#i should probably explain why in the future...

[custardtartsfan]

You have a spending problem, and i love you - Jason Todd x reader short

helloooo so i still have two exams and cant write the stories id like to just yet. But i can edit and post my writers craft works. cuz like all i did in that class was write fan fiction. anywho i hope you enjoy yay

“Babe- okay. I love you. But also comma, we already have a candle for like every surface in the apartment.” Jason said with the tone of someone who is VERY used to his partner. He was met with a pouty face and a wistful sigh

“But…Jay..it's a tomato.”

y/n complained, cradling the tomato shaped candle in their hands and looking at it like it was their newborn they're being forced to give up. Jason sighed deeply. 

“Uh huh. It sure is. But we already have one in the basket that's a wiener dog. We don't need two novelty candles in one Winners trip, that's ridiculous.” Jason explained gently, patting her back. Irene didn't look convinced. “What if..we got one huh? Tomato or the dog, you pick”. y/n gasped, offended. 

“I can't get rid of the dog! He looks like Sprinkles.” y/n protested, removing one hand from the tomato candle so they could pick up and cradle the dog candle with it.

“Babe Sprinkles is a cat. He looks nothing like that.”

“Yeah but he's an animal.”  y/n protests, looking down at their candles. Jason rolled his eyes.

“Sweetheart, pick one. We're not getting them both.” he said firmly. He sighed again when they made a face like he was personally traumatizing them. “Babe, this isn't a Sophie's Choice, don't look at me like that.  One. Candle.” He reiterates rigidly. You can't always be fun boyfriend, that's a circus. 

“Don't say that. That's not funny.” y/n chastised him. Jason just snorted.

“Well you don't read books. You only know movies, I'm tailoring my references to you.” He said lightly, trying not to laugh at how pissy they looked. “If I said it's not a Daisy Buchanan’s choice you wouldn't have gotten it.” He snickered, y/n was less amused. 

“I know Gatsby, Jay, I finished highschool.” they murmured. “Unlike some of us.” Jason just laughed harder. 

“Yea I was preoccupied with being dead sweetheart.” He said with a smirk. “And i don't think you need a GED to fight crime illegally”. That actually got a snort out of y/n. they looked down at her candles again.

“mm..I guess it doesn't look like Sprinkles.” they said putting the wiener dog down. Jason let out a sigh of pure relief. 

“Great. Amazing. Now let's get the hell out of here.” Jason smiled, taking the basket and making a beeline for the checkout so they couldn't pick up any more sea life themed claw clips or pink patterned hand towels. He put an arm around her shoulder while they walked, putting the metaphorical horse blinders on her. “We need to stop coming here, this place exists to prey on recovering trinket addicts like yourself.” Jason said quietly to himself. But y/n heard, and it got a laugh out of them. 

“..Yea probably.” they giggled. “We should get froyo after this.” Jason rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it.  

“Should we now?” He asked, looking down at them. “Why’s that?” 

“You've denied me my candle, the least I deserve is mango yogurt.” they nodded. Jason sighed playfully a third time. 

“We're never gonna retire. You spend all my money, our future children will inherit nothing.” He joked, already pulling out his phone to see where the closest froyo place is.

This one was inspired by a conversation i overheard in a winners between a girl and her boyfriend who was trying, in the nicest way possible, to steer her away from buying a heart shaped dutch oven despite her not enjoying cooking at all. it made be giggle

[labyrinthinesyndicatex]

"Ruined her vision ... that's one way to put it," Gavin said, grinning despite himself. "Romance novel history sounds exhausting though. Like every piece of jewelry needs its own dramatic backstory involving forbidden love and political intrigue." He spooned more soup, genuinely enjoying how Nazli told stories - no filter, just honest reactions to ridiculous people. The crying bride versus Ottoman cosplay comparison made perfect sense when she explained it that way. Her mother's advice about carrying your own story instead of borrowing from textbooks hit somewhere deeper than he expected. Most of his life felt borrowed lately - borrowed identity, borrowed purpose, borrowed time between crises. Maybe that's why genuine things felt so foreign.

"Your mom sounds like she knew what she was talking about," he said, then nearly choked on his soup when Nazli mentioned mood boards. "Mood boards? Jesus, do people actually make those for engagement rings? That's terrifying on multiple levels." The notion of him compiling a collage of ring inspiration in the style of Pinterest was sufficiently absurd to be amusing. "Though I have to admit, a ring box that smells like rosewater sounds way better than whatever generic velvet nightmare most people get. Initials stitched inside is a nice touch too ... very you." He paused, realizing she'd just promised zero judgment, which felt like something he should probably file away for future reference. "Good to know I've got an expert in my corner when the time comes."

Nazli let out a soft laugh, resting her chin in her hand as she watched Gavin across the table, her heart warming at the way he was taking this all in—half joking, half sincere. “She did tell me I ruined her vision,” she said wryly. “But I think what really shattered it was me offering her something simpler than what she wanted to be told. People like her want history packaged in a romance novel, not a heritage lesson.” She reached for her soup, fingers curling around the warm bowl. “But I’ll take crying brides over Ottoman cosplay any day. At least the bride was honest about what she wanted—even if it was completely unrealistic.” Her voice softened a little as she added, “My mother always said if someone’s going to wear something forever, the story they carry should be their own. Not borrowed from a textbook.”

Gavin’s last words, though—those made her pause. He didn’t even realize the weight of what he’d said. If I ever do need…Her gaze lingered on him, and for just a flicker of a second, something protective curled in her chest. Because he wasn’t laughing off the idea. He wasn’t dismissing it as something meant for other people, the way so many did after they’d been through something painful—whatever his story with Ishika actually was. There was still part of him open to the idea that permanence, commitment, love, wasn’t entirely out of reach. And that quiet, unnamed hope in him struck her deeper than any performance ever could. Nazli smiled, the edges of it soft, unhurried. “Well,” she said, “when you do need ring advice, you’ll get the stubborn craftsmanship and zero judgment package. I promise not to lecture you on diamond cuts unless you ask. And absolutely no laughing. Except maybe if you show me a mood board or something equally ridiculous.” She tilted her head, teasing just a little now. “But you’d better be ready for a ring box that smells like rosewater and probably has your initials stitched inside. I have standards for people I care about.”

[yourstrulynobody]

ruin's "human" design before I go to sleep (so I apologize if theres any grammar mistakes because Im sleepy rn & kinda rushed it😓‼️)

[bubblegum-bros-sys]

Google search: how do I tell people in my irl circle that I’m plural without running into arguments about self diagnosis but also still keep the context that I am in fact a disordered system. Send

[flying-mochis]

ok finally watched X Men Last Stand so now ive seen all of the main series x men movies-

i see why people dont like it. i mean its not the worst like my life isnt worse having watched it. i honestly thought first ~half~ of it wasnt too bad. it was a little goofy and Jean switched up to Phoenix real fast and they did Cyclops dirty but theyre been doing that the whole run. But once Jean got yoinked by Magneto and basiaclly became a non character things started really falling apart.

i agree w other people that doing both the Phoenix storyline and the Mutant Cure sotryline is one movie is way too much, especially a movie that is not even Two Hours Long?? as a result neither storylines got nearly the amount of attention they deserved.

And Jean really had nothing to do after she killed Charles and was pulled in my Magneto. She just sorta stood there silently for an hour and a half until the end when she got a little scared by some bullets and then continued to stand silently while she exploded things. And then Logan killed her with his finger knives, somehow. I find that doubtful but ok. Then it ends?? happily ever after? I mean not really because Days of Future Past is next but idk of they really set up for that. (cuz Charles is alive again and Magneto has his powers?)

I liked the stuff with Warren. They made him a sad boy like they did with Nightcrawler which is fine tho I also want to see his other side. I wish there was more of him. In general I hope him and Nightcrawler get to do more stuff in future movies with a bit more focus and depth. Just cuz I like them and I want to see them shine a bit more in a way the current movies havent really allowed for...

Magneto just leaving Mystique behind is crazy. I wouldnt claim to be enough of a Magneto expert to say whether that was in character or not but its also just stupid like shes still a crazy good spy/fighter/contortionist even if she cant shapeshift. I guess it just cuz he hates humans and he thinks she human now idk. Kinda a dick move.

The Wolverine fights were ridiculous. I kinda loved them for that tho they didnt really fit w the tone of the movie. But silly nonetheless.

Overall not the worst, just very rushed throughout and especially near the end, and I can see how itd be an extremely disapointing conclusion(ish) to a franchise.

[undefeatablesin]

Me whenever I am not playing Bloodborne: I sure do wish this was Bloodborne

[ponyobus]

When you Found this Blog or were Directed to it, were you Aware of...

Question 2, can I DO That?

o.o Keep your Kicks Comfy, probs, so they don't become

...

Pumped Up Kicks, but that's Also Provably Someone's Business?

Fuck that music is good at my Workstation and Yummy, my Perfect Coffee that I Always Prefer.

The Creamer is pretty good, but I don't usually go for Candy-ish Flavors. Nor do I Celebrate That Holiday.

Where's the Carrot Hat Button so I can Dmile Instead of going 'is this Huh wow'

Yeah, maybe Applr Should Charge More for their Phones while *sips* other Brands Exists and are Often More Creative AHHHHHHHHH

Thays my Favorite Jam Song! He'll yeah!

*

...

*

And yeah, that's how he makes me feel. If I'm listening to that song to Inspire Cleaning, then it's Probably Not Amazing Times Anymore.

*

We Were Doing Great*? But the -

Nods, nods, and mhmm there it is and nod nod and exhale.

I got Freedom of Speech over my Ability to be Upset about Being Sample Stolen without Patient Respect but Maybe it's Jaja of course I did! While going UGH, THEN ITS RIDICULOUS ALREADY AND THE Hah Rhythm, Groooovy.

*

Well I apologized like a billion times, where do I turn that in.

K I n d with... Man, why can I never find the things I need. Snarf that is a Silly Joke there oh noezy haha.

*

I really do lose those all the time, and Better That than Forget Any of my Relevant Checks, and I sigh and Hug my Silly Solutions.

*

...

*

Import California?

*

B) yep. Why not, take the Reigns of your Ponies? BD is -

B] I'll Trust that!

B) I am Aware of my Situation and

B] I know where those are supposed to be, but

B) I Don't Know Who I AM Answering TO but I am Diiggiiinnnggg the Laaaaaaaammmmpppp because I Don't Have a Choice!

B] .................. Well right there, because you shouldn't have been Rude to my Religion maybe?

Idk, I'm Confused and Learning and Afraid to Visit that place, and Exhale, want to one day?

B] ...

B) Mutual Respect of Sanctity is where we are Already Being Cruel yeah

B] Wonder why people want Sanctuaries.

B) ...

B] ... Is my Religion that Cool, because I ADORE her, yeah?

B) ...

B] ...

[harrysfolklore]

mini charles - cl16

summary: charles and his son. one and the same (just cute boy dad charles fluff)

folkie radio: I MISSED WRITING CHARLES SO MUCH!!!! and what's better than dad charles fluff??? enjoy!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes and 203,858 others

yourinstagram Nothing beats watching daddy race ❤️ We missed this!

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username1 MY HEART OMFG

username2 THE WAY HE JUMPS EVERY TIME THE FERRARI GOES BY 😭

lorenzotl Little man has Charles' entire energy from his karting days!

└ yourinstagram Don't remind me, he's asking when can he start karting already

pierregasly He's going to be faster than his dad soon enough

└ lando true

└ charles_leclerc Stop attacking me

username3 baby boy already knows more about racing than the entire ferrari strategy team

username4 THE LITTLE ALLEZ PAPA WHEN CHARLES PASSES BY MY HEART

username5 imagine when him and little max verstappen join f1

arthur_leclerc My favorite nephew mastering the racing lines already! Tell him uncle Arthur is taking him karting next weekend

└ yourinstagram He's asking if he can face time "uncle turtur" tonight

carlossainz55 Mini Charles giving me engineering feedback after the race again? 😂

└ yourinstagram He misses Uncle Calos over here

username6 DADDY CHARLES HAS MY ENTIRE HEART

username7 i can’t believe charles has a kid

kellypiquet Mini Charles and Penelope need a playdate at the next race!

username8 FUTURE WDC

iamrebeccad I miss my little bff!

└ yourinstagram He misses his pretty friend Becca too

username9 watching daddy race i can’t do this

username10 MINI CHARLES WE LOVE YOU !!

charles_leclerc My champion ❤️ See you both after all the media duties mon amour

└ yourinstagram We love you so much

liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 1,022,738 others

scuderiaferarri Our youngest strategy expert hard at work 👨‍🔧

Some say he already knows the perfect timing for pit stops 😉 #MiniCharles

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username1 MINI LECLERC OMFG

username2 finally someone who can fix Ferrari strategy 💀

username3 "Papa, you should box box now"

username4 mini charles probably making better calls than the entire pit wall 😭

username5 the way he's got Charles' focused expression when he's analyzing data 🥺

username6 little man already calculating tire degradation better than most

username7 "By my calculations, daddy should've won 5 more races" - Mini Charles Leclerc, age 4

username8 he headphones are bigger than his head I can't 😭❤️

username9 HIS CAP I CANTTTT

charles_leclerc My champion ❤️

yourinstagram My babyyy🥹

username10 Future Ferrari Team Principal right here

username11 when a 4-year-old understands race strategy better than... nevermind 💀

liked by username1, username2 and 19,544 others

f1updatesdaily Charles Leclerc was beaming talking about his son in the post-race press conference:

"He's already telling me where I need to improve my lines. This morning before the race he gave me a drawing of the perfect racing line. He made me promise to follow it exactly."

"He's quite serious about it actually - last race he told me my apex at turn 4 wasn't good enough. Sometimes I think he watches more onboards than I do! But it's special, you know... having him in the garage. He knows every single mechanic, everybody adores him..."

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username1 THIS IS THE CUTEST THING EVER

username2 little leclerc already following his father's footsteps.

username3 the way charles' eyes lit up talking about his son 🥺

username4 DAD CHARLES IS SOMETHING ELSE

username5 he’s giving charles racing advice at the age of 4 MY HEART CANT TAKE THIS

username6 "Papa you missed the apex" - a toddler dragging his F1 driver father, we love to see it 😭

username7 like father like son rn

username8 not charles having to explain to his 4yo why he didn't follow his racing line advice 💀

username9 I WANT TO HAVE KIDS NOW

username10 this is the most wholesome thing ever

liked by yourinstagram, landonorris and 2,976,896 others

charles_leclerc My toughest critic, biggest supporter, and favorite engineer all in one ❤️ Thank you for always telling me to push harder, even if sometimes it's just to race you to bedtime 😅 Je t'aime mon petit champion

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username1 MINI CHARLES MY HEART

username2 his little ferrari suit i can’t do this

carlossainz55 Still waiting for his feedback on my last lap 😂

└ charles_leclerc He said that “Uncle Calos was better in Red”

arthur_leclerc Best race engineer in Monaco, hands down

username3 IM SOBBING REAL TEARS

sebastianvettel This is what it's all about ❤️ Miss my little racing critic!

└ yourinstagram He keeps asking when is uncle seb coming to visit !

username4 he’s the cutest little thing ever i can’t

yourinstagram Like father like son... both perfectionists 🥰

└ charles_leclerc And stubborn like his Maman

alex_albon the new ferrari team principal looks promising

└ lando fred watch your back

f1 When's he joining the grid? 👀

username5 outsold charles already

username6 BOY DAD CHARLES IS WHAT THE WORLD NEEDED

username7 i’m glad to be alive to witness charles being a dad

username8 THE PADDOCK’S BABY

username9 i know i say this all the time but really i can’t believe charles is a dad

username10 wdc in 20 years

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by carlossainz55, yourinstagram and 2,938,547 others

charles_leclerc 5 years of teaching me how to be better, on and off track. Joyeux anniversaire mon petit champion ❤️ Je t'aime

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username1 HAPPY BIRTHDAY MINI CHARLES

username2 I CANT BELIEVE HES 5 ALREADY

carlossainz55 Happy birthday to the only person who can give Charles a proper strategy briefing

└ lewishamilton Agreed

maxverstappen1 Happy birthday Mini Charles ! Still waiting for that racing line analysis you promised me 😉

arthur_leclerc Happy birthday to my favorite nephew! The mini strategy meeting during cake time was 10/10 👌

└ charles_leclerc Your only nephew**

username3 HES SO BIG! time for another charles

username4 the ferrari themed party has me dying

pierregasly Bon anniversaire champion! Your detailed feedback on my qualifying lap was much appreciated 😂

scuderiaferrari Happy Birthday to our youngest strategist! 🎂

username5 i can’t believe mini charles is 5 remember his baby pics

username6 how long until charles puts him in a kart

username7 charles is the best dad in the world

username8 THE LITTLE FUTURE WORLD CHAMPION

username9 all the drivers love him so much my heart

username10 MINI CHARLES IS SO BIG

yourinstagram I can’t believe my baby boy is 5 🥹 We love you so much

└ charles_leclerc Thank you for giving me him ❤️

liked by username1, username2 and 10,937 others

f1news Spotted at Monaco Kart Track: The Leclercs doing Sunday practice! Mini Charles (5) was seen taking his first proper kart laps while Charles played race engineer. According to onlookers, mini Leclerc was explaining to his dad why his racing line suggestions were "pas correctes" 😭

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username1 like father, like son... but more intense??

username2 THIS IS SO CUTE

username3 mini charles is karting already i can’t do this

username4 charles creating a monster and we love to see it

username5 "Papa the racing line here is simple, you just..." - Mini Charles , 5, to his F1 driver father

username6 everyone talking about how he was faster in sector 2 than kids twice his age 👀

username7 charles trying not to laugh while getting a full technical debrief from his 5yo is the content we need

username8 FUTURE WDC

username9 project leclerc starts now

username10 HE TRULY HAS RACING IN HIS BLOOD

liked by charles_leclerc, leclerc_pascale and 205,673 others

yourinstagram His only birthday wish was "Maman, I want to race like Papa" 🥺

Now we have another Leclerc analyzing telemetry data over breakfast... The way he insisted on creating a "proper race weekend schedule" including briefings and debriefs 😅

Your Papa and I are so proud of you, mon petit pilote ❤️ Just remember - having fun is the most important strategy!

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username1 AWEEEEEE

username2 this is the cutest thing in the entire world

charles_leclerc He already told me my suggestions for turn 4 were "completely wrong, Papa" 🤔

└ yourinstagram He’s already miles ahead of you babe

arthur_leclerc The new family champion! Tonton Arthur is ready for coaching duties 💪

└ yourinstagran He’s dying to have you at the track!

pierregasly Mini Charles taking racing lines more seriously than half the grid 😂

└ lando speak for yourself

username3 MINI CHARLES WITH HIS LITTLE HELMET I CANT

iamrebeccad Look at that cutie 🥹

username4 this is the cutest kid i’ve ever seen

username5 i’m so parasocial about the leclerc family

scuderiaferarri Another Leclerc on track! The legacy continues 🏎️

lorenzotl The way he's exactly like Charles at that age... même esprit!

f1 We're keeping an eye on this young talent 👀

username6 the real predestinato

username7 watch him become wdc in 20 years

username8 max verstappen competition is here

username9 HIS BDAY WISH WAS TO START KARTING I CANT

username10 imagine when jack wolff and mini charles meet each other on track

liked by lando, yourinstagram and 2,089,544 others

charles_leclerc From explaining racing lines with toy cars to actual karting... my heart wasn't ready

But of course, he informed me that my suggestions for the hairpin were "completely incorrect, Papa" and proceeded to demonstrate the "proper technique" 😅

The best part? He insisted on having a proper engineers' meeting after practice. At 5, he's already more organized than me - he made his own notebook for track notes and demands proper debriefs after each session.

P.S. To the other parents at the track - I apologize for him stopping your kids to explain the perfect racing line. He gets that from his mother's side obviously 😂

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username1 AHHHH STOP

username2 mini charles is an icon already

sebastianvettel This brings back memories... except he's way more professional than we were!

└ charles_leclerc He’s in a whole other level !

maxverstappen1 Mini Charles taking racing more seriously than his father 😂

└ charles_leclerc Heyyyy

arthur_leclerc My nephew really said "racing or nothing"

└ yourinstagram And his Maman wasn’t ready at all

username3 i know a wdc when i see him

scuderiaferrari Future Ferrari driver in training 👀

lando Please tell me you got the traditional "this is how you should drive Papa" speech

└ charles_leclerc I did, and you’re probably getting it next race

f1 Like father, like son ❤️

username4 imagine the power in a few years

username5 CHARLES THE PROUD PAPA

username6 CRYING THIS IS BEAUTIFUL

username7 imagine charles freaking out with mini charles on track and he’s like don’t worry papa i got it !

username8 HES KARTING ALREADY IM SOBBING HE WAS JUST BORN YESTERDAY

username9 man they grow up so fast

username10 CUTIE

yourinstagram My baby 🥹

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 389,625 others

yourinstagram When Papa had a tough day at work, someone prepared a special technical briefing with "guaranteed winning strategy" and "proper racing lines" to cheer him up 🥺❤️ His words: "Don't worry Papa, next race we fix everything!"

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username1 IM SOBBING THIS IS TOO CUTE

username2 I FEEL SO MUSHY OVER THIS

charles_leclerc My best engineering briefing of the weekend ❤️ The racing lines are definitely more accurate than mine 😅

└ yourinstagram We love you, Papa

lilymhe the cutest little thing🥺

lewishamilton Already better technical drawings than our engineers

└ charles_leclerc True

francisca.cgomes My heart can't handle this 😭❤️

username3 not mini Charles being more supportive than the entire paddock

username4 this kid understands racing better than most adults

username5 HE LOVES HIS PAPA SO MUCH

username6 boy dad charles is my favorite thing ever

username7 cheering his papa up after the dsq i can't do this

username8 MY HEART CANT HANDLE THIS. WAY TOO CUTE

username9 chares and mini charles are one and the same

username10 MY FAVORITE FAMILY

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,099,482 others

charles_leclerc At the end of the day, this is all that matters. He waited up to give me his detailed analysis of what we need to improve for the next race... before falling asleep mid-explanation of the perfect racing line for turn 3 ❤️

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username1 this is the cutest thing i've ever seen

username2 WHAT IF I SON

carlossainz55 Did he finish explaining why my apex was wrong though? 😅

└ charles_leclerc He's going to tell you all about it in person

lewishamilton Next time bring him to the strategy meeting 👀

└ charles_leclerc None of us will be talking at all

lando the mini ferrari uniform kills me every time mate

username3 THE RAINBOW DRAWING IM SOBBING

username4 mini charles is such a cutie i cry every single time

maxverstappen1 Future World Champion in training 🏆

└ charles_leclerc You better watch your back

scuderiaferrari Already taking notes for 2035 💭

username5 AND FUCK FERRARI

username6 even sleeping he's probably dreaming about racing lines

username7 charles is such a good dad i could sob

username8 the leclercs have my entire heart this family is all about love

username9 the fact that mini charles made drawings so his papa could feel better after a bad race. TOO ADORABLE

yourinstagram My boys ❤️

liked by username1, username2 and 8,947 others

formula1news Spotted at Nice Airport: The Leclercs heading to Suzuka! Mini Charles was seen carrying his own "race engineer notebook" and apparently told waiting fans "we're going to fix the strategy this time" 💀

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username1 ferrari strategists seeing mini charles arrive with his notebook: 👁️👄👁️

username2 finally, the strategy department getting the reinforcement they needed

username3 "Don't worry everyone, I studied Suzuka on my simulator" - Mini Charles, probably

username4 ferrari about to get schooled by a 5-year-old with crayon drawings

username5 "Papa I already calculated the tire degradation" - Mini Charles at passport control

username6 IM SCREAMING MINI CHARLES COMING TO DRAG THEM ALL

username7 Mini Charles on his way to give Vasseur a presentation about proper strategy execution

username8 MINI CHARLES YOU'RE SO DEAR TO ME

username9 a 5 year old really said nvm i'll fix it myself

username10 CRYING

liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 509,684 others

scuderiaferrari Our newest technical consultant has arrived in Suzuka. We've been informed our strategy "needs work" and our racing lines are "pas correctes" 😅 #MiniCharles

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username1 WHAT A CUTIEEEE

username2 THE MINI SUIT IM SOBBING

charles_leclerc He already told Vasseur the simulation data was wrong 🤣

└ username1 IM DYING

lewishamilton Just got a 20-minute presentation about my racing line in sector 1...

username3 finally someone brave enough to fix ferrari strategy

maxverstappen1 The competition just got serious 👀

arthur_leclerc My nephew about to revolutionize Ferrari strategy

username4 the way he's standing EXACTLY like charles i can't 😭

username5 more organized than the entire pit wall

username6 that leclerc DNA is something else

username7 Charles created a mini strategy genius and we're here for it

username8 THIS IS WAY TOO CUTE HE'S JUST LIKE HIS PAPA

username9 MINI LECLERCCCC MY HEART

username10 that's it charles jr drag them

liked by username1, username2 and 5,968 others

f1updatesdaily ADORABLE: Mini Charles gave his first-ever interview at Suzuka! When asked about his karting, he went full technical advisor mode 😭

Reporter: "Do you like racing like your papa?"

Mini Charles: "Yes! But Papa needs to fix his racing line in turn 3. I showed him in my notebook. In karting, you have to take the perfect apex..."

Reporter: "Who's your favorite driver?"

Mini Charles: "My Papa is the best! But he needs better strategy. I help him. I make plans like this..."

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username1 I'VE BEEN CRYING OVER THIS FOR LIKE AN HOUR

username2 mini charles you're the cutest little thing

username3 the way he switched from adorable 5-year-old to full race engineer mode 💀

username4 "Papa is the best but his racing line needs work" I'M CRYING 😭

username5 not him pulling out detailed track notes during the interview

username6 Charles watching his son give better technical explanations than he does 👁️👄👁️

username7 HE'S NOT TAKING HIS HELMET AND MINI SUIT OFF AHHHH

username8 "I help Papa with strategy" We know sweetie, we know 😭

username9 charles trying not to laugh in the background while his son critiques his driving

username10 Mini Charles really said "I'm my Papa's race engineer now"

username11 "Sometimes Papa doesn't listen to my strategy but I'm always right" - Mini Charles, future Ferrari Team Principal

liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 398,584 others

yourinstagram Great weekend in Suzuka! According to our resident technical director, "Papa listened to my racing lines this time!" 😅 P4 for my love and a very detailed post-race analysis from someone who insists the strategy could still be "more optimal" 🤓 Love you so much my boys

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username1 AWEEEE MY HEART

username2 see how charles had a better race with mini charles there?

charles_leclerc Our post-race debrief lasted longer than the actual team debrief 😅 Thank you for your support mon amour

lewishamilton Still waiting for my detailed analysis of where I lost time in turn 13 👀

username3 not him giving vasseur strategy advice 😭

username4 more organized than the entire ferrari strategy department

username5 he's so proud that his papa followed his racing lines

username6 I LOVE THIS FAMILY SO MUCH

username7 charles created a mini racing genius and we're here for it

username8 petition to hace mini charles at every race

username9 THATS FERRARI WDC

username10 dad charles you have my heart

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 1,099,387 others

charles_leclerc P4 this weekend! According to my technical advisor, "much better racing lines Papa, but we still need to work on the strategy." Thank you Japan for an amazing weekend, looking forward to reviewing the very detailed race analysis someone prepared for me during the flight home... before falling asleep mid-explanation again 😴❤️

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username1 EVERYBODY SAY THANK YOU MINI CHARLES

username2 mini charles really said "i run this team now" and went OFF

arthur_leclerc Thats my nephew !!

lewishamilton Still recovering from yesterday's strategy meeting with him

scuderiaferrari Future World Champion AND Technical Director 👊

lando most thorough race engineer on the grid

maxverstappen1 Like father like son

username3 not him falling asleep with the notebook again 😭

username4 mini charles said fixed ur driving but the strategy still needs work and i'm CRYING

username5 THE MINI SUIT HAS ME DYING

username6 charles is the best dad in the world i swear

username7 no thoughts just mini charles in his matching ferrari suit giving detailed technical feedback

username8 "papa listened to my racing lines this time" PLS THIS KID IS TOO MUCH 😭

username9 mini charles is the ultimate boss

username10 BOY DAD CHARLES. THATS IT

[obeymeluv]

Enchanting a Fae - Malleus x Reader

A random Malleus x Reader

Malleus isn't sure why he comes to your dorm so often. His booted feet take him there automatically, he supposes. If Lilia were to ask him, he's just making the rounds on his usual haunts and looking for pieces of forgotten grotesques and gargoyles in need of cleaning. Ramshackle was a prime destination for all things forgotten and dusty, after all.

Perhaps it can also be a home to things muddy and sopping.

A small smile twists the edges of Malleus' lips as he blinks rain from his emerald eyes. It's ironic that he, future King of Briar Valley and fifth most powerful mage in the world, was caught unaware by the weather.

How very human. It's a beautiful experience, to drown in the quiet hush of rain.

He steps lightly but with purpose, long shadow breezing up the walkway to your door. It swells as lightning tap-dances behind him. Thunder rumbles, much like the sound he tries to swallow down as you crack the door open hesitantly, face melting into one of welcome.

Oh, child of man...Malleus feels the warm swirl in his chest tighten as you take his hand and pull him inside. He ducks his head, finally remembering to pull his horns down enough so they don't scrape the frame like they have in the past.. "Fae are supposed to be invited in," he reminds you. "And I told you, you always have a standing invitation." you say with a gentle dismissiveness that both humbles and endears him. You continue to show him that you care not for his title or his princely demands. You treat him like all the others. He does his best to stand on the welcome mat you thrifted, afraid the water will rot the ancient floor and leave you with something else to fix. You scurry back with towels and some spare clothes that smell like human. Not you, but human. Malleus can't stop the angry rumble in his throat as he realizes that smell is probably from your human friends at Heartslabyul. Clothes for other men? Disgusting. You always forget he has another set of vocal chords and he excuses the noise as 'clearing his throat'. "It's all I have," you murmur, unsure now if you should take the offer back. He can tell you're still debating that uncouth noise, the slip of the tongue.

"I accept your generosity." Malleus knows it won't be a perfect fit, but it would do better than your clothes. Not that he didn't like the idea of adorning himself in your scent. Turning away from you a little, Malleus removes the purple striped belt at his waist and undoes the many gold buttons on his curious coat. You can't tell what the black shirt is underneath but it sticks to him and you find yourself trying to tear your eyes away and commit him to memory all at once.

Not in the creepy way! Just in the 'I've never seen Malleus in just gloves, a shirt, pants, and boots before' kind of way. He's none the wiser, realizing he has a real problem on his hands. The gloves he chose are water resistant but they've somehow gone flush against his slick skin and feel more like a seal than a savior. His draconian nails cannot save him, blunted and useless in the leather. Should he use his teeth? What if he hooked them on the edge of a horn and just shimmied it off? You can practically read his mind and grab his hand before he can raise it near his head. "Don't do that! You'll ruin them!" you give a huffy laugh at his simple, boyish logic and it takes every ounce of control from all his decades of walking upright to keep his tail from smashing a hole in your floor.

He watches you drape the loaner clothes around your neck like some sort of scarf as you motion for his hand.

Your hands are almost cartoonishly small in his as they trace the stitching and try to feel for any buttons or ridges. Small, but so considerate and so warm. Dragons run warm from the fire and magic in their blood but he cannot explain why your touch is absolutely radiating and searing him in the most comforting way through the leather. He almost hopes you never figure out how to take them off so you can just fiddle with his hands forever. Malleus relaxes into your touch, basking in the care and attention.

His hopes are dashed when the glove separates slightly from his lax wrist and you free his hand. You pull off the other one. If he had no shame, he'd make a cool request for you to hold them and warm them. "Boots off, then change." you give him a small rag for his hands and point to his feet. Delighted and somewhat surprised to be your willing subject, Malleus obeys and starts to take off his boots.

He braces himself against your wall with one hand, mindful not to put himself through it like he almost did the mine tunnel at Beanfest. One boot off, he wrestles blindly with the other. Malleus is much more interested in how you tend to the pitiful fire in your fireplace. Your back is to him and whatever you're wearing leaves you shapeless but cozy. The embers crackle in the hearth, the light dancing across your face in a way that makes something baser claw at the pit of his stomach.

Shiny thing. Dragons like shiny things. You would be a most gorgeous shiny thing. Always ethereal, no matter what you're wearing or doing. If you would permit him, you would be his most valued treasure.

His heart sings at the thought, almost tying itself in a knot. That low, tingling feeling comes back to him and Malleus wants to croon his Dragon Song. It would fall on deaf ears, so to speak, as you have no dragon blood to appeal to. "Your eyes are doing that thing again." Malleus flinched a little, green fire sparking in his mouth as a warning puff of smoke dissipated between you. He didn't realize you'd come upon him again. The dragon relaxed, turning his head away as he exhaled the building smoke through his nose before it could send him into an undignified coughing fit.

Lilia had been consulting his grandmother on some behaviors as of late and both arrived to the same conclusion: he's experiencing draconian puberty. 'The thing' his eyes do are a sign of said puberty. It is the unfurling of all his emotions, the dilation of his eyes signaling his interest and trying to draw you ever deeper to him. In a way, it is a thrall, but it leaves him at your mercy as much as it should leave you in his.

Somehow, you don't take it as hard. If his world wasn't a sudden explosion of the scent of your skin and soap, the heat of your body, and the curious fondness with which you look at him, he would ponder this injustice further.

But he does not. Right now he can't even find the words for a simple lie, a diversion, as he breathes in the smell of you and tries not to melt. To have you touch him right now would be the worst thing but he's never wanted it more. He wants so badly to sink his fangs into your wrist, your neck, and let you wear the affectionate bruises like a family crest. His family crest.

"You're supposed to be getting changed," you admonish him.

"Mmm, but I can't," Malleus refrains from snuggling into the small towel you're blotting against his face. He closes his eyes and tries to sense the heat of your hand through the fabric as you move carefully around his lashes. "I'm being tended to and it would be rude to interrupt," he teases.

"No point in giving you dry clothes if you're going to get them wet putting them on." you laugh. He swallows thickly as you brush his throat dry. "Now go change," you swat him with the rag. Body towel and clothes in one hand, damp footprints follow Malleus to a spare room.

As he suspected, the clothes were ill-fit for his frame. Spade and Trappola were smaller than he was, being human and all. It was another thing entirely to get the shirt over his head without shredding it on his horns. He's afraid to move his arms too much and hopes he's not offending you by pulling the pants low enough to give his tail room. You've just finished laying his clothes out on dry towels before the fire and he's grateful.

It is a dying fire. You have a small supply of kindling and old papers to feed it but he doesn't think it will be enough. "I would like to repay your generosity with a gift. May I?" "You know you don't have to get me anything," you wave him off. He's not sure if it's a human trait or a you trait but you don't take easily to gifts.

"But it is practical and will serve us both," he knows he's caught your attention. He can see you trying to figure out what kind of gift that would be. Malleus approaches the fire, kneels down, and breathes it in. Dragons who can breathe fire, like himself, can convert outside sources of heat to their fire on rare occasions. You jump when he spits out a green flame and it roars to life, casting the walls in jeweled light and emitting a heat you didn't know you missed.

"Cozy!" you chirp. It was a gentle kind of heat that would be perfect for snuggling under a blanket. He sits on the other end of the sofa, a respectful cushion between you, and rests his head on a hand as he looks at you.

"And it will last much longer! You needn't fret about it getting out of control, either. It is my fire, and I can control it." he sees the beginning of sleep on you. Malleus grew up with Silver and was all too familiar with the slow descent into a nap. You make a valiant effort, he will give you that. You're in the middle of a soft argument about being rude to company and Malleus laughs despite himself.

He dropped in uninvited. Certainly that's more rude, yes?

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, the fae more amused than he has been in a long time as your eyes get heavier. You look stunning in the green glow and he can't help but think you'd look just as ravishing in black.

In a crown. On a throne. In his bed. All of these things have the Dragon Song welling up in him again. The buzzing in his chest closes off his ears; Malleus jumps to alertness as you tug gently on the ends of his dark hair. "You let your hair down. It'll get weird if it dries in a ponytail holder."

It takes some effort, but he untangles it from his hair. "What shall I do about you, Child of Man?" he muses. "I will be forever indebted to your attentiveness."

"Did you find anything cool on your walk? You always show me." your eyes twinkle with the vestiges of consciousness. This is your one final push before succumbing to sleep, he can tell. He did, in fact, find things to show you and had forgotten them until now. When you're drenched, everything just feels heavy and soaked through. Malleus fishes the random items from his coat pocket and settles back down on the couch.

You've seen all manner of things at this point--feathers, polished rocks, twisted roots that looked interesting, pieces of statues, actual gems--and it never gets old. He presents you with a rock carved into the shape of a bear, a chunk of what might have been an old cup, and a ring.

The ring doesn't catch your eye right away. You're too busy playing with the bear. He wiggles his hand so the firelight catches it and you still. Malleus takes the bear from you, flipping your hand over to slide it on your finger. "A gift, my dearest."

"Malleus, I--" you start to protest.

"We fae are no strangers to offerings, both giving and receiving. It would be a disservice to present you with anything less." he speaks over you, his words gentle but commanding. He kisses your hand.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought of dating him. It just seemed a little silly--a random no-name person and the fae prince? What kind of cliche was this?

A handsome one that was staring you right in the face.

"If you'd like more, the best I can offer you is a kingdom." he teases, lounging back against the sofa. He said it so casually that it caught you off guard. You're face is almost unbearably hot and Malleus chuckles.

"A whole kingdom?" you finally recover. "I'll take it."

Oh, there it went. Malleus felt the trap snap shut on his heart. This was the lethal moment Lilia warned him. He was helplessly smitten and enchanted. Irreversibly so.

"Truly?" he's before you in a second, one hand around your waist and the other holding the one with the ring. "Now is not the time to jest, Child of Man. I offer you my heart in earnest and the reply must be just as true!" he's staring up at you through his bangs and you swear you see more scales on his forehead.

"W-Well, yeah," you stutter. "I wouldn't mind. Just kind of thought we would do more dates and stuff first," your face was heating up again.

"We shall, as many as you like!" he's scooped you up in one arm, cradling you to his chest. You threw your legs around him so you didn't fall backwards but he doesn't notice, pulling your other hand over his shoulder. "Every day, even! As soon as the weather clears, in fact!" "But it'll be dark out!" you protest. Malleus probably could change the weather if he wanted but that wouldn't stop the ground from squelching and things being nasty. He stopped excitedly rambling about walks and things to do.

"We've walked in the dark before?" he doesn't understand why you don't want to go out this particular time. "And I have seen you to your door, safe and sound every time."

"But we're already here. Together. Inside." you explain slowly. "Maybe we could...cuddle...a little."

Oh yes. Splendid idea! Malleus all but dives for the couch at the suggestion. It is a paltry nest but it's yours. You're still recovering from the recoil, glad he fell back first and didn't squish you.

Did you just hear something rip? You hope he didn't break the couch. You don't get much time to think about it as he pulls you close and tucks you under his chin like he's been rehearsing it with a pillow. He's just the right combination of soft and muscle, of guard and gentle as he figures out where to put his hands. He settles for one supporting his head and the other cradling yours.

It's very awkward because he's mostly off the couch but he can't be bothered. You're slowly drifting to sleep in his arms and he's never felt more joy. He watches with deep interested, practically holding his breath as you sleep. Faes don't need as much sleep as humans but he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried because you've been courted by him!

Malleus is roused by his phone sometime later. The couch is small and cumbersome to him but it's held up. He begrudgingly untangled himself from you to answer it, long arm just reaching it on the table.

"Yes?"

It's Lilia. "Where are you, young man? We've been trying to reach you!"

He had fifteen missed calls from Sebek, eight from Lilia, and some text messages from Silver.

"Ensnared, I fear." Malleus smiles into the crown of your head. "I'm doomed to languish in absolute bliss. It's a very powerful enchantment, you see."

"Taken the leap, have you, Malleus?" he could hear the smile in Lilia's voice.

"I have, and I've landed in something quite wonderful."

"We fae are supposed to trick and trap, not the other way around! But...at least you're safe. Make it known that I will not tolerate--"

"Any eggs before marriage." Malleus rolled his eyes. He'd only heard that a million times recently.

"If you're not back at Diasomnia in two hours, I'll break that enchantment myself. Understood?"

"And if I object?" Malleus challenged, patting your head as you began to move.

There was a moment of silence. "I shall tell your grandmother."

Malleus hung up.

That might do the trick, he thought, brows raised. His grandmother was from an older generation of fae who were still entrenched in anti-human beliefs. Would she love you because he did? Could you enchant her, too? One look at your sleeping face, so at peace and pressed up against him, had him convinced.

Yes, he was pretty sure you could enchant any fae. It certainly worked on him.

[noodleincident]

as i’m sure many of you know, “fertility” rates are my, uh, one too many drinks cause, bc the following things (inter alia) piss me off:

calling it fertility rate

saying women aren’t having kids bc lack of good parental leave and health policies in the U.S.

saying women aren’t having kids bc scary future and bad present

saying women want more kids but aren’t bc, see above

here’s some fun graphs and excerpts from an article in the economist that i know i’ve posted before but you can never see them too often

govts have tried just giving new parents straight cash: “The thinking behind [financial incentive policies of giving new parents straight cash] dates back to the entrance of women into the workforce en masse, which happened at around the same time as birth rates started their long decline. “ but these policies “have a relatively small impact [and are] fabulously expensive, as lots of cash goes to parents who would have had children regardless of the financial incentives available. Each child that resulted from Family 500+, in the years from the Polish financial-bonus scheme’s introduction in 2016 to 2019, cost $1m. In France each extra child over the past decade has cost twice that.” so…it ain’t money

male economists remain incapable of understanding parenthood: “Gary Becker, a Nobel-prizewinning economist, suggested in the 1960s that the best way to consider children is as goods that parents purchase according to how many they can afford, both in terms of time and money. Easing the burden of a career and expanding household budgets should therefore boost childbearing, he concluded.” 😒

drop of fertility is bc we functionally fixed teenage pregnancy (for now): “More than half the drop in America’s total fertility rate is explained by women under the age of 19 now having next to no children. Around a third of the missing births would have been unplanned, and the majority of them would have been to women on low incomes. . . . “Similarly, in Britain women born in 2000 had half as many children before they were 20 as those born in 1990. Unlike their rich counterparts, these women will probably not compensate by having more children later in life.”

maybe women just don’t want kids!: “Meanwhile, there is little evidence that middle-class women wish they had many more children, which would at least suggest they might be open to official persuasion. Today, at the age of 24, college-educated American women want on average 2.2 children—roughly as many as previous generations. They will now have these children a little later than before, with the first arriving at the age of 30, compared with 28 in 2000. Although trends suggest that they will fall short of their ideal family size, the gap may be the same as for women in previous generations, who missed the target by an average of 0.25 children.”

“[S]ome programmes are now beginning to explicitly target [low income and/or younger women]. Zhejiang, a province on China’s eastern border, is offering newly married couples a lump sum, but only if the bride is below the age of 25. In Russia women who have a child before they turn 25 will soon be exempt from income tax. Hungary offers a similar benefit to mothers who have their first child before 30—one of only two policies in Viktor Orban’s pro-natal push that economists at the Central European University think has created additional births. Although small families are becoming more common almost everywhere, women who start young still tend to have more children over their lifetime, which is why Messrs Orban, Putin and Xi are focusing on them.” nightmare blunt rotation

“young mothers laugh when asked if $7,500 would be enough of an incentive to encourage them to have another child; after all, low-income American households typically spend $20,000 in a baby’s first year of life. But such money may well have an impact at the margin. As one mother puts it, extra cash “might make me keep one I wasn’t sure I was going to have”. In America poor women are much more likely than middle-class women to cite financial hardship as a reason for an abortion.” cool society we live in

can we please built a society that doesn’t depend on women having children they don’t want: “extra children produced by targeted policies will probably not turn into the productivity-boosting professionals that governments most desire. Only 8% of the children of American-born non-college-educated parents are themselves expected to obtain a bachelor’s degree, and during his or her adult life the average high-school graduate boosts the public finances by less than a tenth of the net contribution of a college graduate. Therefore the financial benefits of pro-natal policies aimed at working-class women would probably be overwhelmed by their costs, given the expense associated with even well-targeted programmes.”

see also: “A first-time American mother in her mid-30s will earn more than twice what she would have earned had she had her first child aged 22. Women who give birth aged 15 to 19 are more likely to develop health problems; their first child is more likely to drop out of high school and to grow up without having both parents at home. In Flint many mothers express regret that they did not manage to “get things sorted” before they started to have children. “Hang on,” says one outside a community centre. “The idea is that I get paid just enough to make me have another kid? But that’s all that changes? Where doing it [raising a kid] right, later on, it’s all me? That doesn’t seem right.” The 26-year-old mother of three leans back, and laughs.”

anyway

[system-to-the-madness]

Slipping through my Fingers - Viktor x Reader

Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: angst/fluff Word Count: 7 449 Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I can’t finish them, so I’m trying to write something short and sweet here.

You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.

The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.

The thought, that it probably isn’t good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that can’t be good for his neck either. It isn’t. You’ve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.

But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. You’re selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.

And it hurts. You wish it didn’t, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you aren’t. Maybe, because you don’t understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.

Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.

It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at arm’s length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isn’t what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldn’t look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be. 

Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him. 

His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you don’t reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldn’t be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.

You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you don’t want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.

For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. It’s still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that don’t belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- you’re lucky, Viktor’s hold on the pen isn’t tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.

Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktor’s eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you can’t help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktor’s. Maybe it’s for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; you’re certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.

You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.

Jerk.

The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.

Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesn’t even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-don’t-know-what. And maybe you don’t even want to know. 

For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.

Maybe it’s because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktor’s character exerts on you. Maybe it’s because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isn’t he. Or maybe it’s his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist. 

In the end, you conclude, it doesn’t matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldn’t change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.

Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktor’s table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.

An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. It’s too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.

With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.

You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.

~*~

It’s the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe it’s not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktor’s fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.

No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. It’s you, he’s losing. He knows it. Isn’t this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isn’t sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.

You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. It’s dangerous, why can’t you see that? You wouldn’t want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.

He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldn’t want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.

He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.

Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesn’t tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.

But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you don’t have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor can’t even begin to understand while he keeps himself at arm’s length.

Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe they’re cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if you’re cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he can’t let himself. For your sake. For your safety. 

Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like it’s the last time he will ever feel its comfort?

Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. It’s dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.

And then?

Then what?

What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Can’t he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?

He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.

Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.

All of you.

Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.

All of you.

But you’re slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.

~*~

It’s just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktor’s familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name. 

Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktor’s accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you. 

You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him “You shouldn’t sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.” But you don’t. Maybe you can’t. You can’t ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.

Why?

Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle… something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern. 

“Viktor,” you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him. 

He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.

For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldn’t deny having anticipated. But you don’t know that, don’t know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.

You expect a scolding, a scoff, a “you’re too loud” or “why’d you wake me”, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.

Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you don’t take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.

“You’re still here,” he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.

His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you don’t know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. It’s painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now. 

A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.

“You’re still here,” he repeats, and you don’t know what to answer.

It doesn’t seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.

Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.

And then he falls forwards. 

At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise it’s none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldn’t allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.

He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing nothing he didn’t mean to, and he lets you know, let’s you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.

You’re still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?

You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.

He’s warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.

You can’t help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadn’t expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isn’t really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadn’t even dared dreaming about.

Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.

You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you don’t know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you. 

You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldn’t mind if he didn’t, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.

But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each other’s rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesn’t need words to make the other body understand.

You do understand, at least that’s what Viktor hopes, because he isn’t strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesn’t know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldn’t care, he loves you.

He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.

So, he doesn’t have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if it’s just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.

He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesn’t know how to do better, and you don’t demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you don’t need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned. 

Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if it’s not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take. 

“Stay with me,” he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. “Stay with me.”

You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktor’s hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktor’s ankles. 

“Not here,” you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: You’re still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. “Not tonight.”

When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again. 

When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise. 

“Not here,” he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. “Not tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?”

You understand what he’s going for, even if it’s not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what he’s asking is what you want to ask but haven’t allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like it’s about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that what’s inside your soul doesn’t scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.

His question still hangs between you, his “th” more a “d” due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.

He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.

In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.

In the absolute dark Viktor’s hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktor’s heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonight’s loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers. 

As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that you admire him. You don’t pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you or do anything you object. 

When he stops in front of his dorm room door, you’re calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight. 

“Stay,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.

“I’m heavy,” you attempt to argue weakly, “I’ll hurt you.”

His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.

“Stay.” A single word, a command, a plea.

“Your braces-”

Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.

“You care-” 

too much, is what you’re certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as you’re propped up over him, and if you weren’t waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him. 

But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. They’re so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.

“You care.” Viktor’s mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins. 

It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.

“You have to change out of the braces,” you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.

You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.

When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.

The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.

“Won’t you share your thoughts,” he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.

“Just-” You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You don’t hesitate. “When I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.”

Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.

“I’m sure I’ll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,” he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. “And…” he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, “I do hope it’s just the first night of many.”

Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.

“Fine,” you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. “Only the first.”

A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if there’s a secret only the two of you know.

Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.

It’s easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know you’re in the right place, and there is no haste.

And life goes on.

Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking nature’s secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.

He lets himself lean on you, even if it’s not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.

So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasn’t pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isn’t. Not when it’s your arms he falls into, not when it’s your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.

A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).

[yanderelovebites]

Back with batsis stuff and kinda wanna do the whole isekai thing. Have reader meet their end somehow and wake up in a fanfic that was never finished of a neglected batsis. Have them wake up at the incident that made them get sent over to Bruce.

Have the original girl’s memories and knowing already they didn’t like her, didn’t want her, etc. she decided to just live for herself and future. Girlie went with her father who gave her that initial attention but after that she was taken to her room. She’s six. Have her give that grieving period of two weeks where she just got used to the room and the manor before she started asking for things. It’ll be probably one form of martial arts and later on probably also either music or dance. When she isn’t doing either of those things she sketching in her book and she’s actually really good.

Have her be closest with Alfred but still keep a certain wall up against him just like the others. Have her be a few months older than Damian and Damian isn’t quite in the picture yet. She ignores when the others are in the house despite being a part of said home. She only looks for her father for school needs and while still keeping her distance will set birth cards and Father’s Day cards on his desk in the study. She never hands them to him so she doesn’t know what he does with them nor does she care.

If the character she is reborn as is meant to be neglected, why should she bother trying to reach out?

She eventually had no choice but to meet Jason because he was there… they didn’t know how to explain to her why red hood is there. She simply said “Hello, I would chat but I have Jujitsu in 20 so I have to leave. Nice meeting you.” It was concerning how she brushed it off. Of course she realizes after ‘oh none of them would know I know… nah I’ll just continue on. Who knows, it might bother them!’

By the time Damian gets there, she’s been through karate, jujitsu, and only a year of Taekwondo while also taking dancing/music lessons. She has won art competitions but only Alfred has ever seen or heard. Bruce may have heard but he barely listened to the announcement of it. He knows from a portrait she was forced to sit for with Bruce, Tim, and Dick, she exists. Yet, it takes a week for him to ever see her.

He asks questions like in the original, but what batsis reader doesn’t understand is she changed how Damian sees her since she wasn’t immediately clingy to anyone. Dick TRIES to remember anything and realizes he doesn’t really know her. Tim can’t really tell him anything either other than medical records in case anything happens. Literally all Tim gave Damian was that Damian and batsis have the say blood type. They realize they really don’t know batsis which does unnerve them. All they can say is she stays to herself. That both irritates Damian and intrigued him. He tries Alfred next who is able to at least tell him what she does routinely at least. How she’s been in martial arts after her first two weeks living here, implied she was grieving, and she’s also been in music/dance lessons as well. Also explains she enjoys participating in art contests. He goes on about her being an A+ student and explains she doesn’t interact much with the rest of the family. He even says “To be honest, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one she talks to in any capacity that isn’t out of necessity.”

Jason pretty much only knew about one of the martial arts being jujitsu. He explains she didn’t seem phased that red hood had entered her home and that she didn’t know about the Batman secret.

He doesn’t immediately approach her either. He doesn’t have all the information he needs. All he knows is she’s his half sibling, her usual activities, at least one of the forms of martial arts she knows, and that otherwise she’s a bit of a mystery. Eventually they’re forced to eat at a family dinner together. Since it really bothered Dick that he didn’t know anything he starts asking her about school. No one ever asked her questions, half the time they act like she isn’t there, so she’s confused, but politely says it’s been fine. Talks briefly about her classes, the mention of what classes she’s currently taking makes Tim and Dick shocked. For Tim it’s simply the fact that *she* was taking them and for Dick it’s the fact someone her age was taking such advance classes. Tim coughed and asked her what she did after school on Friday, mostly to hear anything else and she’s like “Oh just another art competition. I placed first with my painting.” She says and continues eating.

Bruce honestly is trying to process what he heard and saw and Damian treats it as a way to analyze her. The way she eats, the way she talks, her posture, and of course the tiny bits the boys were getting out. She then says “I’m sure Alfred has already told you about that, however, right father?” He coughs for a moment and nods as to hide the fact he himself has been caught off guard. For Damian she isn’t like a role model for what he’s grown up with, it’s more she’s a role model for what a Wayne is. She’s perfect in all things you’d expect the public to see a Wayne for. Knows arts, has some martial arts background, and has a certain air of modesty yet wealthy around her.

This attention to her is still brief at this time for Tim, Dick, and Bruce. They ask if she’s met Damian and she says “Not really, at best some glances. I’m always moving after all.” That dinner felt awkward, but Damian decided she wasn’t Particularly a threat…

And by all things holy it annoys the crap out of Tim. He actually tries to speak to her—which she is cautious at first because she knows what he did to the original Batsis. Instead of drawing his sword on her, he asked about her martial arts since that’s really all he can… talk about with her… and the part that annoys Tim on it… is simply he won’t shut up about her-

And he thought when Damian called himself the blood son was annoying! Now it’s ’blood sibling’ this and that if bringing her up in conversation occurs. It’s clear he respects her in such annoying ways.

I just imagine the Yandere Batfam doesn’t all happen at once. It starts with Damian. You don’t see it at first because you blame his upbringing. He’s stuck to your side during banquets as much as he despises them. He mirrors some of your ‘mask’ etiquette in that all the Wayne’s have an image. You kept yours on as rock solid as possible, you are not the same person. He can tell you must have some inspiration from your father as yours is a rather innocent persona. You act like a social butterfly amongst the people and seem so damn sweet. He just doesn’t like how many eyes are on you. You acted like you couldn’t feel it, but it’s hard to ignore Damian. In fact, it accidentally wentinti his persona as people saw him as a clingy little brother to his slightly older sister. That it just made ‘sense’ since you two are so close in age.

Damian would just get worse as time went on. It’s get to the point you realize he isn’t faking or anything he actually just likes you. Then you get kidnapped.

I imagine no one but Alfred and Damian realize something is wrong. He’s the reason they find you and he nearly kills the guy who kidnapped you. Of course it’s not like you just let them take you, there was evidence even before they were brought to an inch of their life. You hadn’t made it easy and they could tell you had injured them beforehand. However they had broken your legs and that’s when I’d get worse for Damian and start in Bruce.

I might add more thoughts later I dunno it’s kind of an idea dump

[0scxmlqrd]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 lovestruck

; in which [name] [surname], a woman with existential crisis, finds the meaning and purpose of her life—for her, player 120.

pairing: player 120 | cho hyun ju x f! reader

warning: slight angst, out of character (?), etc.

author's note: so thirsty for a player 120 | cho hyun ju x reader fanfiction I overcame my writer's block that's been goin' on for years now, lol.

YOU have no purpose in life—you believed. Well, at least that's what you'd made yourself think ever since you could remember.

You frequently would ask yourself why were you even here and what's the use of existing in this world full of nothing else but suffering.

You've tried to search it on the internet once, asked people in different online forums. Other than a hotline or basically the searching app telling you to call a therapist, you received some decent answers, but still, you couldn't get yourself to believe any of the answer they provided.

All you know is that one thing they have in common is that they are—

Subjective.

It depends.

In all honesty, you don't even know why you keep on living. Yet you've never tried ending it. You hate the feeling of pain, you hope that if you're ever going to die, it must be a quick and painless one.

The time you've spent questioning your existence turns much more worse than you had expected as in the process of finding your purpose, you lost your sense of self.

You don't know who you are anymore.

No wonder you ended up as a failure. Too lazy to finish college, jobless sprinkled with no motivation in life, no money but debt that kept piling up as each days pass by—the debt collectors are likely going to collect and sell your organs to the black market as soon as they find you.

But that's not what you fear.

Luckily, you don't have anyone that would be disappointed in you since you're all alone. An orphan, you are.

That's probably why you ended up being slapped by a random stranger on the train station over losing to a game only children would play. And what do you get in exchange? Money, of course. You have dignity of course, but when it comes to money, well... gone.

There's nothing much more important in this world than money. People who loved to claim "love" is only spouting nonsense.

Love wouldn't fill your empty stomach.

You were getting pissed playing the game you kept on losing. Your cheeks were already numb from how cruel each slap the man had been sending you.

Was it worth it? Should you quit?

Maybe just one last game and you'll get that money. Then you'd get yourself something good tonight in compensation to the sore and swollen face you'd have to endure tomorrow.

"Congratulations, you won!"

The man's clap echoed in the station. You nodded, although happy that you won, you couldn't smile as a small cut that you wondered how could it be so painful.

He handed you the money—you didn't thank him, his slap absolutely hurts, no way you're thanking him.

The man then asked you whether you want to play a game. You almost cursed him out loud after he recited your personal information out loud correctly, creep.

But after that, he handed you a card.

And you took it.

You need money to survive for tomorrow.

That's how you ended up in here.

A large, open space with large walls acting as barriers from the outside world. In front of everyone was a gigantic doll, towering everyone even from afar.

You wondered what game it was.

A sound coming from a speaker in an unknown location echoed all over the place, explaining the mechanics of the games—how to win and how you will get eliminated.

You wondered how they were going to sort out everyone who loses when there's literally hundreds of people currently.

Your eyes wandered from around the place onto each of the players your eyes could find, trying to familiarize with everyone—who knows, they might turn out to be your enemy in the future games.

Boring.

You thought to yourself as you scanned their faces. That was until your eyes came to an abrupt stop from a certain player not close behind you. You've heard of people like her, but you've never seen one in person. They must've gone through a lot for having the courage to be what they are in this country.

She seemed to felt your gaze on her and you two made eye contact. She smiled slightly at you slightly nodding her head.

Awkward, you felt. Flustered at the attention you were receiving from him. Then, another thought came through you, 'She's quite the looker,' to which you immediately shrugged off, shifting your eyes away from her to your front once again.

'Focus,' you scolded yourself. Changing your complete attention on your current and only goal—to win this game and spend every single money to yourself until you get sick tired of it.

Your thoughts were then cut short when a crazy uncle suddenly started shouting. He was basically saying that this game kills the people who lose and how everyone must listen to the rules so they could live.

Green Light!

He shouted for everyone to go and you ran as fast as you can.

Red Light!

He shouted to stop and everyone, including you, stopped. This continued smoothly until you heard a woman's scream.

Then, a loud bang echoed.

Then, a thud.

And then everyone around that woman turned chaotic. Everyone was panicking, screaming and running around. But slowly, each scream—both men and women— slowly counted down while loud bang you believed to be coming from guns shot them down each.

Good thing you followed what the crazy uncle said although it was unbelievable at first.

You thought you'd be fine as long as you follow his order. Much to your dismay, there were some factors you forgot to think of.

Green Light.

Some of the people on your side were also panicking, they started running faster. Their adrenaline finally getting through them so much that some people behind you got ahead of you.

You bit your lower lip, getting ready to sprint, collecting every single ounce of your energy. But suddenly, a woman behind you crashed onto you, causing you to trip and fall down.

'B*tch, you better not make me see you or—'

People started trampling over you. Some tripping on the process. It's painful, incredibly. Your losing more time, you knew. You cursed yourself silently for losing on the first game. Hell, you knew your dead once the timer runs out.

Nothing else could be done but curl yourself, protecting your vulnerable sides. But still, it was still painful.

You thought the pain would never end, the gigantic robotic doll still hadn't said red light and you're losing hope on whether you'd survive these people, and even if you did, you're probably going to arrive late.

To your surprise, you stopped feeling pain—but no signs of people stopping on their run. You frowned, confused as to how this happened. Maybe one of them hit your head, making your sense of pain go off.

But no, you felt someone on your back, their body covering yours.

Who?

A shadow, larger than yours was right above yours. Curious to the identity of the person, you looked up.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

The person stood up, looking right ahead and back down onto you, "Are you alright?"

It was the same pretty woman you met eye contact before, "Can you walk? We need to hurry up before the timer runs out"

You ignored the soreness around your body, "I can walk just fine, but I'm probably slower than before. You can go ahead—"

"No, let's go together. Here," she offered her hand, "C'mon, we don't have much time left!"

Time seems to slow down, your eyes glued at the figure above you, "O-Okay!"

You grabbed her hand, stood up and ran as fast as you can.

Despite the chaotic surroundings, you paid no mind to them. Your eyes were completely glued to the short-haired woman in front of you. Huh? The pretty stranger claimed that the time was running out, it seems different for you right now.

But, the time was not flowing quickly? It's not just slowing down—it stopped.

What? Did you just say you found out your life's purpose, are you serious?!

© 0SCXMLQRD

[wonderjanga]

Where Have you Been?

This is inspired by this post.

Billy was having a rough day. Scratch that. A rough couple of months. Recently, he’s been… losing himself? He doesn’t know how to put it into words. It’s just that more he’s Marvel, the more he forgets about being Billy. In all honesty, it’s scaring him. What’s even worse is that, no matter what others think, he isn’t in control anymore, and Billy knows it. One moment, he’ll just be Billy Batson and then the next he’ll be Marvel with no recollection of even saying the word. Billy truly wished he hadn’t noticed the gaps in his memory getting bigger.

Speaking of memory gaps, Billy had a pretty big one to fill considering all he did was go to bed, and was then greeted with the misfortune of waking up on a random beach with the lower half of his body slightly wet from the tide. All he knows is that he’s not near Fawcett, let alone Iowa, because last he checked, it was a landlocked state. So, he got up, and decided to go find out where he was.

Billy: *wandering around while shaking any sand off himself, eventually spotting a flag* “Oh! I’m in… I still have no idea.”

Glasses Lady: *approaches him* “Por que você não está na escola?” (Translation: Why aren’t you in school?)

Billy: *frog blinks* “Huh?”

Billy was… pretty sure that was Spanish. So he’s probably still on earth. Maybe. After a little bit of back-and-forth, the Glasses Lady finally realized he couldn’t understand what Billy was only half sure was Spanish. In the end, she just started taking him around to find somebody who could speak English.

Glasses Lady: “¿Você fala inglês? Acho que este é o filho de um turista.” (Translation: Do you speak English? I think this is a tourist's son.)

Old Granny: “Não. Pobre garoto.” *leans down to pinch his cheek* (Translation: “No. Poor boy.)

Billy: *confused as to why this random old lady is pinching his cheek*

Eventually, after a while, they did find somebody who could speak English.

Billy: “Do you know where I am, miss?”

College Student: “You’re in Brazil.”

Billy: “Brazil??” *sounds super concerned* “Isn’t that in South America? I think?”

College Student: “It is. How did you even get here? Are you on vacation?”

Billy: “No? I just woke up here.” *wondering how he’s gonna explain this to Rosa*

College Student: “What?” *also now concerned because she thinks this child might’ve been a victim of trafficking*

Billy: “Uhm… you have like a map that you can show me?”

College Student: “I don’t think a map will help you, bud.”

Billy: *shrugs* “Theres always the chance it could, miss.”

College Student: “I guess?” *pulls up google maps*

Billy: *zooms out so he can just see the countries* “Oh okay. So not that far away.”

College Student: “You’re plenty far away what are you talking about? Also, why’re you sandy?” *wipes off some sand her phone*

Billy: *ignores both questions* “Do you know which way is north?”

College Student: “Uh… it should be that way.” *points in the direction*

Billy: “Oh thank you!” * is about to runoff, but looks back at the Glasses Lady* “And gracias?” *looks to the College Student* “That how you say it right?”

College Student: “No, that’s Spanish.” *shakes head* “It’s supposed to be obrigado.” (Translation: Thank you.)

Billy: “Oh, obrigado!” *definitely butchered the pronunciation and runs off to he north*

College Student: “Wait, come back!”

As soon as Billy was out of sight, he shazamed and flew in the direction she pointed in. Now, the boy wouldn’t admit this, but he actually flew slower than normal. He didn’t wanna think about the future confrontation with Rosa, not to mention his other family members. Was he prolonging the inevitable? Yes. Did he feel guilty? Also, yes. Did that mean he was gonna speed up though? …No.

Billy was just passing over Mexico when his JL comm started going off like crazy.

Marvel: *answers his comm*

Batman: “Marvel. Watchtower. Now.”

Marvel: “Huh? Why did I do something wrong?”

Batman: “You went AWOL for three weeks, and then the first sign we find that you’re alive is a video of you partying at a Mardi Gras parade in Brazil. I really wonder what you did wrong.”

Billy was straight speechless for a solid minute. Three weeks? Three weeks? The memory gap was way bigger than he thought.

Marvel: *trying to find words* “I- I’m gonna be honest I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He honestly felt like crying. Genuine, ugly, crying. Because now he knows it’s gotten to a point where he can’t shrug this off anymore. He could do one day. He could do two days. He’s even gone a week before. But three weeks? That’s nearly a month and he doesn’t remember anything. Billy was now being forced to acknowledged how big of a problem this was.

By now, he had stopped, still floating in mid air.

Batman: “Is that you confirming you were too intoxicated to reach out to us or-”

Marvel: “Mr. Batman Sir, I really can’t talk right now.” *can feel himself starting to hyperventilate* “I’ll come by later. I promise.”

Batman: “No, not later. Immediately. We all want a word with you.”

Marvel: *grimaces* “I’m sorry. I just really can’t right now. I’m really sorry.” *hangs up*

Billy just started hyperventilating after that. His chest felt tight, his world felt like it was one the brink of crashing down. He needed to go see the wizard. He needed help. The wizard could definitely help. So, he went to the rock.

Wizard: *sounds solemn* “I’m sorry, Billy.”

That was literally all the old man told him before he started talking about how the gods were starting to exert more of their influence on him. And he basically had no say, say in some of the things he would start to do from now on. Just when Billy’s life couldn’t get harder. Please, Gods, give him a break.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1900 - with you i'm free

chapter summary: Logan meets you again in a small town in Pennsylvania. Only this time, you are married to another man, but your marriage is far from perfect.

word count: 11.4k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this is a bit darker than the other chapters, past and future, so this'll probably be a 'one off'. please read the tags! the domestic violence isn't described too heavily, but there are still some descriptions and scenes involving it. you've been warned!

warnings/tags: angst, mentions of brushing hair, outdated mindsets on women, domestic violence, bruises, cheating, blood, character death

series masterlist - chapter 2 → chapter 4

Logan found himself in a small town in Pennsylvania 20 years later. Victor was doing who knows what, he wasn’t sure if he even cared, so he was alone, once again.

Coal mining was the primary job in this town, so he found himself doing just that. After work, the guys would go to a nearby bar and get drunk, go back home, and repeat it all over again.

This was his second week here, and the guys finally learned that he only came along to do one thing- drink.

You walked into the dimly lit bar, the smell of tobacco and cheap liquor hanging heavy in the air. The men, mostly miners from the town, were crowded around tables, drinking and laughing loudly after a long day of work. The sound of clinking glasses and rough voices filled the room, but your eyes were drawn to the man sitting at the bar, quiet and distant.

He didn’t look like the others—he wasn’t laughing, wasn’t part of the group. He just sat there, nursing a glass of whiskey, his dark eyes focused on the amber liquid as if it held answers to questions he wasn’t ready to ask. Something about him felt familiar, though you couldn’t place why.

You hadn’t intended to come inside. George was already drunk somewhere in the back, and you knew what that would mean when he got home. But something pulled you toward the bar, toward him. You made your way over, hesitating for just a moment before slipping onto the stool beside him.

“You new in town?” you asked, your voice soft but cutting through the noise around you.

The man didn’t look at you right away, but his hand tightened slightly around the glass. His jaw clenched, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deep inside him. Slowly, he turned his head, and when his eyes met yours, the world seemed to tilt for a moment.

It was like a punch to the gut, a shock that ran through both of you, though you couldn’t understand why. You had never met him before, but his eyes... those eyes. Dark, haunted, and yet filled with something familiar, something you couldn’t explain.

Logan stared at you, his mind racing. It couldn’t be. But it was. You were here, sitting right next to him, alive. Different, yet the same. His chest tightened, the memories flooding back—your face, your smile, your laugh. The way you had slipped away from him, twice now.

He hadn’t expected to see you again. Not after the last time. But here you were, as real as the glass in his hand.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rougher than he intended. “Just passing through.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious about the stranger beside you. “Passing through? Not many people come here unless they’re looking to stay a while.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to you again, lingering this time. It was you, all right. Same voice, same damn spark. He could feel his heart pounding, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he should just get up and walk away. He didn’t know if he could handle this—losing you again.

“I’m not lookin’ to stay,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink, hoping it would calm the storm inside him.

You smiled faintly, noticing how closed-off he seemed. “Seems like you’re fitting in already, though,” you joked, nodding toward the men in the back. “That’s my husband back there, George. One of the miners.”

Logan’s jaw tightened at the word ‘husband,’ though he didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Of course, you’d have a life. It was always like this. But that didn’t make it any easier.

“Is that right?” he replied, not really asking. He glanced toward the group of men, catching sight of George, loud and drunk, waving his glass around like he owned the place. A man like that didn’t deserve you. But Logan stayed silent.

“Yeah,” you said softly, looking down at your hands. “He’s… something.”

There was a heaviness in your voice, something that told Logan more than your words ever could. He recognized that tone—the one you used when you were trying to hide the truth, trying to make things seem better than they were.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Logan just stared at his drink, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. You were married. You had a life. He didn’t belong here. But he couldn’t just walk away. Not again.

“Y/N.” The sound of your name from his lips was barely a whisper, but it felt like it echoed through the bar. Your head snapped up, eyes wide.

“How… how do you know my name?” you asked, frowning in confusion. He hadn’t asked, and you hadn’t introduced yourself.

Logan cursed inwardly, realizing his slip. He hadn’t meant to say it, but your name had come so naturally, like it always did. “I, uh… heard someone call you that when I came in,” he lied, quickly looking away. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

You blinked, but before you could question him further, George’s booming voice interrupted.

“Y/N!” he shouted, stumbling toward you. “What’re you doin’ at the bar? Get over here!”

You flinched slightly, your body tensing at the sound of his voice. Logan noticed immediately, his eyes darkening as he glanced between you and the drunk man. He didn’t like the way George looked at you, the way he called for you like he owned you.

“I should go,” you muttered, standing up quickly, the warmth between you and Logan fading as you stepped away. “It was nice meeting you…?”

“Logan,” he said, his voice low. “Name’s Logan.”

You smiled faintly again, nodding. “Logan. Well, take care.”

He watched you walk away, his chest tight with a mix of emotions he couldn’t put into words. This wasn’t fair. Not to him, not to you. But life had never been fair, had it?

As George draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the group with a roughness that made Logan’s blood boil, he clenched his fists under the bar. He wanted to stand up, walk over there, and tear that man’s arm off. But he stayed where he was, the ring in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. The ring he never got to give you.

You were gone again, and Logan was left with the bitter taste of whiskey and the familiar ache of loss.

---

George never really allowed you to do much, he wanted you to be the ‘perfect wife’ and the ‘perfect mother’, but he always said that last part to you with such hatred.

Some nights, while you silently cried yourself to sleep, you wondered if you were broken, and that maybe you deserved it. Not ever getting pregnant, having an abusive husband- not that it was rare, most of the guys’ wives went through the same things too.

One day, you were out doing errands, getting some things to make George his favorite dinner in hopes you wouldn’t end up with another bruise on your wrist like yesterday, when you saw him. Logan, from a few nights ago.

He was smoking a cigar against a brick building; he should be at work with the rest of the men.

You paused, your breath catching for a moment as you saw him. Logan. He looked out of place, leaning against the wall like he didn’t belong in this time or this town. His eyes, sharp even from a distance, locked onto yours the second you stepped out of the store. It was like he knew you’d be there, as if he had been waiting.

You hesitated, then made your way toward him, the worn handle of the basket digging into your palm as you gripped it tightly.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” you asked softly, your voice carrying just enough over the sound of the bustling street.

Logan took a long drag from the cigar, his eyes narrowing slightly, and shrugged. “Took a break. Figured I needed some air.”

You shifted awkwardly, glancing around before lowering your voice. “If George finds out you’re not working…”

He scoffed, the sound rough, almost amused. “George ain’t my boss.”

His words hung in the air, and you knew he was right. George might run things at home, but out here, Logan didn’t answer to anyone. You, on the other hand… your life was different.

Logan’s eyes flicked down to your wrist, where the bruise from yesterday’s outburst was still visible, even though you’d tried to hide it with long sleeves. His expression darkened instantly, the casual air gone in an instant.

“He do that?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

You swallowed, tugging the sleeve down further. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “I just—George gets frustrated sometimes.”

Logan pushed off the wall, stepping closer, the smell of smoke and leather surrounding you. He was close now, too close, and you felt your heart quicken—not in fear, but in something else entirely.

“Frustrated?” Logan repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. “That what you call it?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. What were you supposed to say? That it was normal? That the other wives had it worse? The words died in your throat, and instead, you turned your head, focusing on the basket in your hand. “I should get going.”

But Logan didn’t move, didn’t let you slip away that easily. “You don’t have to put up with that, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice softer now. His hand brushed your arm, barely a touch, but you felt it. Felt it everywhere.

Your breath hitched, and you looked up at him, finding those dark, intense eyes watching you closely. “I… I should get home,” you said again, but the words lacked conviction this time.

Logan didn’t argue, but the look on his face told you that he wasn’t letting this go. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You didn’t protest as he fell into step beside you. The two of you walked in silence for a while, your steps in sync, even though neither of you said a word. It was like that night in the bar—the unspoken connection, the weight of something you couldn’t quite name hanging between you. But this time, there was no crowd, no drunken laughter. Just you and him, and the quiet tension that seemed to grow with every step.

When you reached the edge of your street, you stopped. “You don’t have to walk me the whole way,” you murmured, glancing toward your house, where George’s silhouette was already moving around inside.

Logan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he looked at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise again before his eyes met yours. “You ever need someone to talk to,” he said quietly, “you know where to find me.”

Your heart clenched at the offer, at the way he said it like he meant it. You nodded, unsure of what else to do, and turned to leave.

But as you stepped away, his hand brushed yours again, just for a second. It was fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder that there was something here—something neither of you fully understood but couldn’t deny.

You walked inside, feeling his presence behind you even after the door closed, knowing that things had just shifted, that something had begun. And it scared you. Not because of George, not because of what it might mean if you were caught—but because of how much you wanted it. How much you wanted him.

---

Over the next few days, Logan stayed close. You saw him more often—sometimes at the store, sometimes on the street—but always watching, always aware. He didn’t push, didn’t say much. But his presence was a constant, a quiet offer of protection that you hadn’t asked for but found yourself relying on.

It was late one evening when it finally happened. George had been out drinking again, and when he came home, it was worse than usual. You flinched as his hand caught your wrist, yanking you toward him as he slurred something about dinner not being ready on time.

You would’ve left the house if you could, but you couldn’t. Not when George was glaring at you like that, his drunken eyes wild with the sort of rage that had become all too familiar. You knew exactly what was going to happen tonight. It wasn’t new—this quiet dread that wrapped itself around your throat, choking off your breath. Running had never worked before, and by now, you had learned there was no use in trying.

George's grip on your wrist tightened painfully as he muttered something under his breath. The way he yanked you close made your heart race, not out of fear, but from the exhaustion of enduring it. He wasn’t done with his tirade—his words slurred together, complaining about dinner, the house, everything. It didn’t matter. Nothing you did ever seemed to be enough.

As his fist balled around the fabric of your dress, you stared blankly at the floor, your mind drifting elsewhere, anywhere but here. To the street outside, to the market, to Logan. The quiet man who’d appeared in your life without explanation. You didn’t know why, but when you thought of him, you felt something different—something dangerous but soothing all the same. A flicker of rebellion, of hope, that you hadn’t felt in so long.

George shoved you toward the kitchen table, grumbling about the cold food, about you being lazy, about anything he could think of. You stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of the table, but didn’t say a word. You never did, not when it got like this.

But Logan… he had noticed. He had noticed the bruises, the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, the way you avoided eye contact. He wasn’t like the other men in town. He wasn’t one to turn a blind eye. You remembered his intense gaze lingering on your wrist, the bruise that you couldn’t quite hide. You remembered the way he had spoken to you softly, almost like he cared.

That thought gave you strength now, as George barked another order, telling you to clean up the dishes. Your body moved mechanically, but your mind stayed somewhere else. You could almost feel Logan’s hand brushing against yours again, the briefest touch when he’d walked you home the other night. It had been so subtle, but it had sent a jolt through you—a reminder that there were still things you could feel, still things you could want.

The night dragged on, just as it always did, but when George finally passed out in his chair, snoring heavily, you slipped outside. The cool night air hit your skin, and for a moment, you just stood there, breathing it in. You weren’t going far. Just a few minutes of peace. Just enough to remind yourself that you were still alive.

You walked slowly down the empty street, your eyes scanning the shadows. You didn’t mean to, but your feet led you toward the alley where Logan had been smoking that day. It was a habit now, searching for him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

And then, there he was. Leaning against the same wall, his broad figure half-hidden by the dim light of the streetlamp. His cigar glowed faintly in the dark, and as soon as he saw you, he straightened, eyes narrowing with concern.

“Y/N,” Logan said softly, stepping toward you. His voice was rough but gentle in the stillness of the night. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Your throat felt tight, and your chest ached with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, you just walked closer, until you were standing right in front of him, your head tipped back slightly to meet his gaze.

Logan’s eyes flickered over your face, taking in every detail—the bruise that had started to fade but was still visible on your wrist, the exhaustion that weighed down your every movement. He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t need to. He knew.

Without a word, Logan reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck in a way that was more comforting than anything you’d felt in years. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him. Just for a moment.

“Y/N, you don’t have to stay there,” he murmured, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Not with him.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the truth of his words cutting deeper than anything else. You didn’t want to stay, you didn’t. But leaving wasn’t as easy as it sounded. George was… dangerous. You didn’t know what he would do if you tried to leave him. And besides, where would you even go? You had nothing. No money, no family. Just an empty house that felt more like a prison with every passing day.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your own admission.

Logan’s grip tightened slightly, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. He wanted to help, wanted to tear you away from that life, but he was fighting something inside himself too.

“You always got me,” Logan said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Always.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and full of meaning. You didn’t know what to say. The part of you that was practical screamed that you couldn’t rely on him, that you shouldn’t get attached. But the other part, the part that had been buried deep beneath years of heartache, wanted to believe him. Wanted to fall into him, to take whatever comfort he could offer.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached up, your hand trembling slightly as you rested it on his chest. You felt his heart beating under your palm, steady and strong. Logan’s breath hitched at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. He never did.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet street. “I don’t know what to do.”

He let out a slow breath, his forehead resting against yours now, his warm breath mingling with yours. His free hand came up, his thumb brushing your cheek softly, tracing the path of an unshed tear.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he said gently, his lips so close to yours that it took everything in you not to close the distance. “But whatever you decide… I’m not lettin’ you go through this alone. Not again.”

Your heart ached at his words—his promise. The unspoken connection between you felt stronger than ever, and before you knew it, you were closing that distance, your lips brushing against his in a hesitant, tender kiss.

Logan froze for half a second, but then his arms were around you, pulling you closer as if he’d been waiting for this moment for longer than he could remember. His lips were rough, but his kiss was gentle, full of restraint. You could feel the years of longing behind it, the pain of lifetimes lived and lost, but also the desire—the need that neither of you could ignore any longer.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Logan’s eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice ragged, his forehead still resting against yours. “This ain’t right. You’re… you’re married.”

“I know,” you said, your voice barely more than a breath. “But I… I don’t care anymore.”

Logan’s grip on you tightened for a moment, like he was trying to fight it, but then he cursed softly under his breath and kissed you again, this time with more desperation, more need. His hands tangled in your hair, his lips claiming yours in a way that made it clear this wasn’t something either of you could stop now.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to.

---

The next few days blurred together, a dangerous mix of stolen moments and whispered promises. Logan was always there, watching over you, his touch lingering on your skin long after you parted. You knew it was wrong, knew that it would only lead to more heartache, but you couldn’t stop. He had become your anchor, your escape from a life you couldn’t bear anymore.

It wasn’t long before you were meeting him after dark, slipping out of the house when George was too drunk to notice. The kisses became longer, the touches more urgent.

Soon, it wasn’t just nights you were seeing him. It was after George left for work, during Logan’s lunch breaks, or anytime he could sneak away from the mine. You’d meet in the same alley, or sometimes he’d find you waiting in a small park just outside town. The secrecy of it all—the sneaking around, the stolen moments—it was reckless, but neither of you could stop.

Logan wasn’t the kind of man who talked much, but the way he looked at you, the way he held you—like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—it said enough. His hands were always gentle, so different from George’s, even though you could feel the strength behind them. That raw, unyielding strength that was so uniquely his.

One afternoon, Logan met you in the small clearing just past the main street. It was a rare moment when George was working late, giving you a little more time than usual. You leaned against the large oak tree, your back pressed into the rough bark, and waited. It wasn’t long before Logan’s figure appeared in the distance, his broad shoulders tense, eyes scanning the area out of habit.

As soon as he spotted you, his shoulders seemed to relax, and he made his way over, his footsteps heavy but quiet in the dirt. When he got close enough, you smiled softly, your fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress, a nervous habit you’d picked up over the last few weeks.

“Thought I’d lost you for a minute there,” you teased, keeping your voice light, though there was a real fear under the surface. Every time you saw him, there was a tiny part of you that worried it might be the last.

Logan gave a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not that easy to lose me, Y/N.”

You looked up at him, trying to read what was going on in his head. He seemed… tense, more so than usual. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“You alright?” you asked, your voice softening as you stepped closer, close enough to touch him, but not quite daring to yet.

Logan’s gaze flickered down to you, and for a moment, you saw something in his eyes—something old, something heavy. But he shook his head, as if brushing it off, and reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though you could tell he wasn’t. He was never fine.

You reached out, resting your hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under your palm. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Logan.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the silence stretching between you, before he finally spoke. “It’s just… this,” he said, his voice low, almost pained. “I don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m already hurt,” you whispered, and for the first time, you felt the full weight of those words. The bruises, the fear, the nights spent lying awake, wondering if George would snap—it had become your normal, and you hated it.

Logan’s expression didn’t change much, but his jaw clenched, a flicker of something dark flashing behind his eyes. He stood still, his hands loose at his sides, and for a second you thought maybe you’d gone too far—that maybe admitting this would scare him away, make him walk off into the night and leave you standing there alone.

But he didn’t. He never did.

Logan exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound quiet but loaded with restrained anger, like a simmering fire just barely held in check. His hand—rough and warm—reached out to settle on your arm, fingers curling gently around your elbow. It was a simple touch, but it grounded you in a way that nothing else did.

“I’ll handle it,” Logan said, voice low, rough. His words were more than a statement—they were a promise, weighted with meaning you couldn’t quite untangle.

Your heart skipped at the way he said it, quiet but firm, like the solution was already decided, and there was no point in questioning it.

“You can’t,” you whispered, not because you didn’t believe him, but because you knew how dangerous George could be. And if Logan went to him—if George found out about the two of you…

Logan’s thumb brushed once along your forearm, slow and deliberate. “I’ve handled worse,” he muttered, gaze never leaving yours. There was a sharpness in his eyes now, something fierce. You didn’t know what he’d been through in his life—just that it was far more than you could imagine.

A part of you wanted to tell him not to get involved, but the other part—the part of you that had been breaking under George’s hand for years—wanted to let Logan do exactly what he was offering.

You bit your lip. “If he finds out…” You trailed off, but Logan understood. Of course he did.

He stepped in closer, so close that the rough wool of his shirt brushed against your dress. His hand shifted from your arm to the back of your neck, his fingers resting there firmly, possessively, but with the same strange tenderness he always showed you. “I won’t let him hurt you again,” Logan murmured, voice steady.

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly. And when you looked into his eyes—dark and steady and filled with something raw and unyielding—you thought maybe you could.

Your hand rested flat against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the worn fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat strong beneath your palm, steady and unrelenting.

“He won’t stop, Logan.” Your voice cracked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “He’ll just—he’ll come after me, after us.”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Let him try,” he said, the words edged with a quiet menace that sent a chill down your spine.

It should have scared you, the way he said it—like violence was something inevitable, something he didn’t shy away from. But instead, it made you feel… safe. Safer than you’d felt in years.

The night air around you was cool, but standing this close to Logan, you felt none of it. His hand slipped from your neck down to the small of your back, his touch warm and steady through the fabric of your dress.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but even as you said it, you didn’t move away.

Logan’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “I ain’t gonna pretend this is right,” he said, voice rough but quiet. “But I ain’t gonna pretend I don’t want you, either.”

His words hit you hard, sinking deep into your chest. You hadn’t realized how starved you were—how badly you needed someone to see you, to want you. And Logan… he saw everything. The bruises, the fear, the exhaustion. And still, he looked at you like you were worth something.

You swallowed thickly. “What happens if he finds out?”

Logan’s expression darkened. “He won’t.”

The finality in his tone left no room for doubt, and for a moment, all the fear that had been building inside you loosened, just enough to let you breathe.

Without thinking, you reached up, fingertips brushing along the edge of his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. Logan’s eyes closed briefly, like the small touch was something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. When his eyes opened again, they were darker, filled with a need that mirrored your own.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, like a man starved for something he couldn’t name. His hand cupped the back of your head, holding you to him as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You melted into him, the fear and exhaustion slipping away, at least for now. His kiss was everything—an escape, a promise, a lifeline.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Logan rested his forehead against yours. His hand lingered on your waist, as if letting go wasn’t an option.

“Just say the word, Y/N,” Logan whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Say the word, and we’ll leave. Tonight.”

Your heart ached at the offer—at the thought of running away with him, leaving everything behind. But it wasn’t that simple, and you both knew it.

“I can’t,” you whispered, hating yourself for the truth of it.

Logan’s grip on you tightened briefly, as if trying to hold onto something he couldn’t keep. But when he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“Then I’ll stay,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “Until you can.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you. For the first time in years, you felt like you weren’t alone.

And that—just that—was enough to keep you going. For now.

---

One of the local churches was having a retreat set up for the women in town. Clara had been talking your ear off about it at Sunday church, spouting how excited she was to get out of the house.

You listened half-heartedly, but really you were thinking about what a perfect excuse it was to flip this into a lie for George.

You told Logan you couldn’t run away with him, but that didn’t include spending these few days with him, maybe off somewhere in a nearby town.

Most of the women in town were very religious, and at times you felt like an outsider. You didn’t believe like they did, but you kept up a perfect front to make them believe you felt the same way.

“Maybe we’ll have another sewing circle this time. Whaddya think?” Clara asked, a wide grin splitting her face as she held her hat against the October breeze.

You gave a noncommittal hum, tugging the sleeves of your dress down to cover the faint bruises on your wrists. “Maybe,” you murmured, though your thoughts were far from sewing circles and prayer sessions.

The retreat was perfect. It would get you out of George’s reach—at least for a couple of days—and give you the time you so desperately craved. More than anything, it meant time with Logan.

Clara didn’t seem to notice your distraction. “It’s always good to get away, you know? Some of these girls say the Holy Spirit really speaks to ‘em up there.” She gave you a knowing look. “Sometimes, you just gotta leave it all behind for a bit.”

You forced a smile. "Maybe that's what I need."

Clara squeezed your arm, oblivious to how you tensed. “See? That’s the spirit! Now you just gotta convince your husband.”

You swallowed thickly. George wouldn’t care about a church retreat if it kept up appearances. He didn’t pay much mind to you unless you were standing in his way—or if dinner wasn’t on time. A couple of days without you underfoot? He’d probably welcome the peace.

Later that night, after George had his fill of supper and slumped into his chair with a bottle, you tested the waters.

“You remember Clara?” you asked, keeping your tone light. “She mentioned a church retreat this weekend. Thought I’d go.”

George barely glanced up. “What for?”

“Some of the other women are going too.” You folded your hands together tightly, hiding your nervous fidgeting. “It’s just a few days. They’ll be praying and sewing... nothing much.”

George grunted, shifting in his chair. “You ain’t skippin' out on Sunday dinner.”

You bit your lip, nodding quickly. “No. I’ll be back before then.”

He waved you off with a lazy flick of his hand. “Fine. Just be sure you ain’t runnin' off to waste money.”

Relief washed over you so fast your knees felt weak. You ducked your head, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” before slipping into the next room. It had been easier than you expected—maybe too easy. But you weren’t about to second-guess it.

---

The next day, you told Logan.

You found him where you always did—leaning against the brick wall near the alley, a cigar pinched between his teeth. He straightened the second he saw you, his sharp gaze sweeping over you like it always did, searching for signs of hurt.

“I told George I’m going to the church retreat,” you said quietly, stepping close enough that the warmth of him reached you. “It’s this weekend. I’ll have a couple of days...” You let the words hang between you, heart pounding as you waited for him to understand what you were really saying.

Logan’s jaw ticked, his expression hard to read. “You sure?” His voice was low, the sound of it like gravel underfoot.

You gave a small nod. “It’s the only way I can get away.”

He exhaled through his nose, looking past you for a second before his eyes settled back on yours. “Where’s the retreat supposed to be?”

“About an hour north,” you said. “But... I’m not going there.”

Logan’s lips twitched, something almost like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That right?”

“Yeah.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I wanna be with you, Logan. Just for a couple of days. Somewhere... away from here.”

The smirk faded, replaced by something heavier, something that settled deep in his eyes. “You know what you're askin’, darlin’?”

You nodded. “I know.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, just stood there watching you with those steady, knowing eyes. Then, with a slow exhale, he reached for you—his hand slipping under your chin, tilting your face up toward his. His thumb brushed along your jaw, and the touch made your breath catch.

“Where do you wanna go?” Logan asked, his voice rough but gentle.

“Anywhere.” The word slipped out before you could stop it, and you hated how desperate it sounded. “Just... not here.”

Logan gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Alright,” he muttered, the barest flicker of emotion crossing his face. “Meet me at the train station Friday night. I’ll take care of the rest.”

---

Friday came quicker than you expected.

The afternoon dragged, tension curling in your stomach as you packed a small bag. You kept everything simple—a couple of plain dresses, your brush, and the few coins you’d stashed away in a tin under the floorboards. You told yourself it wasn’t permanent. You’d be back in a few days, and everything would go back to how it was.

At least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

When the sun began to set, you told George you were leaving. He didn’t even look up from his whiskey. “Just don’t come back actin' all high and holy,” he muttered.

You gave a quick nod, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

---

The train station was quiet when you arrived, your breath fogging in the cold night air. You spotted Logan almost immediately, standing near the platform with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He wore the same tired expression he always did, but when his eyes found yours, something softened in his gaze.

“You made it,” he murmured, stepping closer. His hand found yours, rough fingers wrapping around yours like they belonged there.

“Yeah,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

Logan gave a small nod toward the waiting train. “C’mon. Let’s get outta here.”

You boarded without hesitation, the door clicking shut behind you as the train rumbled to life beneath your feet. Logan led you to a quiet corner of the car, his hand never leaving yours.

As the train pulled away from the station, you glanced out the window. The town grew smaller, the lights fading into the distance until there was nothing but the dark, open night stretching out ahead of you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself breathe.

Logan’s arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. His warmth bled into you, steady and unyielding, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

“You alright?” Logan asked quietly, his lips brushing against the top of your head.

You nodded, leaning into him. “Yeah. I am.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, but you could feel the tension in his body slowly ease as you settled against him. His arm was solid and steady around you, a quiet strength that made you feel secure. The train rocked beneath you, the rhythmic clattering on the tracks filling the silence. You closed your eyes, letting the sound and the warmth of Logan's presence wash over you.

For the first time in what felt like years, you could relax—if only for a little while.

"You got enough for a few days?" Logan asked, his voice gruff but soft, as if he was trying not to push too much too soon.

You nodded, pulling your small bag closer to you. "Yeah. Just the basics."

Logan gave a small grunt of approval. "We'll stop by a place I know, out of the way. You’ll be safe there."

"Safe..." The word hung in the air between you, heavier than you meant it to be. It felt like a luxury you hadn't been allowed for a long time, and the thought of it made your chest tighten.

Logan’s thumb stroked absently along your arm, a small gesture that grounded you. He didn’t press you for more, didn’t ask questions you weren’t ready to answer. That was the thing about Logan—he didn’t pry, didn’t demand anything from you. He just was. It was one of the reasons you felt drawn to him, why you kept finding yourself in his orbit.

But there was still so much you didn’t know about him. He’d never mentioned a family, never talked about where he’d come from or how he ended up here. There was a deep well of mystery around Logan, and sometimes you could feel it, the weight of something unspoken between the two of you. But you didn’t push him for answers either.

You shifted slightly, resting your head against his shoulder, the scent of cigar smoke and pine surrounding you. “Where are we going?”

"There's a place, up in the hills," Logan said quietly. "A cabin. No one's been there in a while. We'll be alone."

Alone. Just the two of you. The thought sent a ripple of excitement and fear through you, your heart skipping a beat. The idea of leaving everything behind—even if just for a few days—felt like a risk. But wasn’t that what you wanted? A break from George, from the town, from the suffocating weight of a life you never really chose.

“You sure about this?” Logan asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. “About… us?”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your decision settle in your chest. It wasn’t just about getting away anymore. It was about choosing him, even if it was only for a little while. A choice that could never be undone.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, lifting your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, dark and searching, like he was looking for any hint of doubt.

Logan’s expression softened, just a fraction, and he gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

The train continued its steady rhythm, carrying you further away from the life you knew and into something unknown. You couldn’t think about what would come after—about George, about the retreat, about the women who would notice your absence. All you could think about was Logan, and the way his hand held yours, like he didn’t want to let go.

---

The cabin was quiet, nestled deep in the woods where no one could find you. Logan hadn’t been lying when he said it was out of the way. You hadn’t passed another soul on the journey here, and the solitude felt like a blanket wrapping around you, warm and comforting.

Logan pushed the door open, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. The inside was simple—rough wooden furniture, a stone fireplace, and a bed in the corner, covered in a faded quilt. It wasn’t much, but it felt safe, isolated from the rest of the world.

“You can get some rest,” Logan said, setting your bag down near the bed. “Fireplace works, and there’s wood out back if it gets cold.”

You nodded, glancing around the room before your eyes settled on him. “Thank you.”

Logan’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing across his face before he nodded. “Don’t gotta thank me.”

There was a silence between you, not uncomfortable but full of things unsaid. You wanted to ask him more—about why he was helping you, about what he really wanted from all this—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you stepped closer, your hand brushing against his arm.

“Logan…” you started, unsure of where you were going with it.

He turned to face you fully, his eyes locked on yours. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, then closed the distance between you, your hands reaching up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palms, the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

“I just… I needed to be with you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “You got me,” he murmured, his voice rough but sincere. “For as long as you need.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. It wasn’t soft or tentative like you thought it might be—it was hungry, desperate, like you’d been holding back for too long.

Logan’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and the world outside the cabin seemed to disappear. There was no George, no town, no expectations. Just you and Logan, and the fire that burned between you.

---

Later, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the two of you lay tangled in each other’s arms, you stared up at the ceiling, your mind racing with everything that had happened.

Logan’s hand trailed idly along your arm, his fingers brushing over the faint bruises you’d tried so hard to hide. His touch was gentle, but you could feel the tension in him, the quiet anger simmering beneath the surface.

“I’ll kill him,” Logan muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “If he ever touches you again.”

You tensed, your breath catching in your throat. “Logan—”

“I mean it,” he growled, his grip on you tightening slightly. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

You turned to face him, your hand resting on his chest. “It’s not that simple…”

Logan’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something raw and painful in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite understand. But then he shook his head, exhaling slowly. “I just don’t wanna lose you. Not again.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but before you could ask what he meant, Logan leaned down and kissed you again, silencing your questions.

The kiss was rough, full of unspoken things—promises, regrets, desires that neither of you could fully articulate. His lips moved against yours like they were trying to drown out the past, to focus only on the here and now. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers digging into his skin, wanting to hold on to this moment for as long as possible.

For now, you didn’t want to think about George. You didn’t want to think about the bruises you were hiding, the lies you had to keep telling to survive. You wanted to focus on Logan—the way his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath, the way he made you feel alive.

When you finally broke apart, your breathing heavy, Logan stayed close, his forehead resting against yours. His hand brushed your cheek, and for a moment, the roughness of him softened, like he was letting his guard down.

"You should rest," he murmured, his voice low, but there was a strain in it, like he was trying to hold something back.

You shook your head slightly. "I don’t want to rest. I want to stay here with you."

Logan’s eyes searched yours, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He lifted his hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your skin for just a second longer than necessary.

“You know this can’t last,” he said quietly, the weight of the truth settling between you both.

You nodded, the ache in your chest growing. “I know.”

You had always known it couldn’t last. This was just a moment stolen from the real world—a fantasy that couldn’t survive the harshness of the life waiting for you back home. But that didn’t stop you from wanting it. It didn’t stop you from wanting him.

Logan’s hand found yours again, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that felt almost protective. He hadn’t let go since you’d arrived at the cabin, as if he feared you might slip away if he did.

“I wish it could be different,” you whispered, staring down at your intertwined hands.

Logan was silent for a long time before he spoke. “Me too.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth, but there was still a chill in the air, an unspoken tension lingering between the two of you. You could feel it in the way Logan’s thumb stroked absentmindedly across your knuckles, like he was trying to ground himself—trying to ground you.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice softer now. “Helping me, I mean.”

Logan’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, his jaw clenching slightly. When he looked back at you, his eyes were hard to read. “Because you deserve better than him.”

It wasn’t a full answer, but it was the closest he’d come to telling you why. You weren’t sure if he was holding something back or if he just didn’t know how to say it. Logan wasn’t the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and you’d never pushed him for more than he was willing to give.

You nodded, accepting his answer for now. “Thank you.”

Logan’s eyes softened at your words, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t gotta thank me, Y/N.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself lean into him. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to just be. No pretending, no worrying about what came next. Just this—just him.

---

The morning light filtered through the small windows of the cabin, casting a soft glow on the wooden floor. You woke to the sound of birds chirping outside and the comforting warmth of Logan’s body beside you. For a moment, you allowed yourself to stay like this, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this peaceful.

Logan stirred beneath you, his arm tightening around your waist as he woke. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

You smiled, the corners of your lips tugging up. “Morning.”

Logan gave a quiet grunt in response, shifting slightly beneath you. His hand was still draped over your waist, his fingers rough but warm against your skin. He looked at you through half-lidded eyes, his expression unreadable in the soft morning light, like he was trying to figure out if this moment was real.

“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

You nodded, brushing your fingers absently along his collarbone. “Better than I have in a long time.”

Logan gave a small hum, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that—your body curled into his, the outside world forgotten.

It felt fragile, like if you moved too quickly or said the wrong thing, it might all shatter.

“Gotta admit,” you murmured, “it feels strange waking up like this.”

“Yeah?” Logan's lips twitched, just barely. “Strange good, or strange bad?”

A soft laugh slipped out of you. “Good,” you whispered. “Strange in a good way.”

He held your gaze, something flickering in his eyes—something like relief. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same quiet intensity you’d come to expect from him. Logan wasn’t a man who wasted words, and that suited you just fine.

The clock on the mantle ticked steadily, marking the minutes passing in this stolen moment. You let out a soft breath and rested your chin on his chest, tracing invisible patterns on his skin with your fingertip.

“What time do you think it is?” you asked, though you didn’t really care about the answer.

Logan turned his head slightly toward the window, where the early morning sun was just beginning to peek through the trees. “Still early.”

“Good.” You nestled closer, unwilling to let the morning slip away just yet.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just ran his hand up and down your back in slow, lazy strokes. The motion was soothing—so different from anything you’d known in your marriage. With George, everything felt like an obligation, a duty. With Logan... it felt like choice.

Logan’s breath stirred your hair as he spoke again, his voice low. “You thinkin' about goin' back?”

The question hit you like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading out in every direction.

You hesitated, your fingers stilling against his chest. “I don’t know.”

Logan’s jaw flexed, and you could feel the tension creep back into him. “If you don’t want to... you don’t gotta.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Logan gave a quiet grunt, his hand still resting against your back, though his grip tightened slightly. “It could be.”

You shook your head. “He’s my husband, Logan.”

Logan exhaled hard through his nose, and you felt the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “That don’t mean you owe him anything.”

The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, and it tugged at something deep inside you—something that made you want to stay, to never go back to the life you’d left behind.

But it wasn’t that easy. It never was.

“I have to,” you whispered. “At least for now.”

Logan was silent for a long time, his hand resting heavily on your back. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, almost reluctant. “You know where to find me if things get bad.”

It wasn’t a promise, not exactly—but it felt like one.

“I know,” you murmured, brushing a soft kiss against his shoulder.

Logan’s hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your skin. “You got somethin’ to say, darlin’, just say it.”

You closed your eyes, trying to find the words. “I just... I don’t want this to end.”

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. Logan’s grip on you tightened, his expression darkening.

“It won’t,” he said quietly, and there was a fierceness in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you let yourself believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

You pressed your forehead against his, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Promise?”

Logan’s breath was warm against your skin. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Y/N. Not this time.”

Something about the way he said it—like there was more weight behind those words than you could fully understand—made your chest ache. But you didn’t push for more.

Instead, you kissed him.

It was slow this time, tender in a way that made your heart twist painfully in your chest. Logan kissed you back just as softly, his hands cradling you like you were something precious.

And for a little while longer, you let yourself believe in the possibility of happiness.

---

The days you spent at the cabin away from everything with Logan were the closest you think you’d ever get to heaven.

But of course, it had to come to an end. Logan walked you back to your house, keeping to the shadows where the trees thickened along the road. Luckily, George wasn’t home yet, but you knew he’d be back soon. On Sundays, the men from the mines always went to the bar after church, spending what little money they had on whiskey before heading home for dinner.

Logan stopped a few steps short of the porch, his expression unreadable. His heavy boots crunched against the dirt, and he tilted his head, listening for signs of anyone nearby. It was quiet—just the soft rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant caw of a crow.

“Looks clear,” he muttered, glancing toward the road. Then his eyes were back on you—sharp, like he was committing every detail of this moment to memory.

You stood there, one hand gripping the hem of your plain cotton dress, the other clutching the shawl draped over your shoulders. It was getting colder, October creeping in around the edges.

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. He shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest. “You sure you’re good?” His voice was low, rough as gravel.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, but the words felt thin, like paper stretched too tight.

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on the bruise near your jaw that hadn’t quite faded. You saw it—the way his knuckles twitched like he wanted to tear something apart, or maybe someone. But Logan knew better than to push this conversation again. You’d had it more times than either of you cared to count.

“I mean it, Y/N,” he said, quieter this time, but no less serious. “If things get—”

“I know.” You cut him off gently, giving a small nod. “I know where to find you.”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. The porch steps creaked under your weight as you climbed them slowly, heart heavy in your chest. You reached for the door, but before your fingers touched the worn wood, you felt his hand wrap gently around your wrist.

You turned, meeting his gaze.

“You ain’t alone in this,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist. It was the kind of touch that made your knees weak—steady, solid, full of unspoken promises.

“I know,” you whispered, holding his gaze a second longer than you should have. Then you pulled your hand free, feeling the cold settle in the space where his warmth had been.

The door clicked quietly behind you, sealing you inside.

---

It was well into the afternoon by the time George came home. You’d set the table with what little you had—a pot of boiled potatoes, bread that was more crust than loaf, and a pan of cold pork you’d managed to stretch out since Friday.

George slammed the door behind him, the stench of sweat and beer clinging to his clothes. He tossed his flat cap onto the chair and grunted as he sat down heavily at the table.

“Where’s the roast?” he asked, eyeing the measly spread with disapproval.

“There wasn’t any.” You kept your voice even, steady, though your hands trembled slightly as you placed the food in front of him.

George gave you a hard look, his lip curling in disgust. “Useless,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the sharp retort that burned on your tongue. Fighting him would only make it worse.

He ate in silence, the scrape of his knife against the plate the only sound in the small kitchen. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed his chair back with a loud scrape.

“Goin’ to bed,” he grumbled, already halfway out of the room before you could respond.

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you stayed still, standing in the middle of the kitchen long after the sound of his boots thudding down the hallway faded.

It was always like this. A dull, suffocating ache—day after day, night after night. And the worst part? You weren’t sure if you had the strength to keep pretending.

---

It was well past midnight when you slipped out the back door. The cold bit at your skin, and you pulled your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you made your way down the dirt path leading into the woods. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light across the clearing where Logan was waiting, his broad frame leaning against a tree trunk.

He looked up as you approached, his keen eyes catching the moonlight.

“Figured you’d come.” There was no smugness in his tone—just quiet understanding, like he’d known all along that you wouldn’t be able to stay away.

You stopped a few feet from him, your breath clouding in the crisp night air. “I couldn’t do it,” you admitted, your voice small.

Logan pushed off the tree and closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, firm and grounding. “You ain’t gotta explain.”

You looked up at him, heart aching with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his chest.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath, the quiet strength in the way he held you—like he’d fight the whole world just to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Logan’s grip tightened. “I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The night stretched on around you, silent and still, as Logan’s hands roamed up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he asked quietly, his breath warm against your hair.

You nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “Just tonight.”

Logan didn’t argue. He never did.

He took your hand, lacing his rough fingers through yours, and led you deeper into the woods—away from the house, away from the life you were supposed to live.

And for one stolen night, you let yourself believe it was enough.

---

When you got home later that night, around 3 in the morning, everything looked normal. The lights in the house were all off, and it was quiet.

You hung your shawl on the hook by the door when you heard the clink of a bottle. Your heart sank. George was awake.

The small kitchen was dim, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. George sat slouched at the table, a nearly empty whiskey bottle in his hand. His eyes were dark, glazed over with drunken fury. You could tell by the set of his jaw, by the way his knuckles gripped the bottle too tight, that this wasn’t going to end well.

“Where’ve you been?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, his steps heavy as he moved toward you.

“I went to clear my head,” you said softly, keeping your voice calm, steady, though your heart pounded in your chest. “The air helps me sleep.”

George narrowed his eyes. “That so? 'Cause Johnny’s wife told me somethin' different. Said she didn’t see you at the church retreat.”

You froze. You had been at the retreat—briefly—but it was a cover for your meeting with Logan, and Johnny’s wife must’ve been one of the few people you didn’t see. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words stuck in your throat.

“I was there,” you managed, though you knew it wouldn’t matter.

George took another step toward you, his voice rising. “Don’t lie to me!” His breath stank of alcohol as he spat the words at you, the anger radiating off him like heat. “What were you really doin’, Y/N? Who were you with?”

Your stomach twisted in fear as his hand shot out, grabbing your arm hard enough to make you wince. “George, please—” you started, but he cut you off.

“I know you weren’t there. Where the hell were you?” He shook you, his grip tightening painfully around your arm.

You winced, biting back a cry. “I told you, I was there.”

But George wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to you, and a dangerous look settled across his face. “You been sneakin’ around on me, haven’t you?” His voice was low, deadly now. He released your arm with a shove, sending you stumbling back a step. “You think I’m stupid?”

“George, I’m not sneaking around,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm even though your pulse was racing. “I just needed some air. I—”

His hand moved faster than you expected, backhanding you hard across the face. Pain exploded through your cheek, and you stumbled, clutching the side of your face as tears sprang to your eyes.

“You think I don’t know?” George hissed, his face twisted with fury. “You’ve been leavin’ me here, goin’ off, God knows where. You ain’t foolin’ me, Y/N.”

You took a shaky breath, tasting blood where your teeth had cut your lip. “George, please—”

But he was already moving, crossing the small kitchen in two heavy steps. You saw the glint of metal before he pulled the shotgun from the corner near the door. Panic seized you.

“George, no—” Your voice broke as you held up your hands, trying to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The small kitchen felt like a cage, the walls closing in around you.

George leveled the shotgun at you, his hands shaking slightly but his eyes wild with rage. “You think you can just leave? You think you can just run off whenever you please?”

You felt like you were drowning, your heart pounding so hard in your chest it hurt. “I wasn’t leaving,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t—George, please, put the gun down.”

“Shut up!” he snarled, taking a step toward you. “You’re lyin’! You’ve always been lyin’, and I’m done with it.”

You were shaking, trying to think of something, anything that would get through to him. “I’m your wife,” you said quietly, desperately. “I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I—”

But the words didn’t matter. Nothing you said would stop this. You could see it in his eyes—the cold, determined look of a man who had already made up his mind.

For a moment, everything felt frozen. The ticking of the old clock on the wall, the crackling of the dying fire—it all seemed too loud, too slow. George’s finger twitched on the trigger.

And then, in an instant, the world shattered.

The shotgun blast was deafening, the sound tearing through the small kitchen like thunder. You didn’t even feel the impact at first—just a sharp, searing pain that spread through your chest, knocking the air from your lungs.

You stumbled, your legs giving out beneath you as you hit the floor hard, the cold tiles pressing against your cheek. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps, blood pooling around you.

The room swam, your vision dimming as you tried to focus, but all you could see was the dark shape of George standing over you, the shotgun still smoking in his hands.

---

Logan heard the shot before he smelled the blood.

His body reacted instinctively, his enhanced senses kicking into overdrive. He’d been lying awake, his thoughts consumed by you, when the sound echoed through the still night. There was no mistaking it.

His heart lurched in his chest, and without thinking, Logan bolted to his feet, running toward your house, his mind racing with fear. He knew. He knew it was you.

The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air as he neared the house. Logan’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the door slightly ajar, the soft light spilling out into the dark.

He pushed the door open, his claws already unsheathed.

The sight that greeted him froze him in place.

You were lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out around you, your breaths coming in shallow, painful gasps. And standing over you, his face twisted with something like confusion, was George.

Logan’s vision blurred with red.

He didn’t think—he just moved. In a blur, he was on George, his claws slashing through the air. There was a sickening crunch as the bone tore through flesh and bone, and then George was on the ground, lifeless.

Logan didn’t care. His only focus was you.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over your body, desperate to stop the bleeding, but there was too much. The wound was too deep. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice rough, desperate. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, but it was hard to focus. Everything felt distant, like you were floating just out of reach of the world. You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Blood bubbled at your lips.

Logan’s face hovered above yours, his expression shattered. “Please, darlin’, hold on. Just hold on.”

You coughed, the pain in your chest unbearable, and for a brief moment, your eyes met his. The world was fading fast now, slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Logan...” you managed, your voice barely a whisper.

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. “I’m here,” he choked out. “I’m here.”

You smiled weakly, even as the darkness closed in around you. “I… I love you.”

Logan’s breath hitched, his grip on you tightening like he could somehow hold you to this world. But you knew, just as he did, that this was the end.

“I love you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Your chest ached, not just from the pain but from the weight of those words—the weight of knowing this was goodbye.

And then, everything went still.

You felt Logan’s hand in yours, the warmth of his touch lingering even as the world around you faded into darkness.

You weren’t afraid. Not anymore.

You were free.

Logan knelt there, holding you long after the last breath left your body, his heart breaking all over again.

in this chapter logan is 68 years old and reader is around 21-24 years old.

just a reminder that going forward there is going to be an age gap between the two since logan obviously keeps getting older.

[duckdotimg]

Said I would post them eventually, and here they are... my for-fun redesigns of the main Replikas with see in game, Elster and Ariane being the primary focus of course

If you are curious about my general thoughts and on why I did this fun little thing, and my personal criteria doing it, feel free to read below!

Let me just say that I love Signalis to bits. It has a beautiful, heart-wrenching story. But - and this is just my personal opinion, and without any animosity truly - the style of the cutscenes (not the 3D in-game style or the models) is not my cup of tea. It's just my taste. My personal style just cannot accomodate that kind of stylization anymore, and even if I tried I couldn't draw the replikas as they are in game for the life of me. That said it's still a beautiful game. So if I draw more fanart (which is likely), I will probably use these designs.

Analyzing the approach I took when doing these redesigns:

I wanted the Replikas to have a clear correlation between each other, while still being unique in small ways besides hair, body and armor. This resulted in trying to instill diversity in their faces by making their noses reminisce the beaks of the birds they are named after.

All of the replikas, as you may notice, have much more practical hair. No bangs in front of the face anymore. Personally I think Elster, Starling, and Ara units especially should not have bangs - because of the kind of tasks they are committed to by design. It could hinder their efficiency in carrying out their work - so, no bangs for anyone.

I have given them all top surgery (joke). No faux-boobs except the Eule. The reasoning is the same as above: they are simply not practical! The only exception are the Eule, because...

...I am bad at wording things but to me it's because Eule in concept are supposed to evoke also, besides other things, a 'feminine' gender normativity with them being the main workforce of the Nation but also cooks, teachers, etc (jobs that in our real world, for many years, were relegated to 'only women'). This also reflects to how I have given Eule shinier lips, a fuck-ass bob (middle part to evoke the shape owls have) and (optional) eye make-up.

On a cosmetic note, Stars have white hair tips as a way to more directly pay homage to their avian namesake. And it looks cooler (imo).

Storches and Kolibri have eye make-up/"war paint" and they're meant both to evoke a further feeling of authoritarianism and to intimidate other replikas or gestalts into complying with their orders. For Storches I was inspired particularly by the face make-up used in a certain scene in Suspiria (the 2018 Guadagnino reimagining), and not just for cosmetic reasons! Kolibri's are more generally inspired by the hummingbird's actual appearance.

Ara's grease marks are reminiscent of the pattern usually found on macaws' faces! Not all of the Ara's dirt looks this precise, but well, I thought it would be a fun touch.

Noted before in my previous fanart posts but Ariane is decidedly more sickly-looking but with an extra step. While Elster loves Ariane very much no matter how she looks, I think before the ending of the game she still has an 'idealized' version of her in her mind, albeit still a sick-looking one: long haired Ariane. In my idea the further you get to the end of the game, the more Ariane in the flashback flashes looks how she actually is - hairless, with missing teeth, and extremely irradiated.

Are these like, headcanons I think everyone should adopt when drawing replika and/or ariane...Honestly no idgaf... Just do what you want... I just liked coming up with these and wanted to explain my thoughts. Again I love Signalis and regardless what I think or not of the official style of it, love is love. What else is there to say about it. You should draw these fucked up lesbians however the hell you want which includes meeee and I'm exercising the right to do so

Maybe I'll also draw Adler, Falke and Mynah in the future but they're not here because by principle there is not much I would change about their designs. I have a vision for Falke which is not as drastic as these I drew for now. For sure I'll eventually draw my own ideas for the other gestalts in the story, but I'm gonna take a break and go back to OC stuff now 👍

If you read till here you are nuts and I love you. Let's all get ice cream together