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loviatarsluv · 4 months

Text

An Acquired Taste

“You play a twisted little game,

but I know in a way,

you need to complicate

believe that though we never eat,

we still know how to feed,

we still know how to bleed”

Astarion x AFAB female rogue tav (third person, no super descriptive features aside from hair color and body)

takes place earlier into act 1, long before the grove party (I have plans for that)

rating: VERY mature (smut incoming lets go besties!!!!!!)

CW: threats of bodily harm (eheh), lots of sexual tension, choking, fingering, oral, some light knifeplay

a/n: I’m gonna be 100% honest w u I have not written in forever so I’m admittedly very rusty, but I have not seen enough enemies to lovers with astarion and I just needed it so thus this was born ^.^

in summary: astarion and tav butt heads constantly and get into a blow up fight where they both say shit they shouldn’t, tav is overwhelmed by everything and he is not helping, so she goes to blow off some steam once they get back to camp and he, of course, petty as he is, cannot let her have a single moment of peace and follows her. she threatens to slit his throat and he gets horny. as one does 🤷‍♀️ (just like me fr)

word count: 7.6k (i'm so sorry i was possessed writing this apparently)

(I have no idea where I got this gif from if someone knows tell me and I’ll tag the op!!)

The trek back to camp is mostly silent, save for the odd comment about the weather or spew of stream of consciousness by Karlach, which provided at least a tiny bit of comic relief.

The air was thick and suffocating between the party’s leader and the vampire who just loved to piss her off - it almost always was slightly tense, but today in particular was much different than what was usual for them.

As soon as they reach the camp, the group splits, all scattering across the site to their own chosen sections of it, Astarion nonchalantly strolling off to his own tent, which just so happened to be the closest one to hers. She audibly growls in frustration, earning a few concerned stares from her companions. She can’t even find peace in her own tent.

Before any of her companions can stop her or inevitably approach her with questions about what happened between her and Astarion or unsolicited and, quite frankly, unnecessary advice, she slips off to the place that had been the one piece of solace she had been able to find as of late. The clearing in the forest near the water's edge that was just outside of camp.

The usually ataractic smell of petrichor mixed with the misty air near the running stream fill her nose as she trudges through the muddy soil, her leather and metal plated boots feeling ten stones heavier than usual. She sets her sights on a fallen tree near the water, sinking down into the dirt before it, releasing a long and deep breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding for what felt like days.

She slowly strips off the outer layers of her lightly plated armor piece by piece, goosebumps prickling her skin with each new bit of skin exposed to the crisp evening air. She discovers a few new bruises and scrapes that hadn’t been there previously when removing certain parts of her gear had become painful, her skin tender and sore beneath it. Her entire body ached, and she was utterly sapped.

The previous few days had been more challenging than anything she’d experienced in recent history - their predicament unfolding before them all in increasingly bleak shades of stormy gray and blood red with each new bit of information they receive regarding the mystery surrounding the parasites that writhed within their skulls. She’d be lying if she said she still held the same amount of optimism toward the prospect of a cure as she had in the earlier days of their expedition. No, that was long gone.

In fact, the only emotion she seemed to feel lately was anger. Rage.

She knew that the world was going to shit prior to being abducted by the mind flayers, but she had never seen for herself how truly doomed it was the way she had since then. It was sobering, to say the least.

She never considered herself to be particularly altruistic or even virtuous by any means, having only been able to survive by picking pockets and slitting throats that stood in the way since her early teen years. She wasn’t proud of it all, and her mind was not unburdened with the guilt that came with some of it, but it was necessary at the time. It continued to be necessary, even more so now.

An image of home flashes through her mind - Baldur’s Gate. The bustling streets, the busy taverns, the upper city where she procured the majority of her coin. She chuckles to herself as she thinks of all of the nobles whose pockets she’d made lighter who were none the wiser - hells, most of them probably never noticed as gold was never in short supply for them the way it was for the rest of the population. They were easy targets only due to their noses being so high in the air that they didn’t notice those beneath them, scrounging the streets for the crumbs they crushed beneath their perfectly polished boots.

All she had to do was bat her eyelashes, whisper the same sweet nothings that worked on every single one of them, and expertly slip her hand into their pockets while they were enchanted by her every move. It was easier than easy, it was effortless.

She almost misses it - things were simpler, then. It had all become routine after so many years of it. Of course, there was still the threat of death looming over her at every turn but at least she could put up a fight against the daggers and swords that were held to her throat - there was no fighting this. She couldn’t threaten the tadpole with knives or swords or warfare, and she certainly couldn’t fight off ceremorphosis by sheer willpower. Sure, she could cut through every goblin, drow, or cultist that dared cross her path if they didn’t offer a cure or information for a cure, but none of that mattered as the creature inside her was nothing more than a ticking time bomb. Every second that passes could be her last without tentacles and an insatiable appetite for brains, and she’d be rendered nothing more than a soulless monster, doomed to follow every command given to it by an even bigger monstrosity.

Her hope and faith in finding a solution deteriorated more and more as the days passed with no answers, no leads, the prospect of making it out on the other side of this predicament seeming ever more distant.

She groans loudly to herself, tossing her head into her hands as she brings her knees closer to her chest, wishing she could shrink and disappear. Wishing the mud below her would form a sinkhole and just swallow her, that way it didn’t matter anymore, nothing would.

“Fuck,” She whispers through gritted teeth as she feels tears starting to well up in her eyes, much to her physical and internal protest.

In spite of her throbbing muscles and aching bones, she pushes herself up from the ground, refusing to resort to wallowing in self pity and mourning her once simple life.

But her chest feels as though it were caught in a vice, clamping down on her ribs and lungs and it felt as if she were fighting for every breath. Her fists were clenched so tightly and her nails dug into her palms so deeply that they were on the verge of drawing blood. She felt the need to scream, to cry, to break something - even though none of it would alleviate the weight that rested on her shoulders so heavily. Nothing that was within her reach could.

She felt like everything had come crashing down on her all at once and she was helpless to fight the barrage of what ifs and the potential outcomes of them flooded her mind.

Then, to top it all, her earlier argument with Astarion resurfaces in her mind.

“Apologies for not being as keen to remove the thing that has given me what I’ve been deprived of for two centuries. I’m only saying that we should—“

“So you’d trade feasting on rats in a dirty cell for feasting on brains at the command of some start-up god? You must really be desperate.”

His crimson eyes that were typically bright and playful were now dark and malignant, his jaw clenched and fangs bared. He looked as though he were about to lunge at her, before Wyll grabs him and pulls him back.

She regretted it the moment it left her lips, but she was too angry and too prideful to take it back. But he was seriously irking her - he provoked it out of her, she could hardly blame herself or feel sorry.

“What about you? Roaming the streets, scrounging through the garbage and the dirt for table scraps, stealing from nobles - you’re no better than the rats I fed on, the only difference is that the ones I fed on were more tolerable.”

It was then her turn to get pulled away, as within an instant her dagger was unsheathed and pointed in his direction. She couldn’t tell who it was that grabbed her - perhaps Gale, she thought, who was much stronger than he looked as he subdued her fairly quickly, wrapping his arms around her and dragging her backwards.

It took a lot of talking both of them down to diffuse the situation enough to safely make it back to camp in one piece, both of them too stubborn and prideful to let the matter rest until they just couldn’t stand to be near each other anymore.

His voice echoes in her head, reminding her of every person she’d ever reached out to for help in her life, degrading her to nothing more than a street rat begging for scraps. Her temper rises as she replays his words - “you’re no better than the rats I fed on” - over and over, finally tipping her over the edge.

She retrieves her rapier from the heap she’d discarded her armor and clothes in, rushes toward a large oak tree, swinging it into the trunk over and over until there’s large slashes in the trunk, the bark flying in shards and bits.

She steps back, breath ragged and heavy, eyes burning with tears that she refused to shed, especially over him and his damned opinion.

She's too enthralled in her own outburst to notice the footsteps approaching in the forest behind her.

“And what exactly did that tree do to deserve your wrath?” Astarion taunts, slowly stalking up behind her.

She doesn’t turn to face him, nor does she acknowledge him at all, tossing her weapon to the ground and walking back toward the stream.

“Tsk, I’m getting the silent treatment now? No scathing insults or cruel comments regarding my past?” He continues to prod, following a few steps behind her.

“Fuck. Off.” She growls through gritted teeth.

He chuckles, the sound bitter and disingenuous, goading.

“Oh, darling. You couldn’t possibly think that we wouldn’t have to kiss and make up after our little spat earlier. We’re stuck with each other in this sordid endeavor, after all.”

Her knuckles have gone white with the force of her clutching onto the fabric of her undershirt that she’d thankfully left on, on the off chance one of her companions came to check on her. Much to her dismay, of course it was the one companion she wished she had never laid eyes on to begin with.

“I’d rather kiss a leech, darling,” she spits, her tone coated in vitriol. “I have nothing more to say to you, unless you’d like me to return the favor of holding a dagger to your throat.”

When they’d met outside the nautiloid crash, and the elf held her at knifepoint demanding information, assuming she was a thrall or working with the mind flayers, she thought perhaps they would get along. She immediately recognized him as a kindred spirit as she knew that she would’ve done the same in his shoes, hells, she was even attracted to him.

Oh, how wrong she’d been.

Well, not about the attraction. That, unfortunately, did not dissipate.

If anything, it only made her hate him more.

He almost cackles, stalking in ever closer, closing the gap between them step by step. She resists the urge to step backwards to increase the distance between them once again, and stays planted in place out of spite, digging her heels into the dirt for extra support.

“I think there’s a lot that we both want to say and do to each other - the question is who’ll be the first to act.” His voice is equal parts threatening and sultry - something only he did so well.

He could make you loathe him and lust him in one fell swoop with ease. It was one of his biggest strengths, and a large reason why she hadn’t told him to piss off and find another group to leech off of. He was useful in and out of battle, much to her dismay.

“The only thing I want to do with you at this very moment is throw your pasty ass in the river and hope that you’ve forgotten how to swim.” She spat.

He continues to stalk closer, their bodies now less than a foot apart.

“You’re stubborn. I like that about you. You don’t accept defeat easily, even when it’s knocking at your door. It’s quite admirable, really,” he pauses to lean forward, lowering his face so they’re eye to eye.

“Admit it, dear, you’ve met your match with me.” He grins a devilish grin that she wants to slap off of his pretty mouth. If he were any closer, she might have.

“This isn’t a competition. I want to be rid of this damned thing and you want to step in the way of my and everyone else’s survival at every turn just for your own selfish sake!” She seethes, her voice raising and echoing through the woods.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t act as though you give the slightest bit of a damn about anyone’s survival but your own, altruism isn’t a good look on you, pet. You and I are cut from the same cloth, whether you want to admit that to yourself or not.”

Her once empty fist was now grasping the handle of her dagger that she had sheathed and strapped to her thigh, as she always did, a habit that came in handy more times than she’d like for it to.

“I am nothing like you.” Is all she manages to hiss before he finally closes the gap between them, his face merely inches from hers, basically towering over her - their stark height difference being something only he had noticed and fully planned on using to his advantage.

He feels the heat radiating off of her, and he tells himself that it’s due to more than just anger to stroke his own ego. He knew that she was attracted to him, he’d caught her eyes lingering on him when she thought he wouldn’t notice - when he’d change into his evening clothes just outside his tent, when he would traipse off into the woods to hunt at night, and in general throughout their days traveling he would catch her eyes on him, watching him. It made it all the more exciting for him, knowing that even though she despised him, she’d let him have his way with her if the opportunity arose. He was just biding his time for the right moment and preparing all the perfect words that he knew would reduce her to putty in his hands.

“Keep telling yourself that, if it’ll help you sleep peacefully at night.” He whispers, his eyes dark and hungry - she couldn’t decipher whether it was for her or her blood in one way or another.

“How can I sleep peacefully knowing there’s a bloodsucker who hates me in the next tent over from me?” She half jokes, not letting this closeness falter her composure, despite the way her heart was racing a million a minute.

He flashes that damned smirk that he does when he’s up to something, one of his fangs peeking out over his bottom lip as he does, glinting in the golden glow of the sunset. He almost looked human, in this light. His usually pallid skin is nearly lively and his crimson eyes almost appear to be a shade of dark brown instead. Although, she thinks that his eyes were probably blue, before. Not that it mattered, not that she cared.

“What makes you think that I hate you, darling?” His face flashes a feign innocent expression, in spite of his eyes still holding that same intense darkness that bordered between disdain and desire.

“I certainly don’t think that you like me, by any means. And don’t worry, the feeling is mutual.”

His smirk widens into a sadistic grin, both fangs now on display.

“On the contrary, sweetness. I think we need to stop lying to each other if we’re going to continue this little adventure of ours together,” his voice is low and breathy, rumbling in his chest almost like a growl. He brings a hand up to trace the side of her jaw gently, and she flinches away.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.” He continues, his once gentle caress turning into a rough and forceful grab as he forces her to look at him, his blood red eyes boring into hers.

“I only watch you because I don’t trust you. I thought that’d be pretty clear.” It was a lie. She knew it was a lie, but it was only a half lie, technically. She didn’t trust him, she hadn’t since the beginning.

He lets out another cruel laugh, and she knows that he caught on.

“Hmm. You know, I’d assume you would be a better liar - how disappointing for you, but delicious for me.”

This was the last straw for her as she promptly unsheathes the dagger that her finger had been itching over since he made his unwelcome appearance into her life, pressing it to his throat, slowly pushing him backwards until his back hits the nearest tree.

His demeanor doesn’t falter for an instant, his face still twisted into that same demented sneer - the bastard was enjoying this.

The air between them was so thick it would have had to be cut with a great sword as their eye contact never breaks, neither of them intending to surrender.

“Give me one reason not to slit that pretty throat of yours.” She snarls behind gritted teeth.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple grazing against the cool metal of her blade. He stares down at her and can’t help but admire her - eyes wild, long raven black hair uncharacteristically disheveled with some strands sticking to her forehead due to leftover dried sweat and grime, her pressed against him hard with only a flimsy shirt shielding her body from him. He doesn’t even try to hide it, letting his tongue slip out to wet his bottom lip, an undeniably lustful look in his eyes.

It takes her a moment to notice when she finally comes back to her senses after her adrenaline settles, a scowl painting across her face as the realization hits.

“You’re disgusting.” She hisses, pulling away from him, lowering her blade.

Despite her words, the way he was looking at her sparked something in her - something she had done so well to disregard and push down up to this point, but her resolve was weakening under his gaze.

He doesn’t respond, eyes never leaving her as they trail up and down her body, constantly returning back to her bare legs and thighs. And from the angle she stood, with the sunset behind her, her light colored linen shirt was nearly opaque and he could see the outline of her body. He feasted his eyes on her delicate curves, the way her hips jutted out and her waist dipped in above them, her toned arms flexing, muscles clenching. She was unquestionably sexy, and his craving for her had doubled if not tripled at the sight of her in this way, even after she pressed her dagger to his neck. Hells, even then.

She starts to back up as his gaze only intensifies - hungry eyes trailing her body felt like hot coals being dragged across her skin.

Before she can make it more than a couple inches away, his hands are grasping her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh to a bruising point, pulling her back to him and flipping them so that her back is flush against the tree where his had been, effectively switching the roles and asserting his dominance over her, as he’d been dying to do for what felt like centuries.

His icy hand comes up to her throat, closing his fist around it firmly but not enough to entirely restrict her breathing and pinning her against the wood, his face now close enough to feel her hot breath against his cheeks.

The rough bark digs into her scalp and back, his fingers press into the spot just below her jaw near her pulse point. He feels her pulse thrumming rapidly against his fingertips, he can hear her heartbeat racing in her chest.

“You wound me, pet… I almost believed that one.” He purrs, his cold breath and the tone of his voice sending a chill down her spine, and an unwelcome heat through her, pooling low in her core.

With one hand still on her throat, his other hand rests on her waist before languidly roaming the parts of her body that weren’t covered by his own pressed against it.

She feels helpless under his touch, all of her previously built up walls and her icy facade start to melt beneath him, but not without her brain chiming in and reminding her who he is and how bad of an idea this was.

“Let me go.” She whispers plainly, unable to muster enough nerve to yell or scream or fight back, settling for no emotion at all.

He smirks at her, his hand advancing upwards, his fingers laving over the side of her breast, causing her nipples to harden, peaking against the soft linen fabric of her shirt.

“Is that what you really want, darling? Your body tells a different story,” he hums, his finger now grazing her nipple agonizingly gently, disrupting any thought or intention of fighting him off.

She's unable to find a word that could suffice in telling him to stop, but also dear gods please keep going. Her body was taking the reins, and she blames it on having not had any sort of intimacy since long before the nautiloid. Only to avoid the prospect that she was truly enjoying this.

Her silence doesn’t suffice, though.

He tightens his grip on her throat, pressing his index finger and thumb on either side of her jaw to direct her face so their eyes meet.

“I need you to tell me what you want, pet. I can’t do anything for you if you don’t tell me what you want.”

She bites down on her bottom lip almost hard enough to bite through, a slight metallic taste hitting her tongue. Her body was trembling with the effort it took to contain herself, to not give in to him but it was proving to be an insurmountable task. The logical side of her brain wants to say no just so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of her begging for him like he wants, but she can’t. The part of her brain that is apparently driven by the spot between her legs and the rest of her body is screaming over any logic and telling her everything she doesn’t want to hear.

“Harder.” She barely manages to choke out, her voice strained against the pressure of his hand on her throat.

He freezes, his body stilling and tensing up.

“What was that, darling? I couldn’t quite hear you.” He grits his teeth, his voice low and his mouth centimeters from her ear.

“Harder.” She says louder, placing her hand over his and pressing down.

Gods, he could’ve come undone right then and there.

Without another word, their lips collided in a frenzied and feral kiss, one that was inevitable, they both learned, judging by how effortless the kiss was - their lips melding and their tongues in sync as if they’d done it a million times before. Her fingers ran through his ivory curls, tugging at the roots and eliciting a groan from him that sent a chill up her spine.

He obliged her request, slightly closing his fist tighter around her neck, which chokes a moan out of her that he quickly swallows in another kiss. His free hand greedily continues to roam and grab at anything he can - her thighs, her ass, her breasts, her hips. He can't get enough of her, he swears even being inside her wouldn't satiate his desire for her. He wants to mark her, he wants to claim her, he wants her to be his, even if it was only for this purpose alone.

She hooks her leg around his, pulling him flush against her and feeling his hardened cock straining against his breeches as it presses to her lower stomach.

She almost gasps, disappointed but secretly pleased to discover that he was big, from what she could tell through his clothes at least.

She had hoped she could at least say he was small or that the sex sucked after it was all said and done, but she had an inkling that this was just yet another thing she would have to begrudgingly give him his due credit for.

He notices her reaction to the bulge in his pants, and smirks as he presses a wet kiss to her jaw, then rocks his hips forward to press himself against her even harder.

"This is your doing, you know," He breathes, a smirk evident in his voice.

Annoyed by his arrogant words and gesture, she digs her nails into his shoulder, a noise that's somewhere between a moan and a frustrated growl escaping her as he continues to suck on her neck, grazing the skin with his fangs.

“I’m starting to think you like having your life threatened a little too much.” She breathes.

He chuckles, lips still hovering over hers. “Only by you, darling.”

He palms at her ass cheek roughly, surely leaving a slew of intentional bruises so that she has a reminder the next morning, then smacking it - his frigid touch adding to the sting of the rough contact.

She yelps slightly, biting her lip in an attempt to stifle any noises she may make. He shakes his head, releasing her neck and bringing his hand up to trace her lips with his fingertips.

"No, no, sweetness, I want to hear that pretty voice of yours. For now, at least." He has a look as if he was planning something that instantly set her on edge - she never knew what to expect from him, especially not in this sort of circumstance.

"You're such an ass," She grunts indignantly, before he dips a finger in between her parted lips.

Almost as if on pure instinct, she sucks on his digit, swirling her tongue and laving it in her spit. His breath hitches as he stifles a pleased groan. She smirks pridefully, his finger still in her mouth.

"And yet, here we are, darling."

In rebuttal, she bites down on his finger just enough to hurt him, which causes him to hiss in pain. He shoots her a warning glance, then relaxes when he sees the amusement on her face.

“So feisty.”

He rubs her bottom lip with a second finger, a silent plea to add another into her mouth, which she promptly obliges.

She gives the second finger the same treatment as the first, her mind running wild with images of his cock in place of his fingers, how he might taste, the way it already weeps with arousal for her - it felt so wrong, yet she couldn't seem to get enough.

He pulls his fingers out of her mouth with a pop, his crimson eyes holding hers in an intense stare as he brings his still dry hand down to hook her underwear to the side, the cool breeze hitting her drenched cunt and making her suck in a breath. He makes a show of bringing the two fingers that had just been in her mouth down to rub her soaking folds, making sure that she was watching his every move.

"Fuck, you're already so wet for me." He moans, his voice low and gravelly as he slowly begins to spread her apart, the filthy sounds of her arousal like a song to his ears.

A loud moan rips through her as she throws her head back, the slightest touch embarrassingly already almost too much. Maybe it was the anticipation, maybe it was because it'd been so long since she'd been touched like this - or maybe it was just another testament to how badly she needed him. His touch.

"Rather sensitive, aren't we, pet?" He teases, dipping his head down to place a kiss to the part of her chest that was exposed by the low neckline of her shirt.

"Shut. Up." She growls, her hand gripping the nape of his neck and pulling him closer. The rumbling of his laughter echoes in her chest as his mouth stays pressed against it.

He presses wet kisses further and further down as he slowly moves his face lower, sinking to his knees in front of her.

She can't contain the gasp that escapes her as she peers down at him - his typically pristine and well groomed silvery white curls were a disaster as a result of her hands ravaging them, his eyes were dark and lidded, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Not to mention, the satisfaction that came from him being on his knees below her, knowing what he intended to do - gods below, it was almost too much to bear.

He raises her shirt higher, holding it up between her breasts and getting just a small peek of the underside of them - the temptation to rip the wretched thing off of her and completely bare her to him crossing his mind. He decides against it, unsure if she'd want to be fully exposed in case someone decided to come check on her.

He, personally, wouldn't mind any of the others finding them this way - that way they would know that he was staking his claim on her. He was well aware that he was far from the only one in the camp that had dreamt of touching her, and he planned on being the only one who gets to.

He straightens himself up so he can trail another line of wet kisses down her abdomen, stopping just above the waistband of her underwear. His eyes flick back up to hers, finding that she had been watching his every move - satisfied with how quickly she catches on to his desires, as if it were natural to her.

He hooks two fingers beneath the fabric on each of her hips, waiting for her to protest. She doesn't, instead she reaches her hand down and attempts to pull them down herself. He grabs her wrist, stopping her.

"Ah ah, allow me." He commands, his voice equal parts soothing and threatening. She drops her hand back to her side. "Good girl."

He rips the fabric down her legs, letting it pool at her ankles before he hooks an arm under her thigh and lifts it so that she steps out of them. He pushes them aside, keeping her leg lifted as he pushes her night shirt out of the way once again, revealing her drenched and throbbing cunt to him, at long last.

He practically salivates at the sight, his eyes burning trails all around it as he drinks in every inch of her newly exposed flesh. This causes her to blush for the first time during this encounter, suddenly feeling self conscious about her most intimate area. She feels the urge to cover herself, her leg instinctively moving to clench against the other. He stops her quickly, pressing her leg up even higher, stretching her already sore thigh muscles.

"Absolutely perfect. To think you’ve been keeping this all to yourself." He coos, his voice now softer, reverent, even. As if he were quietly admiring the finely crafted sculpture of a goddess on display in the foyer of a tabernacle.

With her leg now draped over his shoulder, he continues his attack of wet and hungry kisses up her leg. He toys with the knife strapped to her, running a finger along the hilt of the blade, then biting the leather strap on the innermost part of her leg, his lips brushing against the skin and causing goosebumps to prickle up.

He slowly continues trailing up to the apex of her thighs, pausing at the very top of her thigh and nipping at the plush skin.

Her arousal and frustration had started to truly boil within her, him taking his damn sweet time was beginning to piss her off all over again and she knew he was doing it deliberately. He was trying all that he could to get her to beg.

"Astarion, if you don't eat me out right now, I'm going to kill you."

She wouldn't beg, no. Threatening, though? Easy.

"Patience, darling. Good things come to those who wait."

She scoffs. "I'm starting to think you're stalling. Scared that you won't be able to live up to your reputation?" She taunts in an attempt to anger him enough to finally oblige her.

His eyes narrow, his once smug face falling into a scowl.

He quickly unsheathes the knife on her thigh, grabbing it by the blade. Her eyes widened.

"What the hells are you doing?" Her voice held a bit of unease as she watched him gently tap the tip of the blade, as if he were testing the sharpness.

He grins wickedly, his eyes flicking from the dagger back up to hers. "I'm going to shut you up. Open," he commands, bringing the hilt of the dagger up to her lips.

She shoots him an uncertain look, confused. He sighs, frustrated, then presses the hilt further until her lips parted, and she took it between her teeth.

The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, the golden light shifting to a cool blue glow, the reflection of the moon glinting off of the recently sharpened and polished blade. She hadn’t realized just how sharp Lae’zel made it, and having it so close to her face this way truthfully made her nervous.

A twisted part of her enjoyed it for that fact.

He looks up at her, the sight of the hilt of the dagger that she'd threatened him with only minutes prior, now held between her teeth both ironic and unequivocally erotic.

"Much better. Shall we try this again?"

Satisfied with the outcome of his bright idea and the muffled groan of frustration from the only one who’d been plaguing his thoughts when he was alone in his tent, he returns to his prior ministrations, starting his trail of kisses right back where he'd begun them just at the side of her knee.

He repeats the process identically to how he'd done it previously, except this time he bites the top of her thigh slightly harder, eliciting a whimper from her, nearly causing the knife to slip out of her mouth.

"Careful, pet." He warns, a slight smirk playing on the corners of his lips.

With his face still right at the crest of her thigh, cool breath fanning across her burning hot flesh, he brings his even colder fingers back up to tease her folds. She jolts at the sensation, involuntarily crawling upward onto the tree, now on tiptoe with her leg that's still on the ground. He tightens his arm around her thigh, pulling it down on to his shoulder slightly as if to warn her to stay still. She obliges, flattening her foot back down and relaxing her posture as best as she can manage, the thought of making this take even longer agonizing.

His deft fingers work her slowly, touching everywhere but where she needed him most. The sounds of her slick arousal seemed much louder now that they’d both gone mostly quiet apart from their heavy breathing, and she feels that damned blush creep back up to her cheeks once again.

She involuntarily yelps when his fingers tease her entrance, her walls instinctively clenching around nothing. She disobeys him by wriggling slightly, then realizes and quickly tries to cease her movements. He lets his thumb rest against her swollen and throbbing clit, refusing to move even an inch until she settles down.

“Look at you,” he coos. “So eager for me. I almost want to take that dagger out of your mouth and hear that sweet voice moan for me again.”

She bites down even harder into the hilt of the dagger to stifle the moan that threatens to escape her throat, certainly leaving teeth marks that she’ll have to hide in case anyone needs to borrow it later.

He chuckles, his eyes still trained on her face as he pushes ever so slightly against her entrance, his thumb pressing harder into the over-sensitive bud - savoring her every reaction to him. The way her brows knitted up, the way her glossy eyes widened, her hands clutching the fabric of her shirt and holding it close to her chest, the way the dagger shifted slightly in her mouth as her jaw clenched around it. She was a feast for his eyes and he intended to savor every bite.

Finally, he decides to show her mercy and push his fingers further in, careful to move slowly and give her time to adjust. Her eyes blow wide and her head falls back against the tree, giving him a full view of her neck that makes his mouth water.

Next time, he thinks to himself.

His fingers are just barely not too thick for her - the stretching only slightly uncomfortable and otherwise euphoric. He pumps in and out at a lazy pace at first, quickening over time as he feels her fully adjust after a while. She’s perfectly tight, her velvet walls clenching his fingers with every plunge into her depths. He can barely think straight, all rational thought having left him ages ago. All that he can think now is how badly he wishes it were his cock in her rather than his fingers - but as he’d told her, good things come to those who wait.

She feels herself creeping ever closer to her peak as his movements become more and more rhythmic and deliberate, his thumb rubbing circles around her clit as his fingers piston in and out, hitting all of the right spots and driving her wild. Her body is buzzing, her legs trembling. She wants to resist how incredible this all feels, but gods, does it feel incredible.

Everything that comes after this is a problem for later, right now, all she wants is to—

“Aah!” She yelps as he curls his fingers, the dagger slipping from her mouth and thankfully dropping to the ground beside them.

He grins, continuing his ministrations. “Are you gonna come, pet?”

She takes her bottom lip in between her teeth, scared to say yes in fear that he may stop and deprive her of her release just to spite her.

“Answer me.” He commands, his voice coming out as a low growl.

She reluctantly nods.

“Use your words. Answer me.”

“Y-yes. Gods, yes. Just… don’t stop.” She whines, trying her damnedest for it not to come out as a beg, but rather a command. It was mildly successful.

To her surprise, he speeds up the pace, pumping in and out of her hard and fast - the way she so desperately craved it. She feels herself right at the edge, her orgasm impending - he can tell, as she writhes and whimpers over him. Just as he can tell she’s about to hit the peak, he stops.

She keens at the sudden loss of friction and movement, her walls clenching down around his fingers even harder, her cunt throbbing and dripping onto his hand.

“Why…” Is all she manages to say, her breathing ragged and her chest heaving.

“I want you to come on my mouth.”

That alone could have sent her over the edge.

She nods fervently, her hips bucking forward toward his face.

He considers punishing her for being too hasty and too eager, but he couldn’t care less any more to keep up the game - he needs to taste her. He needs to devour her.

He moves his thumb, making way for his tongue to replace it. He expertly strokes his tongue across her folds, her essence sweet and tangy on his taste buds. He swipes across her clit, causing her to jerk into his mouth, a string of incoherent curses leaving her lips.

She drops the fabric of her shirt and threads her fingers through his hair once again, gripping it almost painfully. He groans against her, the vibrations of his voice against her causing her to see stars.

He lifts her shirt out of his way once again, mouth never breaking from her, and growls in frustration at the piece of fabric that kept dropping into his face. Taking his growl as a silent command, she rips the fabric over her head and tosses it aside, now completely naked and bare to him as well as the cool night air.

His eyes widened at the sight of her, finally getting a full view of her breasts and the rest of her that was previously unrevealed to him. He breaks away from her cunt for a moment, both hands moving to palm her full breasts.

“You are exquisite.”

She’d almost prefer if he’d insult her, be cruel to her, say the worst things he can think of - that way she wouldn’t have to grapple with these new feelings that are bubbling up to the surface at how generous of a lover he’s proven to be, when only minutes prior she was sure that they shared a mutual hatred for each other. Maybe he was just putting on a show for her, like he always did.

Yes. He’s putting on a show. He has to be, she thinks.

She hisses through her teeth when he finally brings his mouth and hand back to her mound, wasting no time in resuming his prior crusade to make her come, pumping his fingers at a punishing pace, his tongue circling her clit in tandem. He keeps his free hand on her breast, pinching her nipple hard, causing her to roll her hips into his face.

“That’s it, love. Take what you need.”

For fucks sake, he’s going to be the death of me.

His words, his mouth, and his dexterous fingers are a wicked combination - every single movement, every single word, every lap at her needy cunt is nearly too much for her to bear as she uses every bit of her remaining strength to keep from crumbling into a heap in the dirt.

As requested by him, she continues to rock her hips forward, grinding down onto his fingers and mouth, his fingers hitting all the right places to drive her over the edge. She grips at his shoulder, nails digging into the fabric of his ruffled evening shirt, chest heaving as she creeps ever closer once again, and silently prays he has mercy on her this time.

“Astarion, I’m—“

“I know, love. Come for me,” he says, muffled with his mouth still tongue deep in her.

As if on command, she shatters, tumbling over the edge into free fall towards the hardest orgasm she’s had in months, perhaps even years.

Her body shakes and writhes as she gushes on his tongue, but he doesn’t slow his movements, still pumping into her as she rides out her orgasm, pangs of unbridled pleasure crashing over her like tidal waves.

Her legs quiver, the leg that she was using to stand begins to buckle at the knee as all strength she’d had left from the day has finally been sapped from her body. She slowly slides down the tree into his lap, eyes closed and still reeling.

She manages to weakly tilt her head forward, looking him in the eye for the first time with new eyes - unsure what that meant for her yet. She was half sure that she still hated him. Half.

He grins at her, his own chest still heaving as he catches his breath, ruby irises lighter than before, a look in his eyes that she doesn’t quite recognize.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to do that since the day I met you.” He says, popping his fingers into his mouth and licking her slick off.

She swallows hard at the sight, her still sore and sensitive core starting to flutter again as he licks his fingers clean.

“I still don’t like you, you know. You’ll have to do more than make me orgasm to change my mind.” She says, her tone unusually calm and amicable toward him despite her words.

“Oh darling, who said we had to like each other to do that? In fact, I think it makes it all the more thrilling.” He brings his hand up to her cheek, gently caressing it and swiping his thumb across it.

She puffs air out of her nose, a wry smile on her lips. “Who says we’re going to do that again?”

He grins, bringing his still wet lips and face closer to hers, his breath smelling strongly of a mixture of her essence, wine, and a bitter metallic smell that was undeniably blood - she assumes he hunted not too long before he joined her in the woods.

“You can hate me all you want, my sweet, but I know that nobody has ever made you feel the way that I do. It’ll only be a matter of time before you’re crawling back into my bedroll, begging for another taste.” He taunts, his voice in that same low and sultry tone he did so well, the one that he knew had the power to melt anybody right into his hands.

She narrows her eyes for a brief moment - then an idea flits into the back of her mind, a mischievous smile following suit. The game was now set, and she was ready to play.

“We’ll see who begs who first, darling.”

part two - ♡︎

#this was a wild ride #lmk if u like it hehe #astarion #astarion ancunin #spawn astarion #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #astarion smut #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader #if u squint #enemies to lovers #idk what else to tag this lol #my fics #aat

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thisismeracing · 5 months

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Haunted | LH44

― Pairing: Ghost!Lewis x fem!reader ― Word count: 3.8k ― Warnings: +18; suggestive content and graphic description of sex (fingering and dirty talk); mentions of cheating; description of horror situations and stabbing (but not too graphic). ― Summary: Lost in the years, lost in the days, Lewis Hamilton haunts the house that once was his. The house where he was killed. And the house that now has new inhabitants. He was used to blowing candles, breaking chinas, and it being enough for the curious newbies to leave. However, it was the first time he met someone who wouldn’t act terrified by his presence. Yn was curious, and that curiosity had a price. Lewis was the one who would collect the debt.

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It was a cursed house.

The tale was that a rich man used to live there. He was beautiful. So beautiful the whole town knew who he was. He was also warm and compassionate, he would help old ladies with bags, walk the neighbor’s dog, share his famous coffee whenever he had the time, and help the young boys with driving classes. But his beauty was also his curse because someone’s wife fell in love with him, and as the saying goes, there are two things you cannot hide properly: a cough and a burning love. It wasn’t even a week after the man noticed how his lady would eye the town’s treasure. It was possible the young gentleman didn’t know about this infatuation, but the woman’s husband knew and it was enough for him to stab the man to death in the most brutal way. Rumor had it he tried to get up and walk, but he could only make it to the door of his room, his body collapsing and succumbing to death minutes after agonizing with his own blood. The houses were far one from the other, but his screams were so loud some of the neighbors heard them even after he passed away, haunted by his pleas they moved.

The house went for sale, and someone even bought it a year after the crime, but they did not last for a week, the ghost of the dead man haunted the place day and night moving things, opening and closing doors, as if inviting whoever was there to leave, and when his requests were not obeyed, he would riot. In the night, his screams would get louder, he would grab their feet, play with the TV’s remote, boil water, and let the windows open.

They say he’s an angry ghost, a miserable one because he never got to experience true love. He was killed before he could, and so he closed himself on the house he took so much care while in life. His garden was the most beautiful one. Full of dark roses, and big trees, but once he died so did the flowers. It was like everything rotted.

Yn sighed thinking about the story an old lady told her when she went to get groceries. The woman went as far as advising her to leave the house, the money be damned. But of course, Yn wouldn’t do it. The house cost money for her and her husband, Eric. And besides, she had always been curious about ghost stories. Never truly believed how dangerous it could get.

“And she told me some people still hear his screams when passing by the house,” Yn repeated the tale to Eric while they shared take-out on the living room floor. The fire was lit casting a warm glow around then, but she felt a brief shiver pass through her body as soon as she finished speaking.

The ginger laughed, “Did she tell you when it happened?”

“A long time ago, she didn’t- she didn’t mention the year,” Yn explained. “Why? Don’t you believe it?”

He shook his head, “Nah, you know I’m extremely skeptical about those fairy things.”

“Not fairies, Eric, but ghosts,” she tried.

He shrugged, “I think when we die, we die, period. There’s no second or third dimension, much less one in between to get stuck on.”

Yn nodded, knowing it wouldn’t be a productive conversation. Her husband was usually set on his beliefs, never straying away from them, and sometimes this would cost a peaceful night whenever they couldn’t agree on something. He would have a hard time comprehending her point of view.

“So what, you wanna move now? You’re afraid a bloody man is gonna show up and imprison you here?” Eric joshed.

Yn rolled her eyes tired of how pushy he could get. She loved him, but sometimes it was hell to deal with his mannerisms. When they were younger she thought it would change with time. Turns out it didn’t.

“It’s your turn to clean up, I’m heading to bed,” and pecking his lips she climbed the stairs leading to the long and dark corridor of the rooms. Yn stopped right at the door, watching the threshold and imagining how, even if years ago, someone died there. Right in between. Reaching for the outside. Screaming for help.

She sighed, starting her night routine. It was only their second week at the house, and she was used to how the bathroom lights would flash, or the water would lessen. Except, now she knew about the guy that died there, and everything that happened reminded her of him.

It’s curious how your mindset changes once you’re presented with a different explanation. Once you believe it to be true. And she believed so much to the point of googling it while lying in bed. Eric hadn’t been back just yet, and Yn was scrolling through the results which weren’t that many. It was a small town. Apparently a simple crime. It was probably life-altering and shocking for those who lived there at the time and knew both parties, but if she were a journalist that wouldn’t be the most exciting case to cover.

Yn heard the footsteps on the corridor, but she was so engrossed in the page that she finally found out about the murder of a young man, and just when she was about to reach his name the door opened. She bit her lips, trying to find which line she was reading, “Eric?” Yn asked, and the same door that opened all the way seconds ago closed abruptly making her jump.

The light on the nightstand flashed, and Yn tried to be rational. She told herself it was probably Eric trying to prank her. Or the wind, even though the windows were closed. Who knew? The house had a good ventilating system.

She called for her husband again, and she heard more footsteps, but he didn’t answer back. She huffed stressed, blocking her phone and turning on the bed to try and get some sleep. She had tons of cleaning to do the next day, the house was huge and some of her things were still packed in cardboxes.

Later, when Eric finally got to the bedroom, he walked by the bed squeezing her foot, a habit he had whenever he passed close enough to touch, and seconds before, when he crawled into bed Yn was too drowsy to complain about his stupid pranks. She just curled her body on his and dozed off.

She was humming to a tune she couldn’t quite grasp yet while folding her clothes on her bed when she heard the steps. She tried turning to look, but it all happened too fast. In the blink of an eye, she felt the sting on her back, so close to her neck it felt almost like when sunlight hit that particular spot. She held back a groan but screamed the second that same sting hit full force, this time on the left side of her shoulders. When Yn turned, feeling the tickles of hot blood run down her back, she saw a man with so much rage in his eyes that it was like he was hitting her over and over again on the same spot. But in reality, his hands went up holding a bloody knife, and he stabbed her in a series of different places. She screamed, cried, and asked between coughs why her, why he was doing it, why a knife, why so many hits, why why why? And when no answer came from his mouth except grunts she knew there was nothing to do but to run for her life. She stumbled in the direction of the bedroom door, feeling yet another series of stings on her back. She tried to run, but her own blood betrayed her and she slipped on it. The feeling of the hot liquid against her hands and cheeks made her scream harder for help. But no one came, and the stab continued. She tried crawling. Tried praying. Tried begging for her life or at least to stop and let her die in pieces, but it went on until darkness surrounded her. She weakly turned her arm in the direction of her killer, digging her nails into the skin of his forearm and dragging as if telling him something. And when darkness surrounded her she kept screaming and twisting her body.

“Yn, wake up! It’s me! Wake up, dammit!” Erik tried while Yn relentlessly twisted on the bed. “Wake up, Yn,” he tried louder and she jumped out of bed taking part of the covers with her and almost falling to the ground.

“Omg, omg,” she took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, looking around her room and noticing there were no clothes to be folded or blood spots on the ground. Only her scared husband staring at her from his spot on the bed.

“What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” she holds the covers closer to her body, trying to make herself smaller. “I had a nightmare, but it was so real, so real I-”

Erik sighed, “You shouldn’t have entertained that crazy lady at the supermarket, now you’re convinced and thinking there’s a ghost in the house, as if there are ghosts at all!”

Yn shook her head, but kept her mouth shut, standing glued on her spot and assessing the whole room all over again. It was this room. This exact same room was the one she was standing in in her nightmare, and possibly the room where the guy was killed. Her phone lit up on the nightstand, there were no new notifications, and when she unlocked it her browser was still open on the article about the case. She locked it again and took a step back.

“What was it now, babe?” Erik was clearly frustrated, he hated being woken up especially in the middle of the night, and especially in a scary situation like the one he just watched happen.

“Nothing, I- uhm- I should try sleeping again,” she stated, getting under the covers and lying beside him, when her back hit the mattress she swore she felt a small sting, but she kept her mouth shut and closed her eyes, trying to sleep it off.

When the morning came and the sun peeked through the blinds, Yn descended the stairs to the kitchen, stopping at the door and staring at the mess her husband, who was supposed to clean the dishes and discard the takeout containers, left.

Sighing, started the coffee machine, and a few minutes later Eric showed up in the kitchen, rubbing the sleep of his eyes.

“Good morning,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, good morning, you probably had a blast last night watching TV instead of cleaning the kitchen,” she spat, and he arched his brows.

“I did clean the kitchen!”

“Then who messed it up? A ghost?!” she bit back, pointing to the takeout containers on the counter and the dirty dishes pilling on the sink.

Eric rubbed his temple, before walking to the coffee machine. He hated coffee, and the second he poured a cup Yn knew he was stressed, “I cleaned everything, I remember doing it before also cleaning the living room, that’s why I got to the bedroom so long after you.”

Yn saw a hint of truth behind his statement, but shook her head, starting to discard the cans and plastic wrappers in the trash. She watched from her peripheral vision her husband grab an apple and drown his coffee in one go before leaving the room.

Protected from the cold air by a thin robe, Yn ate breakfast peacefully watching the destroyed backyard of her new house. She could see the spots where plants once were, now involved by tall weeds and dark unkept grass. A three with a swing attached to it was hanging on by a thread.

She took notes of things she wanted to renovate and what she wanted to plant where, before getting inside to a virtual work meeting.

The day went on without events. At night she shared dinner with Eric again, and it was her turn to clean the kitchen. She did it alone on the ground floor, Eric in their room doing some readings or whatever. She finished in less than an hour and then went to bed. Her mind and body were tired after not sleeping properly the other night, so when Yn hit the mattress she was out cold faster than you could say “good night”.

His eyes were covered by the shadows, but she could tell he had a thoughtful expression by looking at his eyebrows. He was taller than her, she could tell, and he was broad. Lean and strong arms, chiseled jaw, and pretty dark skin.

Yn tried opening her mouth to ask who he was. What he was doing standing at her bedroom door, but his stare was so intense she couldn’t do anything but look back at him, and as the saying goes once you look something in the face, once you stare too long into the abyss, it looks back. It starts to truly exist.

Her week goes by with lonely days and strange nights. She keeps dreaming about the guy standing on her bedroom door and keeps hearing steps, and hushed voices. Sometimes she’ll live that stabbing nightmare all over again. Some hours, she’ll work on her computer, and though there’s a sense of loneliness, there’s also a sense of company, as if she was being watched.

It would scare anyone in their right mind, but Yn tried to rationalize things. And the things she couldn’t, she just let them be. Sometimes, you have to accept that you’re not supposed to understand everything. Life has its mysteries, and so did her new house.

Things with Eric were going downhill, and they were spending less and less time together. But it wasn’t anything new, and he was busy with work. They were both busy. Yn tried to tell herself. Feeling lonely would explain how her brain threw her into a heated dream.

It was the first time she was able to produce a sound in her dream. It was a simple “a” that passed between her open lips. And so as it happens, it was also the first time the man by the door moved. His eyes never left hers while he walked to the foot of the bed. He wandered as if he knew the place and setting of everything. Like he lived there for centuries. And when he stopped in front of her, his eyes trailed on the covers, moving them to her feet, without moving his body. Yn grunted, surprised with how easily the covers fell, and how her body was exposed to him. The cold air made her nipples harden against the silk nightgown.

When she looked at him again, she saw his eyes for the first time. A deep honey brown, carrying so much and whispering so much on her mind, she had the urge to touch him. But her body would only do so much. Yn watched, as he studied her contours with something she was not able to pin just yet. She watched as his tongue came out of his plush and pink lips to moisten them. And she moaned, she actually moaned when his fingers touched her leg. His skin was cold, his touch so feathery almost like a ghost. He trailed the tip of his short nails on her thighs and with just one look he spread them.

“Yes,” she was able to whisper when his eyes found hers again.

The man smirked devilishly. One of his fingers trailed the path to her unclothed pussy and Yn whined when he spread her sex and caressed her soaked lips. She couldn’t think about anything but his deep brown eyes. Her husband was long forgotten. The house was long forgotten.

“Yes,” she chanted again. It sounded like a prayer. It made the mysterious man’s grin widen. He inserted one finger inside her and dipped his face to her ear. There wasn’t a sound, but she felt a light gush of air against her skin. And she tried to move her hips in the direction of his fingers.

He played with her already puffy clit, and this time the gush of air she felt against her skin was accompanied by a quiet chuckle sound.

Her hips ground against his big hands, and Yn choked when his long fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot. She shuddered and her body went limp when her orgasm hit her like a trainwreck, fogging her mind from any coherent thought.

Yn jolted from the bed feeling sweat slide down her forehead and between her breasts. She took a deep breath and finally opened her eyes trying to adjust them to the darkness of her room, her comforter was lying by her feet and the skirt of her nightgown was hiked up on her hips. She furrowed her brows and tentatively moved her fingers to her core, feeling the dampness of her core.

Cum.

She turned to her husband, but Eric was lying beside her, in a deep slumber.

She turned to the doorway and the once-closed door now rested ajar.

Once again Yn tried to rationalize everything. Was it possible to cheat on someone in your dreams? Was it really a dream?

She tried talking with Eric, but he was in so deep with work he wouldn’t be home until dinner almost every day. And when she tried to tell him about the weird noises and the sensation of being watched, he told her “It just feels weird because it's not decorated with your flowers and things yet, we got it mobiliated, not decorated, so maybe that’s why you’re feeling dislocated or whatever, just relax, will ya?”.

Up until starting to get the house in order, Yn would tell herself that every weird thing happening to her was just a product of her imagination. But while going through things in the living room, she found an album. Inside, a bunch of pictures caught her attention. The first few pages portrayed the house in a much better state. The gardens and a beautiful kitchen. A fireplace lit in the living room, and a corridor full of photos. At some point, she found a picture of a man. A stunning man. He had a big white smile while staring at the camera. His hair was ornated with braids, and two small ones shaped his face to perfection.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She flipped the album frantically being met with pictures of the same man side by side with different people. None of them were familiar to her. He was the only known face. By the foot of one picture, it read “Lewis and friends” signed with a date and a scribbled message she didn’t care to read because that man was Lewis.

That man was the one who would stand by her bedroom door every night.

It was the same man that fingered her until she came.

The same man who haunted her.

And precisely, the same man that haunted the whole house since the day he was killed, she confirmed after tipping on her phone, searching for the news about the case again, and finding his blurry picture there. No mention of his name. But a picture of him. And the mention of the neighborhood.

Her stabbing nightmares were his memories.

He was trying to spook her off the house.

But something changed along the way, Yn thought.

The cup of tea she was sipping tipped on the coffee table. She squeaked in surprise, and she would tell herself it was just her mind again if one of her books weren’t thrown across the living room.

And she swore it happened so fast, she couldn’t really process, couldn’t think of what she was doing when she opened her mouth and questioned, “Lewis?” She gulped. “Is that you?” her last sentence was a breathy whisper. So small only a ghost could hear.

And he did.

In fact, he waited forever to hear someone calling him by the name. He waited for the person who would see him and not run, who would stare, just like she did.

They say that calling someone by their name gives them power and gives them life.

Yn had just given Lewis what he needed.

And without even knowing, she had given herself too.

Lost in the years, lost in the days, he had finally found her.

He smiled, and when Yn turned to the corridor she saw him. She saw him for the first time being awake. Truly saw him. Lewis was handsome. Even more in person. But he was a ghost. He had touched and haunted her.

Yn couldn’t help but scream and try to run, but he was faster, appearing in front of her in the blink of an eye with a smirk on his face.

“Please, don’t kill me,” she whimpered and he chuckled.

“I’m not killing you, sweetheart. Quite the opposite, I’m keeping you here with me,” he states before adding, “Forever”.

Her eyes go round, and she shakes her head scaredly. “I-I have a husband, I’m married, I’m-”

Lewis chuckled, “He doesn’t love you, and neither you love him. Would you let me do this to you if you loved him?” he pins her against the wall and her breath hitches. He found her sweet spot and nipped it while tightening his grip on her waist. “I can practically smell your arousal. You’re such a filthy girl. So bad you get turned on by ghosts,” Lewis mocked.

She purses her lips, darting her eyes to the ground and he dips his head to her lips, tracing her jaw and cheeks.

“You’re cold,” Yn states.

“I’m dead, of course I’m cold, honey.”

“What are you going to do with Eric?” There’s a hint of fear in her voice, and Lewis bites his lips and shrugs.

“I don’t know. We’ll see,” he widens her legs and fits his lean waist between them. “Now you should be worried about what I’m gonna do with you, or rather, what we’re gonna do together.”

And despite the fear and surprise mixed with confusion, Yn couldn’t help but shamefully feel aroused when he ground against her pussy, trapping her body between his and the wall.

“We’re gonna spend the eternity together,” he grinned.

Yn arched her brows, “But I won’t live forever, I’m a human, I-,” but the dark look in his eyes shut her mouth, all the answers she needed right there.

She would spend eternity with Lewis.

Maybe not as a human.

But she would, and he would make sure of that.

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carriesthewind · 2 years

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Hello tumblr! I am here to discuss some drama today! (Oh dear god I can't believe that this is what got me to finally join tumblr.)

As you may know, AO3 recently suspended a writer’s account, and the writer isn’t happy about it. They have made several public posts about it, including a very long post responding to the letter they received from AO3 in response to their appeal to lift the suspension. Now, I’m not particularly familiar with this writer. I’ve heard their name enough to recognize it, I know I have heard some rumors about them – some good, some bad. But I have never read their writing or their tumblr before, and I didn’t have any preconceived opinions about them.

But since this drama has entered my orbit from multiple sources, I decided to do a close read of their post responding to AO3. I do this fairly regularly, as a mental exercise to practice making myself a more careful consumer of media in general, social media in particular. But close-reading this particular post made me angry enough that felt the need to write up my analysis and share it.

A few disclaimers and notes before we begin:

First, I am just going to refer to the person under discussion as the “writer” – I include this person’s user name in a screenshot, so am not hiding their identity, but I’m not doing this to target them. This is an analysis of two of their posts, not of their life or online activity outside of the post.

Second, I am going to be giving the writer every benefit of the doubt I can, and am starting my reading by assuming they are acting in good faith.

Third, I am going to take the text under discussion under its own terms as much as possible, without referring to outside content. I am going to be analyzing two posts by the writer; the long post they made in response to AO3’s reply, and a shorter post that they made that long post in reply to. The exceptions to this will be the TOS of AO3, since they are central to the dispute, and a few other posts by the writer on the same subject. I will be using those other posts only when I need them to understand the writer’s argument in the main post we are looking at.

Let’s begin.

There’s two things that jump out at me from this paragraph right away. First, if we look at AO3’s TOS, there is a clear path for filing an appeal, and there is no right to a response from being pinged on Tumblr or responding to messages through other venues. There is also no deadline for the team to respond to an appeal. In fact, the TOS repeatedly note that they cannot guarantee a speedy response. Given the size of the archive, five days seems far from unreasonable.

However, this waiting period would absolutely be frustrating, and it is entirely understandable that the writer would be frustrated and angry. Speaking personally, I know that I have angrily tried to contact a company via non-official means when I felt they had wronged me and were refusing to respond to my official messages. The writer isn’t doing anything wrong here by reaching out this way and being upset at the delay – but AO3 isn’t doing anything wrong by not replying to these messages, either.

Second, this sentence, “My legally copyrighted property under the terms of Fair Use is still in kidnapped status, which is not actually legal”? This sentence is nonsense. It is so nonsense that whenever I look away my brain rewrites it. It is so nonsense I am not going to even try to break down the very many ways it is wrong, because that would double the length of this monster of a post. I will instead just state: by agreeing to AO3's TOS, the writer has agreed to allow their account to be suspended under the TOS, and the writer’s work still belongs to the writer and can be removed (more on that later) and reposted (or not removed and reposted) anywhere else.

The important things about this sentence for our close reading are as follows: 1) the writer is using a bunch of legal jargon in a way that is irrelevant and inaccurate (the alternative, which is worse, is they are lying and they know it); 2) as a corollary, the writer is talking confidently and forcefully about the situation in ways that do not accurately describe the situation (either out of ignorance, confusion, or a deliberate desire to mislead); and 3) the writer is using charged and exaggerating language to describe the situation.

Number 1 will be important shortly; for now, just keep it in mind.

Number 2 doesn’t necessarily imply bad faith; as noted, they could be talking out of ignorance or misspeaking, or some combination of both, due to the emotionally charged situation. Even though they haven’t lost their content (because they haven’t), people’s writing is very important to them; it is understandable that someone who has lost some control over the distribution of their writing would feel upset! (Please note that this is true regardless of whether the suspension was appropriate, justified, or correct - punishments hurt, by definition!) Rather, it is important because it makes clear that even if the writer has best of intentions, the way they are writing about this situation is not entirely accurate. It is entirely possible that this is the only thing about their situation that they will be wrong about - especially since legal rights and issues are extremely complicated and most people struggle to fully understand them. However, it is still an early indication to keep our eye on, moving forward. (It is also worth noting that this kind of legal misrepresentation is extremely commonly used by people who are NOT acting in good faith. This alone is not enough to assume bad faith - again, legal issues are complicated - but it is something to keep an eye on when reading posts like this.)

Number 3 is referring mostly to the use of “kidnapped” to describe the status of their works. This is not remotely accurate, for reasons which I will dive into more later. It is, however, highly emotionally charged language that indicates a couple of possibilities, any or all of which may be present. First, it could indicate, like the last point, a writer who is (again, understandably!) upset and is expressing how the situation FEELS to them, even if that feeling doesn’t match reality. Secondly, it could be the writer trying to using metaphorical language to get the reader to understand how serious the situation feels to them. Third, it could indicate a desire (conscious or unconscious) to appeal to the reader’s emotions over their logic, so they will be more likely to go along with the writer’s characterization of the situation.

The overall impression from where we are starting is this: we have a writer who is (again, understandably) extremely upset at a suspension that may or may not be justified and appropriate - so far we have no evidence either way. We have likewise no evidence that either party is acting inappropriately. However, we do have indications that the writer appears to either not correctly understand, or is (accidentally or on purpose), mischaracterizing at least some elements of the situation.

So, let’s move on to the long post.

We start with the knowledge that we do not have AO3’s whole response; there are sections that are left out that may or may not be relevant. This isn’t necessarily bad or wrong - there may be lots of good reasons not to include the full text. However, it is worth keeping in mind when we are assessing the situation.

More important is the description of AO3’s letter as, “full of fun jargon.” We will review the provided text ourselves, but AO3 generally does an admirable job trying to use as little jargon and legalese as reasonable possible, and I would include the provided text of the response in that assessment. Still, given that is a formal response to a TOS violation appeal, it does use a lot of formal language and some legal language.

However, this is an interesting complaint for the writer to make, given Number 1 above (I promised we would come back to that!). It’s a sharp contrast for the writer to use lot of legal jargon to complain about AO3 and then turn around and promptly complain about AO3 using jargon. Again, this isn’t necessarily a sign of bad faith. It is entirely possible that the writer, as described above, is confused and upset and using language they think they understand (but don’t) to express their feelings, and since they don’t understand legal language, they see the AO3 response as including a lot of jargon. However, using charged legalistic language themselves while characterizing their opponent as using “jargon” is another flag to keep an eye on. Again, in the best case scenario, this is someone who is clearly quite (reasonably!) emotional and whose characterization of at least some aspects of the situation is questionable.

This response by the writer is….confusing?

The writer seems to be arguing that punishing them for failing to comply with the TOS makes them unable to comply with the TOS right away so therefore…people shouldn’t ever be suspended for commercial content violations? I don’t think this is what the writer is arguing, because it’s not reasonable (and in some of their posts, they make it clear that they don’t believe that), but I can’t make any other sense of this paragraph.

According to their TOS, if AO3 finds a sufficiently serious violation, it can hide or delete violating content. But based on the previous “kidnapped” comments, the writer would presumable be upset (is upset?) if the works were altered or removed from public view by AO3 unless they specifically asked them to. So I’m not sure what the writer would want AO3 to do in response to a commercial content-based TOS violation.

This first quoted paragraph is being positioned by the writer as indicating some problem with AO3’s process, either in general or in this specific case, but so far, there is no actual evidence of that.

I also want to note here – this paragraph seems to be confirming that the TOS violations were valid, and the writer is just disputing their seriousness, not their existence. But to be fair, I checked some of their other posts on the topic to confirm this reading. Although they dispute the interpretations of some of the reported violations as incorrect, they do admit that at least one of the reported violations was accurate.

We are not provided this mitigating information, but the writer will include some arguments later that would seem to be the mitigating evidence, and I will address it then. I will note here - it is very common for an aggrieved party to say that a system that punished them ignored evidence they presented. While sometimes this is true, often the system reviews the evidence they present, and decides not to rule in their favor anyway. Here, for example, we see that AO3’s response notes that the suspension will not be lifted unless the writer furnishes mitigating information “that would have changed our initial determination.” So AO3 might have ignored the mitigating information, or they might have reviewed it and determined it would not have changed their decision (e.g.: they already knew about it, it wasn’t determined credible, it wasn’t determined relevant, etc.). Also note that we, seeing the mitigating information, could think that AO3 was incorrect if they reviewed the proffered mitigating info and did not rescind the suspension, but that is not the same as AO3 ignoring it. We, as readers of the post, don’t know which of these options occurred - and neither does the writer. While it is understandable that the poster is not giving AO3 the same kind of good faith that we are trying to give them (aggrieved parties don’t have to assign good faith to people they believe have wronged them!), it once again colors our understanding of how the writer is characterizing AO3’s response.

This starts with an interesting claim! That is, that AO3 acknowledged in the letter that the writer has “a history of immediately complying.” This isn’t in the excerpt of the letter that we have. Because this claim is immediately below the above excerpt from AO3's letter, it appears that the writer is misconstruing the statement, “While we appreciate your willingness to remove the violating content immediately, you must first serve your suspension to its completion before you are able to edit your works.” This sentence isn’t claiming the writer has a history of complying, it is clearly responding to the writer’s stated willingness *in this case* to edit their content to comply. If the writer is deliberately misconstruing the letter this way, that’s deeply troubling, because it shows they are both trying to make AO3 look bad (see the rest of the paragraph) and twisting their own bad behavior (note that they here acknowledge past instances of breaking the TOS) in a way that makes them look good, actually (“assist[ing] the Archive in keeping things to their TOS standard”). This is really, really, bad behavior if it is deliberate. It would be a deliberate lie to preempt their audience’s recognition of their misdeeds and frame themself as a victim of a malicious actor.

HOWEVER. That is not the only interpretation of this claim. The writer is not necessarily deliberately misconstruing the letter - again, they are reasonably upset at the situation, they’ve stated they have found the letter to be full of jargon (and thus potentially may be struggling to parse some of it), and it is possible they are responding quickly without carefully reading the letter. Alternatively, they have stated that they are only posting certain sections of the letter - it is entirely possible that AO3 acknowledges “a history of immediately complying” somewhere else in the letter. Now, even in that case, the writer is clearly attempting to reframe evidence of their past violations as evidence of their victimhood (promptly removing TOS violating content is the bare minimum of what should be expected by an AO3 user). Again, that may be a genuine (and natural!) emotional reaction, but we continue to see the thread that the writer’s characterization of (now multiple) aspects of the situation are both inaccurate and biased to see themselves as victimized.

Which leads us to the poster’s response to the next excerpt.

Here the writer acknowledges again that they have at least one previous TOS violation. They include an except from AO3’s letter that clearly shows that they were explicitly told that failing to remove commercial promotion material from their account might result in a temporary suspension. Noticeably, although they have and will continue to frame themselves as the victim of an unfair process: 1) they do not dispute they were previously in violation of the policy, and were let off with just a warning. 2) They do not dispute that since that warning, they continued to have commercial promotion material on their account. 3) They do not dispute the content of the warning. 4) They do not dispute that they received or understood this warning.

Instead, the poster disputes that the warning…wasn’t official enough? They do not indicate how or what AO3 should have done to make it “official” - likely because it is extremely clear that this was a previous warning, and spelling out an alternative would make the absurdity of this complaint clear. It is at this point that we can no longer proceed assuming that the poster is writing solely in good faith. While we cannot assume they are deliberately trying to mislead their audience or that they do not have legitimate complaints, they are at least deeply in denial and stuck in a victimization perspective and that must inform our reading of their post.

Their second complaint with this section is just as ridiculous and telling as their first. AO3’s abuse policy is NOT a 3 strikes policy, as it is explicitly designed for flexibility, so that an account may be let off with multiple warnings, or may be suspended at the first violation, depending on the assessed severity of the violation. Nothing in the quoted section of the letter contradicts this flexibility. In fact, it directly supports the existence of this flexibility, by writing that further TOS violations “might,” not “will,” trigger a suspension. The writer is just wrong, and we can see they are wrong by simply reading the text they are replying to. This can only be read as either a deliberate mischaracterization of both the letter and the TOS, or as someone so far in denial that their characterization of the situation cannot be relied upon and no information they give can be fully trusted without external supporting evidence.

(As a note on my own biases in writing this analysis: this is where I personally ran out of patience with the writer, although I have tried to maintain a more even tone in this analysis.)

The writer may still have legitimate critiques of AO3’s actions and response (for example, they can still argue that such a flexible system is bad in general, or that there were mitigating circumstances that should have caused the suspension to be lifted/not imposed in their particular case), but they are not, in this section at least, making such a legitimate argument.

Their critique of the non time-limited nature of AO3’s response to TOS violations also indicates a fundamental misunderstanding (whether genuine or deliberate) of the *problem* of a TOS violation, especially of a commercial promotion TOS violation. AO3 is an *archive* - it explicitly exists to preserve fan works and provide access to them. It doesn’t matter, from AO3’s perspective, when a commercial promotion is first posted - it matters that it is currently accessible. A commercial promotion violation does not occur solely when a user posts it - it is an ongoing violation that continues to occur for as long as the promotion remains accessible. Furthermore, the structure of AO3 is such that it relies on individual users to maintain their works in compliance with the TOS. We can imagine an archive that works differently. This hypothetical archive could have works reviewed by archive staff before being accepted into entry in the archive, would not allow works to be modified except with the approval of staff, and would allow works to be modified by staff without the users’ knowledge or consent. However, 1) this is not the TOS the writer agreed to when they posted their works on AO3 and 2) given this writer’s expressed desire for control over their own work in this very post, this would not be an archive the writer would want to use.

People can still have legitimate disagreements about whether and how the date that a violation was originally posted on should affect sanctions for that violation, and disagreements over whether the sanctions were appropriately applied in any particular case. It isn't a problem for the author to assert that they think AO3's policy should be different. It is a problem for them to mischaracterize what the policy is and mislead their audience about why a policy exists.

Once again, AO3 is describing a policy that is entirely reasonable. However, in this section the writer finally moves on to the potentially legitimate claim that the policy is being enforced in a draconian way. They advance two arguments to support this claim.

This is actually one of their better responses, because their arguments, while very hostile, are potentially legitimate complaints that support their claim of draconian enforcement in their case! (Please note I am not asserting their complaints are accurate, however - more on that in a moment.)

The first claim is that an official AO3 staff member previously checked every one of their existing fics to try to ensure that they did not violate AO3’s TOS. The writer relied on this assurance going forward, so should not be sanctioned with a suspension. This is a part of the post that, in the interests of good faith, I will discuss with the added context of another post by this writer, since the claim isn't fully or clearly expressed in the above post, and it is their best argument in favor of their mistreatment. I am also going to assume that this was the mitigation that they referred to submitting to AO3 and claim was ignored.

If the poster is characterizing this previous interaction correctly, they have legitimate reasons to be upset, and I would agree with them that this is the sort of mitigating evidence I would expect would cause a suspension to be lifted if I was the person making decisions.

…here’s the problem, though. While I would agree with them that this would be a draconian application of AO3’s polices…it wouldn’t be a violation of AO3’s stated policies in any way. If the AO3 abuse staff member made assurances that to the writer that all their posted content was clear of TOS violations, that would be counter to AO3's TOS, which makes it clear that it does not do pre-emptive reviews. It would be legitimately frustrating for this writer to find out that the promise it relied on was incorrect and be punished after relying on it. However, it is impossible for me not to see that from AO3’s perspective, if this staff member really did give this assurance, it means that the writer was given an assurance of preferential treatment over other users. There is a good argument that to continue to give them preferential treatment (that is, to rescind the suspension based on the preferential treatment) would only compound the harm. It’s a legitimately tough situation for both parties to be in. I ultimately continue to see no misconduct on the part of AO3, except potentially in allowing an official staff member to give misleading preferential treatment (I say potentially because we have no further information about what actions AO3 took to correct this harm/punish the staff member), and also understand why the writer is reasonably furious at the archive.

…or rather, that would be the problem, if we could continue to read this post solely in good faith. Unfortunately, by the time we reach this explanation, as stated above, we know that the writer is either deliberately lying in this post, or deeply in denial leading to them mischaracterization the situation. Because of what we have already seen, we cannot take their description of the alleged staff member or their actions as accurate without at least some external supporting evidence.

We are given no such evidence, either in this post or in any of the others I have reviewed. Rather, the provided evidence contradicts it, albeit subtly. Remember that we noted how the poster did not dispute the content of the August 2019 warning AO3 sent them? That warning clearly stated that failing to remove all commercial promotion from their account might result in a suspension. That warning, from AO3 (not a single independent staff member), along with the clear TOS statement that it does not do preemptive reviews, puts the responsibility for removing the violating content squarely on the writer. If that warning wasn’t “official” enough for them to take it seriously…why were they willing to rely on the word of a single person who was breaking AO3 official policy by purporting to prescreen content?

While I lost my patience at the previous paragraph, as noted above, this response is why I actually decided to write and post this analysis. Casually reading this post, the writer’s description of events here sound deeply sympathetic and would lead a casual reader to see them a victim and AO3 as a villain. It is natural (and a good instinct!) to trust people when they tell you they are being mistreated. Unfortunately, sometimes people who feel that they have been mistreated are just seeing the consequences of their own actions catch up to them.

The second potential legitimate complaint is the implied assertion that their violation was not really serious, and should not really be considered a TOS violation (“figurative, imaginative caffeine.”) Unfortunately, the writer has already admitted repeatedly, both in this post and outside of it, that they were in violation of the TOS. Thus, instead of this being a legitimate complaint, it is another indication that the poster is inappropriately mischaracterizing themself to their audience as a maligned victim and AO3 as a villain.

Oh hey, AO3’s letter is reiterating everything I just explained about prescreening! I wonder how the poster will respond.

I’m trying not to be too snarky here, but that is a really damming failure to respond.

So instead of talking about the substantive issue at hand, let’s address this wild change of subject, I guess.

This is again an instance of the writer portraying themselves as a victim, either because they are deliberately trying to maliciously mislead their audience or because they truly believe it. Just to be clear - they are claiming that they are being targeted because someone noticed and reported admitted TOS violations on their “two…most well-know fics in two major fandoms.” If they are claiming they are being targeted by someone acting in bad faith, and therefore the (again, admittedly legitimate!) violation reports are a form of targeted harassment, wouldn’t they have a much better claim if the violations were reported on fics with very low hit counts (so that someone would be less likely to randomly find them)?

And a side note - if these TOS violations were on the poster’s “most well-known fics” in “major fandoms,” that goes directly to the relevance of their ‘the violations were posted a long time ago’ mitigation claim. A well-known fic is more likely to be currently receiving continuing views (remember, the harm the violations are causing is based on people seeing them), and an author who is continuing to get hits/kudos/comments on that work would presumably be aware of its continued popularity, and thus should be aware of the need, after receiving a warning, to make sure to personally review it for violations.

Again, we’ve already addressed this issue repeatedly. So I will just note here that the writer is claiming that it is “actually fucking ridiculous” not to grandfather in active TOS violations. Imagine making this argument in any other context. Imagine an author has a book that they wrote 14 years ago but is still selling. Imagine someone notices this year, for the first time, that the author has extensively plagiarized copyrighted material. They alert the victim, who brings a suit, and the publisher stops publishing the author’s book and refuses to publish any of their other book as well. Does the writer think it is “actually fucking ridiculous” for the publisher to cease publishing the author, simply because the author was able to avoid detection for so long?

(Since I’m not doing much analysis here, let’s talk instead about what the purpose of this portion of the poster’s response might be. I’m putting this as an aside, because this isn’t strictly part of the close reading, and it is absolutely not it the spirit of good faith I am still trying to use. We’re going to look at the effect of this section in context. Let’s start by analyzing the use of the term “you” in this post. When the post began, the writer used “you” to refer to themself (“no matter how willing you are to fix it…etc.”). In the same section, the writer switches to using “you” to refer to AO3 (“if you have fans…”). In the third section, they start by using “you” to refer to AO3 (“You guys are the ones…”) and then switches in the next sentence to directly address the readers (“if any of you following me”). This switch isn’t a casual fluid switch like it was previously - instead, it is positioned in a sentence directly warning the readers that AO3 might come after them next. In the following section, they don’t use the second person, but they do imply (nonsensically) that someone is targeting them with these TOS violation reports. We then catch up with the above section - “they can and will go after you.” Note that the post starts directly addressing the reader at the same time that it builds up an escalating threat. This creates a sense of fear and camaraderie with the writer, positioning reader and writer as “us” against a malicious “them” who is not just targeting the writer, but the readers as well. This makes the reader more sympathetic to the writer, and more likely to believe their claims; after all, “you” know you’re not breaking AO3's TOS, and if “you” did, it would be an accident. How ridiculous for AO3 come after someone like “you” - someone who has broken the TOS multiple times in the past in the same way and has explicitly…been…warned…hmmm…how much like “you” is the poster, actually?)

Anyway,

I’m going to reiterate what I said after the writer’s response to the previous warning letter: what should AO3 have written to make this a warning that the writer would accept as legitimate? This is a bit longer and more detailed, but substantially the same as what was reportedly written in the previous letter. In that context, the poster said it didn’t look like an official warning, it wasn’t clear or serious enough. In this context, substantially the same content in substantially the same tone is recontextualized as too serious, a threat that secretly means AO3 already plans on banning them permanently. To borrow a phrase…"this is actually fucking ridiculous."

Again, if we are reading the post in the best possible light, this is someone who is so emotionally distraught that they have descended into paranoia and are unable to correctly characterize the situation. Alternatively, this reads like someone who deliberately characterizing AO3’s responses to best achieve their own ends. They want this suspension to appear unjustified and unjustifiable, which means they can’t have received clear previous warnings for the same TOS violations they are suspended for - so there was only one warning that wasn’t clear or official enough to give them any real notice. Now, they want to appear as a victim who is being targeted by a system that has it out for them, no matter what they do - so substantially the same warning is a threat that indicates an intent to ban them regardless of what they do next.

And we are back to the beginning: not understanding the first thing about the law and using (at this point I feel safe in saying) deliberately charged language to describe the situation.

(And mischaracterizing the text that is LITERALLY RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM – AO3 isn’t saying it will take a week to respond! It is giving you a week to comply once your suspension is lifted! What do you want it to do, impose further sections if you don’t comply within 12 hours?!?! I mean, if that’s what you’re asking for...)

AO3 is not taking control of the writer’s works. It has control how it chooses to display and store works that the writer has granted it permission to display and store. This is all very clearly laid out in the TOS.

We’ve already addressed that the writer does NOT know that AO3 did not investigate their alleged mitigation evidence. The writer is once again positioning a failure to agree with their position that the suspension should be lifted as a failure by AO3 to read or consider their evidence.

I’m not going to address most of the specifics they list, because I would basically just be repeating myself over and over again with more details and this analysis is already long enough. These specifics might be important, except that the poster has already admitted that they did violate the TOS. Even assuming they are characterizing their email, AO3’s full response, and the “Not Actually Violations” correctly, it doesn’t matter for the purpose of whether they violated the TOS (again) and received a legitimate suspension.

The only specific I will address is their blatant lie at the end: the TOS specifically bans all commercial promotion, NOT just self-promotion. The writer is explicitly, obviously lying - not just misunderstanding, not just mischaracterizing, flat out lying.

We have something in common, finally - I’m really offended too.

So I looked at some other posts for more context about this comment on deleting a work, just to make sure I wasn’t mischaracterizing: the writer apparently, fed up with AO3, wants to delete their works prior to the end of their suspension. Their “inability” to do so appears to be a major basis for their “kidnapping” claims above. This, once again, might be a legitimate complaint - AO3’s TOS does confirm that a suspended user retains the rights to remove their work (subject to certain data storage exceptions to meet AO3’s obligations).

Unfortunately, the poster’s next sentence makes it clear this compliant is not legitimate. The TOS are explicit that the way a suspended user can delete their works is through contacting AO3 administrators. If the poster had requested such delegations and been refused, AO3 would have violated their own TOS. Instead, the user states they just asked AO3 to lift the suspension. There is zero evidence that they asked AO3 to delete their works, and instead are mischaracterizing AO3’s refusal to lift their suspension as a refusal to delete their works, both in this post and elsewhere. I feel like a broken record at this point, but once again, they are mischaracterizing a very clear situation to make themselves look like a victim and AO3 a villain.

An appropriate gif of a petulant, spoiled child to match this closing paragraph. I don’t think I need to say anything else.

#AO3 drama #little tin cults #edited to add a read more #apologies to everyone who reblogged it before that #edited to fix the typo in the second paragraph that I can't believe I never noticed before

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starryeyedjanai · 11 months

Text

Steve Harrington, cat whisperer

steddie | rated: teen | 1.8k

Read on AO3

Steve is having the worst day of his life.

Okay. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but he woke up late for work and couldn’t stop to get coffee, so he was grumpy all morning.

And then when he took his break and finally did go to get coffee - because caffeine is a drug, kids, don’t do it - some maniac spilled hot coffee all over his white button down shirt as soon as he walked inside the coffee shop.

Seriously. Who is drinking hot coffee in August? And why was this guy walking around with a to go cup with no lid on it?

It’s boiling outside and Steve is still not used to the oppressive southern heat even after living here for years now. So he was already wiping sweat from his brow on his five minute walk to the coffee shop before he got doused in hot coffee and it’s just. Not a good day.

When he returns to work, he’s red in the face, not only from the heat, but from the embarrassment of having all his coworkers see him waltz in to the impromptu all-staff meeting with a tight, tight t-shirt with Ariana Grande’s face plastered on it (which he nabbed from his car on the way back to work - he took Robin to the Ariana Grande concert last month and she made him buy a $10 shirt from some sketchy guy in the parking lot who only had women’s size medium shirts.)

The all-staff meeting is a disaster. Corporate legal reps come sauntering in with their unsympathetic smiles as they tell a room of 100 employees that a third of them won’t have a job by the end of the week.

(“Some sacrifices have to be made.”

“We promise it’s not a reflection of your work.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”

Okay, so maybe they didn’t actually say that last one, but that was definitely the vibe they gave off.)

He couldn’t concentrate after that. He had a deadline to meet, but he was plunged into a spiral of existential thoughts all afternoon.

How had he ended up here? He’s 29, stuck in a dead end job that has no chance of upward mobility that he only really got because his dad put in a good word for him and now he doesn’t even know if he’ll have a job next week. His thoughts keep circling back to having to ask his dad for help finding somewhere else to work and he does not want to do that. His slightly strained relationship with his parents has mellowed out over the years, but he doesn't want to rock the boat by asking his dad for a favor.

He simmers on it for the rest of the day. He doesn't get much work done, but in the end, he really can’t find it in himself to care. He doesn't do meaningful work. He works to help keep the rich CEO rich. It’s kind of hard to care about numbers in a spreadsheet when he might be screwed out a job at the end of the week.

He takes a walk after work. He has so much pent up energy and he can’t just go home and be left alone with his thoughts all night or he’s gonna do something stupid like try to cut his own bangs.

He immediately regrets his decision to take a walk in the park by his office because he forgot how hot it gets at 5pm. He’s contemplating just turning around and heading home to mope all night when he hears a shout from behind him.

He’s about to turn around to see what all the commotion is about when he’s assaulted by… some kind of creature? It climbs up the back of his pants leg and hooks its sharp, little claws into Steve’s shirt as it climbs up. Ow.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I can’t believe he just did that. Let me just-”

The weight of the animal is lifted from his back, but the claws remain and double down, poking through the shirt to grasp at his skin.

“Ow, fuck! What is happening back there?” he asks.

“I’m so sorry, he’s not normally like this. Ozzy, you have to let go. You cannot just attack people like that. Please let go?”

Steve’s shirt is tugged as the stranger attempts to wrestle his pet away from Steve. The claws aren’t digging into his skin anymore, but this little guy won’t let go of Steve’s shirt.

“Ozzy! I swear to god if you don’t let go-”

There’s a ripping sound and suddenly, Steve feels a breeze on his back.

“Oh no,” the stranger whispers.

Steve just closes his eyes and breathes out slowly for a minute. The universe has it out for him today.

He opens his eyes after a moment of silence for his Ariana Grande shirt and turns around to see-

“Are you okay? I mean, your shirt is kind of ruined, but are you okay? Did he hurt you at all? I am so sorry.”

It’s like all the air has been sucked out his lungs. Because this guy? This guy is gorgeous beyond belief. His curly, black hair is windswept and his face is flushed and he has a scar covering the lower half of one side of his face, little tendrils of texture that Steve wants to touch.

He looks like something from Steve’s dreams.

Of course the universe would have him meet this beautiful guy right now when he’s looking like a hot mess. What’s the opposite of meet-cute? A meet-ugly? A meet-ugly, where this guy’s gremlin of a cat destroyed Steve’s shirt after an already horrible day.

And- oh. It’s a cat. The thing that attacked him and wouldn’t let go is a cat. It’s a cute cat. A deceptively cute cat considering he just attacked someone.

Steve realizes he’s been staring when the guys concerned face grows even more worried at his silence.

He shakes himself out of it. He says, “I’m okay. It was just a shock. I didn’t know what was happening back there. That’s all.”

“He just slipped out of his collar and ran after you. He’s never done anything like that before.”

“Do you, like, normally walk your cat?” Steve asks, unable to keep the judgment out of his voice.

“Hey, he likes it. It started out as a joke,” he says, running his hand over his cat’s fur. Ozzy. He thinks he remembers him calling the cat that. “He really likes it though. He begs me to take him out, usually.”

Steve smiles at that. “That’s kind of cute.”

“I’m Eddie, by the way,” the guy says, stretching his hand out.

Steve takes it, shakes his hand, and says, “Steve.”

Ozzy starts struggling against Eddie’s chest where Eddie has him in his other arm, like he’s still trying to get at Steve.

“I don't know what he wants. He really seems like he wants you to hold him or something. Do you want to pet him or hold him maybe?”

Steve feels powerless to say anything other than, “Sure. Give him here.” He is so weak when it comes to pretty people.

He reaches out and Eddie places Ozzy in Steve’s hands and as Steve brings him into his chest to pet him, Ozzy starts climbing him again. Steve lets it play out this time without freaking out and Ozzy kind of awkwardly settles with his paws on Steve’s shoulders and his body pressed around Steve’s neck like a scarf.

“That’s um,” Eddie stammers. “That’s really cute. He used to curl up on my neck and kind of bury himself in my hair when he was a kitten. I haven’t seen him do that in a while. He’s usually not very social around strangers. I’ve never seen him climb someone just to curl up around their neck.”

Steve brings his hand up and strokes the fur of Eddie’s cat. He’s pretty docile now that Steve is petting him.

“I don’t know. I’m somewhat of a cat whisperer,” Steve says around a laugh. “My cat, Han Solo, was the neighborhood nuisance when I first moved here. Always getting into fights with people's dogs as they were walking them, always getting into my neighbor’s yards and destroying their flower beds, that kind of thing. He was scratching at my door one day and I opened it and he just walked inside like he lived there and just never left. So maybe your cat was just picking up on the vibe that I’m good with cats?”

Eddie perks up and says, “You have a cat named Han Solo? That is - it's cute. You don’t really seem the type to like Star Wars.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t everyone into Star Wars these days?” And then, at Eddie hum of approval, he says, “Han Solo was pretty much my bi awakening.”

Eddie brings his hair in front of his mouth, hiding his smile as he says, “I sincerely hope you’re not talking about your cat.”

The laugh that’s startled out of Steve's chest also startles the cat lounging across his shoulders. Ozzy stands up and tries crawling down the remnants of Steve's shirt, getting his claws stuck in the fabric once again.

Eddie steps closer and helps wrestle Ozzy away from his shirt a second time.

“Man, he really hates that shirt,” Eddie says, grinning at him. “I would offer to buy you a replacement considering he absolutely destroyed it, but I don’t know where I’d get such a masterpiece.”

Steve looks down and laughs. Ariana Grande’s face is still in tact, but with most of the back of the shirt hanging loosely at his waist, this shirt is hanging on by a thread.

“Yeah, I think I can live without it. My best friend kind of bullied me into buying it, anyway.”

He feels the lull of silence that washes over them in his bones. He wants to keep talking to Eddie, wants to suggest they go get dinner together, wants to ask him on a date, wants, wants, wants.

Because he’s had such an awful day and this interaction has made him smile more times than he can remember smiling in the last month.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, when Eddie beats him to the punch.

“I know this is a little weird, but my apartment is, like, right up the block. I’d hate to send you off wearing the scraps of your best Ari gear. I could grab you a shirt, drop this little guy off, and we could get dinner? If that’s something you’d be interested in.” Eddie bites his lip, looking like he doesn't know that the answer is a resounding yes.

“We should dinner, yeah,” Steve says and cringes. We should dinner. Who talks like that?

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, smiling. When Steve nods, he says, “Okay, let’s get you a shirt, something a little more metal. And then, we should dinner.”

Steve knows he’s being made fun of a little, but if it’s by Eddie, he kind of doesn't care.

#steddie #stranger things #st ficlet #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #janai.doc #this is just a silly little thing i had rattling around in my brain

177 notes · View notes

foundress0fnothing · 5 months

Text

Firm and Fragrant Still the Brambleberries

For @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk. Happy Holidays! It has been such a joy to get to know you over these last few months. You are wonderful and brilliant, and I cannot wait to FINALLY be able to scream in your comments about my obsession with Semper Eadem without arousing your suspicions.

Many thanks to @velidewrites and @perhapsajacket for beta reading this first part of this fic and reassuring me that the Nessian vibes were working. And many thanks to @acotargiftexchange for putting together this wonderful event. Y’all are the absolute best! 🥰

Summary: When Nesta became a nurse at the start of the war, she could not have predicted a patient as challenging as Lieutenant Cassian Davies, nor he a nurse as captivating as her. As the same war that brought them together threatens to tear them apart, Nesta and Cassian must navigate the complexities of love and duty to find the way back to each other. A WWI historical AU.

For information about the historical elements to this fic, see the end notes.

This is chapter 1 of 4.

Read on AO3 or continue reading below the cut!

Chapter 1: Somerville College, Oxford

July 1916

“I think of you hour by hour. You are always close in your own secret place in my heart. I hold you in my arms when no one else is near. I kiss your forehead, your eyes, your hair. No, not your lips, dear, even in fancy. I have never in my maddest dreams kissed your lips. But I ache and crave and long for them, though—till you give me leave—I dare not even pretend that they are mine. Will you ever give me leave? You say No now. Yet I think you will, Avery. I think you will. I have known ever since that first moment—”

“He’s asking for you again.”

Nesta looked up from her book to see Gwyn Berdara’s head poking through the doorway. It was late—or early, rather, she realized, blearily squinting at the clock on the wall and rubbing her eyes. She should have retired to her bed in the dormitory hours ago, and from the pleased look on Gwyn’s face at catching her off-guard, her fellow nurse was well-aware of that fact.

“Surely someone who’s actually on duty,” Nesta said, yawning and looking pointedly at Gwyn, “can take care of whatever it is he needs.”

Gwyn snorted. “Apparently there’s no one except ‘Nurse Nes’ who can make the pain go away with her magic touch.” She waggled her eyebrows. “So it’s a good thing you’re still here.”

Bristling at the nickname that only one of the soldiers convalescing at the Third Southern General Hospital was shameless enough to call her, she replied curtly, “I’m not going. Tell him I’m not here.”

“I don’t think he’d believe me,” Gwyn said, grinning.

“And why is that?”

“Because,” said Emerie Carynth, appearing suddenly beside Gwyn and wearing a matching smile on her face, “I told him you’d still be here.”

Nesta glared at her.

“Not on purpose, I swear,” Emerie quickly amended. “But don’t think I missed that you have a copy of Dell’s new romance.” Nesta glanced down at the book she still held open in her hands, her attention briefly flicking back to the dramatic confessional love letter left she had been in the middle of reading. “We saw you try to hide it in the dining room when it came in the post. I bet Gwyn you wouldn’t be able to wait until you got home to start it.”

Returning her focus to her traitorous fellow nurse, Nesta frowned. “That doesn’t explain how he knows I’m still here.”

“He may have overheard me celebrating my victory a few minutes ago.” She smirked. “Gwyn has to take my shifts with Merrill for the next week.”

Nesta grimaced. The older nurse was brutal to work with, especially if she thought the VAD nurses like Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta were shirking their responsibilities. She accommodating enough for the soldiers, but all the nurses knew to steer clear of her wrath whenever possible.

Gwyn nodded at Nesta’s expression. “And he was my next patient when Emerie found me.”

“And what? He forced you to come back here and bother me?”

“He asked nicely.”

“Weak, Gwyneth Berdara. Weak.” Nesta knew her fellow nurse had a soft spot for soldiers like him who bore their injuries with grace and good humor, willing to crack a joke or, if they were not too injured, gambol about the grounds during recreation hours. Especially if those soldiers were tall and dark-haired and unreasonably muscled.

Gwyn shrugged unapologetically. “Like he doesn’t make you flustered, Nesta.”

“He does not,” Nesta bit out. Exasperated, absolutely. Incensed, occasionally. Even, in rare moments, begrudgingly amused. But certainly not flustered.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you are,” Emerie said, grinning with a faux innocence that Nesta didn’t believe for a moment. “He’s not even my type,” she smirked. “But I have eyes.”

“I hate you.”

“As much as you hate him?”

“More.”

Gwyn hummed. “Lucky Emerie.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow in question.

“Oh, nothing. I’ve just never known anyone whose hate looked so much like desire before.”

Emerie winked salaciously at Nesta, who only rolled her eyes at her friends’ antics. “I’m still not going.”

“Sure you’re not, Nurse Nes.”

“Emerie, I swear—”

“He expected you’d say that.” Gwyn smiled, interrupting them. “And he told me to tell you that if you didn’t come help him, he’d have to cope with the pain through song.”

“Arse.” She had heard him singing with the men before—loud, raucous marching songs that seemed to be dictated primarily by enthusiasm rather than any actual musical talent. “So he intends to wake the whole wing if I don’t go? That’s asking nicely, Gwyn?”

Gwyn shrugged. “I’m sure Clotho and Merrill wouldn’t blame you for it.”

But they would, Nesta knew. When she paused her studies at Somerville to join the VAD and the military hospital that sprang up in what had once been her college, she and her fellow volunteers were told to make the patients in their care as happy as possible, no matter what. They were not to do anything that would cause a scandal, of course, but barring that, any desire was considered reasonable—extra food after mealtimes, a new pillow every hour, even time with a preferred nurse if requested. After all, they were exactly what the first letter of their organization’s acronym indicated: voluntary. They had no previous training, no credentials or certificates like those possessed by the professional nurses who oversaw them. What did they know?

Quite a bit, and often more than the so-called ‘professionals’. Certainly more than they did a year and a half ago when they first entered the service. Nesta may have been raised in a manor house, bred for marriage and comfort after the culmination of her studies, but the war had changed all of that, had changed her. She was no longer a stranger to fluids and grotesque injuries, to bodies and hard, messy work. Gwyn and Emerie were the same.

But none of that mattered, not really, to the more senior nurses, except for the fact that it made their jobs marginally easier. The VAD women were still expected to appease and please. So they did.

Nesta sighed, looking forlornly at the book she wouldn’t get to pick up again for at least another day.

“I’ll tell him to expect you in ten minutes, then?” Gwyn asked, reading her decision on her face.

“Yes, alright,” Nesta grumbled, standing and stretching for the first time in—she glanced again at the clock—three hours. She hoped that whatever nonsense she was about to face would resolve itself quickly enough that she could get home and sleep, although, she thought, as she began to gather her things, she wouldn’t count on it.

“Hope Dell’s book was worth it!” Emerie called as she moved out of the doorway and back into the darkened ward.

“I’m sure it was,” Gwyn said to Nesta, following Emerie out. “Piers’ letter?” She asked knowingly.

“Piers’ letter.” Nesta mimed fanning herself, and Gwyn laughed as she left Nesta to gather her things.

Grumbling about needing to find new friends, Nesta slowly made her way into what had once been the West dining room. With thin walls, cramped quarters, and a confusing odor of long-forgotten roast dinners mingled with astringent antiseptics, it was ill-suited to its current purpose as a hospital ward.

Almost as ill-suited, Nesta mused to herself as she wended her way through the beds of sleeping men, as she was to the nursing profession. Her friends seemed to take to the profession naturally: Gwyn had quickly amassed a staggering knowledge of illness and injuries and could diagnose patients quicker than most of the physicians; Emerie demonstrated a singular talent for using the standard physician-prescribed therapies in innovative ways to help the soldiers progress more quickly along their healing journey.

Nesta had no such mastery. She wasn’t incompetent at any task, and was quite good at many of them, but she did not have any particular specialty. Nor did she excel at the ‘appease and please’ aspect of her role. She had little patience for the soldiers’ petty complaints, their bored antics, their casual flirting. She did her job, cared for her patients professionally and efficiently, shutting down their attempts for favors and conversation and flirtation, and went home to her books at the end of the day. It was how she liked it. And it meant that, over time, few soldiers particularly liked her.

All except one.

At the sound of her approaching footsteps, Nesta saw him turn his head, a satisfied smile already stretching across his face that, had he been anyone else, would have caused Nesta’s heart to start racing.

As a man, Lieutenant Cassian Davies was magnetic. Handsome in a rugged kind of way, he was imposingly tall and broad with a body that, even injured as it was, spoke of lethal grace and destructive power. His face bore the proof of this: small scars cut across his eyebrows and lips, and his nose had clearly been broken and reset at least once. His hazel eyes often shone with a mirth that drew soldiers and nurses alike to his bedside, but there was an edge to them as well—something surprisingly hard and deceptively calculating. Like all of the men convalescing at their hospital, Lieutenant Davies had seen tremendous bloodshed, but he alone seemed to rise above it, to possess some inherent mastery over it. He was dangerous and desirable in equal measure, and though Nesta refused to join in with the other nurses when they gushed about him in the privacy of their dormitory, she couldn’t deny his appeal.

As a patient though? He was everything she loathed: loud, flirtatious, stubborn, and shamelessly relentless in his attempts to irritate her.

“Nurse Nes!”

“Threatening to wake the ward is a new low, even for you, Lieutenant Davies. And don’t call me that.” Nesta hissed, approaching his bedside and glaring down at him.

“Sweetheart—” Lieutenant Davies raised his good arm in an attempt to pacify her, but Nesta interrupted him.

“Wrong again, Lieutenant.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Nurse Archeron,” he apologized with mock contrition, affecting the tone of an impudent schoolboy brought before his headmaster. “I’m so glad you could make it. I was just about to treat the lads to a rendition of ‘Pack Up Your Troubles.’”

Nesta didn’t dignify that with a response, choosing instead to look over his chart to guess at what it was he might need. The sooner she could figure it out, the sooner she could leave Lieutenant Davies and his foolishness behind. She could make it through this without succumbing to his antics. She could be professional. She could.

Even with her eyes focused on his chart, however, she felt the weight of his gaze on her, deciding how best to challenge her attempt at professionalism.

And then he found it: “I still could sing, you know. You might benefit from hearing the chorus.”

She whipped her head up and saw his eyes spark with pleasure at having successfully baited her, but she was too irritated to care. “‘Smile, smile, smile?’” Nesta asked, biting out the lyrics.

“You already know the words! You’ll be a natural in no time.”

“Please.” She resisted the urge to argue further, forcing herself to direct her attention back to the chart in her hands. Could he want another pillow? Or more food? Was he due for—

“So, what do you say, Nes?” Lieutenant Davies asked, interrupting her train of thought. “Are you going to smile, smile, smile?” He grinned as he softly sang the melody.

“Your singing is atrocious.”

He scoffed. “It’s excellent. Now, my dancing—.”

“I can only imagine that it’s even worse, Lieutenant Davies,” she interrupted.

“Once I get back up on my feet again I promise to show you just how wrong you are. Don’t think I didn’t notice you considering a smile.”

“Enough.” This had to end. Nesta could feel the weight of her hair heavy on her head after having it tied up in her standard braided coronet all day, and that, coupled with Lieutenant Davies’ teasing, was threatening to give her a headache. “What do you want?”

“Nesta Archeron,” he admonished, and Nesta chose to ignore the way her body shivered at the sound of her full name on his lips. “We have got to work on your bedside manner.”

She huffed. “If you find it so appalling, there are at least a dozen other nurses who would be more than happy to assist you.”

“I told Gwynnie. None of them have your magic touch.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Nes—”

“Wake the whole ward for all I care.” She dropped his chart with a clatter and turned on her heel, ready to storm out

There was a pause, and then, before she could take a step, Lieutenant Davies called out softly, “My shoulder is a little sore.”

Nesta imagined it was. The report of his injury at the Somme had been a gruesome note in what was and continued to be the bloodiest battle of the war thus far, and one that just kept going, if the steady stream of new patients into the hospital was anything to be believed. A few days into the battle, Lieutenant Davies had been wounded by shell fragments that embedded themselves into his chest and shoulder, some dangerously close to his lungs. He bore the injury well, but from the lines etched on his face and the tension in his jaw, she could tell it ached more than he let on. He would be bedridden for at least another two weeks before physical therapy could begin.

“And you couldn’t ask Nurse Berdara for another dose of morphine?”

“You make me feel like I’ve earned it, sweetheart.”

She snorted at that. “Fine.” She stooped to gather the supplies she would need from a low shelf on the cart at the foot of his bed, then turned to pull on gloves and prepare the needle for the injection. “But only because you were due for one anyway.”

“Whatever you say, Nurse Archeron. I know you like me.” As she administered the drug, he began humming quietly, his body slowly loosening as it worked its way through his system.

“Done. Goodnight, Lieutenant Davies.”

“No goodnight kiss?” He murmured the question as his eyes shuttered closed, relentlessly flirtatious to the last.

Nesta watched the morphine lull Lieutenant Davies into a deep sleep. “For you? I think not.”

She turned and made her way quietly out of the ward, thinking of her bed and her book. And if her thoughts drifted back to a certain sleeping soldier and she smiled slightly? Well, there was no one awake to notice.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

August 1916

“How are you feeling, Lieutenant Davies?”

Cassian looked up from the casualty sheets he had been apprehensively scanning for his brothers’ names to find Sr. Merrill, one of the older nurses who oversaw the hospital, standing at the foot of his bed.

His arm fucking ached—not that he would say that to a nun. He hadn’t lost all his manners in the trenches.

Just most of them. And especially when faced with the pretty nurse who made him feel more than a little stupid with her honey-brown hair and sharp tongue. But Nesta Archeron was nowhere in sight, nor had she been for several days—attempting to avoid him, most likely.

So he only answered, “Still a little sore, m’am. But better than yesterday.”

Sr. Merrill smiled at that. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re in good spirits. You’re to start physical therapy today.”

Cassian could have wept with joy. Although the injury had been localized to his upper body, the damage had been severe enough that the doctors had insisted that he remain bedridden and stuck indoors for at least a month. And he had, albeit reluctantly. For someone used to near-constant activity, whose men called him ‘the General’ for the drills he would put them (and himself) through between battles, a month of idleness was akin to torture. There were only so many card games a man could play or books he could read, only so many soldiers and nurses he could talk to, and (in his bleaker moments) only so many times he could catalog in minute detail the unidentifiable stains that graced the walls of the ward. Restless and bored, Cassian was more than ready to get back on his feet, to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on his face again. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow. I have you scheduled with Nurse Carynth. She’s one of our best for physical therapy.”

Cassian knew her. Strikingly pretty and statuesque, she could out-swear most of the men and had earned her reputation as an excellent physical therapist through a combination of what appeared to be genuine brilliance and a singular ability to browbeat and cajole her patients into pushing themselves. He had seen her work with a few of the other men from his company, and knew that if anyone else in the hospital deserved the title of ‘the General,’ it would be her.

But he wondered—“I’ve heard she’s effective, yes, but,” He paused, looking for the right words, although he knew that Sr. Merrill and the other nurses were inclined to humor their patients’ requests whenever possible. “I was wondering if I could work with someone else.”

“Oh?” She looked puzzled, but pulled out a pen to note the change. “Do you have a specific nurse in mind?”

Cassian smiled.

He was still smiling as he sat in Sr. Merrill’s office the following day listening to an incensed Nesta Archeron argue with her supervisor.

“No.” She said, her blue-gray eyes flashing flintily as she crossed her arms. “I’m not working with him.”

Sr. Merrill raised an eyebrow. “And why not? Do you have an objection to working with Lieutenant Davies?”

“Yes.”

When Nesta didn’t elaborate, Sr. Merrill gestured for her to continue. “Go on.”

Nesta tilted her head, and Cassian could tell she was calculating her response. “It’s not personal,” she began.

Cassian snorted. He knew that it absolutely was. Nesta Archeron was the one nurse at Somerville who couldn’t stand him. From the look on Sr. Merrill’s face, the older nurse knew that as well, although she did an admirable job trying to hide it.

“It’s not.” Nesta turned to face him for the first time since they entered the office a few minutes ago. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. He could feel the anger radiating off of her, burning cold and sharp and exhilarating. It had been over a month since Cassian had seen any combat, but watching her like this scratched the same itch, and he knew that he would do any number of unspeakable things to keep stoking that fire.

He raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Then what might be the issue, Nurse Archeron?”

She glared at his use of her correct title for once, knowing he only did it to irritate her in front of her supervisor, then turned back to face Sr. Merrill with a barely audible huff.

“My reasons are professional. I am not a particularly skilled physical therapist, and the severity of Lieutenant Davies’ injuries suggests that he’ll need special attention. He should be working with Nurse Carynth or Nurse Madja.”

Sr. Merrill frowned at that. “You’ll be following a plan of care left by one of the doctors, so there’s no need for you to do anything terribly innovative. That’s not your role here.”

“I know you’ll take good care of me, Nurse Archeron,” Cassian added, doing his best to look sincere. And he was, mostly. Nesta may not have been the warmest nurse at Somerville, but she was a damn good one. Not that he’d ever tell her that.

She didn’t respond to his comment, but Cassian was familiar enough with her expressions after a month of making a study of her to know she wanted to roll her eyes, and he couldn’t help the grin that began to break over his face.

“But I know how you VAD girls are,” Sr. Merrill interrupted, forestalling any further argument between them with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her tone dripped with derision, and Cassian’s grin faded as he saw Nesta tense, her spine straightening.“If you’re truly unwilling, I’m sure Lieutenant Davies will accept another nurse for his therapy.” She paused. “But I will be making a note in your file, Nurse Archeron.”

Nesta’s lips tightened. Cassian grimaced slightly as he observed her wage a silent war with herself, feeling increasingly ill-at-ease with his provocation of this element of the hospital’s hierarchical drama.

“Well, Nurse Archeron?” Sr. Merrill asked.

Cassian watched Nesta collect herself. The changes were subtle–her spine remained straight, unbowed by the weight of the threat, but he saw the way she banked the fire burning in her eyes until all that seemed to remain was a cool, professional detachment. He hated it.

But he knew her answer.

“I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” Sr. Merrill handed Nesta a folder that Cassian presumed was his plan of care. “Thank you for wasting everyone’s time.”

Nesta took the folder and stood abruptly, stalking out of the room.

“Lieutenant Davies,” Sr. Merrill addressed him, drawing his attention away from Nesta’s retreating form. “I understand if you’d like to switch nurses after that … display.” She looked distastefully toward the door. “I have always believed that you boys deserve better than being subjected to the whims of spoiled ladies unused to hard work.”

Cassian stood stiffly, his injured arm aching from tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and frowned down at Sr. Merrill. “I meant what I said. I trust Nurse Archeron to take care of me.” His tone was sharp, defensive.

Sr. Merrill sniffed. “Of course. See that I don’t hear any complaints from your commander if you remain on the injury register longer than you ought.”

“You won’t. M’am.” With a sharp nod of his head, Cassian turned to follow after Nesta, moving a damn sight slower than he would have preferred. His arm throbbed and his legs felt heavy and stiff, aggravatingly fatigued already.

Nesta had stopped by the entrance to the ward, presumably to wait for him, her gaze focused off into the distance rather than watching his progress.

Cassian didn’t rush—wouldn’t have, even if he could have moved more quickly—taking the time instead to study her. She still wore the detached professionalism she had donned during the meeting, but her eyes were tired, wearied after the confrontation with Merrill. He wanted the fire back.

And he knew how to get it. Quashing his still-lingering guilt, he asked, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

She startled slightly, coming out of whatever reverie she had been caught in, and scowled up at him as he drew abreast of her. “I’m not in the mood for this right now.”

He smiled to hear a hint of spirit back in her voice. “I’ll take you in whatever mood I can get, Nes.”

She hummed, her gaze assessing and the set of her mouth unimpressed. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

With that, she pulled open the door to the ward and began walking deeper into the room, not stopping to see if Cassian was following after her.

He trailed along behind, noting that she passed the door that led outside onto the lawn where most of the other officers had been led by their respective nurses for therapy or recreation. The late summer day was inviting, after all—bright and sunny and warm after a span of rainy weeks.

Because of this, the ward was nearly empty, so Cassian called out to her, “I didn’t mean to cause any problems, you know.”

Her gait didn’t change, but he saw the tilt of her head as she considered his words. “That’s not an apology.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “I didn’t know about Merrill. I’m sorry for having involved her. But,” he smiled, “I’m not sorry you’re assigned to me.”

“We’ll see,” she said, finally stopping and turning around to face him.

Nesta had led them to a room at the back of the ward. It was small and slightly dingy; he guessed that it had once been some kind of larder for the college before the war.

Cassian looked inside and then back at her, a question in his eyes.

She raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to go inside. “After you.”

“I thought officers got to go outside for their therapies.” He looked back longingly toward the door to the lawn, the late summer morning streaming through the window panes nearly irresistible after a month indoors.

“Not the ones assigned to me. Everything we need is right here in this room,” she said. She wasn’t quite smiling, but he could see a hint of malicious pleasure gleaming at the corners of her eyes.

Cassian forced himself to smile, hoping that his disappointment wasn’t evident. Well played, Sweetheart. He turned to the only weapon he had remaining because he damn sure wasn’t about to give her this victory easily. “It certainly is, sweetheart. And we’ll get to be so close,” he all but purred, trying to ruffle her feathers.

But she only rolled her eyes and began setting up the space according to whatever was detailed on his chart, dragging a chair and a few small weights to the center of the room.

He turned to cast a final glance back, wondering what he could do to change her mind. Surely she didn’t want to spend the day cooped up inside too. What would she want? Would she want him to beg for it? Would he?

He would. For her. And for the outdoors.

But then the sound of a throat clearing delicately brought him back to the cell of a larder, and he returned his attention to Nesta. Her eyes were on him, head tilted to the side like a predator studying its prey.

“Positive you don’t want to work with Nurse Carynth now?”

Cassian looked her over, his gaze catching on the blue-gray eyes that dared him to call her bluff, and he smiled, a real one this time. He would play her game. For now. “Positive. Do your worst, Nurse Nes.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few notes on the historical elements of this chapter:

— The title of this fic comes from Robert Graves’ poem “Intercession in Late October.”

— The quote that opens this chapter is from Ethel M. Dell’s Bars of Iron, which was one of the best-selling books of 1916. Dell wrote hugely popular romances and was successful enough to support her family on the proceeds of her writing alone, although her work was often disparaged by critics and criticized for being too sexual.

— Cassian is loosely based on Robert Graves, a captain in the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, a poet, and the author of Goodbye to All That, a 1929 memoir about his experiences in WWI. Nesta is loosely based on Vera Brittain, a VAD nurse and author of Testament of Youth, a 1933 memoir about her experiences as a nurse and her postwar turn toward pacifism.

— Both Robert Graves and Vera Britten were connected to Somerville College, although they were not there at the same time. Somerville was founded as a women’s college in 1879; it was requisitioned by the War Office to serve as a hospital during WWI. Vera Brittain had been reading English Literature when the war broke out, and she took a leave of absence to serve in the VAD, returning to complete her studies in History in 1919. Robert Graves, after being injured in July during the Battle of the Somme (July 1, 1916—November 18, 1916) was sent to Somerville to recover, and while there, had a brief romance with one of the nurses.

— The tensions between the VAD (Voluntary Aid Detachment) and professional nurses was a real concern during WWI, although it has been dramatized here. Most of the volunteers were middle and upper class women and lacked both the skills of professional nurses and (for some) the propensity for hard labor and discipline. These tensions gradually dissipated as the war went on.

— “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile” was a popular WWI marching song, first published in 1915. The words were written by George Henry Powell and were set to music by his brother, Felix.

— The notice “Officers are requested not to throw custard at the walls” was real; it was found in Maitland Hall after Somerville was converted back into a college.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #acotargiftexchange2023 #acotar gift exchange 2023 #nesta archeron #cassian #historical au #wwi au

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shawtuzi · 2 years

Note

hi love! can we maybe get a plug! levi🫶🏾

i know y’all probably tired of this but i live and breathe aot characters as plugs im sorry </3

this is 18+///cw include: drug usage, smut, fluff, black coded reader, bad writing

- okay so when i think of plug!levi i think of him as the supplier, the guy eren and connie get their shit from but never give credit to when people talk about how good the weed is and it annoys the absolute shit outta him

- he’s often mobile but not as much as eren and connie. he doesn’t like to be away from you for too long

- best believe his weed is homegrown!!! he doesn’t trust anyone to handle his plants the way he does. it doesn’t matter how long it takes no one will see one single nugg until levi deems it’s good enough but trust it’s worth the wait

- he’s one of those people that insist they aren’t addicted and can quit anytime he wants but is quick to roll a blunt at the slightest inconvenience

- plug!levi prefers to keep your relationship private when it comes to social media but is not afraid to show a little affection in public such as giving your shoulder a kiss or a giving you a lil forehead kiss

- the clingiest boy ever when he’s high he loves being skin to skin with you whether it’s innocent cuddling/cockwarming or fucking your brains out in missionary pushing your chest snuggly against his as he fucks into you

- go to song to fuck you to is gang over luv- brent faiyaz

- like eren he’s not big on drinking but is a SLUTTT when he drinks!!! if y’all are in public he won’t show his neediness no no instead he’ll be in your ear the whole time telling you how much he wants to fuck you

- cannot and will not go to sleep until he gets a goodnight text from you something about that “goodnight i love u so much <3” text puts him right to sleep

- the only time you will probably ever see plug!levi be messy is when he’s eating your pussy while high. he doesn’t care if your slick is covering his nose and chin he will not stop until your cheeks are soaked with tears and you’re pushing his head away

“c-c’mon levi that’s- hah t-that’s enough,” you whimpered lightly pushing levi’s head away. “but we just started baby c’mom gimme a few more you can do that right? lemme make you cum three more times and i’ll buy you that chanel bag you’ve been wanting,” he grunted pressing sloppy kisses against your trembling thighs. from the neediness in his voice to the pleading look in his bloodshot eyes it all had you spiraling until you decided to let him have his way with you. even though you blacked out on the third orgasm it was totally worth the praise and the new chanel bag

- doesn’t wear any jewelry except thin lil chain but it still looks hot regardless

- when he smokes he likes to have you in his lap while you run your fingers through his hair quietly talking about how your day went or anything else you want to talk about he doesn’t care as long as he gets to hear your voice

- i won’t be elaborating but he wears bleu de chanel cologne

- whenever it’s time for him to get a haircut he has you do it for him instead of going to someone else. there’s just something about the act that’s very intimate to him. the way you constantly ask if you nicked him in a gentle voice or the way you kiss his shoulders every once in a while he just can’t get enough of it

- as stated before missionary is his go-to position he loves being able to admire your facial expressions and hear your little moans and whimpers in his ear

- “that’s it baby, feels good yeah? tell daddy how good he makes you feel,” levi whispered in your ear nibbling gently on the lobe. “s’good daddy y-you feel so good,” you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist giving him the sign you wanted him to finish inside and he was more happy to oblige, after hearing you beg for it ofc

- whenever you’re giving him head and have cotton mouth he forces his middle and ring finger in your mouth fucking your throat with them until your mouth is wet enough (i’m sweating)

- he doesn’t say this often, which is okay because he shows it with his actions, but he loves you more than life itself. as corny as it sounds you are his first love and he would wreak absolute havoc on the world if anything or anyone hurt you

#idk if i like this or not tbh #but i hope y’all do nonetheless <3 #levi ackerman #levi ackerman smut #levi smut #attack on titan smut #aot smut #aot levi #snk smut #snk levi #levi ackerman fluff #my writing #levi <3

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meggletoomanyfandoms · 3 months

Text

Speak of the Devil- Chapter 1

(Not my gif!)

Human!Alastor x Fem!Reader

18+ only!!

Summary- She's a journalist out to catch wind of the notorious 'Night Killer' to get the big break she's dreamed of. Of course, that doesn't go as planned when she realizes it's harder to catch a killer then she once thought but.. Speak of the devil and he will undoubtedly appear.

Word Count- 2,262

TW- Swearing, alcohol, spouse abuse, potential kidnapping?

Author's note- Hi everyone! I am SO excited that the first chapter of my new fanfic is out! I have so many idea's for this one and I honestly cannot wait to see where it goes! I really hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 1

It was a rainy night, this one. She was running towards the building with a newspaper covering her head- trying her best to shield herself from it. She’d had enough of everyone; of her husband, of her boss, she was just really in need of a break and knew this was just the place she needed to be. The lights of the building shined brightly and when she walked in, she turned to look at the man at the counter and gave him a small nod to which he acknowledged. She tossed the now soaked newspaper into the trash bin and walked through one of the doors in the back of the building. The door led to a flight of stairs that she walked down, which then led to another door.

Behind that one she could hear the sound of jazz music playing and smiled as she pushed it open and walked to the bar where she sat down.

“Still haven’t gotten any further in your investigation?” the bartender, who she knew as Teddy, asked her as he poured her a drink.

“Do you have to ask?” she said, quickly taking the shot back and enjoying the feeling of the burn in her throat, “Bastard’s trail has run cold. And it’s as though when I think I might be getting even the smallest bit closer- nothing.”

“You know..” Teddy said while pouring her another drink, “Maybe this is something you shouldn’t keep chasing? Seems awfully dangerous for a lady to get involved in something like this.” She rolled her eyes and took back the second shot, shaking her head a bit as the liquid warmed her chest.

“I’m no fucking lady,” she said to him, “It’s bad enough that husband of mine is on my back and my boss-- and now you, Teddy?” The bartender simply smirked down at her.

“You know I believe in you, miss (y/n).. I just don’t want you getting hurt,” Teddy said to her as he poured her another shot. She nodded.

“I’ll be careful,” she said to him, “I just.. Teddy, I need this. This could be my one shot at makin’ it big! Imagine if I caught the notorious night killer? Me? I could leave my bastard of a husband, my bastard of a boss and hell, start my own company or anything!” She took back the third shot and slammed the glass down on the counter, “The point is, I could get the hell outta dodge and not look back!”

“And I know that's what you want more than anything,” Teddy said as the music picked up in the background, “Just don’t get too involved. Remember, you’re only a journalist.”

“That's fuckin’ right! And I’m gonna be the best goddamn journalist there is when I catch that killer,” She said as she got up from the bar. Teddy only sighed as he watched her go to the dance floor and begin to dance.

She let the music guide her- let it twist around her and envelope her. That and the whiskey was her escape from the real world, from her failures. Here she could forget all about her investigation, about her boss that only wanted to see her fail and her husband that had left many holes in the walls of her home. Here she was free, and though she knew she’d regret it when she got home, she decided to make the most of her night and enjoy it.

She finally left the speakeasy a few hours later. She said her goodbye’s to Teddy who offered to take her home but of course she denied him. She made her way out the front door and began to make her way down the street. The rain had finally stopped thankfully, but there was now a slight chill to the air. And she was, most definitely and without a doubt, drunk. Who knows, maybe if she was lucky she’d run into the elusive night killer herself? And if she somehow survived the encounter with him, then she’d be able to write one hell of a report about him. She chuckled to herself, taking a moment to lean against one of the lampposts to steady herself. And that was when she heard it- footsteps coming up behind her.

“Well well,” one of the voices called out with a whistle, “On your way home, missy?” She turned her head to see three men now standing around her and she could immediately tell their intentions were less than good. Shit.

“Back off,” she spat at them, “Or my h-husband will..” The men stepped in further towards her, now enclosing her in the middle of them.

“You should know it’s dangerous for a lady to walk these streets so late at night. Haps’ we should teach the little lady a lesson..” the one speaking reached out and grabbed the top of her arm, pulling her into him. He smelled of cigars and cheap booze and she felt her heart pick up. The world was spinning around her.

“Now now,” a voice from behind them spoke, “It’s quite obvious the lady is not taking kindly to your actions. I suggest you let her go before there’s trouble.” She couldn’t quite recognize the voice-- Teddy, maybe? She could feel her consciousness fading.

“You should mind your own damn business before you get hurt,” the man holding her said, “This has nothin’ to do with you.” The mysterious man before them grinned; it was such a wicked, devilish grin that it immediately put fear in them.

“S-Something’s not right here, boys..” the man tossed her to the ground and she felt a sharp pain on the back of her head as she hit the concrete. She could feel herself fading.

“My dear,” she felt the warmth as someone's arms wrapped around her and lifted her up, “My apologies…” And those are the last words she remembered hearing before she completely blacked out.

_______________________

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. She was warm and comfy in bed but there was a sharp sting on the back of her head and when she reached up her hand, she felt.. Bandages?

“Ah ah, I wouldn’t do that,” a man that she didn’t recognise said as he walked into the room, “You had quite the gash on your head. I suspect it’ll heal well but it will definitely leave a scar.” She immediately pulled the blankets up over her chest and realized she was in the same clothes she wore last night. Last night? Shit!

“Who the fuck are you?” she spat, “ and where the hell am I? This isn’t my home!” The man gave her a small chuckle.

“Now now,” he said, “My name’s Alastor and it’s quite a pleasure to be meeting you despite these.. Circumstances.”

“Circumstances? You literally fucking kidnapped me!” she screamed at him.

“I saved you,” the man she now knew as Alastor said, “If I wasn’t there, who knows what would have happened-”

“I was fine! I didn’t need to be saved!”

“Oh you most definitely had everything under control, even despite the wound on your head,” he said with a devious grin, “It just so happened I was on my way home when I ran into you on the street.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

“Whatever,” she said as she threw the covers off of herself and stood up. But as soon as she did it was as though all the blood immediately rushed to her head and she stumbled, falling directly into Alastor’s arms as he caught her.

“I need to go to work,” she said, “And my husband. Oh god what am I supposed to tell him-” she regained her balance and stood up straight.

“Would you like my assistance?” Alastor said, “I wouldn’t give it a second thought to-” She was halfway out the door before he could even finish speaking.

“I’m fine.” And those were the last words she spoke before she rushed out the door and onto the streets.

Luckily, she recognized where she was and didn’t give that ‘Alastor’ a chance to follow her. She knew she looked a mess but whatever; her main concern now was getting to work and luckily it wasn’t too far of a walk to get there. She had some assignments due today and if she didn’t get them finished she knew her boss would be on her ass. And aside from that, she also had to come up with an excuse to give to her husband about why she didn’t return home that night. One thing at a time, though..

Upon making it to the building that housed her work, she found it to be in.. Utter chaos, as per usual. Her boss, Michael, was barking orders at the other workers and making demands that she knew were impossible to meet.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he barked, “What, think you had the courtesy of getting a day off?” She shook her head.

“No, sir,” she scrambled, picking up files and making her way to her desk, “Just running late.” He laughed a deep laugh that made her jolt.

“Late? (y/n) the day’s almost over! I should fire you for this!” he said, slamming his hands down her desk and leaning over to speak to her, “You're lucky you have any sort of job to begin with! If not for Frankie-” at the mention of her husband’s name she turned her head and gave Michael a sweet smile, masking the fire that raged inside her.

“My apologies, sir,” she said to him, “I promise this won’t happen again.” He rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” he said as he removed his hands from her desk, “Make sure it doesn’t happen again and get today’s work finished.”

All this so-called ‘work’ he mentioned was simply going through and spell checking the other’s articles and things they had written for the paper so it didn’t take long. She, herself, had never had one of her own articles get published, and that was why she was so hell-bent on getting the word on the notorious serial killer that plagued the streets at night. She was tired of doing the grunt work, tired of being at the bottom of the command chain and was ready, no, more than ready, for something better.

She finished her work for the day and finally was able to make her way back home where she dreaded so badly what awaited her. She knew her husband, Frank, was going to be pissed and that if she were lucky, the walls of her home would be the only thing to get hurt. Besides that, the back of her head from the previous night’s encounter still throbbed, and really she wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed. Soon as she opened the door to her home though, she knew that was the last thing that would be happening.

“Wanna explain to me where you were last night?” Franks voice immediately boomed as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

“Frankie my love,” she said to him, “I just got a bit side-tracked with work-” She heard him laugh darkly.

“You think I believe that shit? Micheal fucking called this morning and asked where you were!” he said, now standing directly in front of her with his arms folded over his chest.

“I-It’s true,” she said, “I just left early and I guess I passed out somewhere, I’m so sor-” before she could finish speaking, the sound of glass shattering filled her ears and she saw that one of her vases was now cracked in the floor.

“You were with another man, weren’t you? You cheating bitch!” he screamed and you flinched.

“I’m not a cheater,” she said to him, “In all our years together I’d never-” and with that, a loud smack echoed through the once silent house as she fell to the floor.

“Stop with the back talk,” he said, walking past her and opening up the front door, “And clean this shit up.” Slam.

And so she did. Despite the fact that she could feel her eye swelling and knowing she was going to have to explain her black eye to her boss in the morning, she cleaned up the mess her husband made. She made herself dinner and afterwards she decided, you know what? Fuck this.

She went upstairs and showered, putting on her fanciest dress and headed out. She was exhausted but the last thing she wanted to do was stay in a place like that where she knew her husband could return to at any given moment. So back to the speakeasy she went.

“He got you good this time, didn’t he?” Teddy asked, “First time I've seen you with a black eye in a while.” She rolled her eyes at the bartender.

“Guess it’s my fault for passing out on the street and waking up in a stranger's bed,” she said, lightly sipping on the drink he’d poured for her.

“Passing out?” Teddy asked, wide-eyed, “I knew I should have walked you home last night.” She only shrugged.

“Lucky for me, I was saved by some guy that just happened to be at the right place at the right time,” she said, her attention getting caught by an unknown man sitting next to her. “My my,” the man said, “It seems we’re destined to meet yet again.” She turned her attention back to Teddy and rolled her eyes. “Speak of the devil…”

#alastor x reader #human alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #human alastor #fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfic

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danganronpadespairtime · 1 year

Text

Chapter 2 Progress Report

This is a report and introspective about the development of Chapter 2 of Danganronpa: Despair Time.

TL;DR: Chapter 2 of DRDT will be released in 2 parts, rather than all at once. It seems likely that Part 1 can be released in early/mid 2023, *but there is still a chance it won’t come out that early.*

Batch release

I’ve recently decided to release Chapter 2 in 2 parts, rather than all at once. That is to say, I will start airing the episodes that I’ve made so far without waiting to finish Chapter 2. When each part is being released, it will be in consistent weekly episodes. In other words, Chapter 2 is being released as weekly episodes as expected, but in the middle of the episodes, there will be a hiatus. Hopefully this hiatus is much shorter, as I simply have to finish the remainder of Chapter 2.

Part 1 and Part 2 are not equal in length. Part 1 comprises of the majority of Chapter 2, about 70% of it. Although I won’t tell you exactly how many episodes are in Part 1 or where Part 1 ends; you’ll just have to see for yourself.

This was a recent decision, meaning that the writing of Chapter 2 may not have been specifically designed to accommodate this release structure.

I did say, once, that the entirety of chapter 2 *might* be done in early/mid-2023. I regret saying that now, as it seems like a lot of people had seriously taken that to heart.

The way things are now, for me to finish Chapter 2 in it’s entirety by early/mid-2023 would involve putting myself through hell.

That being said, I do believe that just Part 1 can be released by early/mid-2023 (unless I once again underestimated it. PLEASE take this release date estimate with a grain of salt!) This is because I am nearly finished with Part 1. All I have left is to finish the following tasks:

Make 2 mini-games

Animate a CG

One or two more rounds of editing passes + finishing touches on all episodes

Make a Chapter 1 recap video

Then I will start airing episodes of Chapter 2. So you can expect episodes to start releasing sooner than if I had waited to finish Chapter 2 first!

However, I do not wish to accidentally mislead everyone a third time. Although I’ll try my best, it is possible that I cannot finish in that time, so please don’t be surprised if it is not ready by mid-2023. If that happens, I will offer my apologies again.

Past progress

I always worry that I’m taking too long of a time to make DRDT. But I had only started making the episodes in March of this year, so the speed is actually really good. In that time, I produced a new episode slightly faster than once a month.

Then, the real reason that Chapter 2 is taking so long is that, for some reason, it took me an entire year to write the script. It was half a year to write the rough draft, and half a year to refine it with my proofreader, hydrator.

I don’t know why it took that long. It might just be that I was busy last year.

Voice acting

In general, there is more voice acting in this chapter. More scenes have voice acting, and per popular request, trial mini-games are fully voiced. However, there will NEVER be fully voiced trials, so please be understanding...

I’m really grateful to the voice actors, who as always are incredible with their talent and patience with me. It’s because of their amazing work that Chapter 2 can shine.

Quality improvements

Many people made it clear that they were generally unsatisfied with the quality of Chapter 1 in many ways. For that, I deeply apologize to those who were disappointed or unhappy.

I have tried my best to work hard and improve DRDT, so that everyone can enjoy it. I think that Chapter 2 is a lot better than Chapter 1 in all aspects, but especially with regards to the writing. If there is previous issues with the pacing, or with certain characters lacking scenes, I hope you can find these issues resolved in Chapter 2. Because of that, I am very excited about it, and I hope you can look forward to it.

Future updates

It seems that I’m running out of update posts to make. Because the content that I’m working on is spoilers, I cannot post previews. And with Chapter 2 taking this long already, I am hesitant to divert my time away from Chapter 2 work to make any bonus content like comics or illustrations. In any case, please understand that even if you hear less from me, I’m still working on DT.

Conclusion

Thank you for reading this far. I hope that you will enjoy Chapter 2 of DRDT, whenever it comes out. I will be happy if you continue to support me and my work.

#update

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barbiewritesstuff · 1 year

Text

Wife, girlfriend or Whatever: Chapter 4

-- HI!!!! Chapter 4 is finally done omg, I’m sorry if this isn’t amazing, I’m not sure how I feel about it but yeah I hope you guys still like it lol, I will get better for part 5 tho, promise.

Thank you so much @Igg5989 for beta reading this, I cannot do this without you.

TW. IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 GTFO, SMUT, p in v sex, oral sex (on both ends)

Previous Part

Taglist: @luckyladycreator2 @feedthemadness-sweetie @ravensmadreads @mslizziesblog @littlebadariell @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @rose-sensuelle @whorunstheworldgirls @auntiegigi

(half of y’all didn’t ask to be tagged but you commented on part 3 so I thought you might like to see the update, sorry if not, feel free to ask me to remove you from the taglist)

“So, future Mrs Simpson, where do you want to go now? Back to the hotel?” Beau asked as soon as you stepped out of the restaurant and back onto the street, where the cold hit your face, flushing your cheeks.

“You promised me some window shopping,” you reminded him, following him down the road.

“Right,” he smiled, “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my new fiancé immediately after proposing.”

“I can’t believe you did that,”

“I told you I would make you pay,” he chuckled, “You can take the ring off, if you want,”

“Yeah, I think I might, wouldn’t want it to stain my finger… Green really isn’t my colour,” you replied, turning the ring around on your finger. It felt strange, now that the fake proposal was over and the embarrassment had been washed away, you almost felt a little sad that it hadn't been a real ring, “On the other hand, how will everyone know I’m engaged?” you joked, trying to deal with your feelings in the only way you knew how, by ignoring them altogether.

“You make a fair point,” he said, “Maybe this will help?” he asked, grabbing your hand in his, interlacing your fingers with his.

“It’s a start,” you replied, turning away from him as you pretended to look at something on the other side of the road, “I think New York is growing on me,” you said, taking in the beautifully decorated shop window.

“Don’t fall in love with it,” Beau warned, “NYC is a whole lot further than Santa Barbara,”

“Have you ever been?” you asked, “Santa Barbara, I mean,”

“Once or twice,” he replied, “It’s nice. The beach is beautiful, water’s warm…” he trailed off, “And eighty-third highest crime rate in California..” he added with a grin

“Says the man from Saint Louis,” you scoffed

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s like, the city with the highest crime rate in the US!”

“I take it you’re not coming for Christmas, then?” he grinned

“I didn’t know it was a serious offer,”

“It depends on your answer,”

“Coward,” you poked him with a finger, “Don’t want me to meet your mama now we’re engaged? Why? Is there someone else? OH MY GOD, are you cheatin’?” you exclaimed, the Texan accent you usually tried to soften now coming through with the excitement.

“Damn it you caught me,” he laughed, letting your hand go for a second. Before you could mourn the loss of contact, he snaked his hand around your waist and pulled you closer. Beau planted a kiss on your cheek, the feeling of it so electrifying that both of you paused for a second. You wondered if the gesture had reminded him of the kiss you had shared earlier that evening. It had made him pause, and while at that moment you had been happy the kiss had had any effect at all, now you wondered if it was because of surprise and not because of what you hoped… that he might return your feelings.

Not that it mattered anyway. If he did, you would still be leaving, and he would still be your boss. HR would still investigate and it would still marr your record. Even if he did like you back, nothing could happen. Or that was what the rational part of your brain was desperately trying to make you understand while every other fibre of your being wanted him to never let go.

“HR,” you murmured, quietly enough that only Beau would hear, although if you had to be honest, while the rational part of your brain was trying to put a stop to it all, you were really hoping he hadn’t heard.

“You’re right,” he said, letting go of you, “Although…” he paused, “They’re not…here, are they…”

“Beau,” you tried to warn him half-heartedly

“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t tell them, if we were a little less … professional,” he said, “Would you?”

“No,” you breathed, letting your mind wander, wondering what ‘less professional’ could mean. Your heart hoped it meant more hugs, and perhaps a few more kisses, but the heat pooling between your legs was telling you it wanted ‘less professional’ to end between the sheets.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he tried to reassure you, “We’re just friends.”

“Right,” you shot him a strained smile, “Just friends,” you added, “Just joking around.”

“Right,” he smiled back. Beau looked at his shoes, something he did whenever a situation got more awkward than he knew how to deal with, and then coughed, “I was thinking Madison Avenue.”

“Sorry?”

“Window shopping. I was thinking of Madison Avenue,” he explained, “We’ll take a cab though, I know you can walk on those, but it’s half an hour away from here on foot.”

You hummed in agreement. Beau hailed a cab, displaying the same efficiency he had at the airport. This cabbie, however, was silent for the entire five minute drive uttering only a quick hello when you climbed in and goodbye when you stepped out of the taxi and onto the avenue. While you imagined Madison Avenue to be somewhat impressive all year round, Christmas and its seasonal decorations had made it breathtaking.

Beau walked you down the avenue, past Chanel and Tiffany’s and eventually past Saks department store, its front covered in impressive fairy lights, attracting everyone’s eye. You stood there admiring it for a while, until Beau tugged at the sleeve of the jacket you were wearing and motioned for you to move.

He smiled at you, “Don’t get decorations like that in California, do we?”

“I’m thinking we were ripped off,” you laugh a little breathlessly, feeling slightly silly that you were so affected by little twinkling lights.

“You’d get used to it,” he shrugged, “After a while it just becomes normal. Look,” he pointed at people passing by without sparing a second glance, “The locals just want to go home, they don’t even look at it anymore. The only people stopping by are parents with curious kids and tourists…”

“That’s sad,”

He shrugged again, “San Diego has plenty of nice decorations, you don’t really notice those, do you?”

“I guess,” you admitted, “Doesn’t make it any less sad, though.”

Beau grinned, “I guess I just have to cheer you up, then,” he said, leading you into a side street on your right. You followed him as he sped up slightly until he veered right again and stepped into the biggest Barnes and Noble you had ever seen.

“We have twenty minutes before they close,” he stated, looking at his watch, “Have fun,” he added, “I’ll be getting myself a coffee.”

You smiled and turned away from him, moving from section to section and row to row until the intercom crackled on and a voice announced five minutes until closing time. Gutted that you hadn’t even gotten to the section you had really wanted to get to and find the book you were dying to buy, you made your way to the café to find Cyclone.

He stood off to the side of the café, leaning against a pillar, waiting for you with a cup of coffee in his hands, “Not getting anything?”

“No time, I’ll swing by tomorrow. I have a nail appointment anyway,”

“Oh nice,” he smiled

“It’s not nearby, but I’d do just about anything for Stephen King, even if that involves braving the metro,” you joked nodding towards the poster advertising the book. An ardent love for Stephen King was another thing your father had passed on to you before his passing, and after his death, his complete collection had been willed to you. Sadly, because your apartment was so small, the fifty seven fiction novels, five non-fictions, several short story anthologies and the seven novels written under a pen name, now rested in a dark and dingy storage unit you rented for an outrageous amount of money from a horribly creepy and outrageously rude little woman with a terribly behaved dog.

That was likely the only thing that really made you look forward to the new apartment, the living room was spacious enough to fill it with the shelves needed to host your Stephen King collection and the rest of your books too.

“So,” Beau said with an amused frown, “Catacombs are creepy, and true crime is terrifying but Stephen King is fine? Remind me what kind of books he writes again?”

“Oh shut up,” you rolled your eyes

“Ooh,” he said, “Crabby. Drink up,” he added, handing you his half finished coffee, “They were closing up and didn't want to make two coffees.”

“Bullshit,” you called out his lie, “you’ve had too much to drink and you forgot my order.”

“Never!” he laughed, “I don’t get drunk.”

“Liar,” you smiled

“I’m barely tipsy,” he replied with a huff, “I can hold my liquor pretty well, princess. I used to be a frat guy, you know?”

“I fail to see what that has to do with anything, I’ve met plenty of frat boys--,” you said, emphasising the ‘boy’, “-- who couldn’t hold their alcohol.”

“I’m not convinced,” you shrugged, “I say you need to prove it to me. How about a few drinks at the hotel bar?” you offered

“Don’t want the night to end yet, babygirl?”

“Not when I’m having this much fun, Adm--” you started, stopping short in front of a shop window. The outside was dark, decorations having been forgotten, the only sign that Christmas was near being a small pine tree by the window topped with a small golden star but the inside was dimly lit by a small desk lamp by the till where a woman sat hunched over a notebook, furiously scribbling things down. Hiding her somewhat, back lit unattractively, was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen.

It looked very similar to Grace Kelly’s dress in Rear Window, a black top with a white embroidered skirt, made to seem full with a generous petticoat and finished off with white elbow gloves and a lovely chiffon scarf. It looked enchanting.

“Everything okay?” Beau asked

“All good,” you grinned, “Pretty dress.”

---

After a long evening walk in freezing New York, you were ready for the warmth of the Edison hotel, although neither of you were keen to go your separate ways. Something had shifted in the air, Beau’s comment about dropping the professionalism had made the air charged with something neither of you could put your finger on.

“How about we have that drink, then?” you offered, reminding him of his claim that he never got drunk. You had drunk enough at the Rivage, but a small part of you wondered, probably aided by the very nice wine, where the evening might lead if you didn’t go back to your individual rooms.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” he said, his words contradicting his body, leading the two of you towards the lift and pressing the button for the rooftop bar. You stumbled onto the top floor with his hand against the small of your back. Beau led you to a small two person table near the edge, where you had the best view of New York. You looked at the view, the twinkling lights of the city that never slept looking more like stars than cars and buildings. You were suddenly shaken out of your reverie by Beau. He tugged your -- his -- coat off and hung it at the back of your chair. You turned around to thank him, finding yourself inches from his body.

"Oh my God, how are you so warm?!" You chuckled as soon as your bare hand accidentally grazed Beau's shoulder. Although the rooftop bar wasn't by any means warm, the covered portion had been heated up sufficiently that keeping coats, gloves and hats on would be a little uncomfortable, but because he'd been walking around in the snow without a coat, you had expected him to be cold to the touch, if not downright frostbitten, "You're like a furnace," you added.

Beau grinned at you, extending his arms out into a T, inviting you in for a hug. You shrugged his coat off and dived in, making yourself comfortable in his embrace without a second thought, "I could live here," you said, voice muffled by his jumper and the skin of his neck. He smelled amazing, whatever aftershave he usually used had been swapped for something nicer and you couldn't deny it was doing things to you. It was musky and masculine, "I'm sorry, that was a weird thing to say," you mumbled.

"It's okay," he replied, wrapping his arms around you a little tighter, trapping you into him for a little longer, not that you wanted to go. You felt Beau bow down his head, hiding his face into the crook of your neck in the same way you were doing to him, and you wondered if he could feel your lips against his neck in the same way you felt his, and if it was eliciting the same thoughts. You tried to push them away but with no success. If you stayed any longer, you were afraid you might start to kiss any inch of exposed skin you could reach. You were dying to run your tongue against his neck, nip at his jawline, and run your hands against his bare flesh, regardless of the fact that you were in the middle of Edison's rooftop bar, surrounded by patrons and staff but you shouldn't. He was your boss, and would be for another few weeks.

"I'd let you," he added, almost in a whisper. You weren't sure you had heard him correctly. Maybe your brain had made words out of the rustle of a coat, or you'd caught the last few words of someone else's conversation. Unwilling to face reality, you burrowed deeper into him and Beau chuckled, the sound of his deep voice crackling through him like thunder in a way that made your stomach flip. You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, the intention to never act on your all consuming attraction flying out of your mind as soon as you crossed his gaze.

While still gentle, his eyes watched you with a sort of intensity that almost made your legs buckle. The strong arms holding you close to him in the hug moved, one came to rest at the small of your back, pressing you impossibly closer, while the other snaked its way up to your hair, his hand leading your head closer to him as he leant down. Beau kissed you, at first tentatively, almost asking if you really wanted this but he gained confidence when both of your hands moved to his chest, holding the crumbling fabric of his previously crisp shirt and pulling his upper body towards you.

The kiss, which had now grown deep and passionate, had short-circuited your brain and turned it into mush. You had all but forgotten the other patrons of the bar, or the taboo nature of your current actions, the only thing you were aware of right now, was the growing need you felt for him.

He pulled himself off of you, coming up out of breath and flushed.

"It's shit, but if you want a drink, I'm sure we can make coffee in my room," he breathed, using up all of his self control not to dive in for a second kiss. You nodded eagerly, grabbing your bag and his coat so quickly you would have laughed and called yourself pathetic if you had had a clearer mind.

You walked briskly out of the bar, Beau following right behind you. By chance, the lift doors opened and three men walked out right as you approached, letting you step into an empty elevator. As soon as the doors slid shut, Beau pushed you against the wall, caging you in with his arms around you and one knee pinned between your legs. He broke the kiss and you whined. Either he didn't hear you or he didn't care, but Beau didn't react, he simply kissed your cheek, going down to your jaw and then down your neck, peppering searing kisses against your skin, eliciting needy moans.

He nipped at your collarbone and you let out a whiny "Please".

He laughed. Beau opened his mouth to reply but the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Just in time, he flew off of you, stepping back into the opposite corner as two elderly women walked in. They stood right in the middle, keeping you and Beau separated. He seemed unaffected, hiding his tenting trousers with his coat while his other hand played around with a packet of cigarettes he had gotten out of his coat. He played nonchalance very well, but you were having trouble. Aside from the obvious flush and heavy breathing, you were acutely aware of your ruffled hair and blown out pupils. One good look at you and the two women would know exactly what the issue was. You weren't sure why you were so concerned that they would know, but your hand came up to smooth down your hair anyway.

Under Beau's watchful gaze, which you could feel burning the back of your head with the same needy intensity he had displayed minutes ago, back when you were alone, you fixed your dress. Tugging at the back and smoothing the area over your ass, you then tried to stand casually, very aware of just how wet you were and ashamed that the women might know that too.

"You okay?" Beau asked, appearing behind you very suddenly. You jumped as he spoke, having bent down so he could speak into your ear, his breath feeling hot on the skin of your neck and fanning the flames of your burning desire.

"Bastard," you replied

"Watch your language, Miss," he whispered so only you could hear. The blush covering your cheeks only intensified and you tried to look down, hoping the downwards angle would hide your flush from unwanted spectators. The lift dinged again as it hit another floor and the doors opened to let in three middle aged couples. A strong hand grabbed you around the waist, fingers spreading wide to get a better surface area, and you were backed into Cyclone's warm and inviting chest. He coughed, you could feel it rumbling through his body, it sent shivers down your spine and you felt Beau smirk.

Then, after what seemed like an agonisingly long time, the lift dinged again. You grabbed Beau's hand behind you and practically dragged him out to his room, only stopping short when you realised he had the keys. He let you in but you barely made it past the threshold before you pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

Beau let his hands roam now that you were in the privacy of his hotel room. His fingers grazed over your legs, following the seams of your dress till he seemingly worked up the bravery to find his way under it. After some brief touches, he found the side of your panties and followed the hem around till he got to your ass. All pretence of shyness flew out the window as he grabbed a handful and groaned into your mouth. His hand flew out of your dress, finding the zip in the blink of an eye and undressing you as fast as he could, letting the soft fabric of your dress hit the floor with a gentle thud. Keen to gain the upper hand again, he pushed you off of him and against the opposite wall, caging you in again. He didn’t kiss you, instead, he stood back a little, admiring the underwear set you were wearing. A lacey red three piece set you wore to feel confident, consisting of a bra, crotchless panties and a garter belt holding up your thighs.

“Fuck me,” he chuckled, “Fuck me,” he repeated, breathlessly. His arms fell by his side as he took a step back to get a better look at the ensemble.

“Happily,” you answered, making him look back at you in stunned silence, like, despite having gotten you undressed, he didn’t expect that that would be where the evening was going.

And to be fair, he hadn’t really thought this far. In fact, he didn’t really seem able to think at all, and he was glad you seemed to be able to. Beau looked at you, feeling very much like he had died and gone to heaven, and watched you frown. You grabbed his tie, dragging him closer to you.

“You’re wearing too many clothes, Admiral,” you said in a sultry tone, “How about I fix that?” removing his tie in one swift motion.

Your fingers made quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning it with unparalleled efficiency and then of his trousers, letting the lot fall to the floor right next to your dress. You sank down to your knees and looked up, that simple action eliciting another groan from Beau, which was swiftly cut off when you leant in and ran your lips against the outline of his boxer shorts. His eyes fluttered shut, one hand coming to rest against the wall in front of him in an effort to keep himself upright. He felt your hands bring his underwear down, revealing his length.

You let out a giggle as it accidentally bumped against your lips and Beau looked down, seeing you look up with hungry, blown out pupils and a smile on your face, his rock hard member hiding the centre of your face. You winked at him and moved, wrapping your pretty lips around the tip of his cock and licking the sensitive part of it. Cyclone let out a moan which seemingly spurred you on as you took on more of his cock, til he felt himself hit the back of your throat and your lips wrapped around the base of his dick. You gagged after a moment, tears forming in your eyes and when you came back up, you looked absolutely wrecked.

“Use me,” you whispered, popping him out of your mouth to speak, and Beau seriously wondered if this wasn’t all a dream. His brain didn’t seem to think so, though, because one of his hands automatically moved to grab a handful of your hair. You opened your mouth wide to encourage him, but Beau didn’t need it. Steadying you with his hand, he started fucking himself into your mouth at a leisurely pace, giving you time to adjust to a more comfortable position.

Beau had always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world, ever since you first stepped in his office, but he had to admit that while you looked gorgeous all made up, there was something to be said for the way you looked right then, with mascara streaking down your cheeks, lipstick smudged, and your lovely manicured fingers holding his thighs as he thrust himself in and out of your mouth at a quickening pace. He was getting closer to his high with every thrust and it took all of his self control not to allow himself to spill his cum inside your mouth.

“Bed,” he said, pulling himself out of your mouth. You pouted but obeyed, jogging over to his king sized bed with an impatient smile. Beau went over to his suitcase, zipping a pocket open and pulling out a condom. You waited for him on the sheets, legs spread open so he could see your aching core.

Moments later, the bed dipped in front of you. He kneeled down between your legs for a second before allowing his fingers to rub against your sensitive nub for a few seconds before travelling down and gathering up some of your slick. He watched it glisten in the yellow light of the hotel room before popping his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean, eliciting a needy moan from you. He then dropped to his elbows, pulling you forward towards his mouth as he threw your legs over his shoulders. Beau gently kissed the sides of your thighs, keeping eye contact with you and smirking when you whimpered and whined. Eventually, after a few more seconds of torture, he parted your lips with his tongue and explored until he found your sensitive nub. Closing his lips around it, he gently suckled, taking care to lick it at the same time until he could feel you getting closer. Your hips bucked in his face, desperate for something more than he was giving you and he smiled against your cunt. Beau held you down with both his hands, determined to have you come on his face and you did moments later with a moan he was certain the neighbours heard.

He let you gently come down from your high before making his way back up your body for a kiss. While all the other ones had been eager and impatient, this one was more passionate and slow, Beau took his time to enjoy how your lips moved against his, how your tongue felt as it battled his for dominance. He lined himself up with you, gently pressing his member into your core. Once inside, he stilled for a moment and then thrust in and out in slow, careful movements. Beau tried to stay concentrated, savouring every noise you made and keen to make this last as long as possible but his orgasm was fast approaching. He lifted himself up til he was kneeling down, his hand travelled to your core, rubbing your clit until he felt you tighten against him, your hand flying to your mouth to muffle the sound of your orgasm. The added pressure sent him over the edge and he spilled his seed into the condom with a loud groan.

Eventually, he pulled out of you. Tying the condom at the base and throwing it out before joining you in the shower, the hot water washing over you as you kissed. You didn’t want the evening to end, but as the clock struck midnight and the day ended with one last Frankie song floating through the open window, you fell asleep, wrapped in Beau’s arms.

He laid awake a little longer, fighting against sleep in order to enjoy the moment a little longer before finally losing his battle and closing his eyes as Frank sang:

"In the wee small hours of the morning

While the whole wide world is fast asleep

You lie awake and think about the girl

And never, ever think of counting sheep"

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