#snippets tag

[syrupwit]

[aluneposting]

astarion talks in his sleep .

little , thoughtless murmurs sometimes . he used to keep you awake when he had nightmares , and while his nightmares haven't gone awake , he now keeps you up for a different reason .

astarion talks in his sleep , about you , about your future . he says your name and it is the sweetest sound you think you've ever heard .

[japrilfools]

hi! i stumble upon this snippet and was trying to find it on your ao3 page but i couldn’t. it’s published, a wip or just a snippet? also you’re amazing! love to reading you 🥹🫶🏽

Oh, man! I forgot about that one! It’s a snippet from a WIP of a one-shot request I got, where April is Jackson’s teacher. I will try to work on that one sometime this weekend since there’s interest for it!

Here’s another snippet from the story!

You are so kind, and I’m so glad that you like to read my stories! I love writing them:)

[petit-etoile]

I’m unironically excited for tacobellstarion

'Just because you're like, seventy-something and still working at Taco Bell doesn't mean that's what the rest of us want to do,' Jenevelle says, blowing an obnoxiously large bubble with her gum. She slides off the counter and rolls her eyes. 'You're cringe.'

'Bold,' Astarion says, scandalized at only a young twenty-four years of age, 'considering that's coming from someone who put down the name Shadowheart on her application form and dresses like Olivia Rodrigo. Now, go clean the ladies' bathrooms before I feel inclined to point out you have nasolabial folds at eighteen.'

[squigglefic]

snippet

He taps his fingers against his ring. Hm. Maybe he could get a job in a kitchen.

“You like the cafe work.”

Eddie blinks and looks up at the ceiling even though he knows Venom was currently pooled at his feet, not his head. “Do I?” he scratches at his head, leaning back on his hips.

“Yes.”

Huh. Venom had presumably lifted the information directly from his- well. From a bit of his brain. The memory bit, or the- the feeling bit. Whatever.  He stretches. “What makes you say that?”

You like it when people smile at you.

Uh. Uh. “Do I?” he repeats. “Huh.”

He doesn’t think about Annie’s smile, doesn’t think about Dan’s grin, doesn’t think about the odd way Venom could split his mouth, and the teeth, the teeth-He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t. God damn it, Eddie.

Venom comes pouring out of his neck, slick and sliding, and Eddie would relax into it if he weren’t so unwilling to-

Venom smiles at him. Teeth split, inky black casing, something like opals for eyes-

He swallows. Something builds in the pit of his stomach. “Oh, shut up,” he mutters, swatting at their face. “Don’t.”

[syrupwit]

[syrupwit]

[syrupwit]

Long passage below the cut, but GKC where the FUCK are you going with this. What in the world is happening!!!

-

“Have you noticed an odd thing,” he said, “about all your descriptions? Each man of you finds Sunday quite different, yet each man of you can only find one thing to compare him to⁠—the universe itself. Bull finds him like the earth in spring, Gogol like the sun at noonday. The Secretary is reminded of the shapeless protoplasm, and the Inspector of the carelessness of virgin forests. The Professor says he is like a changing landscape. This is queer, but it is queerer still that I also have had my odd notion about the President, and I also find that I think of Sunday as I think of the whole world.” “Get on a little faster, Syme,” said Bull; “never mind the balloon.” “When I first saw Sunday,” said Syme slowly, “I only saw his back; and when I saw his back, I knew he was the worst man in the world. His neck and shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god. His head had a stoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox. In fact, I had at once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beast dressed up in men’s clothes.” “Get on,” said Dr. Bull. “And then the queer thing happened. I had seen his back from the street, as he sat in the balcony. Then I entered the hotel, and coming round the other side of him, saw his face in the sunlight. His face frightened me, as it did everyone; but not because it was brutal, not because it was evil. On the contrary, it frightened me because it was so beautiful, because it was so good.” “Syme,” exclaimed the Secretary, “are you ill?” “It was like the face of some ancient archangel, judging justly after heroic wars. There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honour and sorrow. There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god.” “Pan,” said the Professor dreamily, “was a god and an animal.” “Then, and again and always,” went on Syme like a man talking to himself, “that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained. But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I raced Sunday for the cab, and was just behind him all the way.” “Had you time for thinking then?” asked Ratcliffe. “Time,” replied Syme, “for one outrageous thought. I was suddenly possessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head really was his face⁠—an awful, eyeless face staring at me! And I fancied that the figure running in front of me was really a figure running backwards, and dancing as he ran.” “Horrible!” said Dr. Bull, and shuddered. “Horrible is not the word,” said Syme. “It was exactly the worst instant of my life. And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out of the cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children.” “It is a long game,” said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots. “Listen to me,” cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. “Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front⁠—” “Look!” cried out Bull clamorously, “the balloon is coming down!”