Leta | 30+ | Personal workroom at the Factory
RE/RE8 | BG3 | DBH | Other
Digital enchantress crafting tales and gears.
Not a native speaker — but every word comes from the heart.
404: belonging not found — still searching.
Launch day May 2, 2025
Heisenberg always hid his eyes behind glasses, only taking them off in the darkest corners of the Factory — or when he was with someone he could have trusted. Or someone he was about to kill. The lucky ones who managed not to fall into the second category could only guess what color he kept hidden behind the tinted lenses, stealing cautious glances.
Donna poetically called the color of his eyes the shade of a twilight sky.
Moreau insisted they were just ordinary hazel with green specks.
Mother Miranda would sometimes boast that her son had the most beautiful eyes in the world — steel-gray, with electric flashes.
The locals, incoherent and stumbling over their fear-thick tongues, whispered that they had seen his eyes glow: cat green, wolf yellow or even bright red, like a ghoul's.
Alcina — though she might privately admit the color resembled polished aquamarine — still called them utterly bastard-colored.
And only the Duke knew exactly how many colored lenses Karl Heisenberg kept in his collection.
Inspired by a lovely Discord chat about Heisenberg’s eyes. Thank you for the inspiration — you know who you are.
Artwork by my friend for the second excerpt from my RE8 OC Diary. I probably need a better title. Maybe Factory Diaries would work?
We had a bunch of screenshots of the Factory from every possible angle. She calculated the approximate location and camera angle, then spent a surprisingly long time painstakingly scattering trash all over the rooftop.
Keeping that much junk up there is definitely a safety hazard, Heis!
Since the artwork takes place in early spring, I suppose the annual cleanup is still ahead of us.
I have to admit, my own spring turned out to be rather chaotic: full of work, family matters and responsibilities, leaving very little room to stop and breathe. Still, I hope summer will be kinder, and that I’ll finally have the chance to return to the things I love.
Note: I’ve noticed that different English-language books follow different rules when it comes to formatting dialogue and dashes, but I think I’ve finally found the version I can get used to.
What I still can’t quite decide is how to refer to our Lord in the text—Karl or Heisenberg.
Working was almost entirely by feel—the light from the only lamp in the workshop was dim, positioning it so that it actually illuminated what she needed was impossible. A simple torch clenched between her teeth—or at least braced against her shoulder—would have helped immensely, but its battery had died, and the only adapter had been chewed through by mice, or rats, or something worse. Leta had no desire to know the culprit. She only hoped it hadn’t been Karl. Bright white beams always irritated him.
Her finger slipped, catching the latch the wrong way. A sharp crack rang out. For a moment, Leta forgot how to breathe.
“No. No—no, no… no,” the edge of hysteria creeping further into her voice with every repetition. “No, no, no!”
With trembling hands, Leta set the remaining intact RAM stick on the table and leaned over the system unit. She reached inside—and almost immediately pricked her finger on a jagged edge of plastic. The latch had snapped off completely.
Leta recoiled from the table as if a giant spider had been sitting on it instead of a heap of metal. Her breathing quickened, turning ragged; her nose stung. The strain of the past two weeks had finally begun to catch up with her.
A heap of metal. That was exactly what the old system unit looked like now, cobbled together from whatever parts had been available. Her mind raced—could the BIOS boot without RAM? Did this motherboard have any built-in memory at all? No answer came.
Darkness swam before her eyes, as if the workshop lights had suddenly gone out. Blood pounded in her ears—and the startup error signal, that awful rhythmic beeping…
Clapping her hands over her ears, Leta screamed as though she could drown out the phantom sound. Then she grabbed the tray of tools and hurled it at the wall.
“Tut, tut, tut…”
The tray—and everything on it—never made it to the wall. The metal, obeying the Lord, carefully settled back onto the table instead, while the Lord himself leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.
Heisenberg’s appearance—his deliberately slow, relaxed movements—brought Leta slightly back to her senses. She had only begun to notice this strange trait recently: whether it was something about him or something about herself, she couldn’t say, but the presence of the factory’s owner was calming. Not because he was frightening. The reason lay somewhere else, and Leta couldn’t quite understand it.
“What’ve you got here?”
He wasn’t asking idly—he was genuinely curious.
“Trying to put together a new computer,” Leta dragged a hand across her face, as though brushing away cobwebs. “Well. An old computer, technically.”
“What’s the trouble?”
Another sincere question. If there was anything Heisenberg could talk about for hours, it was mechanisms, blueprints, and engineering in general.
“Everything’s fucked. Everything’s fucked, I don’t know what to do, I—”
Leta kept talking. The more she spoke, the more heated she became, throwing around technical details Heisenberg wasn’t nearly as familiar with, gesturing wildly with her hands. The longer she went on, the more often she sniffed, the more her voice trembled, the more her whole body began to shake.
She didn’t even notice that Heisenberg had long since stopped listening to what she was saying. Instead, he was watching how she spoke. His sharp, attentive gaze tracked every movement, as though he were observing some kind of mechanism, trying to diagnose the fault at a glance.
“What worries you most?”
“What?” Heisenberg usually asked purely technical questions—ones that nudged her toward some practical solution—so the phrasing threw Leta off. “Worries?..”
“Yeah. Anything else bothering you? Or just this heap of junk?”
There was something strange about Heisenberg’s voice, and the question clearly had a hook in it—but all of Leta’s attention was fixed on her problem, not on the man she was speaking to.
“Two weeks of work,” she said quietly, and then her voice rose into a shout. “Two weeks of work! I’ve spent two weeks digging through scrap heaps, trying to build something—anything that works—from the leftovers you decided were junk! Barely any food, barely any sleep, barely—”
“Exactly, for fuck’s sake!” Heisenberg slammed his palm against the table so hard he nearly bruised it himself. In two strides he crossed the distance between them, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her upright so sharply that the joint in her shoulder cracked. “I agreed to give you two weeks off so you could rest—not finish running yourself into the ground!”
The pain was sharp. Heisenberg had practically lifted the woman off the floor; the toes of her boots barely brushed the uneven metal plates beneath them. Leta clenched her teeth and grabbed the wrist of the hand holding her with her free one.
“Heis—!”
His dark glasses had slipped down his nose. His eyes had turned yellow; the pupils narrowed and stretched upward like those of a predator. Fangs showed beneath his upper lip. The smell of tobacco smoke, alcohol, and rotting meat struck her in the face.
“I’d sooner snap your neck right now and find another assistant than put up with your madness!”
His face was far too close. His teeth snapped shut right at the tip of Leta’s nose, deliberately trying to frighten her. Then Heisenberg shook her again.
A cry of pain rang through the workshop as the head of the bone slipped out of the socket.
She should have been afraid. Afraid enough to scream, to cry, to beg for mercy—to do anything that might buy her life.
But the past two weeks really had been exhausting.
“Oh, of course,” Leta hissed back. “There’s a whole queue outside the gates of people dying to live with you! Go on—you’ll find my replacement easily!”
Silence fell over the workshop, broken only by the heavy breathing of the human and the Lord. Forcing herself through the pain, Leta kept her eyes on Heisenberg’s, openly challenging him.
“Lucky for you, you’re necessary.”
The floor returned beneath her feet. Leta swayed, took a step back, and collapsed into a chair. Immediately—almost forgetting who stood before her—she tried to feel the dislocated shoulder.
“Don’t touch it.” Heisenberg yanked the gloves off his hands and practically shoved them into Leta’s mouth. “Bite.”
He grabbed the collar of her T-shirt, tearing the thin fabric just enough to examine the joint. A moment later, the bone snapped back into place.
Leta spat the gloves into the palm he held out. A foul taste lingered in her mouth. The thought of what those gloves had touched—and how long it had been since they’d been disinfected—sent a lump rising in her throat, but the urge to vomit never came.
Only tears filled her eyes—from pain, and from the realisation of what she had driven herself to. But even then, she couldn’t cry.
“We’ll eat on the roof,” Heisenberg said curtly, straightening himself up. “You need fresh air. Don’t look at me like that—there really isn’t a line outside the gates for your job. But if you’re not there in half an hour, I’ll drag you up there myself.”
The workshop door slammed so hard the walls shuddered—Heisenberg had taken advantage of the fact that it was reinforced with metal.
~
Spring hadn’t truly begun yet. Outside it was cold, and a gusty wind swept across the roof. Leta wrapped herself tighter in the old fur-trimmed jacket, sitting cross-legged on the cushions salvaged from a ruined armchair, and watched the rare shafts of sunlight breaking through the grey clouds.
It turned out it had only just passed noon. And she really had been missing fresh air.
Heisenberg was fussing with the meat over the brazier he’d lit on the roof, humming under his breath some old song—an old romance, perhaps, from the time of the First World War. Whatever had happened in the workshop half an hour earlier, he seemed to have forgotten it entirely.
Maybe it was because there had never been—and never would be—a queue outside the factory gates.
So happy to be part of this year’s @hankconminibang!
Huge thanks to the organisers for the opportunity, and to my wonderful artist partner @slothserpent for all the discussions and collaboration 💙
Read the fic.
See the artwork.
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Characters: Hank Anderson, Connor, Sumo
Tags: Human AU, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Valentine's Day
Words: 9,359
Nine people you’d like to get to know better. Tagged by @lotus-ink.
Last book | Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros; trying to read Bram Stoker’s Dracula in English (I love this book, but it’s the first time I’m reading it in the original, so it’s quite challenging for me).
Last song | Golden by HUNTR/X (K-Pop Demon Hunters OST). This song was playing in a cosy café on repeat. I listened to it for at least 15 minutes, and it got stuck in my head.
Last series | Fallout (season 2, episode 6); started watching Yellowstone several days ago and rewatching Sousou no Frieren.
Last videogame | Help Will Come Tomorrow — got the achievements Help Did Come! and No Man Left Behind tonight. I wish to replay the Syberia series; hope next week is going to be kind to me.
Sweet or salty | Sweet. But I like salty too. And spicy.
Coffee or tea | Water =) I think tea. Unfortunately, I can’t drink good coffee. The more natural and high-quality the coffee is, the worse it makes me feel, so I prefer lattes. Lots of milk saves the situation.
Favorite food | I think potatoes. Boiled, baked, fried. And chocolate.
Working on | Detroit: Become Human fanfiction (Hankcon and Reed900); vignettes with Astarion, and a short comical story with Karl Heisenberg. But I don’t know how to get it all done. I thought I’d be working hard on vacation, but I’m so exhausted from my job that I mostly sleep, play, and hang out.
Tagging with NO pressure (sorry if you’ve already been tagged — I tried to track it down, but I’m only sure about a couple of people): @thesassyspork, @iiicecoffee, @juche-karl-heisenberg, @sadgirlnamedmaria, @ohlookapan, @hollowg1rl
Summary: Sleepless night at a tavern, a throbbing ache, and Astarion who wants to help.
Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader
Rating: SFW
Notes: present tense, second person, GN reader
Words: 884
The blanket feels far too light, the pillow far too firm, and the feathers poking through it prick at your cheek. No matter how many times you turn the pillow over or fluff it up, there’s simply no comfortable way to lie. The room is stifling and the air is thin; yet if you crack the window open, the night breeze chills it within minutes, leaving you curled up and shivering.
A dull ache throbs behind your right temple. The little vial of pain-relief elixir on the bedside table is already half-empty, and you’d gladly take a few more swallows if you could—but you can’t. The side-effects are too unpredictable. So you endure. You endure, you toss, you simmer in your own irritation, and you curse yourself for the fact that dawn is only a few hours away and sleep refuses to come.
Once again, you roll onto your stomach and muffle a quiet groan into the pillow, careful not to disturb anyone in the neighbouring rooms. The walls of the tavern are thin.
The knock on the door is so faint you almost dismiss it as a trick—the tired, pain-stricken mind misfiring. But it comes again, a touch louder this time, and then a familiar voice murmurs through the door:
“I know you’re awake.”
Reluctantly, you get out of bed, tiptoeing to the door by habit, and slowly turn the key in the lock.
The corridor is dark; the flame of the candle reflects in crimson eyes. It also casts strange shadows across Astarion’s face, making him look unsettling—even eerie.
“May I come in?”
Without waiting for your answer, Astarion pushes the door open just enough to slip sideways into your room. He presses a finger to his lips, urging silence, and locks the door himself. Then he walks to the bed and sets the candlestick down on the bedside table. His attentive gaze falls on the vial, and lips twitch in displeasure.
“And how long have you been suffering?”
He speaks in a whisper, and you answer him in a whisper as well—the truth. There is no point in lying to him.
“A few hours.”
Astarion shakes his head, sighs heavily, and then sits on your bed, patting the space beside him.
“Sit.”
He behaves in such a way that, for a moment, you wonder whether it was truly he who came to you and not you who visited him. And yet, you obey—his request feeling dangerously close to an order.
You do as you’re told, and at once you feel his cold fingers brush your skin—right above the brow, where the ache throbs the most. It’s pleasant, exactly what you need for the ache to soften. Without meaning to, you lean into Astarion’s touch; only when you hear a faint, self-satisfied chuckle do you realise you’ve closed your eyes and, for the first time in hours, allowed yourself to relax.
“It seems my icy hands are precisely what you’ve been craving.” There is almost none of his usual acidity in his voice, and he continues in earnest: “I’ll help you fall asleep.”
“Since when are you so attentive to others?”
“Oh, darling, I merely care for the well-being of our little party. If you don’t get any sleep, its combat efficiency will plummet.”
Astarion rises from the bed and smirks again, noticing how your expression changes the moment he withdraws his hand. The soothing chill vanishes. The ache resurges, fierce enough to make you reach for the vial.
“No-no-no, darling.” Astarion is quicker, and the vial disappears from the bedside table as if by magic. “We’ll have to make do without elixirs.”
“Sadist.”
“Perhaps. Lie down.”
Another request, poised like an order. You want to bristle, to take offence, to tell him he has no right to order you about in your own room—yet something in his expression prevents it. As if, for a heartbeat, he lifts the mask and lets you see the real him. To realise that his care is genuine, and all that talk of the party is nothing but a way to make the whole thing less awkward. For both of you.
The bed has grown cold. The pillow’s touch sends shivers across your skin. You lie down facing the window and turning your back to Astarion—only then wondering whether that was a mistake…
…or the only sensible choice.
For the first time tonight, the weight of the blanket feels pleasant. Astarion tucks you in tightly, cocooning you, and there is a strange, slightly clumsy tenderness in every movement. He makes sure you’re properly covered, and the room sinks into darkness.
The bed gives under Astarion’s weight and creaks. Too narrow for two, but he keeps the distance, careful not to press against you.
Warm breath brushes the back of your head; a cool palm settles over your aching temple.
“Relax,” he whispers again. “And sleep. If you end up stumbling over your own feet tomorrow, I shan’t dream of carrying you.”
“As if I’d ask you to!”
No reply. Only Astarion’s fingers begin to move, tracing small circles on your temple—each one dulling the ache a little further.
Your thoughts tangle; your body grows heavy. At last, sleep finds you.
Since it’s still the evening of November 22 where I am, I have time to write to myself: “Happy Birthday!”
Many people take stock of the year on New Year’s Eve, but in recent years, it seems I do it on my birthday instead. It feels right: another year older, and every time, I want to believe that I’m also a little wiser.
Last year, on this day, I was far from home. Not alone—there was someone who genuinely wanted to make this day the best for me—but my state of mind wouldn’t let me appreciate it. I believed life was over, that I would never have anything, that all dreams were dust and ashes. That I had missed every opportunity, that the world was completely, irreversibly, and finally closed off to me. And I was also waiting for a call from someone who would never be able to call or write to me again. In the afterlife, the Internet is a big problem, after all.
This year, I missed the moment of my birth—there’s a family tradition to celebrate at the exact hour—because I was working on my fanfic. That felt more important. A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined I would start writing again. That I would start writing anything again: DBH fanfics, Resident Evil headcanons. Maybe I could even come back to Call of Duty for Captain Price. But only after writing a lot of other things first.
A year ago, I didn’t think I’d have to remember English and use it so often. I still find it incredibly hard to participate in lively conversations; in English, I sound silly, and my vocabulary is limited. Writing long posts and working with literary texts is much easier: no one rushes me. But I will learn, I promise.
I will also learn to set my priorities correctly. To say no to extra work so I have more time for myself, my life, my hobbies—things, as wonderfully reminded to me by amazing people, that should not disappear after thirty. You can be a serious person, you can be married, but you can still love a fictional engineer from one Romanian village.
I really want my voice to be heard. I don’t want to lose this. A close friend wrote today: “Compared to before, you’ve made huge progress, and no matter how much you want to beat yourself up, I can see your state improving.” Then she added: “You’re still my delightful dark ray, the wisest witch in the woods. Everything will be fine. And if it isn’t—we’ll burn to ashes everything that stands in the way.”
And I hope that next year, I’ll be able to do even more.
And that this damn language barrier, if it doesn’t disappear, at least lowers a bit and stops demanding a ladder of dictionaries.
Some nights, the familiar din of the factory keeps Karl Heisenberg awake: the hum of machines, the screech of metal, the wind howling through the gaps. He tosses and turns for hours, growing angrier and more exhausted with every minute.
The Duke suggests a solution — earplugs. But finding the right size proves a challenge: either they fall out because they fall out because, even for him, they’re too big [“A special order for Lady Dimitrescu, but I can let you try a pair — perhaps you’ll place an order too!”], or they’re too small, slip deep inside, do nothing to block the noise, and eventually fall out (or require a tedious extraction with makeshift tools).
So Karl orders noise-cancelling earmuffs. With them, the factory’s din fades into blissful silence, and he finally drifts off to sleep…
…only to wake up with a stiff, aching neck, because turning in bed with such a contraption is utterly impossible. His body goes numb, goes rigid and leaves him sore all day.
Some nights, Karl Heisenberg doesn’t get enough rest — but shutting down the factory is out of the question.
…a large, burning-cold palm touches her ankle, slides up her bare leg, grips her hip hard enough to hurt. The walls echo with the sharp slap against her backside, a stifled whimper, and a satisfied chuckle. And then — a voice, distorted by lust:
“You’re so beautiful, baby, I want you so badly, if only you could imagine…”
A second palm, just as icy, finds the inside of her thigh, also squeezing almost painfully, grazing the crotch of her panties before yanking them down so sharply that the fabric tears.
“So sweet, baby. How can you be this sweet?”
A couple of licks and saliva-slicked fingers serve as a substitute for natural lubrication — he no longer cares whether she’s truly aroused, whether she truly wants what is about to happen.
Pushing him away is impossible. His reaction to refusal is unpredictable; it’s easier to “close your eyes, spread your legs, and think of England” — at least that’s familiar, understandable. The further it goes, the easier it is to endure. Easier to resign yourself to it always being like this.
Something is wrong with you. You’re the one who’s broken.
A deceptively tender voice spreads through the room, drowning out the moan of pain when the thrusts become hard, sharp, rough — he never gives time to adjust, as always. The same icy palm covers her mouth; the position is awkward, painful both inside and out.
It’s terrifying.
It’s humiliating.
It’s the same as being an object. A toy expected to give in at the snap of his fingers.
You get used to it.
The rough thrusts grow even harder, tearing screams from her throat. Tears stream down her cheeks…
~
Tears really did run down her cheeks. Her neck ached — to wrench free from the clinging paws of the nightmare she had to jerk her head so violently that for a couple of days she would need to apply healing salve to soothe muscles, or ligaments, or whatever else one could injure with such a sharp movement.
Leta sat up on the bed, hissed as she tugged the collar of the T-shirt that served as a nightgown, allowing the sweat-soaked fabric to peel from her skin. Goosebumps immediately prickled across her body as the cold air slipped beneath her clothes. Her hands trembled.
Despite how often these nightmares came, how they should have become routine, a background noise of her existence, each time she woke up like this: sweaty, tear-streaked, disheveled, burdened with guilt both toward herself and toward him, the man who didn’t see, didn’t hear, didn’t notice.
Who loved her.
Loved her, cared for her, protected her.
And yet…
For several minutes Leta sat motionless on the bed, not daring either to lie down again — as if she could fall asleep again after such a nightmare — nor even to change to a more comfortable position. As if any movement would make the shadows in the corners of the room take his shape, turning the nightmare into reality once more.
Time dragged on; nearly fifteen minutes passed before Leta finally threw off the blanket. She made her way to the kitchen without switching on any lights and without grabbing a candle or a flashlight. First, because it was only a short walk, and second, because light would only irritate her, and irritation was already flooding her, slowly pushing out the fear.
The old faucet spat water into the sink, shattering the silence with the clang of metal. Leta grimaced at the expected but still startling noise. Something was wrong with the plumbing again — well, the part that served the living section of the factory. She had neither the energy nor the desire to deal with it; after all, the factory had an owner… though, like a typical man, he could ignore the problem for weeks.
The icy water — almost like the hands in her nightmare — brought her back to her senses, at least enough to breathe more easily. The fever in her body gave way to chills. She wanted to climb into the bathtub, wash the sweat off, wash away the sleep, wash away those damned memories and the phantom sensation of other hands on her body. Leta glanced at a clean rag, wondering if she should wipe herself down right then to feel some relief, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
The steady sound of the water, now flowing uninterrupted, calmed her somewhat. Leta closed her eyes, gripped the edges of the sink so hard her knuckles went white, took a deep breath and opened her eyes at the same time as a gruff voice came from the doorway — there was no door on the kitchen, not even a curtain — another task for the factory’s owner.
“I thought I sent you to bed. What the hell are you doing here, woman?”
Karl’s eyes dimly glowed in the dark, reminding her that he could see perfectly in it, unlike Leta. He saw her expression, the wet stains of sweat and water on her T-shirt, the trembling hands and maybe even the slightly swollen nose and lips from crying.
“You need to be sharp at dawn, thinking, not half-asleep on your feet,” Karl said, surveying his assistant with a look barely warmer than the water in the faucet. “And not sick. Do you want to dose yourself with Donna’s tinctures again?”
Leta could have said that Donna’s tinctures, though peculiar in taste and smell, put you back on your feet quickly, but she remained silent, unable yet to speak properly. All she did was hitch her T-shirt to cover her hips — a silly habit born from living alone: she’d remembered to put on shoes, knowing it was dangerous to go barefoot even in the factory’s living quarters, but completely forgot about pants. Without them she still felt exposed, especially under Karl’s attentive, displeased — thankfully, devoid of any lust! — gaze.
The silence stretched on, and Karl’s patience waned. A couple of his broad steps later he was right beside Leta, looming over her, forcing her to shrink slightly. And precisely this movement awakened a spark of comprehension in his eyes.
“Another nightmare?” Karl’s voice was still gruff, with a faint, almost imperceptible note of concern. Or maybe Leta only imagined it. “You’ve been having them a lot. Care to share?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d asked, and not the first time Leta replied with a small, hoarse but firm:
“No.”
“Tsk.”
Karl crossed his arms over his chest, smirked, exposing teeth too white for a lifelong smoker.
“You need to get rid of these nightmares. They interfere with your life and screwing up my plans. I can help, but I need to know what’s haunting you.”
Leta pressed her lips together, knowing he was right: if he could help, she should use it. But trust is a tricky thing.
"What’s with the sudden urge to play caretaker, Heis?" filling her voice with indifference was hard; it wavered slightly, and Karl couldn’t have missed it. "What, you’re that attached to me?"
Such a stupid defense mechanism. Karl read it perfectly, so he reached out.
His gloveless hand, nearly as huge as the one in her nightmare, almost touched her shoulder. Almost, because at the last moment, Leta swayed aside, dodging the touch as if her movement was accidental.
Karl’s eyes narrowed dangerously, he lowered his hand, and took a step back.
"You’ll have to tell me. Or I’ll make my own assumptions, and trust me, you won’t like them," he snapped, turning his back to her. "You… are necessary."
Karl left the kitchen, leaving behind only the smell of cigarettes and machine oil.
"Damn it," Leta muttered, fumbling for the faucet to turn off the water.
She badly needed a good sleep.
Only upon returning to her bedroom she realized that his last words might have been an answer to her question.
Connor suggests to celebrate Hank’s birthday with a trip to the seaside. Hank decides to show Connor how he used to have fun back in his early days — diving headfirst into huge waves.
Connor protests:
“No lifeguard on duty, yellow flag up, it’s unsafe.”
Hank just laughs, grabbing his arm and pulling him out to the shallows where the waves crash stronger:
“Trust me, you’ll love it.”
Connor finally discovers the thrill — salt water on his lips, the rush of the current, the laughter. He gets distracted for only a dozen seconds… and Hank is struck in the back by the crest of a wave.
Connor scolds him, his voice sharp with worry:
“I told you it wasn’t safe.”
But later, back at their rented apartment, he’s the one applying ointment, kneading sore muscles with steady hands. Hank groans at the pressure but smiles, secretly glad for the closeness and the memory.
They still make it to the little seaside restaurant.
Hank leans heavily on Connor, muttering he can walk just fine and it’s “not even a real injury.” Deep down, he’s grateful for staying that close. Connor, ignoring the grumbling, is quietly grateful too.
And of course the birthday dinner is by candlelight.
As for what happens when the night begins… let’s leave that off-screen.
Found this note in my phone. It was late April when I said that even a sweet scene could be made darker — and someone asked me to try. I thought it was worth translating.
His horns branched like antlers, his eyes flared crimson, and the charming smile twisted into a dreadful snarl. The upper fangs were so long that they reached past his chin, like the saber-toothed tigers Lucy had once seen in an encyclopedia on her uncle’s desk.
The scream of the royal scout knight broke off before it even began, replaced by the crunch of bones and the screech of metal. For some reason, Lucy thought the sounds reminded her of ice cracking on the river when spring arrived.
“Mr. Tumnus?” she called softly, taking a hesitant step toward the creature bent over the scarlet snow — the creature that had smiled at her so kindly just moments before and invited her for tea. “Are you all right?”
The creature straightened sharply, leaping to the nearest fir tree in two bounds; snow fell from the branches in heavy clumps.
“Mr. Tumnus?”
The forest suddenly felt frightening and unwelcoming; the magic turned into sorcery.
“Miss Lucy, please look away — look only at me,” the faun stepped out from behind the fir, wiping the last drops of blood from his face with his crimson scarf. “A young lady should not witness such things… Perhaps, I’ll add a few custard tarts to the tea to brighten your mood. Do you like custard cream, Miss Lucy?”
He offered her his hand as gentlemanly as he had before the knight had so rudely interrupted their delightful, courteous conversation.
“Miss Lucy, you must understand — I had to protect you… From the very first moments of our acquaintance, I told you that with me you would be safe. How unfortunate that I had to prove my words so soon…”
His quiet voice, his guilty smile, his charming little horns… Lucy returned a polite smile, as a true lady would, and allowed him to lead her deeper into the woods.
She had no doubt — she was accompanied by the decidedly kind, attentive, and caring Mr. Tumnus, who, as she had now seen for herself, truly could protect her.
Written for fun in a discussion, but I was persuaded to translate and post it. Normally I don’t write this way — hope someone enjoys it! Though, judging by this experiment, I probably need to think twice before writing anything else in present tense.
“Hey, give it back!”
You reach for a rather battered plush dog, worn out by age, held high above your head by Gallagher with one hand. The old childhood toy was given to you by your grandfather even before you went to first grade. It has been through a lot: endless “family” and “doctor” games, trips to the sea, tears shed over first love, spilled ink during exam preparations, and spilled coffee during sleepless work nights...
Old, because of that beloved toy. The precious one.
And now your man holds it above your head, old — you loved to tease him like that — and precious, just like the plush dog, with a cheeky grin on his face.
“You’re already a grown-up girl, why do you need this plush dog?” Gallagher asks mockingly, watching your attempts to grab your treasure.
You’re afraid of accidentally hitting him with your elbow or knee while jumping, even though you know he would easily dodge, so you jump only half-heartedly, awkwardly holding on to his shoulder for balance. This only makes Gallagher’s lips stretch into a smile he’s trying to pass off as sly and teasing — since the whole game with the plush dog was meant only to annoy you! — but the smile that comes out is tender and affectionate. Of course, you don’t notice that.
“It calms me down!” you jump again, this time a little higher, your fingertips brushing the plush dog’s paw, but you fail to grab it, so you jump again.
And now you manage to grab its paw — and another “paw”, large, calloused, marked by burns and cuts, grabs your waist.
“You’re going to knock me over, cupcake.”
Gallagher practically holds you in the air and takes a step back, deliberately swaying to scare you, but you don’t care — you’ve almost reached your goal and ignore everything else. You stretch out your other hand, letting go of his shoulder and Gallagher immediately releases the toy, only to wrap his other arm around your waist as well.
And then he stumbles — whether deliberately or not — and falls onto the bed, dragging you down with him.
Several moments pass before you realize your new position: the soft mattress, the wine-colored bed sheets, that cheeky grin on the unshaven face once again, his hands locked together on your waist so you can neither pull away nor get up. And victory — the plush dog in your hands.
Victory... or not?
“Told you you’d make me fall, cupcake,” Gallagher laughs, rubbing his cheek against yours, making you flinch at the rough bristle against delicate skin. You snort in annoyance, but Gallagher knows: you like it. And you know that he knows — but you still keep protesting every time. “So you’re saying this plush dog calms you down?”
A spark lights up in his eyes, though you don’t see it yet.
“Yes, it calms me, it—”
“What about me?” Gallagher interrupts. “I’m better than this dog!”
A thousand thoughts rush into your head at once — what joke to make, what reply to give — but before you can choose, Gallagher suddenly flips you over on the bed, and now he’s on top, and you feel the softness of the mattress under your back and the pounding of his heart against your chest.
“Gall, what—”
“Shhh, let’s put it aside for now...”
Gallagher gently takes the plush dog from your hands, stretches to place it at the edge of the bed — he would never dare carelessly toss your beloved toy — sitting it with its back turned to you, as if not allowing it to watch what’s about to happen.
Although, of course, this plush dog has seen plenty in its plush life...
You don’t have time to react before Gallagher’s lips are already brushing lightly against your temple, then your cheek, then tracing the line of your jaw. His tongue slides up your face as if he really were a dog happy to see his owner — you laugh, and he does it again, slower this time, then once more from the other side...
Gallagher takes his time, savoring the moment, and before he finally reaches your lips, it feels like an eternity has passed. It looks like he decided to be especially gentle tonight — but that doesn’t last long: the moment he feels your breathing quicken, the tender, slow kiss turns into a passionate, demanding one.
“Gall, I...”
“Shhh...”
His hands glide over your body, lifting the edge of your T-shirt, your skin breaking out in goosebumps from the contrast between the cool air of the room and his hot palms. With his knee he parts your legs, settling more comfortably so as not to hurt you with his weight, while his kisses move smoothly down your neck, then lower, to your collarbones...
...all you can do is close your eyes and surrender to the moment. It’s hard to believe Gallagher actually got jealous of the plush toy — but the result turned out much better than what you’d planned when you started teasing him today.
Alcina treats airplanes the same way she treats any other kind of transport — by weighing pros and cons. The pros are obvious: a chance to lounge in a wide business-class seat, an eager steward swiftly setting up her footstool so she can lean back comfortably.
Even so, her Rubensian forms still find the space a tad tight, but the view from the window, a glass of fresh blood in hand, and a plate of dripping blue rare steak makes the flight hours glide by.
Her daughters are sitting together somewhere behind her, bickering over which movie to watch, trying to sync it on their individual screens, and holding a mini-competition: which one of them can catch the cute steward’s attention first. The key here is not to get too loud — if they will cross Alcina, the next flight might be spent in the cargo hold.
~
Donna views on airplanes are purely practical. To her, it is fast, convenient, and statistically the safest form of travel. She chooses the very first row in economy, so Angie can settle comfortably next to her. During the flight, Angie behaves like a tiny, unstoppable force of chaos — pestering stewards with endless questions and demands for water, snacks, and a coloring book, asking how to turn on cartoons, trying to unbuckle her seatbelt long before the plane has reached cruising altitude…
By the time the plane lands, Donna feels utterly drained. Angie drags her down the aisle, reaches for the overhead bins, tries to open the emergency exit, sends the surrounding passengers into sheer panic, and hops impatiently near the exit as soon as the wheels touch down.
~
Moreau prefers the middle rows of economy, buying both the aisle seat and the one beside it. If the second seat happens to be by the window and the weather is clear, he marvels at the mountains, forests, and fields sliding by below.
For lunch, he always chooses fish and often requests an extra cup of tea or even two if he fancies a little extra. When he grows weary of the view, he dozes happily, though he might watch a film if something that sparks his interest. To him, a plane is no different from a carriage, a car, or a ship — just another way to travel.
~
Heisenberg isn’t afraid of heights. He isn’t afraid of flying. In fact, he’s fascinated by airplanes as a feat of engineering and someday he dreams to build one with his own hands.
But to sit inside a hunk of metal assembled by who-knows-whom? What if the engineer miscalculated the thickness of a plate? Or the factory, producing the bolts, churned out a bunch of faulty ones? What if the worker half-assed the last couple of screws?
And don’t even get him started on the pilot — for that person Karl has quite a list as well.
If he could, he would personally check the entire plane, down to the very last screw, before boarding. Since he cannot, he picks a window seat just behind the wing, keeping a sharp eye on it during the flight. He brings a stack of books, a notebook for his ideas and plans, and his old cassette player, but ends up white-knuckling the armrests and glaring out the window.
He only loosens up during the meal service, always demanding a generous pour of beer if it’s on offer.
Despite knowing that he could, with a certain level of effort, hold a failing aircraft together long enough to crash-land instead of plummet, the lack of control makes every flight a nightmare for him.
