#Snippet Saturday

[elvensorceress]

Saturday snippet/Fuck it Friday

more omegaverse fun for beloved @chismosoeddie Eddie being homesick and Buck trying to make it better 🥰

@tizniz @hippolotamus @daffi-990 @exhuastedpigeon @chaosandwolves @xjeanmoreaux @mangonadaeddie @dangerpronebuddie @sergeantchenford @bekkachaos @glorious-spoon @sofa-king-lame @spotsandsocks @livinginsunnyhell @sazanahashi @damnikindaship @rainbow-nerdss @youreavicioustrollop @kejfeblintz @keynb @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove 💕

There’s a package on Eddie's doorstep when he gets home late. He can smell it even before he gets out of his car. Even before he opens it. The scent is sweet, vanilla-y, rich and golden. 

Like Buck. It smells like Buck. 

The box holds two batches of cookies, a loaf of beautiful sourdough, a soft fuzzy blanket, and an LAFD hoodie that has BUCKLEY embroidered on the sleeve. 

The cookies are amazing. He eats three immediately and it also miraculously helps his stomach. Then he puts on the hoodie, Texas heat be damned, and it’s so big. Hugely too big on him. Yeah, he’s smaller than Buck but not this much. Even Buck would be swimming in this. Maybe that’s why he passed it along? He had to have just worn it for the scent of him to be this strong. 

The scent is so strong. It’s so sweet and rich and it almost, almost feels like Buck hugging him. 

Why does wearing something Buck just wore (but gifted to him because he wore it?) feel so intimate? Why does it feel like love and magic wrapped around him? 

It is something mates do. People who choose to be chemically, emotionally, physically bonded to each other. They share scent marked items for closeness and comfort. But it is also something family members do when they have to be apart, and Buck is absolutely Eddie’s family. That’s all this is. Family intimacy. 

Eddie wraps his arms around himself and might like the overly large size of the hoodie. All the soft familiar material covering him so he’s enveloped everywhere in something that smells like Buck. He holds the baggy collar to his face and breathes in deeply.

Pleasant radiant soothing sweetness floods through his whole body. It makes shivers coast all over his skin and deep warmth pool in his belly. He might actually be able to sleep soundly like this. It’s such a relief. It’s so— he doesn’t have a word for it except soothing. 

He picks up the blanket and holds it to his face. It’s thin but a soft, fleecy material. Not too thick or heavy. Good for hot desert climates, maybe even during the summer. The smell on it is also so strong. As if Buck slept with it tangled around his body— maybe tangled around his naked body? For it to smell this heady? Before he stuck it in the mail for Eddie. 

An ache of homesickness hits him right through his chest. 

How could he leave everything? How is he going to make a home for himself and his son when all he wants is what he had to leave behind? 

He will. He did it before. It will happen. For now, he can breathe in sweetness and comfort. He can’t help but imagine— remember Buck’s arms around him. Buck melting all over him, draped around him, holding him so long and so tightly. 

No one has ever held Eddie that way. Like they can hardly bear to let go. He’s never been held the way Buck holds him. 

Eddie squeezes his arms around his own body and suddenly wants to cry. He’s fine though. He’s fine.

But. The thing is. 

This— the hoodie, the blanket, the taste of chocolate and cinnamon, the smell of spicy sweet vanilla-y Buck— it quiets the emptiness that’s been gnawing at Eddie’s insides. The haunting, absent nothingness when he tries to nest and make a new home for himself? It isn’t present anymore. Not when he can smell and feel Buck. Not when he can almost trick himself into believing that Buck is holding him. That Buck is with him. 

His phone lights up and Eddie quickly wipes at his eyes just so Buck doesn’t worry. He’s fine. Just— just missing his best friend. He misses having a home. And a family. 

Eddie still gives him a smile when he answers, “Hey, Buck.” 

“Hey! Did you get your care package? I got a notification that it was delivered. I tried to ship it to you as quick as it could get there. Figured you needed it.” 

Of course that’s what Buck did. Eddie bites his lip, and doesn’t want to cry right now. He so easily could. He wishes Buck were here. Actually, if he’s wishing for things, he wishes he and his son were back home and with their Buck and none of them ever had to be separated. 

Eddie tips his phone down so the camera will show his torso already swathed in Buck’s giant hoodie.

“Oh,” Buck says like he’s stunned. Or full of awe as if Eddie is a mythical, spectacular thing to behold. He’s not. He actually looks worn out and tired when he looks at himself. He doesn’t remember the last time he got even three hours of sleep in a row. But he is wearing Buck’s hoodie. And Buck looks at him like he can’t believe Eddie’s actually wearing the clothing that was sent to him. 

Is it such a weird thing? They’ve accidentally switched clothes before. Happens when you always do laundry together. 

God, Eddie even misses doing laundry now. What the hell is in the El Paso water these days? 

[ebongawk]

welp

[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

[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.

[pimento-playing-hopscotch]

Snippet Saturday

Thank you for the tag, @annoyingcloudearthquake

“Hi, Dad,” TK said, sitting up. He was sitting on the exam table with Jonah huddled in his lap. Carlos was also on the exam table, his arms around both of them. “Did you bring it?” TK asked. “I did”. Owen nodded as he closed the door behind him as Andrea sat down in the chair next to the door. “How’s the patient doing?”

No pressure tagging- I tag @anewkindofme @laneybishop89 @kiankiwi @carlos-in-glasses @firstprince-history-huh @chicgeekgirl89 @everlastingday @carlossreaders @heartstringsduet @henrygrass @afiendishthingynisba and anyone else who wants to do it- open tag!

[annoyingcloudearthquake]

Snippet Saturday (Sunday)

Thanks for the tag @sassay-fox!

“It’s not great. Miami is around a full day of driving and that’s not including the stops I’m going to have to take because I can’t switch off drivers.” Mateo furrowed his eyebrows. “Why can’t you switch drivers. Nancy just stared. “Oh yeah sorry dude let me just have the ghost drive my car.” 

No pressure tagging

@lemonlyman-dotcom @shes-an-oddbird @bonheur-cafe @vulcanmourns @ladytessa74 @firstprince-history-huh @rangersoup @thisbuildinghasfeelings @heartstringsduet @tailoredshirt @paperstorm @nisbanisba @chicgeekgirl89 @liminalmemories21 @herefortarlos @everlastingday @lightningboltreader @literateowl @lonestardust @carlos-in-glasses @eclectic-sassycoweyes @doublel27 @salty-autistic-writer @tellmegoodbye @pimento-playing-hopscotch @henrygrass @emsprovisions @neversleepuntilfive @my-beloved-lakes @carlos-tk

[baphomimi]

PROLOGUE – ABSENCE

PROLOGUE / CHAP 1.1 / CHAP 1.2 / CHAP 1.3

CHAP 2.1 / CHAP 2.2 / CHAP 2.3

cw: lots of blood and gore that made me sick to research lmao please be careful

The Absence is not a God, as Gods are known to reside in separate planes, conveniently detached from the consequences of their actions. The Absence, in contrast, lingers in every empty corner of this Earth, whether it be between blades of grass or the hollow of our bones. Its form is invisible to us, but It is still very much a sentient being– closer to a microscopic organism than some mysterious higher being.

The human mind perceives The Absence as emptiness and loss. When we feel, inexplicably, that something is missing from our lives, this is how It guides us towards a greater destiny. When we lose a love, a limb, a child, The Absence takes its place and becomes stronger, just as we become stronger for Its company.

He watches Eli fill each chamber of the revolver with a small, gold-coloured bullet. There is a machine-like precision to his work, and though the older man has never spoken a word of his past, Trent knows he must be ex-military, ex-cop, something like that. 

“You really think you’re ready for this, tiger?” His mentor’s voice is low and smoke-damaged. Eli clicks the barrel back into place and sets the gun sideways on his knee, muzzle pointed towards the teen opposite him. The back of his palm is covered in ink up to his elbows– messy depictions of serpents and flowers– and his ring finger is missing, amputated at the knuckle.

Trent swallows, and nods. He’s not sure if he can follow through with using it, but whether out of stubbornness or admiration, he can’t allow himself to let Eli down either.

“You sure?” The man’s face barely moves; even freshly-shaven, that broad, blocky face shows nothing resembling human emotion. It was the first thing Trent noticed, when they met properly for the first time. Like something was missing. The others say that it’s his gift, a manifestation of The Absence, but Trent wonders if Eli wasn’t always like this, long before he was ever Chosen. 

“‘Cuz I heard about the last time you tried-  how your hands were shaking so bad you couldn’t even keep the gun straight.”

The teen feels his face flush red. “I’m freakin’ ready, man! God…”

The way that Eli chuckles at that makes shame burn hot in his throat, but he swallows it down. He hates how easy the guy can get a rise out of him, and won’t give Eli the satisfaction of knowing when he manages it. 

“What’s with the hostility? Someone’s not keeping their mind empty for The Absence.”

“Yeah, well why don’t you go ahead and eat my entire ass, how about that?”

Eli scoffs, as the gun is snatched unceremoniously from him. It is a sound alarmingly close to laughter, maybe even fondness, and Trent hates the way his mind sparks from the gratification.

The man eases himself off of the bench slowly; it’s hard to tell how old he is exactly, but he’s certainly still young enough to carry his own weight with grace. Trent remains sat opposite for a while, still considering the gun in his hand.

This room they’re in, it was probably intended to be the hotel’s sauna, but now it’s cool and arid and solemn, much like the rest of the building. To invite warmth is to invite life; there is no room for the Absence if one is distracted by excessive comfort and convenience.

So the manifesto goes, but that doesn’t stop Lena from sneaking them cigarettes for after Judgements, nor Eli from taking them up through the skeletal frame of the half-built hotel, so that they can drink at the top and look out at the desert. 

“Hey- mask up, kid,” Eli says, “If we leave this much longer he’ll start screaming, and I ain’t got the patience for that shit today.”

Trent stashes the gun away inside his jacket for now, and pulls the mask over his face. Once Eli has done the same they are suddenly indistinguishable from one another: alabaster faces with only the vague suggestion of features, like two weathered roman statues. Through the peepholes of his vision he follows the older man down past the lockers, and into the pool room.

The pool itself was fully constructed but never filled, so it resembles more of a vast, sloped bathtub now. Its tiles are spotless from frequent cleaning, gaudy blue, and at the deep end a thick silver chain has been drilled firmly into the wall. Usually it lies coiled harmlessly on the ground, but tonight the collar it is connected to is filled with the throat of a half-dozing stranger.

Eli says his name is Clayton: middle-aged, greying, probably someone’s father– but Trent shouldn’t to think too much about that. Let The Absence fill your mind, Old Gloria told him before he witnessed his first Judgement outside of his own. To give such precious space over to anything else is to reject Its guidance.

Trent is still trying to work out what The Absence wants from him, exactly, but he’s still fresh. Understanding will come with time, that’s what he’s been told.

“Huh...” Clayton blinks slowly at their approach, taking a moment to understand the kind of danger he’s got himself in. “The hell’s this?”

He tries to get up, but Eli set the chain short this time. The metal rattles cruelly at the attempt and the sound echoes off of the tiles.

The slightest of nods from Eli is the signal for Trent to start the rites. From behind his mask, he sucks in a breath, and then he speaks the same words that were once spoken to him, and the countless others that came both before and after.

“Congratulations, Clayton. You’ve been Chosen.”

It feels like a prayer on his tongue. His skin tingles with pride.

“The Absence feels that you may be worthy of Its blessing. You’re here now, so that we can find out for ourselves.”

At that, Eli moves closer, crouches down besides their captive– the Chosen. Clayton is starting to tremble, mouth hung open uselessly. He must be a flight-er rather than a fighter. Eli will be pleased about that– means he shouldn’t make too much noise.

“If you try to escape before your Judgement is over,” Trent goes on, “or if you don’t do exactly as we say, The Absence will deem you Unworthy.”

Eli rolls out a small bundle of black cloth across the pool floor, exposing a single, slender scalpel. This is the part where Trent has to bring out the gun. He takes it carefully from inside his jacket.

“...and I’m afraid it’s our duty to kill every Unworthy we find.”

“No…” Clayton glances at the scalpel on the ground. “No, this is fuckin’ crazy…”

“I’m going to give you your instructions now. Are you ready?” He can feel the two points in his shoulders burning, scar tissue screaming with the bitter familiarity of it all. 

"Fuck, man!” Clayton tugs uselessly at his collar, “What kinda fucked up joke is this?!"

Trent falters, unsure whether to take that as refusal to participate. But Eli nods again, so he just goes in.

"The Absence would like your nose. You can use the scalpel to remove it."

Clayton barks a laugh– it’s a demand so unthinkable that he probably doesn’t know what else to do. Under the tense, one-eyed gaze of the revolver, though, he has to at least consider it.

"And if I do...?"

The rites don’t cover questions. Trent squirms on the spot uncomfortably, but Eli is ready to pick up his slack.

"Worry about that when you get there, pal,” the older man says, “But you'll live, if that's what you're worried about.”

"If I live, I'll goddamn kill the both of you. First chance I get." Seems there's a little fight in Clayton after all.

"Okay," Eli replies, deadpan. Trent keeps the aim of the gun focused and unwavering.

With trembling hands, Clayton leans forward and takes the scalpel. The chains clink softly, as though encouraging him. He brings the blade tentatively towards his face, and for a moment it seems as though he really might give it a shot, but then Clayton yells and thrusts out at Eli with it instead, aiming for his throat.

The other man catches his wrist easily, doesn't even seem surprised. Trent watches him squeeze Clayton's wrist hard enough to immobilise him, masked expression blank.

"Oh, you'd better hope you're Worthy now, pal," Trent can hear the clench of Eli's teeth when he speaks, "Cuz' if you're not, I'll cut that beak off your face myself."

Something about that feels very wrong. They are forbidden from intervening in a Judgement, or harming any Chosen until they have proven themselves Unworthy. And even then, an Unworthy's death must be quick and clinical. It's a sacrifice, not a punishment. But Trent does nothing to dispute the threat, just watches Eli drop the Chosen's arm.

"Since it’s happening either way, I recommend you at least try." Eli’s tone is cruel, and darkly humorous.

"God...who are you people? I haven't done anything to anyone, I..." Clayton glances down at the scalpel again, and it's clear that he really is considering it this time. Trent can admit to himself a kind of sick fascination for this moment, where the Chosen must find a way to override their innate sense of self-preservation; a force bolstered by the hundreds of generations that came before.

He isn’t sure he’s really felt The Absence yet, like he was told he would. But in moments like these, surely It must be close.

Clayton reasserts his grip on the blade, and presses the point of it to the bridge of his nose. Eli immediately tuts, says, “You’ll wanna go from the bottom– trust me.”

“Fuck you.” Is the reply he gets.

Clayton sucks in a breath to brace himself and then begins to saw into his septum; makes some awful whimpering, sobbing, hissing noise that feels so disturbingly animalistic that it makes Trent's hair stand on end. The spill of blood is almost immediate– it’s already painted the man’s upper lip red. His body sucks in an involuntary breath and he splutters when blood is pulled into his throat.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Eli says, “It’s gonna get a hell of a lot messier than this.”

Clayton tips his head back against the tile. The strip lights overhead illuminate the beginning of tears, forming at the rim of his eyes. "God...fuck, I can't..."

"You’re not gonna think your way out of this one, pal. You just gotta do it."

A little encouragement is permitted during Judgements, or at least it's not uncommon– no one really wants a Chosen to be deemed Unworthy, after all. But the way Eli says it, it doesn't sound like he's trying to help. It feels a lot more like he just doesn’t want the show to end so soon.

But regardless of intention, Clayton listens to him. He returns the trembling scalpel to its starting point, presses back into the wound he's already made. His eyes squeeze shut, he steadies his breath, and then he starts to cut again; fast and frantic, compared to before. He’s screaming behind clenched teeth, mouth closed so he doesn’t swallow any more blood.

"Yeah, like that. Keep going," Eli breathes.

Trent doesn't remember his own Judgement well enough to recall if the Eli enjoyed it as much as he’s enjoying this. He hopes not.

They both bear witness as Clayton makes it further into his face, blood spilling over his hands in sickly bursts. Whipped up into some kind of adrenaline-fuelled frenzy, every now and then he puffs out a breath and it sends droplets flying in every direction. A few hit Eli’s mask, but he doesn’t react.

"Look at you go,” Eli says humorously, “Might even be halfway there by now."

The cartilage is tougher, and more painful. Maybe the stranger thought he’d made more progress, because Eli’s comment has him dropping the scalpel to the tile and clutching his nose, like he’s given up. 

"Please–oh God, I can't..."

But he's already come so far…

"You can–" Trent begins, but then Eli is grabbing Clayton by the hair, scalpel in hand, attacking the bridge of their Chosen’s nose.

"Goddamn– nnh– pathetic.” Eli is grunting with the effort of his work, “Could tell you didn't have it in you the second I saw you."

Clayton is screaming now. Really screaming. He flails wildly– trying to get away from Eli– so the scalpel is slipping and cutting great slashes into his face.

And it's not right, so Trent shoots. 

The sudden noise puts the chaos of the scene on freezeframe, with both men suddenly stuck in place; one from the shock of the gunshot, and the other from the bullet now lodged in their eye socket.

“Damn.”

Eli loosens his grip, and lets Clayton's body slump back against the pool wall. He wipes his bloody hands off on the dead man's clothes. 

"Hell of a good aim, tiger. But if you ever undermine me like that again, I'll make sure you end up ten times worse than him."

Trent gladly accepts the compliment, and discards the rest. But as he watches gore bubble from Clayton’s lifeless face, some tiny part of him wonders if perhaps it was the wrong guy who got shot.

[apollabarnes]

snippet saturday

while i write something cute to get all the feelings out of me from thursday, have this!

"I can't stop thinking about that kiss," Evan said, looking over at Tommy when he pulled up to the curb outside the loft. "It's been months and—" "I'm sorry," Tommy offered. "Don't be! It was a really good kiss." Evan blinked at him, his cheeks flushed. "Haven't had a kiss that good since." "You need to raise your bar, kid," Tommy said, only realising that he was parroting himself when he finished saying it. "Or maybe it was a really good kiss," Evan argued, leaning forward and putting a hand on the console. "Maybe it was the best kiss I'll ever have." "Evan." The word was ripped out of Tommy. He could feel himself swaying towards Evan, caught in his gravity again. He leaned back, his hands tightening around the wheel. "Tommy?" Evan asked softly, confused. "Don't — you liked me, didn't you?" Tommy could hear the hurt in his voice, the way he wanted to curl up on himself. Tommy wanted to head out back and put himself out of his misery. "Evan," he repeated. "I do like you." He made himself look at Evan straight on, knew Evan could see every miserable emotion on his face. "I can be your friend, or I can be the guy that kisses you every day, but I can't be the friend that kisses you sometimes." "What does that mean?" Evan asked carefully, his eyes dropping down to Tommy's mouth. Tommy took a shaky breath, thinking about it carefully. "Have some water and get some sleep," he told Evan. "Have some breakfast. If you still want to…" "Kiss you," Evan finished breathlessly. "Give me a call. I'm off tomorrow. We'll meet up somewhere." "You could come here," Evan suggested. "Or you could stay over tonight." Tommy laughed hoarsely. Something out there was very much tempting him. "Evan, I want to kiss you when you're stone cold sober and you're sure that you want this," he murmured, digging his teeth into his bottom lip. "I don't want you to regret it. And I don't want to regret it either." "Yeah, yeah okay. That makes sense." Evan agreed, reaching for the door. "Tommy, I really am going to call you tomorrow."

no pressure tagging @setmeatopthepyre @beanarie @ambernotember @leashybebes and anyone else who sees this and needs a reason to write something

[ebongawk]

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[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.

[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!)

[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.

[aeterna-auroral-avenger]

Saturday Snippet!

Post a snippet of a WIP you've been working on!

Thanks for the tag @gender-kenvy You picked a really good time to do something like this, because I got bored at work today and started working on a Kenpals installment! So here's a snippet for you!

Barbie looked over Ken’s latest letter with curiosity and amusement.  When did she forget that her Ken was full of surprises?  At some point she had forgotten that.  It’s been a pleasant surprise to relearn Ken through human eyes, but at the same time, there’s a twinge of guilt with every new discovery. 

This is the Ken she’s always known.  It’s just taken a lot of changes for her to remember how important and special he is to her.  What did that really say about her?  About them?  Also, what was this feeling she felt towards him?  No, while Barbie could still say she wasn’t in love with Ken, this feeling towards him didn’t feel like mere friendship.  Not like what she felt toward Gloria or the other friends she’s made in the Real World…or even the friends she made in Barbie Land.  

Who am I to you now?  Who are you to me now?

Barbie sighed and massaged her closed eyes for a moment, mentally stowing away the questions for the time being.  She wasn’t about to divine any answers right now, nor was she in the mood to dwell on them.  Right now, she was more interested in Ken’s most recent letter.

Dear Barbie, Hi, Barbie! How are you! How’ve things been?  Did you have a good birthday?  I did!  I had a pretty fun bash, lemme tell ya.  It was quite a shindig.  Which is a fun word to say out loud but not as much fun to write.  A lot of words are like that, have you noticed?  Kinda funny how that works out.   Everybody says hi and they all love you and miss you and hope you’re taking the Real World by storm.  I told them you’re Barbie and that you totally are, and I don’t care what you say, it’s the truth.  You are!  You’re doing something no Barbie’s ever done before, and to me, that’s definitely taking the Real World by storm!  We’re all very proud of you, Barbie, and even though we miss you like a lot, we all really are proud of you. Anyway, sooooooo speaking of storms - I didn’t actually plan that transition, it sorta just worked out that way - I kinda sorta have a request if that’s okay.  It’s a small one; don’t worry!  At least, I think it’s small, I can’t really like think of anything about it that would make it big. Here’s the request, okay?  You ready for this? I wanna see rain.  Like I wanna see an actual rainstorm.  I don’t really wanna see Real lightning yet.  I think the only kind of that I wanna see is on my headband for now.  And I know like you can’t control it, but if there could be no thunder for this round, that would be great too.  I think just rain is like a good starting point.  If that’s okay. So like if you can guess - you’re totally smart, so I bet you have already - I don’t know when it’s supposed to rain in the Real World.  Barbie Land Weather Channel only shows our weather which is just sunshine like all the time, so… Huh!  You know what, I totally just realized our Weather Channel only shows perfect summer weather all the time!  So I’m not actually sure why we have a Weather Channel if the weather is always the same, and like Weather Barbie could be a different Barbie, but whatever.   The point is!  I kinda need you to tell me when it’s gonna happen in the Real World so I can go see it. And…well…ya know, if…if you wanna be there too, I mean like as friends and to like say hi in person, I wouldn’t mind that either.  I’d be totally okay with it. But only if you want to.  No pressure.  Like seriously none. You don’t have to reply right away or anything either, I’m not in a hurry to experience Real World rain so if it takes a while for that to actually happen - cause I don’t know how that all works anyway - that’s cool. Miss you. Love, Ken!

no pressure tags: @kyberinfinitygems @bugboybuckley @edelweissrevived @sobeautifullyobsessed @lostinwildflowers and whoever else wants to play

[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!