#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.

[lifeaftermeteor]

The other day, I wrote something for LAM!verse for the first time in what felt like - and may have been - years. It felt good. It felt good to get back to these characters and where they are in their lives.

Should I post on Saturday, for old time's sake?

[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!)

[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

[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

[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!

[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.

[a-strange-inkling]

Hey Jealousy (Old Haunts Universe)

Hawkins, Indiana

1985

“God, he’s all over her today.”

Eddie stops mid stride, just sneaking back from his quick midday smoke behind the bus garage. He wasn’t usually one to dabble in the affairs of cheerleaders (unless if he’s invited to of course) but that little side quip laced with spiky envy from Tracy Verdonowitz is enough to grab his attention by the back of the neck and yank him out of his half high, kinda still hungover stupor.

“I mean… I think it’s sweet!” A blonde junior points out.

“It’s disgusting.” Tracy replies shortly.

He knows just who they're talking about before he lifts his baggy, burned out gaze across the campus… because of course it’s them. Of fucking course. Who else could it be? As a district, town, planet they all just orbit around them, every freaking little thing they do. Nobody ever bothers to have a thought or a life of their own, nooooo… they all feed obsessively suckle off of the general perfection that is always just oozing off of the King and Queen. Because, let’s be honest, their mundane is the fucking glory of Valinor for the rest of them, the motley, miserable, midwest student body of Hawkin’s High.

And he can’t climb on his soap box or lunch table to protest about it today, because he too stops and he looks.

Eddie’s throat constricts as he tries and fails to swallow, that dull pain at seeing any and every of their daily intimacies having a little more sting to it in his presently raw state of being.

Unfortunately, he did not get drunk enough over the weekend to not notice that something was different about them. Tracy’s bite isn’t just a jealous over exaggeration (no judgment by the way), because the PDA has definitely been cranked up a notch.

They’re relatively innocent on average, to be fair. Very Jack and Jill. Ken and Barbie. Fred and Daphne. Hand holding, quick pecks on the cheek, an arm around her shoulder. Prim and proper, clean, but today…

Carver really has been all over this girl, he’s presently got her trapped against the passenger door of his jeep, all bent over her, one hand pressed against the molding, the other inching up beneath her gym shirt.

Eddie can’t really see her, which he’s honestly grateful for. She’s obscured from view by the front end of the vehicle and the hundred and sixty pound hormonal jock sucking her face off.

He can only see her braced legs under the car, and her little hand latched tightly on Jason’s wrist like a vice where he’s reaching up her shirt.

“Woaw.” Gigi sighs, biting the corner of her lip as she watches the tryst intently. Obviously some basic biology questions being answered for her.

Jason’s hand moves from the molding to hold her neck and Eddie has to look away, down into the cracks of the pavement he wished he was buried under, because it’s… it’s too much, especially after Indianapolis and… he just can’t today. No matter how much he wants to know what has upped the rating to PG-13, he needs to keep walking, to get back inside. Keslink’s test sure isn’t going to flunk itself.

He barely manages a heavy step forward when the senior cheer captain Kelly Brooks speaks up next with that slight southern lilt to her voice. “Oh sweetie, that’s not really surprising, especially after Saturday.”

“What happened Saturday?” Becky asks, lowering her voice as they all gather around her. “You mean at homecoming?”

[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.

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Snippet Saturday 21/09/24

I am having a ball writing this next chapter of Unsinkable! Here’s a piece (because it’s still got a way to go before it’s ready but I really want to share some of it)

They joined up with Meg in the conjoined shadows of the ships.

Hands on hips, she craned her neck to scan the height of the cylindrical palace. The walls were sheer and devoid of any artistry—no paint survived the suns and the carvings had long lost definition to the sand. So the palace lifted high and stood wide to make up for what spectacle it visually lacked.

She said something. Between a gust of hot wind hitting his ear and the bright red bandana covering her mouth, Din couldn’t catch most of it but he thought he heard the rhythm of a question.

“Well, he calls himself a daimyo,” Sabine said (she was nearby and stationed on the working-hearing-aid side). When Meg looked to her with a raised eyebrow, she shrugged and shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know really know. With how he’s running things, I would call him something more like a king, but he doesn’t seem to want the title.”

“He doesn’t want the trouble claiming the title would invite,” Din amended, solemnly. When he realized he had spoken, when he realized what he had said, he couldn’t look at anyone around him. Taking a deep breath of dry air, he made himself move forward, toward the palace entrance.

The gates were open, partway—not enough that a starship could enter or exit the hangar beyond but enough that humanoids of an average height range could come and go without having to duck.

As they approached, a figure emerged to meet them.

It was difficult—nearly impossible—to describe anything as “typical��� on Tatooine, but the willowy frame arrayed in dark green and gold accented robes melting out of the shadows was not standard fare for the desert world. From the regal way he held himself to the smooth orange skin lacking signs of sun abuse, the Twi’lek man looked better suited to the courts of the Core Worlds than this dusty Outer Rim corner.

“Greetings! Greetings! Salutations!” he exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm and emphasis as if delighted he had just found a better, more appropriate word to use. He came to a stop a fair distance away from them, his robes swirling around his feet like stage curtains. He bowed with a courtly flourish, rose, paused and glanced over them then bowed again, a little deeper, ring-adorned hands ever swirling as if to make up for the lack of an accompanying orchestra. “We are most honoured to welcome you to our glorious, long-established abode. I,” and here he retired the flourishes to place a heartfelt hand on his chest, “am Graves Keefen: former majordomo of the former mayor of Mos Eisley. After a storied series of events, I now serve as Lord Fett’s majordomo. Lord Fett and Mistress Shand are in the middle of concluding some business with a few local figures, and, so, sent me in their stead to meet you and usher you in.”

“Wow. Someone who actually talks more than you,” Meg commented, nudging Ezra playfully.

[darcyfangirlsfrequently]

Snippet Saturday

"[...] holy shit. I can't believe you're the girl."

[nocoffeeforoldmen]

Just a lil tidbit

I know I already have something in progress, but in classic ADHD fashion, I couldn't help but start writing a wicked long one-two shot with lil snippets of their more canon romance.

And not for nothing but y'all keep posting the most wonderful oneshots with your Tavs and Gale (specifically Keldae, I cannot stop thinking about Devi what a fucking queen, and janemeteoric, whose fic Incandescence I literally cannot get out of my brain, on AO3).

At the far end of camp, Shadowheart and Halsin had their hands full with healing a horrifically battered Astarion and a relatively worse for wear Karlach. This left him at the cliffside Orla had set her tent up at, his injured hand in hers. “Te curo,” she mumbled, holding her palm over his. He could feel the tickle of the healing magic taking effect, though not enough to close the wound. “Hells.” She frowned but didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m going to have to stitch you up.”

The air between them had been light, perhaps even a little giddy, since the night of the celebration. She had made her interest clear with the image of their embrace. Of their kiss. He had thought of that very image every night since, wanting nothing more than to fall into her arms and let her have her way with him before quelling the orb in whatever way he could manage. There had been jokes and laughter shared as well as real genuine conversation. Back and forth that gave him more to chew on than any singular person had in many years. He pressed forward every now and again. A hand lightly touching her back as he followed through a doorway. Brushing dirt off her face after a hard fought battle. Moving her hair out of her eyes as she assisted Astarion in another lockpicking fiasco. It all felt so startlingly right that he couldn’t help himself.

But she had barely even looked at him since Elminster had stabilized the orb. Now that he didn’t feel as though his entire being would spontaneously combust when she came near, she wouldn’t even meet his eyes. “This is going to pinch,” she informed him as she readied a needle at the top of his still open wound. It pierced his skin, and perhaps it was because it was his palm or perhaps she had really pressed that hard with the needle but he sucked in a breath, wincing in pain. “I’m sorry.”

When their eyes finally met, the cold in hers still glittered in the light of the full moon, but there was something more in them than usual. A certain longing and dread he wasn't accustomed to. “Think nothing of it,” he hissed as she once again went in and out of his skin with the needle. “My pain tolerance, or lack thereof, is no fault of yours. If anything, I’m grateful for your willingness to help mend my recklessly acquired wound.”

It was silly when all was said and done. Maybe she would have turned around in time to grasp the Githyanki guard’s wrist and stop the blade from entering her back. Perhaps she had a spell of shield ready to go at a moment’s notice. When he saw the glint of the blade in the light from the brazier, he moved before he could think. He muttered something quick and mindless under his breath. An incantation that would send the guard repelling backwards, which did end up working. However, not before the blade slashed across the palm of the hand that he had thrust between them, leaving blood gushing onto the stone floor of the creche. Orla would not only end up leaving the finishing blow on the guard, but she also wrapped up his hand on the cleanest piece of cloth she could find to manage the flow of blood. 

The stitching she did on his hand was delicate and skillful. The work of someone who was already very adept at sewing. He watched in awe in spite of the pain, watching fingers tenderly handle his skin. Taking the very best care of him that she could. “My mother was a cleric,” she divulged to him quietly. It wasn’t often that much of anyone was privy to her sharing any information that wasn’t imperative to give. “But she died when I was very young.” He felt himself leaning towards her warmth despite himself. This was no way to do things. There was limited time left for him, and though he had learned she was just a few years older than he was, she deserved better than regret with the time she had left. “My father was a tailor, and he passed only but a few years ago. I suppose I’m better with a needle than I am with a healing spell due to the amount of time I spent learning alone.”

She released his hand, which had a roughly closed wound now. Within a day or so, the magic would catch up, the stitches would be removed, and they would move on like they always did. He stared down at her careful work with awe. She handled him as carefully as she could. There was no vengeance in her movements with the needle, only sadness, which was also present in the gaze she was still holding to his. “You aren’t really going to go through with it, are you?” she whispered. They were impossibly close. Closer than the orb would have allowed.

There was just a breath between them now as her eyes scanned over his face, desperately seeking out the answer she wanted from him. “I don’t see what other option I have, Orla,” he responded just above the whisper she had addressed him with. Mystra’s charge was clear: he was to sacrifice himself by way of the orb to destroy the Absolute. There was no fine print. There was no alternate ending. There was no third door. This was it. “Her will is–”

“There is always an option, Gale,” Orla urged, leaning forward on the ball of her hand. “There is always a choice. What do you want?” What a strange question to be asked on the precipice of such a monumental point of his life. “Not what your goddess wants. I frankly could not possibly give less of a damn what she wants. You, what do you want?”

Of course, given the option, he wanted to live. He wanted to be rid of the orb and take this beautiful strong half-elf in front of him into his arms and hold her all day and all night for as long as she would let him. He wanted to kiss her senseless and learn her entire history. He wanted to see what would happen to their merry band of misfits. What would come of Shadowheart’s longing to become a dark justiciar. How the reunion with Astarion’s vampire master would go. If Dammon would be able to fix Karlach’s engine and give her freedom over the land. What the rescue mission to save Wyll’s father would entail. How Lae’zel’s revenge mission would play out. If Orla would truly drag them through the shadow cursed lands and bring them to Baldur’s Gate. But it all seemed unlikely for him to see. The fact that he had made it this far was a miracle in and of itself.

“Because, if it has any weight at all, I would rather you didn’t blow yourself to smithereens,” she told him. “I would–not that my wants matter even a fraction in this situation–would be thrilled to hear about the misadventures of the notorious Gale of Waterdeep without the looming threat of the end of the world.” Trying to picture the two of them chatting over a relaxed dinner with mostly consumed bottles of wine was far easier than he had anticipated. Easy smiles and genuine laughter. Full bellies and fuller hearts. He imagined kissing her ring clad knuckles, smiling at the sight of her bejeweled fingers. “You deserve more than to be a tool to destroy an enemy we could all overpower together.”

He couldn’t recall the last time his thoughts had been taken into account the way she wanted them to be. The best he could think of was with Tara, but even so, there was so much suggestion of what he needed to do, leading to the everpresent implication of what he was doing wrong. “I…” words began to spill out of her mouth, but she clamped her plush lips shut. “I adore your company, and think the world could use a bit more Gale in it.”

With those words, he couldn’t restrain himself any longer. The relative calm in his chest was enough to push him forward. The knowledge that Mystra had sent someone as trusted as Elminster to stabilize the orb was enough to propel him to Orla. Their lips met in a whisper. A prayer. A plea. Soft and barely there at first. He couldn’t even be entirely certain if she still had any interest in such an act after all that she had learned. All she had seen. All he had said. 

Even with all that had happened, she stayed. She pressed closer to him. His uninjured hand lifted to rest against her cheek. It was a bliss unknown to him, kissing her in the privacy her cliffside provided. Her needle and thread had been discarded as she pushed herself into him. Both hands landed on either side of his face. The move was clinging to something he couldn’t name. Her moves were eager and quick and filled with angst. Every inch in his direction was desperate as she scrambled into his lap.

[miradelletarot]

Snippet Saturday!

I'm actually working on something so I ACTUALLY have something to post! WEEE!!!

He sat on his bedroll, thumbing through book after book, but the words blurred as if they pooled together and dripped like ink off the page. Paragraphs were read a dozen times over before he could even comprehend their meanings, yet another tome cast aside in favor of another only to repeat the process over and over again.

No context. Just posting it. If there are rules to this snippet saturday stuff, I'm breaking them. I'm throwing this at you and running away! hhahahahahahahahaha!!!

[writingamarie]

👶🏼👶🏼👶🏼👶🏼👶🏼

👶🏻 tba title (age gap buddie fic -like real age gap)

“I’m okay, Mister Diaz,” Buck assured him, “everyone here is so nice. They like me.” The statement was concerning enough but it was the last three words that had Eddie concerned. Buck had whispered as if he were praying in church like there was some big secret or miracle surrounding people tolerating him. Eddie had seen enough of Buck’s teen years to know that the kid had some issues. The Buckleys were perhaps the only family that had Ramon Diaz beat on the lack of emotions when it came to parenting. Eddie had been dragged to football games so his son could watch Buck play, he’d gone to the choir concerts the year Buck and Chris took choir to get their fine art credit for graduation, he’d had his Abuela bake multiple birthday cakes through the years all because Buck didn’t have anyone else. Like a duckling, the boy had imprinted onto Chris and eventually Eddie had come to expect the two of them to be together. “Plenty of people like you, Buck,” Eddie reminded him. “Let me take you home.” The words themselves didn’t make him think anything. It was a perfectly innocent offer and Eddie had no reason to question it –until the man Buck had abandoned gave him a look. Eddie didn’t feel particularly good at reading people's expressions but he did know jealousy. The fact that the man seemed to think Eddie would usher Buck away from him just to take advantage himself boiled and bubbled a white-hot rage in Eddie’s chest. He would never have let some young, pretty thing sit on his lap in the middle of a bar, especially when it was clear that they were drunk. Unlike unnamed men in bars, Eddie had some class.

link to another TBA snippet

link to another TBA snippet

link to og emoji wip game post