as Evan skipped closer ducking his head. Even under the helmet, Tommy could see the pink rising in Evan's cheeks. He loved the way Evan had his heart on his sleeve, how open and honest he really was. Evan lifted his head staring into Tommy's eyes, he could have sworn he saw starlight in Evan's big blues.

read chapter one on ao3

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Snippet Saturday

Thank you to both @hobbitwrangler and @celeluwhenfics for the tags! I really enjoyed seeing your excerpts! I’ve been in a bit of a dark mood (sigh) and that’s influenced what I’ve been noodling on. Sorry for that! So all I’ve got to share at the moment is poor young Háma’s reaction to going to battle for the first time and finding out all the unpleasant things about war and killing that they never tell you when you first sign up…

CW for discussions of death among soldiers and civilians

**********

He cried after that first battle, hiding alone in a darkened corner of a stable and wracked by huge, shaking sobs that both embarrassed and reassured him, proof that the day’s bloody brutality had exposed his naive ignorance but not taken his humanity. He wondered whether that humanity could endure even one more such pitiless trial or if it would break him, changing the very essence of who he was. He wondered if he was already broken in ways that he couldn’t yet understand, ways that would be revealed to him only later in the long dark of a sleepless night or the cold grip of a relived memory. He wept for the man he had been and for the man he had wanted to be, someone who might now be a stranger to him forever.

He may have quit that very day had an older soldier not stumbled upon him and his tears, pulling him to his feet and tossing him a small scrap of cloth to dry his face. We have all felt what you’re feeling, the soldier said. Anyone who is untroubled by taking lives should never be trusted with a sword. The soldier walked him over to a nearby field where neat rows of villagers were laid out to await burial — old men holding canes, young mothers in bright dresses, a few girls and boys with the usual childhood skinned knees or elbows alongside mortal injuries — all caught unaware by the enemy before the forces of Rohan arrived to drive them back. Remember that you have killed so that people like this might live, the soldier said, and he left Háma to keep watch among the corpses, to contemplate death anew.

**********

A lot of folks have been tagged already, but how about @erathene or @cilil if either of you have something you’d like to share! (Or anyone else who wants to put something out there, please consider yourself tagged by me!)

[riotwritesthings]

Tagged by bestie @crownofstardustandbone for a Snippet Saturday because why not. So here's this.

~

”Anthony-“

The voice is low and rough, like it hasn’t been used in years. Despite the odd, echoing quality of it Tony is pretty sure it’s coming from his office-

”Open the door, Anthony," the voice says, like the speaker can hear his thoughts.

It’s not quite a demand, but there’s a distinct impatience to the words that has Tony’s breath catching painfully in his chest.

Tony tries to back away from the door faster, but the floor bucks and shifts beneath his heavy feet. His hand slides along the wall as he struggles to keep his balance, knocking the picture frame to the floor with a dull clatter.

"Anthony."

His heart is racing so hard that it hurts, every frantic thud sending another sharp bolt of cold fear through his chest.

His breath wheezes out of his chest and then hangs in the air like smoke, like there’s a chill in the air that he can’t feel.

Tony doesn’t know what’s inspiring the deep terror in his gut, where the deep feeling of cold in his chest is coming from-

Unless he does.

[celeluwhenfics]

Snippet Saturday

I got a snippet! I got a snippet! For pHORSEuasion! Finally! (Excited dance of a slow writer who doesn't often have new material!)

It's the start of the third and final scene of chapter 2.

Rowena sat alone with Théoden. It was a cold and dreary day; the pale fire in the hearth did little to blunt the chill of the vast, damp hall. A clattering of jackdaws cawed on the roof, answering the creaks wrung out of the massive beams of Meduseld by a strong wind that had blown incessantly since the morning.

Lady Éowyn had been all too happy to leave as soon as Rowena had appeared to take her watch, when the bells of noon were heard. Lady Bréda had stayed with her a few moments, enjoying having a sympathetic audience for her gossips and imaginations, but before long, she had also taken her leave to attend to a litter of new puppies born to Théodred’s pack.

The king’s initial wariness of Rowena had waned somewhat. The day before, during the first hours of her long watch, he had growled and scowled at her with unabated defiance. But gradually, he had lent an ear to her soft songs. He let her approach his throne, then touch him, and at last he had accepted food and drink from her hand. She observed his symptoms and attended to his comfort, passing time with the preparation of herbs and sewing. Every so often she filled the quiet with inconsequential remarks, for the comfort of hearing a friendly voice, even if it was only her own.

(...)

Théoden moaned. Rowena set her work aside to pull another fur onto his lap, and she looked up into his pale grey eyes. They appeared veiled and empty; their stare made her shiver. Reining in her uneasiness, she smiled at him and rose the cup of infused herbs to his lips. He took a few sips and blinked. She retreated to her seat, speaking gentle words and keeping a watchful eye on her patient. After a moment, reassured by his calm and regular breathing, she eased down. She picked up her thread and needle and sank again in her musings.

Éowyn had repeatedly rejected openings for intimate conversation; yet Rowena had distinctly felt that behind her cold, impregnable facade, the lady concealed a pain that she would not tell. A thought briefly crossed Rowena’s mind, that perhaps Théodred had called her to the capital not only to care for the king, but also with the veiled hope that she could comfort his overburdened cousin. But much as she knew about tending bodily ailments, none of the skills her mother had taught her held any power to relieve a hurting, desperate heart, all the more one that remained closed to her.

Suddenly, Théoden straightened up and his features animated, as though an unheard voice had called him to attention. His hands convulsed on his knees and his teeth clattered oddly. Alerted, Rowena looked round the hall, but it appeared empty, and straining her ear, she heard nothing but the gale and the hoarse cries of the birds. The king smiled with the most chilling, unnatural expression; an evil flicker lit up his eyes. Between the pillars of a dark side aisle, a shape stirred.

Tagging @sotwk, @emmanuellececchi, @dreambigdreamz, @dilettantefeminist, @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras if you haven't played yet and you want to, and whoever wants to show something!

[writingamarie]

for snippet saturday! here’s what i’ve written today. if i write from any of the other stories maybe i’ll post snippets for them as well. feel free to ask for a specific story snippet and i’ll write for it!

Buck fell back onto Eddie’s bed with a thud, his awkward landing the least graceful sight Eddie had ever witnessed. Despite being on the football team, Buck seemed incapable of maintaining his balance, a testament to the number of drinks he must have consumed before Eddie had intervened. He laughed slightly and slid his arms under Eddie’s pillows to burry his face in the blue cotton pillow case for a moment. When he turned onto his back his arms fell over his face like a shield from the ceiling fan light. A groan escaped Buck's lips—an uncomfortable sound that teetered between a wince and an impending gag.

“This isn’t Chris’s bed,” Buck slurred, his eyes glassy and unfocused during the quick moment he peeked from behind his arms at Eddie.

“Chris’s room is too far from the bathroom,” Eddie said, “I’d rather you not puke all over the floor.”

Getting Buck settled in his bed was the logical choice. His room had an attached bathroom. Eddie sighed, knowing his back could endure one night on the couch, especially for Christopher’s best friend. Chris might be in LA with his mom, but Eddie could already picture his son’s disappointed face if he returned to find out Buck had been abandoned in a time of need.

“I don’t puke, Mister Diaz,” Buck insisted, his words a jumbled mess, “I don’t even think I have a gag reflex.”

The information slipped from Buck’s lips so easily that Eddie was positive he hadn’t even realized he’d said it. That was information Eddie could have gone his whole life oblivious to. His thoughts drifted back to the bar, where he had watched Buck draped over that nameless man, the stranger’s hands possessively splayed across Buck’s back. The sight had stirred something in Eddie, a mix of protectiveness and concern. He had clocked Buck from the moment Christopher brought him home —a lonely child in search of someone that liked him; apparently that search had never ended. Buck was only twenty, yet the bar had seemed like a second home to him. How many of those men knew the secret Buck had unwittingly shared with Eddie? A drunken slip that Eddie refused to let himself linger on for too long.

if you want a snippet from a story i’m writing feel free to send an emoji from the og emoji post

[erinsworld]

Snippet Saturday

Current WIP I'm trying to finish, all I have to do is connect the beginning to the end and I'll be done. But considering that Jack and Matty have totally taken over what was supposed to be a simple storyline fix-it / request for assistance fic and turned it into an emotional, angst fest, this may take longer than anticipated. 🤔

“I think you need to go look up the definition of leave in one of those big ass dictionaries that Mac has, Mathilda. I didn’t just leave the kid, I left him behind. I’m chasin’ the very kind of monster that Mac has been trained to stop… The best damn bomb nerd on this entire rock and I not only leave him behind…? But I lied to the kid… Stood right in front of him... looked him straight in the eyes and lied to his face about him not able to be part of my task force…My task force!”

[preet-01]

I’m thinking of posting snippets from fic ideas that never really went anywhere and I know will most likely not get turned into full blown fics. So for the lack of quali today and questioning whether getting up at 5:30 am on a Sunday is the move, here’s a snippet from a plot bunny that I had back in April:

Lewis never understood why so many people wanted to dub other driver duos as the next brocedes. He wouldn't wish that upon his worst enemy, not now and not even in 2007 when he'd wished some truly awful things for Fernando.

The first time he had heard it was after Baku 2018 for Daniel and Max — the grave of his and Nico’s broken relationship apparently finally settled enough for others to speculate when more graves would join it in the fucked-up F1 rivalries cemetery. Daniel and Max were many things — many things that Lewis or any semi-sane person would probably never fully understand — but they were not the next brocedes. They couldn't be. Not only for the lack of childhood history and whispered promises of becoming world champions together, but for everything else that made them, them.

Max was insane like Lewis had been. But Max's insanity manifested in different ways. It didn't lead to long-drawn arguments and forced, awkward silences. Daniel was insane like Nico had been. But Daniel knew when to take a step back. His insanity didn't manifest in mind games and snide remarks.

Lewis could never understand how they stayed so close. Especially after the debacle that was the 2018 Red Bull car. But he didn't need to understand them to know that they weren't the next brocedes. Lewis was glad for it. He didn't think either of them deserved that heartbreakingly, awful, tragic pain.

Then it had been Charles and Pierre, one proclaimed the predestined by the Tifosi and the other shoved into and out of a Red Bull within months. Childhood best friends? Check. Intrinsically linked together forever and ever? Check. Able to destroy one another? Never.

Charles and Pierre had the makings of a truly devasting fight, but they'd both lost so much and had been so young. They had been so young when they learned just how short life could be and how unfair it all was. They had been so young when everything they’d known was irreparably changed and in the face of it all had only grown stronger — clung to one another more desperately and balked at the mere thought of not having one another.

[eraserspiral]

snippet saturday 1/2

catching up with these, thank you so much to @kalmiaphlox and @verbenaa for tagging me <3

an excerpt from my as-yet-untitled bloodweave wedding au. it is very silly and trope-infested (fake dating! only one bed!) and a holiday for my brain.

understandably, not everyone is in the fandom headspace currently, so very no-pressurey tags for: @koalamatcha @hylianworrier @ayvaines @wetcatspellcaster

[midwrites]

My bestie @manicpixiedreamjop tagged me last week to do Snippet Saturday so I'm taking up their offer one week later with the fic SAS: Rogue Heroes finally forced me to write

Tagging @rosemaryandbrine @maedhrus @redxluna and anyone else who wants to share what they've been working on!!

[bardic-inspo]

Snippet Saturday

I think I've been tagged by a few folks lately, I've been behind and playing some catch up! But most recently I think it was @nyx-knox, @obsessedwhyyes, and @bakuliwrites. Thanks, friends!

A little more of Aeterna Nostalgia, Chapter 2:

[Astarion] hates that he sounds like a fragile spawn again. Something small and sniveling. He hates the word he says instead of the three that dance along the tip of his tongue. He’s rarely said what he longs to aloud. She’s always known it anyway, as well as the back of her hand.  But now, she stares at him scared, as if he’s a stranger. As if he’s a mere monster. As if she isn’t one, too.  There’s only one word for it.

Tagging in turn: @khywren, @xxnashiraxx, @bellasmumblingsandmusings, @inkymoonbunny , @amoremagnificentbastard ,

@toxictoad , @elinorbard , and whoever else sees this/would like to share!

[apollabarnes]

make me write

Rules: send me an emoji corresponding to the wip (as many as you want!) and I'll write 3 sentences per emoji and share some of what I write

tagged by: stole it

🚁 - we're crashing that helicopter, folks (bucktommy post-breakup)

☎️ - abby and tommy au

💰- we provide... emergencies (meet tommy's bff eliot spencer)

🤐- post-bucktommy breakup i've been sneaking into @louvemeanyway 's inbox on anon

tagging: anyone. sneak attack tag

[ficbrish]

Part of my Kinktober 2023 one shot collection

"You were my first."

[Ao3] | [Tumblr]

cw: Blood, cptsd, self-hate, alcohol

Tav Vistri, Act I, right after Bite Night

Big moment, that following morning was. Pleasantly enough, none of the others tried to drive a stake through Astarion’s heart upon learning his true nature. Nor did Vistri suddenly change her mind and call for a mob. She even stood up for him. Showed a suspicious amount of understanding.

But that’s how she’d always survived.

A bit of kindness tinged with charm, and lying back, goes a long way.

Astarion seemed the happiest that Vistri had ever seen him. Although, to be fair, they’d journeyed together less than a tenday, and not under the most pleasant circumstances. She’d seen him smile, but not like that. Not like the way he’d been smiling since—

His lips on her neck…

“Augh!” Vistri exclaimed, walking unannounced into Shadowheart’s tent, “I feel like a ripe pile of shit!”

“Were you raised in a barn?!” Shadowheart cried, startled and put out by her new friend’s sudden appearance.

“No, the Underdark—But that’s not important right now,” Vistri answered, too obsessed at the moment to exchange a bit of back and forth, “We don’t have time for an ethics debate.”

“An ethics debate? You just barged into my tent!”

“Because I needed to talk to you!” she explained, as if that answered everything sufficiently.

“I swear, if you hadn’t saved my life…”

“I know, I know! I’m insufferable. Do you have wine?”

“It is just passed sunrise.”

“Yes, and I’m very thirsty.”

Somehow, Shadowheart’s exasperated refusal to indulge her self-destructive habits prompted Vistri to spill everything. How she never felt anything.

How much she felt last night.

“You like the vampire?”

Vistri looked as if Shadow had just spat in her face, and protested, “I do not!”

While she had her crisis at Shadowheart, Astarion was literally skipping through the woods. He couldn’t remember a day where he felt better than he did this morning. With her blood flowing through him, giving back life.

Was this what it felt like to be Vistri? he found himself musing, watching the dapple of shadows dance across his hands as the sunlight trickled through the trees.

Which was a very ironic conclusion for him to draw, considering that she was just now sobbing wildly on Shadowheart’s awkward shoulder.

But Vistri never let him inside her mind despite pushing into his, not after that first initial taste; when they met on the ground in his arms, while his blade pressed into her. Too much was happening then for Astarion to really notice anything, and he only felt a hint of someone else before she instinctually shut her mind off from his. They’d shared a memory, but it was like the directions of a play read aloud, not the feelings of an actor emoted through their eyes.

It piqued his curiosity now that he spent a little time in her company. Had a taste of her.

And like a cat discovering a closed door, he was suddenly possessed by the need to pry it open.

Turns out, things were working out for Astarion better than he could have ever imagined. He could get used to his luck turning around like this. Not only did the rest of his companions accept that he was a vampire without much complaint, Vistri offered to let him feed again.

Before he accepted, it was important for Astarion to make clear that nothing would ever happen again without her say so. He could be better than Cazador ever was—wanted to be better.

“I shall wait patiently until you suggest we… dine together.”

Vistri could feel heat rising in her face. Cheesy little comments of his like that previously grated on her nerves, and now she wanted to giggle.

What the fuck was wrong with her? Did she really want him? Could she really… imagine that as a possibility?

“But until then: No more late-night surprises, you have my word on that,” he promised. Rather sincerely, actually.

It was probably due to some vampiric thrall she must be under, but Vistri decided to trust his words. Every night could be its own test, and a sick part of her hoped he’d break his vow. That he’d prove it was all good to be true; show her who she really was. Prove that neither of them were worth it.

“Thank you,” she said, biting her lip, “And if you don’t mind, I have a vow of my own to exchange.”

“Oh?”

“Pushing into your mind… I wasn’t sure if you were going to kill me, but in finding out, I also… That was for you to save or tell. Not for me to find out. Not like that. I swear I’ll never do it again. Not without asking first.”

Astarion looked a bit devastated; shook it off with a smirk, and then said, “We’re even.”

Vistri was taken aback, “Even?”

“I've only tried to stab you when we first met, and bite you while you’ve slept. A little wriggling around with my mind worm… Well, you’re not better than me after all! In fact, you’re just like me.”

She smiled and looked at her feet, “I wouldn’t go as far as that.”

Even the teasing mention of closeness was too much for Vistri to endure, and she hated him for it.

So of course she didn’t want to appear too eager! She waited a whole other day before proposing another late-night snack. Astarion took it to be a reward for his good behavior; not coming back for seconds before he was asked.

The anticipation ate at them even worse after they agreed it would happen that night, and it itched at them all day. Unfortunately, Astarion was a bit of a stress-eater, and quite literally bit off more than he could chew with a large bear that evening before they met up. Draining it just barely replaced what he'd lost, which left him punch drunk and dizzy from his own bloodlessness. Their fun was put off for another night.

Much to the vexation of both.

He didn’t want to wake her that second time, not because he didn’t want her to be present, but because he was doing his best not to be an inconvenience. Vistri wasn’t offended either; he was so obviously sure he was doing her a favor. Oh, but she wanted to be awake for it! Not asleep, not in trance, but there feeling his—

Shit. Bad thoughts! No, no, no.

It was nothing. He meant nothing. She was nothing but a source of sustenance. Vistri had a purpose, and that was that.

She was food.

But then… So was that bandit earlier. Now he was food. Astarion drunk him dry with little grace. Ripped his screaming throat from out of his neck, and the spray went everywhere! Tonight he would gently creep up to her in the dark, at her behest, and take only a little while trying his best not to cause her to stir. It was quite the contrast.

That bandit was a meal. Vistri was a treat.

Then what was this even all for?

Vistri shooed away her curiosity before it meant she had to answer that question herself.

Waiting impatiently in her bedroll, eyes shut tight, Vistri could feel her heart pounding as if it was berating her for their present circumstances.

Oh, hush! she thought, arguing back.

This wasn’t her best performance, pretending to be in the midst of trance as she was. Her focus was elsewhere, searching for his presence through her pores. Her mind froze when Astarion finally began to approach. Even without seeing, she knew he was there; could feel his proximity before he touched her. The very air changed around him, like a storm cloud. Her senses filled with something herbal and sweet, then brandy and heat as his chest crept over hers.

She held her breath, even though deep breathing was the telltale sign of trance. Vistri thought he caught her, sensing him pause for a moment. Then she reasoned she was probably making that up.

But she didn’t. He did pause. Not because he noticed she wasn’t breathing, but because he still wasn’t quite sure this was all really happening. Not just some mad trick of the tadpole.

He swallowed and let himself lean carefully down, until his body pressed into hers. He could feel her heart beating frantically, but in his distraction, it didn’t give her away. Astarion just took it as a sign she was alive. That this really was all real.

His lips met her neck before his fangs. Vistri held back a shiver, taking a deep breath against it. She stifled a moan as one hummed quietly in Astarion’s throat. She could feel it vibrate on hers, neck to neck. Feel her life and power flow into him and through him. Power. Pleasure.

It was palpable.

Astarion’s tongue moved against her skin, swallowing her.

She even lost herself for a moment. As her mind flew blissfully away, her fingers, those sluts, found their way up into his curls.

Her hands grasped the sides of his head. Vistri wasn’t trying to push him away, she just needed to brace herself against the loss of gravity. Astarion didn’t even notice at first. It just felt like part of the whole thing. It was her sudden movement as she jerked them back that brought his attention to her wakefulness.

“Are you not in your trance?” he asked in the crook of her neck.

“No,” she answered with her eyes still closed, “Do you want me to be?”

She was truly the most curious thing to him. Was she pretending to be in a trance to please him? While allowing him to drink from her? Who does that? Astarion smirked, shaking his head, “I thought you’d prefer…”

Vistri opened her eyes and looked into his. She’d been warned her whole life about elves with red eyes.

“No, I—” she blushed, “I mean, it’s quite fun. Is it not?”

“It is?”

Curiouser and curiouser.

She nodded.

“Well, that’s nice to hear.”

“Do you want to-?” Vistri gestured to her neck.

“Right, yes,” Astarion said, clearing his throat. Regaining his cool, he slyly suggested, “Why don’t you crawl into my lap?”

Vistri couldn’t breathe.

Her non-answer was a glorious victory. Astarion could tell he had an effect, a sway over her somehow. He tilted his head back, smiling with confidence, “You do want it, don’t you?”

Lightheaded, Vistri gave in and sat across his knees. Grinning, Astarion grabbed her up into his arms and dipped her dramatically with a slight growl. Vistri giggled, too loudly, and he cupped a hand over her mouth.

He shushed her, “Be still now.”

First, he brought his lips back to her throat. Then his tongue. Then his fangs.

A moan escaped Vistri this time. One, warm hand cradled the back of her neck as he drank from the front of it.

He promised it would be just a taste, and it was just a taste. She didn’t even have to hold him back this time. Astarion stopped on his own accord, before she was ever in any real danger.

When she opened her eyes, Astarion had stars in his. Just a little bit of her, and he was an entirely new person.

Self-satisfied, Vistri grinned, “You’re welcome.”

Sitting up, her head swayed forward like a drunkard and almost smashed into his skull.

“Oh, there you go,” he muttered, steadying her.

Vistri looked up at him, her face so close to his. “I’m okay,” she answered before he could ask.

“Don’t try to get up just yet. You’ll take another tumble, and who knows if I’m feeling generous enough to catch you again.”

“Bastard,” she laughed weakly.

Vistri could smell her blood on his breath. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes so the only thing in existence was the scent lingering between them. She couldn’t imagine liking this so much with anyone el—She shot up so fast, suddenly standing to escape those thoughts.

“Careful!”

Astarion must have been feeling generous because he caught her a second time.

“Oops,” she said, embarrassed.

“You ought to take better care of yourself, darling. I’m invested now.” Funny thing, that wasn't even a lie. He'd never met someone like her before.

Vistri met his grin with performative suspicion, “How heartening.”

Astarion's eyes followed the words as they bounced off her lips. He smiled realizing they were perfectly painted instead of washed clean.

She either swayed or leaned closer. Even Vistri couldn't tell if it was blood loss or an intentional inching of her feet.

“You look a bit peaked,” Astarion said nervously.

“Yes,” Vistri sighed, standing so near, “Off to bed I go.”

Even the air between them pounded. They stayed very still. His breath turned into her breath.

Then Astarion broke the spell, stepping back with narrowed eyes, “Sweet dreams, then.”

“Sweet dreams.”

But there were no dreams.

Just forbidden thoughts that ran endlessly through their minds, until even their muscles ached.