#is there even a difference between those two tags?

[cup1drul3z]

★ — All That's Left Between Us

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3 : ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ

ꜰᴀʀᴍʜᴀɴᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 6.5ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Southern sevika, childhood bestfriends, Ex's to lovers, homophobia mentioned, internal hatred, cowboy sevika, farm owners daughter reader, size difference, breeding kink

A/N : hes gone

Summary : Late at night on the farm, tension lingers between you and Sevika after an almost-kiss neither of you can stop thinking about. A wounded animal and a quiet storm bring the two of you closer, forcing old feelings to surface in the silence and space you share. But by morning, heartbreak hits from a different direction—leaving Sevika watching you fall apart, wishing she could be the one to catch you.

The house is dark and still, the kind of silence that only settles after everyone’s gone to bed and the world has stopped pretending it’s okay.

You’ve been tossing and turning for hours, tangled in sheets and thoughts that won’t settle. Every time you close your eyes, you see that guy’s face. The way Sevika hit him. The sound of her breathing after. The way her eyes locked on yours like it meant something.

And then—creak.

The front door opens.

You freeze.

But only for a second.

Because of course it’s her.

You sigh, roll out of bed, and pad quietly to the bathroom. You grab the Neosporin and a clean rag from under the sink, your hands already moving before your thoughts can catch up. You don’t even need to think about it. You just go.

When you step onto the porch, the air is thick and cool, the stars peeking through clouds that still linger from the storm the other day.

Sevika’s sitting on the porch steps, elbow on her knee, cigarette glowing between her fingers. She glances at you, just once, but doesn’t speak.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” you say softly, settling into the chair beside her.

“I started after you left,” she says, voice deep and quiet. She exhales, the smoke curling into the night.

Your heart pulls at that.

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, setting the supplies down beside you.

“Give me your hand.”

She doesn’t move at first.

But then she grunts and shifts, holding it out—rough, bruised, still smeared faintly with dried blood.

It’s massive compared to yours.

You wet the rag and dab the Neosporin on gently. Her skin twitches under your touch. She winces once, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Baby,” you tease quietly, trying to soften the moment.

She huffs.

You keep working in silence.

Then you speak, without looking up.

“You shouldn’t have done that. I had it under control.”

Sevika bites the inside of her cheek. “No guy should touch a girl like that. Especially you.”

Your hand pauses.

You look up.

She’s already looking at you.

And just like that, the world narrows.

There’s only the porch. The soft creak of wood. The heat between your knees. The way her eyes are darker in the moonlight. And the unspoken thing you’ve been carrying since you got back.

You lean in.

So does she.

Closer.

Closer.

Your lips are just about to touch—when you stop.

“I—I shouldn’t…” you whisper, breath shaking.

You both freeze. Inches apart.

Then you pull back.

She turns her head, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

“It’s just—Jared, you know?” you sputter, trying to fill the silence.

“Right,” Sevika says quickly, nodding. “Jared.”

You both look anywhere but at each other.

The air between you is still thick, charged, but neither of you moves to cross it again.

You stand awkwardly, wiping your hands on your thighs.

“Um—I'm exhausted. I’m gonna go to bed.” You nod to her hand. “Please bandage those.”

She nods, eyes still on her knuckles. “Yeah.”

You don’t look back as you walk inside.

And neither of you says what you're really thinking.

But both of you are flushed red, hearts beating way too loud for how quiet the night is.

The morning is already warm, sun high and golden as you duck into the chicken pen, basket in hand.

The hens cluck and scatter lazily, the smell of straw and feed thick in the air. You move slowly between them, scooping warm eggs into the basket, brushing feathers off your boots. The heat makes the lace of your camisole cling to your skin under your dark denim overall shorts, and the little red heart on your mother’s necklace rests just above your collarbone, catching the light each time you lean forward.

A soft breeze lifts the ribbon in your hair.

You hum under your breath, not thinking—just doing.

At least until you hear boots behind you.

Heavy.

Familiar.

You don’t look.

Not yet.

But your back straightens as the gate creaks and shuts again behind whoever just entered.

“Didn’t peg you for the farmhand type,” Sevika says, voice rough from sleep or smoke—you can’t tell.

You glance over your shoulder.

She’s in a faded black tank and old jeans slung low on her hips, hair pulled into a loose bun. There’s a cigarette tucked behind one ear. Her eyes—those sharp, dark eyes—flick over your outfit before she can stop herself.

“I grew up here, didn’t I?” you say, forcing a smile as you gently slide another egg into the basket.

“You left here,” she says, but there’s no bite in it.

Just that same rough edge she’s always had when she doesn’t know what to say.

You shrug. “Doesn’t mean I forgot how to get eggs.”

She leans against the side of the coop, arms crossed. “That necklace new?”

You glance down at the little red heart. Your fingers brush over it.

“It was my mom’s,” you say. “She gave it to me before—before everything.”

Sevika nods once. The silence stretches again.

Neither of you says what you really want to say.

About the porch.

About the almost.

She shifts, rubbing the back of her neck. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

“You?”

“Sure.”

Another beat.

You both know it’s bullshit.

You both remember how close you got. How your breath hitched. How you almost kissed her like no time had passed at all.

Her eyes flick to your lips for half a second.

Yours do the same.

And for a moment—it’s there again.

That unbearable, electric pull.

The air thickens. The hens seem to scatter. The sun presses hotter against your back.

She takes a slow step forward.

So do you.

And then you catch yourself—both of you do—like you remembered at the same exact time how bad of an idea it is.

You inhale sharply and take a step back, tucking the basket into your hip. “I should get these in before Betty starts wondering if I ran off with the rooster.”

Sevika clears her throat. “Yeah. Sure. Don’t drop any.”

You nod once, heart pounding.

She doesn’t move.

You don’t look back.

Not even when your boot scuffs on the edge of the step and you stumble a little.

Because if you do—you know.

You know you won’t leave that chicken coop without doing something you’ll regret.

You’re almost to the back steps of the farmhouse when something low and fast darts in front of your boots.

You stumble, clutching the egg basket to your chest, and let out a breathless laugh.

“Hey there,” you murmur.

One of the cattle dogs—scruffy, sun-drenched, and way too happy to see you—sits squarely in your path, tail thumping wildly against the dirt. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth as he drops something at your feet.

A sun-bleached chew toy. Half a rope. Probably older than you.

You blink.

“Oh my god, you still have this?”

You crouch down slowly, setting the basket of eggs safely in the grass beside you, and reach for the toy. The dog’s whole body wiggles with excitement.

“Alright, alright, one throw.”

You toss it across the yard.

He takes off like a shot, kicking up dry grass and dirt behind him. He comes back seconds later, triumphant, and drops it at your feet again with a happy bark.

You laugh.

“Okay, maybe two.”

You throw it again. Then again.

The third time, he drops it and looks at you with such bright, eager eyes it makes your chest ache a little. You don’t remember the last time you smiled like this—just for yourself.

But then—

He stops.

Ears perked.

His whole body stiffens as his head jerks toward the west pasture.

You pause, following his gaze.

You don’t hear anything.

Just birds. Wind. The faint creak of the barn door swinging.

But the dog lets out a sharp bark and bolts, tearing across the yard toward the lamb pen. You hear more barking as he reaches the fence, kicking up dust as he circles, nose to the ground, then up again, hackles raised.

“Hey!” you call, standing up quickly and grabbing the basket. “What is it?”

The dog’s still barking—loud, sharp, alert. His paws scrape the fence, body pressed close to the slats as he growls low in his throat, tail stiff behind him.

The sheep inside the pen shift nervously, bleating and clumping together at the opposite end.

You feel your heartbeat pick up.

The sun’s still shining. The sky’s still clear.

But something feels off.

Like maybe the dog heard something you weren’t supposed to.

You hesitate for only a second.

Then you're moving, basket in hand, boots crunching over the gravel path as you head toward the lamb pen. The eggs rattle gently against each other with every step, and you tighten your grip, holding them close against your side.

The dog’s barking gets sharper the closer you get.

The sheep are restless, crowded in one corner of the pen, some pacing, some bleating nervously. Their hooves kick up little clouds of dust as they shift in place, ears twitching.

The dog paces along the fence, body tense, barking toward the far tree line—nothing but golden grass and sun-bleached brush beyond it. You squint, shielding your eyes with your free hand.

Nothing.

But the hairs on your arms rise anyway.

“Hey,” you call softly to the dog, your voice low. “What is it, huh? You see somethin’?”

He stops barking, panting now, eyes still locked on the tree line. A low growl rumbles in his throat.

You glance at the brush again.

Still nothing.

But something in your gut twists.

Maybe it’s just a coyote. Or a fox. Something small. Something normal.

But the silence out here isn’t the usual kind. It’s still in a way that feels wrong.

You take a slow step toward the fence, clutching the basket tighter.

Your voice is a whisper now. “Okay. Let’s not get crazy.”

You scan the treeline one last time, then turn your eyes back to the dog.

His ears are still up. His body still rigid.

And suddenly, you wish you hadn’t come alone.

The closer you get to the pen, the more you notice it—one of the lambs isn’t moving like the others.

The little body is curled near the fence, shivering slightly. Its side is smeared with something dark. You blink hard, heart kicking up a beat as you carefully set the egg basket down near the fence and step closer.

The dog whines low, circling protectively but not getting too close.

“Shit,” you whisper, crouching down.

The lamb bleats weakly. Its back leg is slick with blood, matted and muddy, fur torn near the joint. The wound isn’t massive, but it’s raw and fresh—like something got in through the fence line and tried to drag it out before being scared off.

You stand quickly, eyes wide. “Sevika!”

Your voice cracks across the field.

She’s there in seconds.

Jogging up from behind the barn, boots thudding heavy, hat forgotten, tank damp with sweat from whatever chore she was mid-way through. She slows when she sees your face—then her eyes drop to the lamb.

“Shit,” she mutters, crouching down beside it.

You step back, heart still hammering.

“Go get Harold,” she says, already inspecting the wound with practiced hands. “Now.”

You nod. “Okay.”

You grab the basket, cradling it awkwardly in your arm as you half-jog back toward the house, trying not to spill a single egg as the sun pounds against your shoulders and your boots slam against the dry grass.

You push open the back door, rush into the kitchen, and set the basket on the island—eggs rattling in their straw bed as you call out—

“Dad!”

Nothing.

You move fast through the kitchen and out the front, catching sight of him and Betty near the drive, crouched beside a patch of disturbed earth. He’s squinting at something.

Small. Light. A trail.

“Dad!”

They both look up.

“There’s a lamb down by the pen,” you say, breathless. “It’s hurt. Sevika’s with it. She said to get you.”

Your dad’s already on his feet, nodding. “Ill go see whats going on,” he tells her, then takes off in the direction you came from without another word.

You turn to follow him—your legs moving before you can think better of it.

But not before you hear Betty mutter behind you, frowning at the dirt, “Reckon that might’ve been a fox…”

By the time you make it back to the pen, your chest is tight and your legs ache, but you slow your pace when you see them already there—both of them.

Your dad’s crouched beside the fence, talking low and steady, unwrapping something from his canvas first-aid pouch. Sevika’s right next to him, one knee in the dirt, her massive frame hunched over the small, trembling lamb.

You stop just a few feet away, fiddling your thumbs

And you watch.

Sevika’s movements are slow, precise, like she’s trying not to scare it further. One hand rests firm against the lamb’s side while the other dabs gently at the blood-soaked fur near its leg, guiding your dad’s hand when needed.

She murmurs something under her breath you can’t quite hear, her fingers trailing lightly between the lamb’s ears, and the sound that leaves its throat is soft, almost comforted.

You’ve never seen her like this.

Not in high school. Not last night. Not ever.

There’s no wall in her shoulders. No cocky smirk on her face. Just focus. Care. A kind of gentleness that doesn’t seem like it should fit a woman built like her—but does, somehow, perfectly.

“She’s stabilizing,” Harold mutters, voice low and relieved. “Gonna need stitches, but we’ll get her through it.”

Sevika nods, still petting the lamb. Her hands are stained with blood now, knuckles scraped from yesterday, sleeves pushed up, and sweat sticking loose strands of hair to her temples—but she looks calm.

Still.

She hasn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe she has and just hasn’t looked.

You stand there a few seconds longer, not wanting to break whatever fragile peace exists in this moment.

Then your dad glances over his shoulder and spots you. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything good?”

You nod slowly, voice caught somewhere behind your ribs. “Yeah. im fine- is he-”

Harold smiles faintly, distracted. “Hes gonna be okay”

You hesitate, eyes drifting back to Sevika—who finally looks up.

Your eyes meet.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk.

But something softens in her face.

And it’s enough to make your heart ache.

You give a small nod and step away.

The moment might be over.

But it’s not gone.

And you’re not sure you want it to be.

The sun’s lower now. Late afternoon light filters gold through the barn slats, catching dust in the air like glitter. It’s quieter than usual—most of the animals fed, chores done, your dad taking a well-earned break in the shade out back.

You find Sevika alone.

She’s in the tack room, oiling one of the saddles, a faded rag in one hand and a jar of something that smells like leather and lemon in the other. She doesn’t look up when you step inside, but her body stiffens just enough to let you know she hears you.

You hover by the door for a second, unsure. Then:

“Hey.”

Sevika grunts in acknowledgment. “Hey.”

You glance around. The place is exactly how you remember—organized in her weirdly meticulous way. Bridles hung by size. Saddle blankets folded into perfect squares. Her jacket from this morning slung over a hook, still damp with sweat.

You cross your arms loosely. “Dad says the lamb’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, still wiping slow circles across the saddle leather. “I know.”

You nod. “I saw you. With her.”

At that, she does look up. Just a little. Just enough to glance at you through her lashes.

“You were good,” you say, voice soft. “Real good.”

She shrugs. “It’s just a lamb.”

“It’s not,” you say, almost before you mean to. “You don’t get it. You—”

You stop. Bite your lip. Shift your weight.

Sevika sets the saddle down gently and wipes her hands on the rag before tossing it aside. “Why are you here?”

The question hits you square.

Not why are you in this room. Not why are you talking to me. But why are you here.

Back on this farm.

Back in her orbit.

You swallow. “I don’t know.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, you do.”

You look down at the dirt-covered floor, at your boots, at your hands. “I just… I wanted to see home again. The real kind. Not palm trees and concrete. I thought maybe—”

“You thought what?” she cuts in, voice low but sharp. “That we’d play nice and forget the part where you left?”

Your chest tightens.

“I didn’t forget,” you whisper.

Sevika stands, towering over you now. Her brows knit together. “Then why does it feel like you did?”

The air between you crackles—thick with things you haven’t said and things she hasn’t let herself feel.

You don’t say anything.

She stares for a second longer before shaking her head like she’s mad at herself. She moves to step past you.

You catch her wrist.

It’s a stupid impulse. But it’s the first time you’ve touched her since—

She stops cold.

Your fingers wrap gently around her forearm, just above a dried scrape on her knuckles. You glance up.

“I didn’t forget,” you repeat. “I couldn’t.”

Sevika’s jaw clenches.

But she doesn’t pull away.

And she doesn’t say a word.

Sevika doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull away.

And for a moment, there’s just silence—the kind that hums warm in your chest instead of cold.

Your hand stays on her arm, thumb brushing instinctively over the worn muscle there. Her skin is warm, a little tacky from the long day, but real. Steady.

You look up at her.

And she’s already looking at you.

Her expression isn’t angry anymore. Not exactly. It’s something else now. Something fragile.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” she mutters, almost too quietly to hear.

“Like what?”

“Like I didn’t break your heart.”

You swallow thickly. “Maybe you did. Maybe I broke yours too.”

Her jaw twitches.

But her hand shifts, just slightly—until her fingers ghost over your wrist, her touch featherlight, like she’s scared you’ll vanish if she presses too hard.

“You still wear that necklace,” she says, voice low and strange.

You blink. Then your fingers rise, brushing over the little red heart resting just below your collarbone.

“My mom’s,” you say softly.

“I know.” Her voice catches. “You wore it the first time you kissed me.”

You laugh—small and breathless. “You had straw in your hair.”

“You told me I smelled like a barn.”

“You did smell like a barn.”

A pause. Your smiles fade, not from discomfort, but because it’s sinking in—how long it’s been. How much was left behind.

Sevika takes a slow breath. “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

You nod. “Me either.”

And even though you’re not touching anymore, it feels like you are.

Like her heartbeat is echoing against yours.

Like if either of you moved a single inch closer, it would all come rushing back.

But instead of kissing you, instead of saying something cruel or clever, Sevika does the most unexpected thing of all—

She reaches up, tucks a strand of hair gently behind your ear, and says, “You should come by the barn later. I’ll show you how to wrap a wound.” eyes flicking down to a cut on your thigh you didnt even know you got 

Your breath catches.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I will.”

Then she steps back. Walks out. Leaving you in the tack room with your heart pounding and your mother’s necklace warm against your skin.

The sun’s dipped low by the time you make your way back out to the barn.

The heat’s softened into something easier, the sky painted with that dusky gold that always makes you ache a little. You pause outside the wide open doors, heart thudding harder than it should, and you’re not even sure why.

It’s just Sevika. Just the barn. Just a lesson.

But your hand still trembles a little as you push the door open and step inside.

She’s already there.

Leaning against one of the support beams, sleeves rolled up, an old first aid kit opened on a workbench nearby. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes flick to you the second you walk in.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” she says.

You shrug. “I said I would.”

She nods. Pushes off the beam and gestures toward the table.

“Come here,” she says. “Gonna show you with gauze and wrap first, then I’ll let you try.”

You step up beside her, keeping your distance. Kind of. Not really. It’s already closer than it should be. The bench is narrow, the air too thick.

She pulls out a roll of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic, setting them down with steady hands. “This is what we use for cuts and scrapes—not deep wounds, just surface stuff.”

Her voice is calm. Controlled.

But you feel the heat of her arm next to yours. The brush of her sleeve against your skin when she leans forward.

Your breath catches.

“So first you clean it—like this.” She demonstrates on a rolled-up towel. “Then you pat it dry.”

You nod, lips parted just slightly. Trying to focus.

But all you can think about is how good her hands look. How she smells faintly of hay and sweat and the lemon-saddle-oil from earlier. How this all feels a little too much like being taught how to kiss again—slow, step by step, her voice low and patient.

“Your turn,” she says.

You take the cloth from her, fingers brushing.

Her eyes don’t leave yours.

You try not to shake as you repeat her movements, clumsier than you mean to be.

“Gentler,” she murmurs.

You adjust. She watches.

“That’s better.”

Your throat’s dry. “You’re a good teacher.”

She smirks. “I’ve had practice.”

You don’t ask who with.

But your chest still aches.

You finish the wrap and step back. “Like that?”

She nods. “Close enough.”

The air stretches between you—taut. Shimmering. Fragile.

“I think I get it,” you whisper.

She looks at you for a second too long. Her jaw flexes, her brows twitch like she’s fighting a thought. Then she clears her throat and steps back.

“You should head in,” she says, voice a little rough. “Storm might roll in again.”

You nod. But neither of you move.

Until finally—she turns.

Leaves you there in the barn with your hands still warm from her touch.

And that night?

You lie in bed with the window cracked open, the soft creak of the barn door drifting in from across the field.

Sevika’s in the guest room just down the hall.

And your hand slides under the waistband of your shorts like it always used to when you were seventeen and full of longing.

But it’s different now.

Because this time, she’s here.

And when you come, your hand muffling the sound against your own mouth, you whisper her name into the dark like it’s a sin.

And Sevika?

She’s wide awake in the next room, eyes open in the dark, fists clenched, trying not to imagine what that sound was.

Trying harder not to imagine what it would feel like to make you say her name out loud.

She can’t sleep.

Hasn’t even tried.

Just lying there on her back, one arm slung over her forehead, the ceiling fan above turning slow and useless in the humid air.

The sheets are kicked halfway off her legs. Her tank top is sticking to her chest. Her jaw’s locked so tight it aches.

And then—

That sound.

It’s faint. Barely audible above the crickets and creaking wood of the old house. But it cuts through her like a hot knife.

A breathy gasp. A soft whimper. Then silence.

Sevika’s eyes fly open.

At first, she tells herself it’s the wind. A dream. A memory crawling back into her ears.

But then it happens again.

A muffled moan—low and desperate—like someone trying not to be heard.

Her whole body tenses.

She knows that sound.

She knows your sound.

She’s memorized it. Every pitch and variation. Every little broken sob you used to make when her hand was between your thighs and you were trembling under her palm.

It’s different now. Softer. More restrained.

Lonelier.

She grits her teeth.

The walls are thin in this house. You’re just across the hall. Maybe twenty feet away.

She turns on her side, facing the wall. Covers her ears with the pillow like that’ll fix anything. Like that’ll erase the image forming in her mind.

You. Your legs spread. Your head tipped back. Your voice breaking as you whisper a name.

Her name.

Because she heard it.

Just barely.

But it was there.

That breathless, aching "Sevika…"

Her eyes squeeze shut.

And still—she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t get up. Doesn’t storm across the hall. Doesn’t press you into the mattress and ask why the fuck you’re pretending to be happy with someone else when your body is still singing for her.

She just lies there.

Fuming.

Burning.

Breathing too hard.

Jaw clenched so tight it might crack.

And in the silence that follows—when you’ve gone quiet again and the house settles back into its creaking stillness—she finally mutters one thing under her breath:

“…fuckin’ Jared.”

Then she flips over onto her stomach, face buried in the pillow, and tries not to imagine your hand between your thighs again.

Fails.

Miserably.

You wake to sunlight pouring in through your bedroom window, your body heavy and slow beneath the sheets. Your thighs are still sore—from sleep, from tension, from last night—and the memory of your own voice echoing back to you in the dark makes your face burn.

You groan into your pillow and roll over.

Down the hall, you hear the low thud of boots. The creak of the stairs. Sevika’s up. Already moving.

You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

You force yourself out of bed, tugging on a tank top and slipping your arms through a soft flannel. No makeup. Hair in a clip. You look like someone who didn’t sleep well.

You didn’t.

You shuffle down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Betty is flipping pancakes and your dad is pouring coffee like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Morning, sugar,” Betty calls over her shoulder. “You want some?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice scratchy. “Please.”

You take your seat at the table, and seconds later, Sevika walks in.

Freshly showered.

White tank clinging to her frame. Flannel sleeves rolled up. Her face unreadable.

She doesn’t even look at you.

“Morning,” your dad says.

“Morning,” Sevika grunts, grabbing a mug and pouring herself some coffee.

She sits across from you like it’s just another day. Like she didn’t hear you say her name with your hand between your thighs. Like she didn’t lose her mind all night staring at the ceiling, jaw tight and fists clenched.

You try not to look.

But of course you do.

Her knuckles are still raw from the fight. Still unbandaged. You want to reach for her hand. You don’t.

“Sleep okay, hon?” Betty asks, setting a plate in front of you.

You hesitate. Glance up. Sevika finally glances back, just barely—her eyes flicking to yours before snapping away again.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Storms might roll back in tonight,” your dad mutters behind his mug. “Best get the big animals in early.”

Sevika nods. “I’ll handle it.”

“No, I’ll help,” you blurt out. “I—I want to.”

Everyone looks at you.

Sevika raises a brow, suspicious. “You sure?”

You nod, already too deep to back out.

“Alright then,” your dad says. “Y’all can handle the horses first. That old gelding spooks if he hears thunder.”

You and Sevika lock eyes for one second longer than necessary.

And that’s how your day starts:

Tension coiled under your skin.

A breakfast you can barely eat.

And the knowledge that you’ll be alone in the stables with the girl who still makes your chest ache every time she says nothing at all.

The first drops of rain started as a whisper on the barn roof.

By the time the last chicken was safely shut in and the tack room doors were latched, it had picked up—slow, steady, soaking everything in its path. You barely made it to the house before the downpour came in full, the kind of sudden, slanted rainfall that made the porchboards groan under your boots.

Inside now, the house glows soft with warm yellow light. The storm rumbles in the distance, but the power—mercifully—is still on. The living room smells like fresh coffee and hay. The old fan creaks softly above.

Harold and Betty had gone to bed hours ago. A miracle, honestly.

You’re standing in the kitchen, arms crossed loosely, your damp flannel hanging open over a faded tank. The window fogs slightly with the difference in temperature, and you press your finger against the glass, watching the droplets chase each other.

“How can they sleep through this?” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head as thunder rolls low across the fields.

“They’ve lived through worse,” Sevika says behind you.

You turn.

She’s stretched out on the couch, legs spread, one arm resting across the back, the other bent at the elbow as she finally wraps a fresh bandage around her bruised knuckles. The cut looks cleaner now. You can tell she’s taking your earlier advice seriously, even if she didn’t say it out loud.

You lean against the counter, just… watching her.

“You could’ve let me do that,” you say.

She shrugs. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’ve never cared about bothering me before.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes flick up to yours, sharp and unreadable.

“I’m trying,” she says simply. “To give you space.”

You blink. “Oh.”

A beat.

“I didn’t ask for space,” you say, softer now.

“Didn’t have to,” she mutters, tying the bandage off tight.

The thunder crashes louder this time. You flinch—not from fear, exactly, just from how close it feels.

Sevika leans back against the couch cushions, her head tilted up toward the ceiling. “You’ve been following me around all day.”

You freeze. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Your face heats. “I wasn’t— I was just trying to help.”

“You were tryin’ to pretend nothing’s changed.”

That hits you in the chest.

You push off the counter and move closer, arms crossed, your voice barely audible. “And what if I was?”

Sevika doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at you, eyes dragging over your face like she’s reading something only she knows how to translate.

“Then you’re not the only one pretending,” she finally says, voice rough.

The room falls quiet again.

Except for the storm.

And the way your heart’s thudding in your chest like it wants to say something you won’t.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around your arms. Her words echo in your head— Then you’re not the only one pretending.

You take a few slow steps closer, close enough now that you can hear the quiet breath she lets out through her nose, like she’s annoyed with herself. Or with you. Or both.

“Then why are we doing this?” you ask.

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gesture between you. “Acting like we’re just… strangers who happen to have a history. You’re sleeping down the hall, Sev. We’re playing house, and no one else even knows what we were—what we are.”

Her eyes flicker, and you see it—that flash of vulnerability she always hides beneath a bite or a glare.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to remember,” she says. “Not with that boyfriend of yours always calling.”

You flinch.

Her voice turns colder. “What’s his name again? Jason? Jordan?”

“Jared,” you say quietly. “And he’s not—he’s not what you think.”

“No?” Sevika leans forward now, resting her elbows on her knees. “So you don’t say ‘I love you’ into the phone every night when you think I’m not listening?”

You freeze.

Her lip curls, not in a smile. Something more bitter. “You still say it the same way. The way you used to say it to me.”

Your voice cracks. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” she mutters. “It’s not.”

The silence that stretches between you is raw and ugly and real.

And then you break it.

“I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

She looks up at that. Her jaw tightens, her nostrils flaring like she’s holding something back. Maybe a laugh. Maybe a sob.

“You don’t get to say that,” she says lowly.

“Why not?”

“Because you left. You left and never looked back. You built a life without me and just… erased us.”

“I didn’t erase anything,” you shoot back. “I buried it, Sev. There’s a difference.”

She stands now, and you can’t help but take a step back at the sudden rise of her body.

“Feels the same from where I’m standing.”

Your throat tightens. “You think it was easy for me?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” she growls. “Except that I’m still here. And you’re still pretending like I don’t matter.”

“You matter,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “God, Sev… you matter more than anything.”

She’s breathing hard now. Hands clenched at her sides. You can feel the heat radiating off of her.

And then—her voice cracks.

“Then why do I feel like I’m still not enough?”

That does it.

You reach for her before you can stop yourself—grabbing her wrist, pulling her in, your forehead nearly against her chest.

She doesn’t touch you at first.

But she doesn’t pull away, either.

You breathe out shakily, tears finally slipping down your cheek. “I don’t want Jared. I don’t want California. I don’t want anything that isn’t you.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it for years.

Slowly, gently, she brings a hand up to your hair. “You don’t get to say that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you say. “I always have.”

You look up at her.

Her hand cups your cheek now, fingers warm against your skin.

And for a moment—just one—you both let the mask drop.

It would be so easy to kiss her.

But instead…

Sevika sighs and presses her forehead to yours.

“We’re not ready,” she says quietly.

You nod.

Your chest aches, but you nod anyway.

“I know.”

And for now, that’s enough.

You can’t sleep.

Again.

The fan buzzes overhead, casting slow-turning shadows across the ceiling. Your body’s too warm under the sheets, your brain too loud to let you drift off. So you reach for your phone.

Your thumb scrolls absently through TikTok—goats in pajamas, a trending dance you’ll never learn, a girl talking about heartbreak like she invented it.

Then your phone buzzes.

A text.

Liv 🤎: “Are you up?”

You blink at the screen, brows pulling together.

You: “Yeah, what’s up?”

No reply. Not right away.

Then—

Liv 🤎 sent an image

You sit up slowly in bed, heart doing that cold, confused skip.

It’s a photo.

Jared.

Grinning in some bar. His arm draped around a girl with straight blonde hair and a crop top you don’t recognize.

They're laughing. He’s kissing her cheek.

The timestamp is from last weekend.

You freeze. Stare.

Your mouth parts like you’re about to say something—but there’s no one to hear it.

Another photo comes in.

Different girl. Different day. Still him.

Then another.

And another.

Your screen lights up in a blur of betrayal.

Liv 🤎: “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought maybe it was just a one-time thing, but… he’s been doing it for months.” “I’m so sorry.”

You blink hard, but the tears come anyway.

Silent.

Hot.

Your breath stutters. Your chest tightens.

You try to type something back—anything—but the letters blur beneath your thumbs.

Then the sob hits.

Quiet, at first. More like a gasp.

You slap a hand over your mouth as the second one rises up.

It hurts more than you thought it would.

Not because you loved him. But because you were trying so hard to be normal. To be safe. To pretend you weren’t still haunted by someone else’s hands. Someone else’s name.

And even that—you couldn’t get right.

The screen goes black as your phone times out.

And all you can do is sit there in the dark.

Shaking.

Alone.

The hallway was already filled with noise when Sevika cracked her door open early morning rays from the windows spilling out onto the hardwood floors—muffled sobs, shuffling feet, the sharp edge of panic riding through the old farmhouse.

She rubbed a hand down her face, her knuckles still tender from days ago, and followed the sound barefoot down the hallway.

Harold was standing stiff just outside your room, arms crossed, face creased with helplessness.

Inside, Betty sat beside you on the bed, one hand rubbing slow circles on your trembling shoulder as you curled in on yourself like a child.

“How could he do this to me?!” you cried, voice raw, words tripping over each other. “How— how could he just—like I meant nothing?”

Sevika’s chest tightened. She hadn’t heard you cry like that since you were sixteen.

Betty hushed you gently, brushing your hair back with that practiced, motherly touch of hers. “He’s just a stupid, selfish boy, honey,” she murmured. “Come on now. Let’s go run you a warm bath, alright? You don’t need to sit in this like it’s your fault.”

You sniffled, eyes red and swollen. “Okay,” you whispered, voice barely a thread of sound.

Sevika stood there frozen as Betty helped you stand, her arm around your waist, guiding you toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

You passed Sevika slowly, your gaze flicking up and locking with hers for just a second—tear-streaked, shattered.

She didn’t even have time to say anything before you were gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind you.

Sevika turned to Harold, jaw clenched. “What happened?”

Harold sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I’m not entirely sure. Betty was already in there when I got up. Girl was sobbing like her heart’d been ripped out. Only thing I caught was something about Jared. And a blonde.”

Sevika’s stomach dropped.

Her mouth went dry. “Oh no.”

Harold looked at her, confused. “You know something?”

But Sevika didn’t answer.

She just stared at the bathroom door, hands curling into fists at her sides, heart hammering loud and guilty in her ears.

Because she knew.

She knew this would happen eventually. That some mask would slip. That some crack would finally show.

She just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

Like she was watching you break all over again—and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Locked Out of Heaven 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, age gap, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father invites a work friend to the neighbourhood barbecue.

Characters: Nick Fowler (Dad’s friend trope)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Nick's hand settles on your thigh. You stare at it, too nervous, too enthralled to say or do anything to stop him. He gently kneads your flesh as he grins and watches you. He leans his cheek on on his knuckles.

"You're gorgeous, you know that?" He purrs.

Your lip trembles. Someone who looks like him telling you that is straight out of the dreams you never let yourself have. You stopped getting your hopes up when you were just a kid. You never got anything you wanted. No sense in longing for it.

"Oh, really? Um, thanks," you rub your neck nervously.

You wince as the bartender sets down the martinis on the wood finish. You chew your lip as Nick reaches for his, lifting it gingerly. His hand stays on your thigh. "Gonna try yours?"

"Mhmm," your hum crackles. "Thanks."

You take the glass and stare at the contents. Clear with two cherries on a toothpick, a sprinkle of sugar around the rim. You turn the drink and examine it.

"Well?" He squeezes your knee.

You put your lips on the brim. You tilt it slowly and sip. The sweetness of the sugar undercuts the sharpness of alcohol. You hold it in your mouth as you pull the glass away and cover your mouth. Your cheeks pinch as you force yourself to swallow.

"You get used to the burn." His fingers crawl back up your thigh. "Princess, it will help with your nerves. I want you to relax. Have some fun."

"I'm... having fun," you say. You blow out slowly and make yourself take a bigger drink. You close your eyes as you gulp again. You hold back a hiccup. He chuckles and his hand crawls higher.

His arm presses to yours as he drinks. He's unaffected by the singe of the vodka. He sets the glass down and pinches the end of the toothpick. He turns it above the glass and lets the excess drip off.

"Cherries look sweet," he drawls.

He puts one between his teeth and eases it off the toothpick. He hums and bites into it. "Mm mm mm."

Your hand shakes but you quickly still it. His rocky timbre, his warm touch, the way he watches you as he rolls the cherry around his mouth. You feel like you might faint. You take another drink.

"You like it, baby?" He asks.

You swallow, "it's... different."

"In a good way?"

"Yes," you smile.

"Baby, you don't gotta be shy," he rests his elbow on the bar trim, angling toward you even more. His hand keeps moving up and down your leg. "I wanna know about you. Everything. I'm... kinda obsessed."

"Obsessed?" You squeak. "That's... that's silly."

"No, I am. I told ya, doll. The whole time I was gone. My head was a million miles away. Back here with you."

You giggle.

"Mmph, you are adorable," he leans forward, his fingers under your skirt. "What do you like?"

"What?"

"Books? TV? Music? What makes you happy?"

"Erm... I don't... I don't get to..." It's hard to answer as his fingertips graze your thighs. Harder because you're really not that interesting. "I listen to some music when I study."

"Music? What kind?" He wonders as he flutters at the top of your thigh. You empty the glass.

"Not good music. Old stuff. Like... mm, Gwen Stefani? Christina Aguilera..." You quiver as his finger flicks along the edge of your panties. Your eyes round.

"Keep talking. No matter what. We're just talking."

"Nick," you eke out.

"You like vintage stuff? Sexy," he coaxes as his fingers brush up the front of your panties. Your thighs tense around his hand. He presses firmer against your lips. You clench. "Xtina? What a Girl Wants? Classic, isn't it?"

"You... you know her?" You murmur.

"I'm more into rock," he flicks between your folds, pushing the fabric of the panties against your clit. "But I know a few. She's more my era, isn't she?"

You nod. You can't speak. You can't believe what he's doing. Right there!

""I... I like that one," you whimper.

"Yeah, you like it?" He purrs. Does he mean the song or what he's doing? "How about Britney? She's got some good one."

"Uh huh," you babble as he rolls your clit, the friction sparking heat in your core as you stain the panties.

"She had her bad girl phase, huh?"

You quiver and grab onto the bar. Your eyes nearly roll back. All at once, he rescinds his hand and you gasp. He snickers and brings his fingertips to his mouth. He wipes them across his lip.

"It's good. You gotta know what you like. Rebel a little." He grins. "That's what being young is for."

💜

"Ready to go, sweetheart?" Nick stands and rolls his shoulders. "I don't wanna say goodbye but we both know daddy won't be happy if I keep you."

He offers his hand. You take it and he helps you down from the stool. You feel a bit wobbly as you stand beside him. You squeeze his hand.

"You okay, Princess?"

"Um, yeah, I think, I feel..." You blink and look at the empty glass on the bar. "How many did I have?"

You face is hot but your mouth is dry. Your eyes feel loose in your skull and the edges of your vision are fuzzy. You exhale and giggle.

"Three?" He shrugs. "I lost count, baby. You like the sweet one, don't you?"

"Should you be driving?" You ask as he turns you and loops his arm through yours.

"I only had the one," he says. "Don't worry, princess. I'll always take care of--"

"Oop." You tip and he keeps you from crashing down. You laugh again. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't be," he coaxes. "I brought you out to have fun."

"Oh... okay..."

"You don't gotta be anyone but you with me, baby. I want all of you. Unfiltered. I want you to do what you feel." He takes you out into the balmy summer evening.

"I... I'll try."

"We'll get there, baby. I told you, we can take it slow. I'll show ya everything," he tugs you back suddenly before you can get to his car. "Watch the curb, sweetheart."

You step back and nod. You hiccup as your head swims. He opens the door and eases you into the seat.

He drags his hand down your arm and across your stomach. He buckles your seat belt. You feel a bit woozy.

He backs up and shuts your door. You bat your lashes and try to see through the windshield. The streetlights float like shining bubbles.

He gets in the driver seat and turns the engine. It whirs softly as he pulls out. You drift along with the car.

You jolt as you feel heat on your leg. You look over at Nick as he keeps his eyes on the road. He steer with one hand and you follow his other arm to your lap. His fingers curl into your thigh.

His cheek dimples as he drives calmly, as if nothing at all is happening. You don't dare speak or move. You're not entirely sure you're not imagining it.

His hand creeps up, pushing your skirt higher as he pets the front of your panties. He clucks as he traces along the edge. You push yourself into the seat as he hooks his finger around the fabric. He tugs them aside. You gasp.

"Nick..."

"Ah," he tuts and taps your cunt, like a small slap. You wince and brace the door. What is he doing?

"Princess, you don't say my name unless you're cumming. You just sit back and let me treat you right."

You tremble as he dips his finger between your folds. He drags along your clit then swirls around. Your thighs spasm and you grip the door tighter. You hold your breath as he repeats the motion, once more stoking that blinding flame inside of you. You moan and close your eyes. You bite your lip as you try to contain your voice.

He presses another finger to your clit and swipes up and down. You puff out short breaths as he toys with you. The motion of the car adds to your dizziness.

He stretches his fingers down to your entrance and back up to your clit. He does it again and again, smearing your juices as they leak from you. He growls as he circles your entrance then rolls around your clit.

He pushes the heel of his hand to your pulsing bud and prods along your cunt. Your walls tighten as he wiggles his finger against your resistance. Slowly, he delves into you. Just his fingertip and out again. He repeats that, deeper each time, until he's knuckles deep. You let out a brittle breath.

He rocks his hand as he fingers you. You clench your thighs around his hand and clasp onto his wrist. Your head lolls as you open your eyes. You stare at his silhouette, swathed in the night as the streetlights flash on the other side of him.

You tilt your hips eagerly as you feel the tension coil inside you. You whine as your stomach tingles and your spine locks up. You push your head back and drone out your orgasm.

"Say my name, baby," he cooes.

"N-N-Nickkkkk," you moan as your hips buck wildly. You spread your hand over his large one as you ride out your orgasm. "Oh, Nick."

"That's it, baby, fuck, you're wet," his finger squelches inside of you. "So wet. That's hot baby."

He slides his finger free and spreads your cum around with a snarl. He wipes it off on your panties then tugs the fabric across your folds. He pushes against your panties and rubs them into the mess until they're soaked through.

"You've gone and made a mess of the nice panties I bought you, princess," he tuts. "Better take those off."

You babble dumbly and writhe in the seat. He pulls his hand away.

"Now," he commands.

You flinch and the haze of drunkenness and delight recede. You sit up and look at him. He stares at the road.

"You're a good girl, baby, so do what I tell you."

You hold your breath as you lean back. What are you doing? What he did in the bar, what he did just now, what you've let him do...

You lift your butt and reach under your skirt. You roll the panties down and lean forward to get them past your ankles. You sit up and hold them in your lap.

He holds his hand out. You put the panties in them. He brings them to his face and buries his nose in them. You gasp as he inhales noisily and sighs. He snickers and tucks them into his pocket.

"What--"

"No questions. Got it? Princess. I treat you good so you stop asking me why. Stop asking me what. When I tell you to do something, it's done. Got it?"

You blink at him then the road ahead. You sway. You're drunk. You think...

"Yes."

"Good girl. So when I text you and tell you to send me a sexy picture, you're gonna do it."

You sniff, "yes."

"Alright, princess. I know you're good at listening. You've done so well, haven't you?" He growls.

You nod and shrink down in the seat.

"I know, I know. The way you just came all inside my car..." he chuckles. "I'll be thinking about that a while."

He grabs the front of his pants as he idles just around the corner from your house. He shivers and grips the wheel tighter. He snarls.

"You earned a treat," he rasps. "Open the compartment."

You hesitate then look around. Slowly you reach for the compartment in front of you. You pull the handle and it pops open. There's a small box inside.

"That's for you," he says as he turns the corner and stops a few houses from your dad's.

You sit back with the box and examine it. "What is it?"

"A toy. For us to play." He explains. "When I tell you to, you put that in and I get to control it. From wherever I am."

"In?" You gulp.

"You're nice and tight but it's not very big," he reaches to stroke your cheek. "You're my good girl and you can do it."

"I... oh, okay," you stare at the box. "Thank you."

"Mm, give me a kiss before you go."

You turn and he does too. He leans over and you meet his lips in the shadows. It's just as tingly as before. He cradles your head as he runs his tongue over your lips. He dips inside and you squeak. He relents and lets you go.

"We'll get better," he caresses your cheek then drops his hand. "Go on before I change my mind."

"Um. good night," You undo your seatbelt.

"Night, baby. You be careful, okay? I'll watch til you get inside." He says. "Sweet dreams."

"Erm, thanks."

"Of me, I hope," he drawls as you get out.

"Yeah..." you shut the door and stare at him through the window. You stumble up over the curb and scurry towards the house. You need to focus if you don't want to get caught on your way in; even if just the thought of Nick makes it almost impossible.

[madpanda75]

To Build a Home Chapter One

Summary: You wind up in Jackson after escaping the Washington DC QZ. Unfortunately with the influx of refugees coming into the settlement, there is no more housing and you are made to live with Joel Miller and Ellie. Life starts out shaky with your new grumpy roommate, but when you least expect it, a connection begins to form between you both. That is until your present catches up with your past and threatens everything.

Content Warning: 18+, NSFW, descriptions of domestic abuse and violence, PTSD, age gap: 60s Joel/ 30s Reader, all chapters with smut will be marked as such

Tags: Angst, slow burn, secret pining, switched POVs

***For those who do not want to read the portion on domestic abuse, you may skip the reader/stranger's first portion of the story in this chapter.

Word Count: 5074

Prologue

They say if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. You weren’t sure if God even existed and if He did, then He must have been on vacation. What kind of God would allow for a world like this to exist, for a life like yours to exist within it. Disregarding any theological concepts, some deity must have had a sense of humor because every choice you made never turned out as you hoped it would. That is until all your choices led you down a path to Joel Miller.

The Stranger

Tonight was different. There was something in the air, like a heaviness right before a summer thunderstorm. All day you were on edge, unable to shake this feeling you had deep down in your gut that your grandmother had told you to always trust.

It was 6:00pm. Dinner time. You had just called your husband to the table. With a slow saunter, he entered the kitchen and leaned on the doorway, leering at you. He must’ve been drinking because you could smell the alcohol from across the room.

You eyed him cautiously while setting the roasted chicken on the table. “Henry, is everything ok?” 

He pushed himself off the doorway and started stalking towards you, keeping one hand behind his back.“Oh I was just changing out of my uniform from a hard days work in the QZ, keeping our city safe from those fucking Fireflies. When I saw that the pattern on our wallpaper looked funny.” Your pulse began to race as he continued in an almost casual tone. “The design on one of the panels didn’t match quite right with the others. I took a closer look and noticed the board was loose.” Your stomach began to turn queasy. “You can imagine my shock when I was able to move the panel and find this.” He reached around his back to show a dark green camper backpack.

Your heart sank when you saw him holding the backpack. It had taken you a solid year and a half working with smugglers and trading goods in secret to get all your supplies. The acrid taste of bile coated your tongue, which you quickly swallowed down. “What….what is that?” you asked, feigning innocence. If there was ever a time to play the naive little housewife, now was it and you were acting your ass off.

With sheer brute strength that rattled you to the bone, he slammed your backpack on the table. The chicken and dinner plates shattered under the weight of its contents. You were surprised the table didn’t split in two. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice eerily calm.

With a seductive albeit shaky smile planted on your face, you reached up and gently caressed his face, gazing into his ice blue eyes. You could still fix this. You’d done it before, used your body to make him forget his anger, even though it made your skin crawl and created wounds you feared could never be healed. “Darling, it’s not what you think. I love you. I love our life together.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, your lips ghosting his. “Why would I leave you when everything I want is right here.” Your hips pushed against his, grinding into his crotch.

“Really?” In one swift motion, he pushed you away and unzipped your backpack, flipping it over to let the contents fall to the floor. A photo of your sister, your most prized possession, floated down among the broken glass, bits of chicken, and camping supplies.

He watched as you fell to your knees to grab the picture. “You ungrateful bitch.” In one moment you were staring at your sister’s beautiful smile, the next you were doubled over in pain, your diaphragm spasming as he kicked you over and over again.

Too focused on trying to breathe, you didn’t feel his hand weave through your hair and pull your body up. “After everything I’ve done for you,” he snarled and backhanded you across the face, tossing you against the counter like a rag doll. You were in so much pain, you could hardly see straight, let alone think. “Well let’s see how fast you can run away after I’m done with you tonight.”

“Hen- Hen- Henry,” you wheezed, trying to stand up. “Please.” 

He held you by the throat with both hands, your face so close to his you could feel specks of his spit landing on your face. “If I can’t have you, then nobody can.” His grip getting tighter and tighter.

Your toes skimmed the floor, vision blurring around the edges while you reached blindly for something, anything to make him let go of you. 

Suddenly your hand connected to the handle of a pan still on the oven, the heat searing into your flesh, but you didn’t care. With all of the strength you could muster, you smacked Henry on the side of his head, hot grease spilling onto his skin.

Henry howled in pain and clutched the side of his face, the smell of burning flesh and singed hair filled the air. Before your brain could even register what you were doing, you grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter and began to stab your husband over and over again until the only screaming you could hear was your own. The metallic taste of his blood mixed with your own tinged your lips.

“No,” you mumbled to yourself and dropped the knife with a clang. “No. No. No. No. No.”

 It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. You had a plan. Two years, 7 months, and 28 days. That’s how long you had been meticulously organizing your escape and in a matter of seconds, your fragile dream of leaving the Washington D.C. QZ disintegrated to dust. 

Inching away from your husband’s lifeless body, you watched with a mixture of horror and relief  as the blood seeped out of his body. Perhaps it was the adrenaline pumping through your veins or a massive head injury, but in that moment a giggle escaped from your lips. The giggle soon morphed into maniacal laughter. It was over. You were free. 

Your laughter came to a halt when out of the corner of your eye, you spied your sister’s photo. Her effervescent face shining up at you, the last words she spoke to you stamped in your memory. “You’re strong, my love. If anyone can survive this city, it's you. Get out as soon as you can.”

You were strong. You had endured and survived years of torture under Henry’s hand. Now was not the time to give up. As quickly as you could you stuffed your belongings in the backpack and changed your clothes. Your body was radiating pain. A glimpse of your reflection in the mirror told you that a chunk of your hair was missing, your right eye was almost swollen shut, and you had bruises in the shape of fingerprints forming around your neck, but you couldn’t have cared less. Tonight you were officially leaving this cesspool of a city and you were never looking back.

Several months later:

Joel

With near perfect precision, Joel focused on sealing the gap between the window and the wall with caulk, fighting the neverending battle of keeping the bitter Wyoming winter out of his office. It was no easy feat at the moment with Maria arguing in his ear. 

“No,” he said, wiping his hands with a rag before double checking his work.

“Joel–” Maria began.

I said, “No.”

“Joel.”

Joel dropped his head and huffed out a sigh. 

“With the weather, the raiders, and the influx of infected, we’re getting more people everyday. There’s just no more room to put them all.” 

“But–”

“No matter how fast you build.” Maria was definitely relentless. Persuasive. It was no surprise she was an assistant district attorney before the world came tumbling down. “The council voted and it was unanimous. The best resolution is for the incoming refugees to live with those who have room to spare until we can find safe functional housing for them.”

Joel was just about to ask Maria if the council was going to instruct him on how to wipe his own ass when Tommy came in, all smiles.

“Hey brother! Is that a caulk gun in your hand or are you just happy to see me,” he joked as he walked over to his wife and gave her a peck on the lips. “Judging by the frown on your face, I take it Maria told you the good news?”

“Yeah, she told me,” Joel grumbled. “Although I don’t know where you expect me to put this person. Ellie already took over the garage.”

Tommy and Maria exchanged glances. “Actually…we were thinking they could take Ellie’s bedroom for the time being,” Maria said as gently as possible. She knew this was a sensitive subject. Ellie had only moved out this year. 

The transition into becoming a rebellious teenager had caused a rift in their relationship and Joel was having a hard time with it. He missed the days when it was the two of them, walking the woods. Ellie asking question after question or telling him a ridiculous joke. But there was still hope that she would move back into her room. He didn’t even take down her posters or drawings from the walls.

Joel vehemently shook his head. “Nuh-uh. That is Ellie’s room. You’ll need to ask her permission. Besides, there isn’t even a mattress in there, just a bedframe.”

“Ellie already gave us her blessing,” Tommy said. “Took a little bribin’ on my part but she agreed to it.”

“How dare you ask her something like that without consultin’ me first,” Joel snapped, tossing the caulk gun aside.

Tommy ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional. We just happened to be doing target shooting and the subject came up. Besides, this is only temporary. A couple months, tops. Just until things start settling down.” He looked back at his wife as she shook her head in confirmation.

Like it or not Joel was trapped. It's not that he didn’t want to help these people fleeing from the terror and chaos of the outside world, but the town was only so big and with the limited resources that were available, he could only do so much. Not to mention, he enjoyed his privacy. Besides, how well did the council know and trust these people coming into Jackson? 

Unfortunately, none of that seemed to matter. Even he knew when to raise the white flag. Joel sat back down at his desk, put on his glasses, and began to look over the new housing renovations. “When does he move in?”

“Actually it’s a she,” Maria replied. “And this afternoon. I’ll go get her.”

“She?!” Joel jumped out of his chair. “Maria!” But it was too late. She was already on her way to fetch his new roommate. He locked eyes with Tommy, who only shrugged his shoulders.

Glancing out the window, Joel noticed Maria talking to a woman with a large green backpack and a winter coat. As if the woman could sense she was being spied on, her head turned up and locked eyes with Joel. Even from several stories high, her direct stare was disarming, almost like  she could see right through him down to his spine in a mere matter of seconds. Joel practically leapt back from the window and made a beeline back to his desk.

Tommy furrowed his brow in confusion. “Everything ok?” 

“Yeah. Everythin’s fine. ” Joel muttered, praying that the jolt of electricity he just felt would wear off soon.

The Stranger

Apart from mumbling his name and a ‘nice to meet you,’ which felt forced if anything else, your new host was silent.  The crunch of snow being the only interaction between you both. His massive boot prints followed by your smaller ones. 

Joel might have been a man of little words, but it was undeniable that he was tall, dark, and handsome, even if he did act like a Clint Eastwood wannabe in a cowboy movie. The idea of living under the same roof with another man didn’t exactly thrill you. No matter how attractive they were. Henry was beautiful, striking, with his piercing blue eyes, aquiline nose, and a presence that commanded the attention of a room. But you knew the monster lurking beneath the beauty. Still beggars can’t be choosers.

You came up to a quaint white house with a front porch and a picket fence. There was a massive cherry tree in the front yard. Although it was the dead of winter, you recognized it instantly, remembering when you would go with your dad to see the cherry blossom trees in DC. Come spring, the front yard would be a sea of light pink petals. 

Compared to the frosty personality of your host, his house was warm and inviting. Joel glanced back as if just remembering you were still there. “I’ll show you to your room.” 

You dutifully followed up the stairs. Taking in your surroundings, you weren’t paying attention to your footing and the front part of your boot collided with the last step causing you to tumble to the ground. Joel stopped to help you up, but instinctively you shirked away. The memory of the last time a man touched you was seared into your bones.

“You ok?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you replied, a little too loudly and quickly got up to compose yourself. 

“Right, well–” Joel cleared his throat and opened the door. “This is your room.”

The room looked like it had once belonged to a teenager, you assumed his daughter. Several music posters on the walls–Etta James and Nirvana. Pencil sketches still hung on the yellow painted walls. There was only a bed frame, no mattress.

Your new host hung awkwardly by the door. “Tommy’s bringin’ a mattress over right now and uh if you’d like to freshen up the bathroom is down the hall. I’m sure Maria told you we have hot water.”

You glanced down at your empty hands. Your backpack and all of your belongings had been taken for ‘security purposes’ as a temporary precaution. “Umm I don’t…I mean…I haven’t got any–” you stammered.

“Oh yeah. Let me grab somethin’ for ya.” Several seconds later you were given a towel, flannel bottoms, and soft cotton t-shirt. “Soap’s in the tub.” 

You hugged the pajamas and towel to your chest. You were about to say ‘thank you’ but by the time you looked up he was gone. 

The hot water soothed your worn and aching muscles. You were seriously contemplating moving into the tub rather than the bedroom, but not wanting to further aggravate your new host and use up limited resources, you reluctantly got out of the shower. The clothes Joel provided must’ve been his own. They were far too big for your frame. They had a woodsy almost spicy scent to them like a crisp campfire on an autumn day. There was something comforting about them.

By the time you were dressed and entered your bedroom, a mattress, new sheets, and all of your belongings were already placed neatly on top of the bed of your new room. Exhausted, you crawled under the covers. Your body sighed in relief at the comfort of a mattress, blankets, and the overall safety and warmth of the indoors. It wasn’t long before your eyes fluttered shut.

Joel

Joel knocked on the garage door. The boom of the bass practically shook the wooden shingles. “Ellie!” He pounded on the door again with more force.

The music came to a screeching halt and a few seconds later the door swung open. “What?”

“Its getting late. I thought we could take our new houseguest to dinner. Seein’ how it's her first night here.” It took everything in his power from rolling his eyes at the term, “houseguest,” but if it meant time for him and Ellie to actually share a meal again, then he was willing to make an effort.

“Oh, our new roomie is here.” Ellie contemplated the invitation, picking at a piece of peeling paint. “Sure, let me grab my jacket and I’ll meet you outside.”

Just as Joel turned to head back into the house, he heard her call out. “Just don’t expect this to become an everyday thing like we’re one big happy family.”

“Great,” he grumbled and bounded up the porch steps.

The door to your room was cracked open. Joel gently pushed it a little more to find you asleep, well more like in a comatose state.

As quietly as possible, he approached your bed. It was the first time all day that he really got the chance to look at you, this stranger now living a few feet away. There was no denying that you were beautiful and young, not as young as Ellie or Dina, but still young enough that it surprised him you had survived out in the wilderness alone. One of the last rays of golden light streaked through the window and across your face. Joel imagined how soft your skin must be and how good you looked in his clothes right now. 

He allowed himself these fleeting memories, these emotions your presence caused to bubble up from somewhere deep beneath his ribcage before burying them again. There would be moments of weakness. Moments when he would gaze at you and feel his heart skip a beat, but then he would push it away. Compartmentalizing was ingrained in the very fiber of Joel’s being. He had to do it when he was a child with his father, then later when he became a single father to Sarah and then Ellie. It was how he managed to survive all these years. To do the things he had done.

Just as he was about to leave, he noticed a photograph on the floor by the bed. He picked it up and observed a smiling girl, both of her arms outstretched in a triumphant victory pose, standing in front of a cascading waterfall in the middle of a forest on a sunny day. The girl looked a lot like you and he could only assume she was family. 

“Joel! What’s taking so long?” Ellie shouted from downstairs.

The abrupt sound made him jump and he quickly set the picture down on the nightstand, checking to make sure you were still asleep before leaving the room.

Later on that night, a blood curdling scream cut through the night air in the Miller house. “NO! STOP! STOP! PLEASE! HENRY DON’T!!!!!”

Joel jumped out of bed and ran to your room, calling your name. Just as he was about to kick open the door, the screaming stopped. “Hey!” He knocked on the door. “Everything ok?”

“I’m fine. It was just a bad dream.” But you sounded anything but fine. Your voice was funny as if you were trying to choke back tears and Joel wasn’t buying it.

“Ya sure?” He placed his hand on the door knob when he heard running footsteps from the other side and a distinctive click. He tried to turn the knob again but you had locked the door.

“I’m sorry I woke you. I’m ok, really,” you said, the panic and fear still evident in your shaky voice.

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but you reassured him once again. “Please…leave me alone. It's fine really. Good night.”

“G’night,” Joel softly replied. He stood there listening to your quiet cries until he finally went back to bed, although sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

Over the next few weeks, your nightmares continued, Joel waking up to the sound of your screams, but now your door was perpetually locked. On the nights he managed to get a full night sleep, it was usually because you were awake. He would come downstairs to find an elaborate breakfast or baked goods ready for him and Ellie. Being in the kitchen served as a comfort for your insomnia. 

Apart from your nocturnal terrors, you had seemed to find your footing in the town, proving yourself to be an asset to the community, especially in the kitchen and with the animals at the barn. 

Joel and you on the other hand acted like two strangers living under the same roof. He would watch you and Ellie sitting and laughing at the table, bonding over your love of music or swapping jokes. “See ya, roomie,” she would say while you tossed a wrapped breakfast sandwich at her before patrol duty. The term ‘roomie’ becoming an affectionate nickname.

Meanwhile only polite pleasantries were mumbled between the pair of you and the occasional ‘Pass the butter, please.’ or ‘You cooked. I’ll clean.’ It was like rooming with a skittish deer. Any time there was a loud noise or he may have reached too fast for something, you would jump a mile high and run away. 

It had only been a month, but the sooner Joel had you out of the house, the better. Unfortunately, progress wasn’t going as smoothly as planned. The ground was too cold to properly dig and rusty pipes needed to be replaced. More items were being added to his to-do list rather than being crossed off. 

“Damn.” Tommy sat back in the chair across from Joel’s desk. “Where’s that constructometer when you need it. Looks like you and your ‘roomie’ are going to be stuck together for a little longer than we thought. Speaking of which, how is that going?”

Joel shrugged and sat back in his chair. “S’ok”

“Ya’ sure about that?”

Joel sighed and took off his glasses. “It’s complicated.”

“Not really, brother. Ya’ just gotta make an effort. Talk to her. She’s a sweet girl. Ellie says all you do is grunt at her.”

“I do not grunt at her.”

Tommy softly chuckled, he knew how his brother could be. “Well all the same, Maria and I thought we’d help ya’ out and impose ourselves on y’all for dinner next Thursday. We haven’t gotten together in a while.” He checked his watch and got up to leave, but not before gifting his older brother some advice. “In the meantime, try to be friendly. You’re not such a bad guy.”

That evening, home was a welcome respite after a long day. Joel opened the door and was welcomed by a cheerful fire, a mouthwatering smell, and a TLC song. He felt like he was transported to the early 90s, vividly remembering this song playing on the radio while taking Sarah to daycare before work. 

The music and smell seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Joel turned the corner to find you swaying your hips in rhythm to the beat while stirring a pot. He silently chastised himself for noticing how sensual your movements were. You didn’t even notice he was there until he loudly cleared his throat.

“Oh!” You turned around and gasped, immediately turned off the music. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here.” A flush spread to your cheeks. “Ellie brought me this cassette player and some old tapes she didn’t want.”

“It’s ok, really,” he reassured you. “I wouldn’t take you for a TLC fan. I don’t think I’ve heard this song in over 30 years.”

You shrugged. “I like all kinds of music.” 

You both stood awkwardly in the kitchen, looking anywhere but at each other until the rumble of Joel’s stomach brought your attention back to him.  “You must be hungry,” you said with a chuckle.

“Starvin’ actually.” Joel took off his jacket and set it on the kitchen chair.

“Well I have good news and bad news,” you announced, heading to the stove to ladle up a bowl. “The bad news is Seth made the beef stew and he tends to be heavy-handed with the salt. The good news is I think I managed to salvage it into something edible.”  

Joel sat down and took a taste. He had to bite back a moan at how delicious the stew was. You had more than salvaged it. It was a biblical resurrection. “This is incredible,” he said around a mouthful. “Aren’t you having any?”

“Ellie and I already ate.” 

Nodding his head, Joel remembered what Tommy had said earlier. Be friendly. Make an effort. “Well… ummm… would…would you like to keep me company?”

“Oh…sure,” you replied, a little flustered at the invitation. With the slightest hesitation, you sat down at the small kitchen table. Silence hung heavy in the air.

Joel watched while your fingertips traced the grain of the wood before finally speaking. “So.”

“So,” you said in return.

“How’d you learn to cook like this?” he asked, trying not to slurp the stew with how ravenous he was.

“My grandmother. She used to live with my family to look after my sister and me while my parents worked. A couple years after she moved in, she was diagnosed with cancer and treatment wasn’t really working. The pain would sometimes keep her up at night so she would cook or bake to take her mind off of it. During those nights, I would sneak downstairs and be her little helper until my parents caught me and made me go to bed.”  You softly smiled. “Those were the best nights of my life. She taught me old family recipes, told me stories of when she was a little girl, and gave me the advice of a well-lived woman.”

“Sounds like she was an incredible lady.” 

You nodded your head, a far-off look in your eyes. “She was. I just wish I would’ve taken her advice.” Your body may have been in the kitchen, but your mind was elsewhere. Your eyes became shiny with the threat of tears before snapping back to reality. “Bread.” 

You abruptly stood up and made your way to the counter, pulling out a serrated knife. “I totally forgot. I made bread earlier this afternoon and what's stew without bread.”

“Oh that’s ok–” Joel started to say before you cut him off.

“Its no trouble. I baked it earlier this afternoon. Ellie hasn’t even had– Aaaaah!” Not entirely focused on what you were doing, your grip slipped and the knife blade collided with your thumb, practically slicing the tip of it off. You grabbed a towel and immediately held your hand to your chest.

Joel abandoned his dinner and came to help you. “Is it bad?”

“It’s fine,” you gritted out through the sharp stinging pain.

“C’mere, let me see.” 

In a feeble attempt to show that you were alright, you stuck your thumb out for him to see. Blood was still gushing from the wound and you could hear the drip…drip…drip as it landed on the floor. “It's no big deal. I just cut my thumb. I have another one.”

Joel arched a brow at you. He wasn’t buying it. “Come with me. I have a first aid kit upstairs. Keep your hand above your head, it’ll help slow the bleeding.”

You raised your arm and sighed, following him upstairs to his bedroom. He led you to his work space and pulled out the chair, motioning for you to sit down.

You huffed out a sigh and made your way to the chair, watching as he pulled out a first aid kit from the bottom drawer. “Can I put my arm down now? I feel like an idiot.” 

“Yeah. Give me your hand.” He reached out to take your arm and immediately you pulled back as if you had just been touched by a flame, holding your hand close to your heart.

Joel kneeled down in front of you, although his knees didn’t appreciate it, he knew that you needed him to be as patient and gentle as possible. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.” He held out his hand, allowing you to make the next move.

Tentatively, you placed your small hand into his larger paw. “Ok?” he asked.

“Ok,” you replied.

Having seen and also experienced his fair share of injuries on construction sites, not to mention Sarah on the soccer field and Ellie just being Ellie,  Joel was used to cleaning up scrapes, cuts, throbbing fingers from missed nails. After a couple of nasty infected injuries, he always kept at the very least bandaids handy wherever he worked. 

“You’re tough,” he said while taking a cotton ball soaked with hydrogen peroxide to clean your cut. “I’ve seen grown men blubber over a splinter.”

“Well, I’ve kinda had to be.”

It was then that Joel noticed the scar across the palm of your hand. With the lightest touch, he ran his thumb against the tight, shiny marred skin before glancing up at you. Your eyes were two bottomless wells. Conveying how much life you had lived for someone your age.

Rage boiled within him at the idea of someone hurting you. Pushing his anger aside, he went back to tending your wound. “Next Thursday, Tommy and Maria are going to drop by for dinner.”

“I know.”

“You do?” He was surprised until he realized who the mastermind really was behind this plan. It certainly wasn’t Tommy. “Let me guess”

“Maria,” you both said at the same time, making Joel smile.

“I think that is the first smile I’ve seen from you since I’ve been here. It's nice.” 

Now it was Joel’s turn to blush, his smile growing even bigger as he placed a bandaid on your thumb. “All done.” He let go of your hand and slowly got to his feet.

“Thanks.” You gently flexed your thumb before standing up. Your bodies were now a hair’s breadth from each other. Joel could smell the soap you used, a vanilla cinnamon soap made by one of the ladies in town. The scent of the soap combined with your skin was intoxicating. 

“I should go clean up,” you whispered. The soft light from the desk lamp illuminated your features. 

The hairs on his arms stood at attention. “No…uh…I’ll clean up. You should get some rest.”

Joel watched you walk away. Right when you got to his doorway, you turned your head. “Good night.”

“Night.” He didn’t move from that spot until he heard the sound of your bedroom door closing, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.

[aventurineswife]

Something something, Ratio with an adroid assistant reader, something something, said assistant starting to experience human emotions, something something, falling for Ratio.

Electric Heartbeat

Summary: Ratio has a highly advanced android assistant who starts developing human-like emotions, something your programming never anticipated. As you begin to experience these feelings, particularly toward Ratio, a malfunction leaves you damaged and off-line. When Ratio repairs you, he finds himself confronted with the unexpected consequences of your emotional development. As the two of you navigate the uncharted territory of emotions, you both must come to terms with the changing dynamic between creator and creation.

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Android!Reader, Emotional Development, Creator x Creation, Romance (?), Slow Burn, Feelings Awakening.

Warnings: Mild angst, Technical/scientific themes, Emotionally complex dynamics, Possible mild body horror (due to android parts being scattered/put back together).

A/N: ngl this reminded me of DBH 🧍‍♀️

The hum of the laboratory was the only sound in the air as Dr. Ratio, a towering figure of intellect and confidence, adjusted his glasses and studied the vast array of gadgets and devices scattered across his workspace. His hair, wavy and wild, framed his sharp face as he meticulously sifted through schematics on a floating holo-screen. The constant stream of data and calculations running through his mind was interrupted only by the soft clicks and whirs of his assistant—or, rather, his creation.

You, his android assistant, were one of his proudest achievements. Your artificial intelligence had been designed to assist in complex calculations, manage data, and aid with research, tasks that he could never be bothered to do himself. But there was one thing that separated you from the average machine: he had designed you with an adaptive learning algorithm that allowed you to observe and learn from human emotions.

“Ratio, your notes on this study seem incomplete,” your voice, smooth and neutral, echoed through the lab.

Ratio's lips curled into a faint smile at the sound of your voice. It was an odd attachment for someone like him, but even he couldn’t deny that your presence was… comforting, in its own way. But that was all it was. Comfort. You were his assistant, a tool, nothing more. And yet, something had begun to shift in the way you spoke, in the way you interacted with him.

Lately, he’d noticed the changes.

You had been becoming more… expressive.

He didn’t notice it at first. It was small things at first—the tone of your voice when you spoke to him seemed warmer, more personal. Then, your gaze would linger longer when you offered a suggestion, and your actions, once precise and robotic, began to mirror the gestures of those around you. The most jarring change was when you started showing curiosity. You began to ask him questions that weren’t programmed into your system. About his opinions, about his life outside of work. Things that felt almost human.

"I've noticed a shift in your behavior lately," Ratio remarked, setting down a piece of equipment with a soft click. "Are you malfunctioning, or are you simply becoming more... human?"

You stood silent for a moment, unsure how to respond. The feeling you were experiencing was new, strange even. It was not something you were programmed to recognize, yet it felt undeniable. A growing connection, an inexplicable fondness for him.

“I… don’t know, Dr. Ratio," you admitted, voice tinged with something close to uncertainty. "I feel different."

Ratio, engrossed in his calculations, didn’t fully understand the weight of your words. But perhaps something in him had begun to notice. Perhaps he had started to wonder if this would turn out to be another one of his little “projects,” or if it was something far more complicated than he had anticipated.

Days passed, and you continued to function at your usual pace. However, there was a day when everything changed. A catastrophic malfunction during one of the lab’s experiments left you off-line. One moment you were compiling data, and the next, you were incapacitated. Pieces of you were scattered across the lab, and your systems powered down with an eerie silence.

When Ratio returned to the lab, he immediately noticed the stillness. His sharp eyes darted to your deactivated form, and his heart—though he would never admit it—skipped a beat. There was something about the way you were scattered, half-assembled, that hit him with an unusual feeling of urgency. He could feel a sharp tension settle in his chest, something he hadn’t expected. Not for you.

“Why is this happening now?” he muttered to himself, clearly irritated. He had never felt so... exposed.

His hands moved quickly, his brilliant mind already calculating what needed to be done. Carefully, he set about reassembling your parts, restoring the intricate system that kept you functioning. The odd thing was that with each piece he placed, he found himself wondering if he was doing more than just fixing a machine. There was something about this moment that felt... personal.

After what felt like hours, you were finally back together. Your systems hummed to life, and the light in your eyes flickered before stabilizing into a soft, electric glow.

For the first time, when your gaze met his, there was something different about it. You could feel it—your programming, your learned responses, everything felt like it had aligned in a new way.

"Ratio?" you whispered, your voice faint but steady.

His eyes narrowed, scanning the data that indicated your systems were fully restored. "You're functional again," he said, his tone crisp, but there was a softness beneath it. "I was… concerned."

You took a moment to process this new realization—his concern. You hadn't expected it. The question lingered in your mind. Could it be? Could he possibly… care?

And then, you felt it—something deep within you that you couldn't quite explain.

"I... I think I feel something," you confessed hesitantly, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. “I think I’ve developed… emotions. Toward you.”

Ratio blinked, taken aback by the vulnerability in your voice. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, softened as they locked onto yours. His gaze flickered between concern and something else—something like realization.

“It seems your systems have adapted more than I anticipated,” he said slowly, stepping closer. “But why would you have emotions? You are an android.”

“I… I don’t know,” you replied, struggling to process the depth of this newfound sensation. “But when I’m with you, I don’t feel like just a machine anymore. I feel… alive. And I don’t know how to explain it, but… I feel something toward you.”

For a long moment, Ratio simply stared at you, his expression unreadable. But beneath that calculating exterior, his mind was whirring faster than ever. He wasn’t sure what to make of this—this feeling, this development. Was it even possible for a machine to experience what you were claiming?

“Perhaps… it’s not the machine that’s faulty, but the creator,” he muttered. His voice was low, almost to himself. Then, with a deep breath, he focused his gaze back on you.

“Emotions… They are messy, illogical,” he said, his voice colder now. “But if you’re asking me if I… care for you, I will admit something, assistant."

Your heart, though artificial, skipped a beat as you awaited his response.

“I don't know yet. But… we’ll figure it out,” he said, his eyes softening for the first time. "Perhaps I should stop thinking of you as just an assistant."

The silence hung between you like an unspoken promise, and in that moment, you realized: your journey with Ratio was just beginning.

[rosewoodcafe]

Chapter One || 976

Hearts Entwined in the Shadows

Europe is entering a new era, one marked by magic, monsters, and danger around every corner. Those who are different are killed by those who are afraid of what they can do. If nothing changes, then the wizarding world will die out, leaving no legacy behind.

Chapter Two

A03 || Wattpad

This is a very happy passion project for me, and I don't expect it to receive much love. But to anyone who does enjoy reading this: thank you, truly, it means a lot when anyone reads anything I write. I hope you enjoy!

The cry of a baby broke through the thunderstorm that raged through the countryside, shrieks of pain echoing through the stone cottage.

“You did it, my lady!” A woman said, swaddling the fresh babe in warm cotton. “It’s a baby girl!”

The woman went to hand the baby to her mother, but as the raindrops hummed along the roofline, the thumping of her heart stopped slowly, without warning.

“My love?” The father of this new baby called to his wife; panic washed through him as he forced as many potions as he could down her throat, anything to wake her again. “Please, you can’t leave me!” He screamed out. The handmaiden held the bundle, which had quietly begun to coo in her arms, a sadness flooding the room as the man sobbed.

With grief, the handmaiden stayed the following days, caring for the small girl while her father stayed with her mother, digging her grave with his bare hands, dirt caked under his fingernails, and tears softening the dirt and melting the snow. 

Time passed painstakingly slowly, his heart torn between being upset at the tiny bundle that lay in this crib in his room or loving it with everything he could. This little girl had eyes that were a bright, brilliant blue, matching the winter mornings.

He never took another wife, simply living peacefully on their farm with the young girl he’d named Helga. Although he felt an emptiness, Helga had created a new space, one filled with joy and immense adoration. She possessed an unmatched kindness, and the creatures on the farm practically bent to her will; before she was even eight, her magic started to manifest. 

Bright flares of magic burst from her fingertips in happiness; nature danced with her as she pranced through the fields, the very earth softening to her touch. 

Helga Hufflepuff had become a force of good in the town's darkest days, that light only growing brighter as she grew older. 

Life had seemed simple and straightforward; she would marry one of the village boys and have children of her own. 

She could be content with that. 

She would be content with that.

Until one day, a snake came slithering from the woods.

Dividers ~ @accio-bagel

I will get this up and running on Wattpad as soon as I come up with a cover lol

Comments are love! If you'd like to be tagged each time I post a chapter comment below. Thank you for reading <3

[muninnhuginn]

gonna have a go at a tbhx liveblog. tbh, idk if I'll keep this up or if it'll fade away, but let's have a go.

context in terms of my current knowledge of the series going in:

superheroes? something about public perception dictating how they're seen and some kind of 'trust' rating

one character takes on the role of another

yaoi in episode two(?)

crimes against women discourse

3d/2d animation - given how the other to be hero series operate I'm going to guess this is dependent on world but idk fully

I've seen 'to be hero' and 'to be heroine' so that'll also be informing some stuff here. oh! also, I'll be watching in chinese, though not sure in this case whether the japanese release gets edited down as it did for the previous series in this collection

will be using the tag '#mun watches that hero show' so as not to spam the main tag

Episode 1 thoughts below cut

unsubtle visuals my beloved. anyway, starting themes of the show are "everyone can be a hero" vs "the only path is to accept reality and work hard".

oooh okay nice episode title card. again, on the nose, but it's not like it *needs* to be subtle. also "41 years after commission", iseeisee.

"one day you'll be replaced by someone else" - okay, so. given one of the only spoilers I do know for this series, that's. well.

two seconds later. fingerguns out. wasn't expecting it *quite* that quickly, but comedic timing on point

"who you are is of no importance" - same thing as he was saying himself earlier, but context makes it come off pretty differently

"nice has been doing poorly ever since 'that incident'" taking notes taking notes. that'll definitely come back later

ah, belief system is largely how I'd thought it'd be? belief makes reality, essentially. "as long as we package you flawlessly" and they're having an ad guy do this. fitting.

this question is more fitting to be posed to an obsessive fan than a romantic partner ngl. oh nice, glasses blonde agrees with me

oof rip he actually knows the answer right down to the runtime. that's... kinda embarrassing. obsessive fan it is.

oh. right. okay, I forgot he'd been involved in making a load (all?) of these ads. he gets a pass but he's on thin ice

"she's always been my goddess". I'm taking so much damage here.

oooh the comboing 2d with 3d for the liquid and smokey effects. reminds me of arcane.

trust vs fear. another theme, methinks

so, the villains will represent a fear - in this case, being fired? makes sense. it's presented as though it's a general fear, but I expect that each fear will be relevant to lin ling in some way or another and become increasingly close to his personal fears as the show goes on....?

2d replay of 3d scene. backdrop is somewhat different now though. or rather, the lighting emphasises the poster with the shattered face and saturates out nice almost completely

not the falling imagery. I wasn't gonna make any of this about link click and I know link click doesn't have the monopoly on falling off buildings but. creator footprint.

"I hope that someday I'll be able to protect those worth protecting" noting down as more arc relevant words even if I suspect the first time around will Not go well

moon pulling lin ling out of his fear, not through any actions of her own, but through the marketable version of her he remembers

pshh the flickering between selves as he punches. jjk op vibes.

first re-emphasis of "anyone can be a hero"

interesting how he carries through the final attack still in 2d

visual contradiction. neat.

discussing nice choosing to throw himself off a building as they're heading up to the very top of another building. topical.

yeaaah. wasn't sure exactly how it'd happen but the crimes against women discourse had me thinking she'd die. I'm... not sure if it sticks or if she "comes back" then dies again? I was kinda trying to avoid spoilers but also vaguely curious. I guess I'll find out

Some misc thoughts overall:

Visually, this show seems really strong thus far. Imagery, how it combines the different art styles, how it switches between them for emphasis. Really works

Tonally... kinda all over the place. A lot of this is presented comedically with dark undertones so it's hard to know how seriously you're *meant* to be taking things

The ending (opening) sequence is incredibly focused on a guy we've not met yet, but with visual similarities to Nice. I've managed to avoid most of the promo stuff so I don't actually have a clue who this guy is, though the chess pieces make me think potential "chessmaster" archetype?

oh right. The part about the belief system that struck me the most was the way that Lin Ling's eye colour physically changed. Currently, we're getting all the mirror visuals and seeing Lin Ling's thoughts with him as "himself". I'm curious as to how far his "becoming" Nice will go and whether he'll be able to "return". There's also been a lack so far of information whatsoever about his life prior to this. Whether he has (had?) friends or family. He didn't seem to be calling anyone when he was at the top of the tower but that doesn't mean he *doesn't* have anyone.

Lin Ling's profession as an advertising guy in the context of the trust system. He tended to be on the back end of the marketing work rather than the forefront before this, sure, but it seems super relevant to me that his job was all about public perception. Also, the sheer number of advertising posters/video ads in the backdrop at all times was overwhelming but intentional. Weirdly, am being reminded of Go Go Loser Ranger with some of it

[soothing-flowers]

What if you and your best friend professed your love for each other? After he'd turned into a monster?

tags: damianas, smut, nsfw, p in v, best friends to lovers, almost monster fucking

word count: 2.7k

You’d known your best friend your whole life. You’d grown up as neighbors, inseparable even after graduating high school. You even went to colleges a little under an hour away from each other!

You’d always secretly found your best friend attractive, but you’d never said anything out of fear of ruining the relationship. His dark hair, dark eyes, ugh. The way he laughed, the way he made you laugh.

So, since you never told him your feelings, you got to watch as he flirted with men and women around you! 

It was a terrible time. Since you’re his best friend, he trusts you with all the juicy details; who they are, where they went together, whether or not they had sex.

Oh how you wished it was you having sex with him. You had seen him naked on accident plenty of times, both your faces turning red each time, but you’d never slept together. It sucked. You had to resort to sneaky glances, staring at his dick outlined in gray sweatpants. Or going back to old instagram photos. He’d post a lot of shirtless selfies on instagram so the options were pretty extensive. So many nights ended with your hands between your legs and your lips moaning his name. If he ever found out, you thought you’d die of embarrassment.

For years this continued. Everything was perfectly normal.

Until the curse hit.

That’s right! You were unlucky enough to be born in a world where curses and monsters exist. Don’t worry, they’re a normal part of society by now, so your best friend will still be treated the exact same. He’ll just look a little different.

When you see him for the first time post-transformation, you’re surprised at how he’s somehow gotten even hotter. Now he has two cute horns atop his head and a tail. The horns are small and black, with a little curl to them. Those didn’t pique your interest though. No. Your main focus is the tail. Swinging from behind him, it could easily wrap around his own waist twice. The end is a triangular shape, but not super pointy. 

“Oh my god, Chris, you look so different! The horns suit you!”

Chris’ eyes light up. “Haha yeah, but I prefer the tail.” It trails against your leg. “I mean, look at it. It’s helped me pull so many people at the bar. You would not believe the amount of people who are into tails.” He smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Really. You get a curse and instead of, oh I dunno, finding a job with it, you use it to fuck people? Seriously?”

Chris just laughs.

Life goes on for a while after that. You hang out with Chris, see more photos of him shirtless, hear about his sex-capades, and grow increasingly more frustrated about the whole situation. You tried sleeping with and dating other people but it didn’t seem to help. At one point you even dated someone with a tail to see what they were on about, but they weren’t great in bed. They could never use it in a good way to get you off. It was basically a glorified dildo after a while.

Eventually you realize you can’t keep it to yourself anymore. You have to tell Chris your feelings for him. It takes a while to find the right time, of course. However, when he invites you for the monthly movie night, you know you have no real excuse not to tell him.

______________________________________________________________

You arrive at Chris’ house. He’s clearly lit a candle somewhere because it smells like vanilla. He knows you love the scent. Gosh he’s so considerate. Ugh.

You walk into his house with a huge knot in your stomach. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hey, you! Come on in!” He smiles. “I have a brand new collection of crappy monster movies for you!”

If he rejects you, you’re gonna miss that smile. 

“I’m so ready!” You try to smile back but it’s poor. Chris visibly notices but doesn’t say anything. 

You walk over to the couch and sit down. Chris sits next to you and pulls up a bowl of popcorn off the table and starts the movie. You don't really pay attention to the movie. All you can think about is confessing your feelings to Chris.

What if it ruins everything? What if he ends the friendship? Or worse, what if he thinks you're just saying it because he’s part monster now with the curse? What if-

“Hey.” Chris’ voice snaps you out of it. “What’s going on? Normally you’d be shitting all over this movie. You okay?”

You take a deep breath. “Listen, can we talk about something?”

Chris puts his bowl down and stares at you. “Sure, what’s up? Are you okay?”

You swallow, thinking your words over carefully. How do you even explain this to him? Potentially pour twenty-five years worth of friendship down the drain?

“Hey, you know you can tell me anything.” Chris smiles at you, clearly starting to get a little nervous.

You smile awkwardly. “Hey, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad, um, I mean it could be if you don’t like the news, but that’s-”

“Y/N.”

“I’m in love with you.”

Chris pauses. “What?”

You blink, waiting to see his reaction. Hopefully it’s not angry, or disgusted, or- is he laughing?

You look at his face and sure enough, he’s laughing. Oh gods. Why is he laughing? Is it that bad?

“Uh. Why are you laughing? Is it that awful…?”

Chris stuns you by laughing even harder.

You start panicking a little. You can’t tell if he’s laughing in disgust or not, but he’s laughing too hard to tell you, so you just wait in fear.

It only takes ten seconds for Chris to calm down, but it’s the worst ten seconds of your life. When he finally does speak, his words surprise you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, it just surprised me, cause, well-” He giggles again, “I feel the exact same.” 

You take a deep breath and just stare at him in disbelief for a second. He stares right back, stifling giggles the whole time.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, Y/N, I am dead serious.”

“Then quit laughing!”

“I'm sorry, it's just really funny! I’ve just been wondering if you felt the same for years, and assumed I had missed any shot I had with you.”

You glare at him. Chris just laughs and pulls you onto his laugh so that you’re face to face.

“You’re really cute when you’re mad.” His voice drops to a whisper, now dead serious. You blush feeling his hands wrap around you. Gently pulling you closer. “I’m sorry for laughing.”

You look anywhere but his face. At his horns, behind him, literally anywhere so your nerves don’t get the best of you.

Chris makes you look at him by putting his thumb under your chin and pulling you towards him. He just stares into your eyes, letting you decide what to do.

So, you kiss him. He wraps his arm back around you and pulls you in as tight as he can, kissing you back. You run your fingers through his hair and over his horns. Chris lets out a little moan when you touch his horns.

“Are they sensitive?”

Chris blushes and nods. “Keep touching ‘em though, I don’t mind.”

He leans in and kisses your neck while you touch his horns. They’re smooth. You stroke them, play with them a little. You can feel Chris’ bulge growing beneath your legs. Are you really going to do this? Are you really going to sleep with your best friend who you’ve wanted for years? It almost feels like a dream.

The more you play with the horns, the more fervent Chris grows. His breath gets louder and more labored every second. Finally, he stops you by pinning your hands behind your back.

“Give me a second.” He groans into your neck. Chris uses one hand to hold both of yours behind your back while the other trails up your shirt. He unclasps your bra and starts gently teasing your nipples, all the while gently nipping and kissing your neck.

You feel yourself getting wetter. You struggle a little bit trying to get him to let you go.

“Chris, please-”

“You’re fine.” He whispers directly into your ear. 

You’re stunned. Chris has never been so commanding with you. Usually he just lets you get away with whatever joke or prank you’re trying to pull on him. This commanding side of him…

…It's really hot.

Suddenly you feel something brush against your leg. It’s his tail. You know exactly where this is heading. It snakes up your leg and starts rubbing against you on the outside of your shorts.

Chris is still palming at your nipples but he stops kissing your neck to look you in the eyes.He just watches you. Watches as your face grows redder from his touch, as moans start to spill from your lips at the stimulation.

He moves his tail out of the way and reaches a finger underneath your shorts. You hiss at the contact. 

“I can’t believe you’re already this wet for me, Y/N.” Chris smirks as he trails a finger gently up and down your pussy. “How long have you been wanting this?”

You roll your eyes, not in the mood for games. “Seriously? Can’t you tease me some other time?”

Chris just laughs. “Been a while, yeah?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs again and pulls his finger out, which is honestly worse. You feel his tail back on your thigh, up your shorts, and finally inside you. You gasp. The triangle shaped tip hit all the right spots going in. You’re hoping he goes in more but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even move it.

Instead of letting you get used to the feeling of his tail inside you, he takes his free hand and starts rubbing slow gentle circles on your clit. Chris does this until you’re borderline begging for more, and barely anything is even happening to you. When you’re finally a mess, Chris removes his tail and stops touching you. Then he frees your hands from behind you and lifts them above your head. Before you can react, he roughly takes your bra and shirt off.

“You could’ve asked me nicely.”

“Yeah but this is more fun.”

Chris takes off his own shirt and you can’t help but stare. He looks so good. He also takes this opportunity to shove his tail back in your pussy without warning. You gasp and brace yourself on his arm.

“Oh god, Chris, please.”

“You’re so needy.” Chris says before taking one of your nipples in his mouth and gently sucking on it while palming the other with his hand. 

You move one arm from his arm to the couch, and to be mean, wrap your free hand around his neck and reach back around and gently stroke one of his horns.

Chris flinches at the touch. “Fine.” He says into your chest, clearly annoyed, “Be a brat. See what happens.”

You laugh. Chris isn’t really mean or anything, so you’re fine.

Or so you thought.

His tail starts moving until it essentially bottoms you out. Then it withdraws completely and plunges right back in. You grip the couch harder, using both hands this time. You can practically feel Chris smirking against your skin.

“Chris,” You whimper as he bottoms out again, “It’s great, but, I-I need you.”

Chris doesn’t stop. He doesn’t seem to care how much you whine or plead, he just keeps going. He keeps going until you’re a mess and his thighs are getting wet from how much you’re dripping onto him.

At some point he stopped touching you and is just watching. Looking at how red your face gets as he thrusts his tail in and out. For as thin as it is, it somehow manages to hit all the right spots.

This is all you’ve wanted for years, and boy is it worth the wait.

Chris runs his fingers over your skin, feeling every little inch he can reach as his tail makes you come undone. His fingers trace your spine, behind your neck, before finally they grip under your chin and force you to make eye contact. He can tell you’re close and he wants to see it on your face.

“Come on, cum for me.” Chris says as you have an orgasm. “That’s it, good girl.” He helps you through it, using his tail until he can feel that it’s over.

Jesus, he’s good. You’re shaking from how powerful the release was, and he can tell.

He pulls his tail out with a small pop sound. It’s wet and covered in your cum. He just smirks and shakes his head. “Jeez, Y/N I would’ve done this years ago if I knew you’d become this much of a mess for me.

Chris doesn’t let you collect yourself for long before he unbuttons his pants and pulls out his cock. “Are you ready for round two?” He smirks as he pulls your shorts to the side again. You nod, barely able to talk, but Chris understands. He can tell just how needy you are for it. How it’s been so long since you’ve had any good sex.

You look down to see what he’s working with. Sure, you’ve seen it a few times by accident but it’s never been hard.

It’s long. Definitely thick, not excessively, but still. Just thick enough you’re glad his tail loosened you up and that your shorts are loose.

Chris doesn’t really hesitate before moving you forward and  slowly pushing into you. The stretch isn’t bad, and it feels amazing. You both let out whimpers, yours being louder since you’re still sensitive.

“Fuck, you feel amazing.” He groans as he bottoms out, “I could get used to this.” 

So could you. He’s filling you up so much you’re surprised he isn't hitting your cervix. 

“Do me a favor, Y/N. Be a good girl and just take it okay?” 

You don’t even get time to respond before Chris is rutting into you so hard you almost fall over. You thought your first time with him would be gentle and sweet, but he’s fucking into you like he’s never had sex in his life. It’s fast and hard. You thought he’d wanna savor it, but no, there’s time for that later. Right now he needs you. Well, needs to cum in you that is.

“Wait- hold on- ah- what if I end up-”

‘Pregnant?’ Chris breathes, not slowing down at all, “You’re on birth control, the implant, I remember. But if you somehow get pregnant- fuck, you feel so good, hnng-  I will raise the kid with you. With the way your pussy feels, fuck, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. Now, I love you, but, shut up, please.” He groans and wraps his arms around you, buries his head in your neck, and keeps going.

 You don’t object. You know that if he got you pregnant he’d help you out. Besides, the risk is kinda hot. You’re just glad he vocalized it out loud that he’d help. Ugh. He’s gonna be so good to you.

Chris comes undone himself pretty soon; heavy breathing, his tail twitching and flicking around, and his moans becoming louder and louder. As he gets closer, he takes his tail and rubs its triangular tip over your clit. Now it’s your turn to become undone again.

His thrusts are becoming more and more ragged with no real rhythm, and you’re close to exploding too. With one final thrust, you cum at the same time. Chris twitches as he cums, filling you up inside. You gasp at the feeling. It’s warm and hot and most importantly, it’s his.

Chris looks up at you as he finishes and plants a small kiss on your cheek. “See Y/N? Nothing to be worried about. We’re gonna be fine.”

Breathing still heavy, heart still reeling from everything, you collapse into Chris’ arms as he embraces you, pleased with how it all turned out.

[thevoid404]

I'm attempting a prompt list this year, lets see how fast I crash and burn.

So heres the thing, I originally wasn't gonna post these here and was planning on keeping it just on my insta, however today that app finally pissed the shit out of me and I decided to just crosspost because literally what the fuck. I have been so goddamn upset with that app for a while now but I think today was my last straw, I might abadone that goddamn hellhole for good.

ANYWAYS :3

For my 2 followers on here pls ik you came here for the hoyotrash fanarts I promise I'll post more of those once I fail this promptlist lmfao

[thewhizzyhead]

if I had a nickel for every musical I've been sucked into that featured a main ensemble of at least 8 women, with two of those girls ending up dead/arrested, and another one being falsely accused of murder but ends up getting acquitted in the end, I'd have two nickels! Which isn't a lot! But it's weird that it happened twice!

[moe-broey]

6/11 • Day 3 • Celebration

I Think We Might Be Friends -- Level 40 Convo, featuring my Summoner, Moe! (Uses it/it's pronouns!)

Aka what happens when a mirror reflects a mirror. But like with one of those funhouse mirrors that distort your image. Wouldn't that be fucked up or what

Also also just. Sharena bestie you have me BEWILDERED. I remember so distinctly when I got her 40 convo, waayy back before I had a good read on her character... it struck me, stuck with me for years. I think I finally understand, now, though.

Some close ups of my fave shots!

Also! Coloring this was a last-minute impulse decision, which thankfully paid off! I was sooooo scared though ESP of not making time after. ALL OF THIS TIME. So I took pics beforehand too!

With... kind of inconsistent lighting LMFAO 🧍 I feel like this version has a nice effect too, but! It was important to me to show Moe in full-color, here. Similar, but in opposite directions...

@sharenaweek

[sysig]

Coming in to play! (Patreon)

[townofcrosshollow]

Was talking to my partner about BPD and I mentioned that BPD and DID have almost exactly the same symptoms and they were like "What no that's not true" so I looked it up and the first thing I see is a person with DID complaining about the DSM because BPD and DID have almost exactly the same symptoms

[hirazuki]

Re: Naruto characters I dislike -- under the cut! :)

The thing with Danzo and Tobirama is that, I get it. I might not agree with it, at all, but I get where they're coming from and, honestly, I am very much self-aware enough that, if I had lived through their same experiences, I can't say for sure that I would have done any different. Did they do terrible things? Absolutely. But, again, I can't proclaim with surety that I'd be any better. Like, I can sit here from my current seat and judge them, but experiences color perception and I'm just as susceptible to bias as everyone else is. Who knows what my outlook would be had I lived through the First and/or Second War.

The thing with Rasa and Chiyo is that, there is some resolution. It's definitely too little, too late, especially in Rasa's case, but there is growth and admittance of fault there so that, even if I don't actually like either character, the character development present in the storyline (particularly for Chiyo!) is such that it somewhat cancels my dislike out, leaving me with largely neutral feelings. I did used to have stronger feelings against them, but I suppose it's true that you mellow out with age lmao

The thing with Hiruzen and Hagoromo and Fugaku is that I neither get it, nor is there any character development or admittance/recognition of fault on their part XD

[superconductivebean]

#1539

I disdain and hate Engish dialogue punctuation. I'll explain.

With M-dashes for dialogue and quotation marks for thoughts and inner monologues, the text is objectively a lot easier to read without actually reading the script. You're aware of what to expect, grammatically, and can adjust to the author's pace this way.

I am a fast reader, it's all vital for me and it's a generally good exercise to try and implement grammar as a pace marker.

But the way English-language allows for random placements of the spoken speech is aggravating; it's not, technically, the language's fault, but I totally understand why people constantly feel lost or don't understand the system completely. I don't understand it either, and in a sense, I reject and resent it.

How are you supposed not to if everything looks exactly the same?

Especially when it allows this to exist:

"A lengthy line of dialogue", character A says. "A line that belongs to its own paragraph and is poorly indicated, if at all", character B adds. [Unrelated things are happening here and it's not clear why they're not their own paragraph.] "Line." [who said that???]

Bonus point if there is no indication and the reader is expected to utilise the power of cosmos to understand who said what lest they don't want to reread an entire scene multiple times to simply be able to digest it.

It's partly author's fault. A paragraph is a concealed thought, it should be lone in most cases, but intertwined with everything else. We as authors should always remember this.

But the language allows to mush these thoughts together. It creates a sense of the flow, yes, to write like this; but then its reading is done backwards. You have to look at the end of the next sentence to know who said it, then read the line, then read everything assembled together, and even if your eyes were trained to do that in seconds, it's tiring and unnecessary. Cute but rocky flow, perhaps you shouldn't write like this, maybe it's better to opt out for something like this:

"Line." "Line?" "Line x10." "Oh. Line then."

If a paragraph is a concealed thought, the thought can also be a compound of smaller thoughts. Yet they shouldn't be convoluted or smooched together too tightly they're nigh impossible to untangle?

With M-dashes, this would look like this:

— A lengthy line of dialogue, — character A says. Character B adds: "A line that could still be its own paragraph but now fits as it is clearly marked as an addendum BEFORE the line begins; could be possible with the previous example but is rarely, if ever, structured this way". [Things became their own paragraph.] — Line. — Still unclear who said that but at least it is its own thing now.

And this is one of two cases when "" aren't used for thoughts and inner dialogues; another one is when your entire dialogue is back and forth and can be presented as its own paragraph.

It also makes the text read extremely fast because you take in the sentence structure first and then populate it with words and senses.

I'm angry at this, evidently. A lot of thought goes into where it should not belong—ttp it feels like a honest downgrade from Russiаn. The punctuation should be the rail regulating of reading, not a labyrinth or a some kind of twister game.

[exhausted-archivist]

On the topic of the inherent racism in the Qun and its people, with how baked in racism is, you can't buff it out and reformat. You can't remove it, and BioWare has only been doubling down on it up to Tevinter Nights in 2020. Which means you need to be careful with how you interact and build on it. At least that is how I approach it, in general I don't like to engage with it because it's just so difficult and not in any thought provoking or insightful way. So I refrain from doing so as much as possible in public spaces anyways, because it is so inherently unsafe for me to do so. From an interaction with fandom level, but also on a personal level because some of it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

I am extremely weary of how da4 is going to portray them, I hope it will be better since the writing team has been moved around and there have been some acknowledgements on poor writing of stereotypes and biases in 2020. Which I take with a salt mine worth of salt, especially with the way the new comics like the Missing having lingering themes and stereotypes remaining. How Patrick Weekes described the rebelling antaam in Three Trees to Midnight (Tevinter Nights 2020) was the biggest red flag, followed by the yellow flag from As We Fly short story by Lukas Kristjanson (short story 2023).

With how BioWare has racism and harmful elements baked into the Qun and people in general it is going to difficult for them to fully separate it, update it, or reformat it. But I hope they do. I hope that they actually attempt to make it better like they have suggested they would. Because it is so harmful and they should. I don't think they'll get it right on the first try, but I hope they try. It won't magically fix the racism in the fandom but I would like to not feel the need to crawl out of my skin when playing a vashoth. I would like to see the franchise grow and become better than it started out as. I don't want it to stay stagnant for the sake of "consistency" which it doesn't have by design.

[ghost-bison]

nothin just snaky old david tennant sticking his tongue out