#lucky city oversight

[unholyhelbig]

new oversight will be everything! i can’t wait!

Title: Work Life Balance [an Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: When reader gets hurt during a job, she starts to worry about how her girlfriend, the infamous mafia boss that controls the city, will react

[a/n: while this isn't a new chapter of Oversight (I am working on that), it is set in the same universe as the Oversight. It's based off of a Private Practice episode, and something a little lighter & silly. Enjoy!]

Warnings: Gun violence, blood, spit, threats, blood, hurt/comfort, No spell checks

Check out the full Oversight universe

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

The metal bat had slammed against the side of your face with enough force to blind you momentarily in the right eye. It knocked the sense out of you too and your bearings were scrambled until that darkness started to ebb away into a blurry image of the alleyway.

There was a pungent scent in the air, rotted food in dark green trash bags that had been torn by tiny teeth, or elongated claws. Crumpled napkins and discarded soda cups littered the damp ground.

Before the man could swing the bat for a second time, you caught it half an inch from your face and shoved it away. He was disarmed and you were able to shove his back up against the wall, holding him there despite his squirming. His lip was split, the blood drying quickly from the bright red to a deep black.

“Come on, man.” You twisted your hand into the fabric of his shirt, bunching your fingers around his collar. “We fronted the product, so you have to front the cash.”

“Fuck off,”

He spit on you, a gummy mix of tobacco and sugar. There were a lot of things you could handle; the ringing in your ear, and the pain in your knuckles from the first four blows you threw. But spit was where you drew the line. It had bugged you since you were in fifth grade and Amy Sheldon dangled a long string of it inches from your nose before slurping it back up through the slit in her buck teeth.

“Alright,” you breathed out, making sure you kicked the fallen bat out of his reach. “You agree to push product on that little street racer of yours in exchange for twenty five percent of the cut. You get sloppy and sample the product and don’t have the cash to give to my boss?”

You lifted him from the brick and shoved him back down onto it with enough force to push the putrid breath from his lungs. “That doesn’t feel very fair, now, does it?”

He smiled at you with a laugh that rivaled a cackle. His teeth were orange with diluted blood. There was no getting through to him. Your free hand dipped into the side of your jacket. Over the last two years, you’d grown well accustomed to the feeling of a gun in your hand.

You pushed the tip of the gun under his chin into the soft spot of his skin. He stopped laughing, the sound getting stuck in his throat with a choking sound.

“Do you know what they call me?” You gritted.

“A raging bitch?”

You made a buzzing noise in the back of your throat, much like the signaling of a wrong answer on a game show. There was a soft click as you pulled the trigger of the gun. The man in your grasp tensed and hissed.

“Wrong. You know, at first, I just forgot to load my gun. Got me into some pretty hot water, scalding actually. But eventually it became a bit of a calling card. Roulette. I can pull the trigger as many times as I want, but only one will hit it’s mark.”

He swallowed hard, you felt it in the side of your hand. He was sweating and you were growing tired of the empty threats. Yelena wouldn’t approve of something like this, and you were sure Natasha wouldn’t have had a second thought about putting a mark between his eyebrows.

“Most men aren’t lucky more than twice,” You pulled the trigger again, met with another soft click. Of course, there were no bullets in the chamber; they rattled in your front pocket like your keys. “Three times at most.”

His voice cracked. “Please,”

There was a sharp scent in the air that rivaled that of trash. You were losing blood fast. It had streaked down the side of your face from a gash on your temple and crusted the collar of your shirt.

“You have a week to make up the difference. A week and I’ll be back with a gun that has more than one bullet in the chamber. Am I clear?”

“Yes, but-“

“Am I clear?”

He nodded aggressively and you sheathed your weapon, releasing him. His legs gave out and he sunk to the damp pavement. You picked up the weighted metal back, entirely content to take it with you. It would make your next encounter a hell of a lot easier.

It was impossible to sneak into the house without giving yourself away. Even if you were to park down the block, unlace your shoes and pad into the foyer barefoot, and leave the front door open a crack, you were at risk of creating a scene.

That didn’t mean that you couldn’t keep the injured side of your face away from Natasha for as long as possible. She would know that something was up, and despite her throwing you into this life in the first place, her heart broke when you were on the deep side of any injury.

You set the metal bat down with a bucket of black umbrellas and a bench that was mostly unused. There was a dull metal thump that aggravated the headache that was coming on. You attempted to sneak up the stairs, but the second your fingertips hit the mahogany handrail you were stopped by an irritated voice with a Russian lilt to it.

Yelena was sprawled out on the sofa, a book was face down on her chest, lifting and falling with each breath. She’d given up on it in favor of the warmth that Kate provided her. Kate’s head was on Yelena’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Yelena looked perfectly comfortable in between Kate’s legs, both of them were about ready to doze off and if you had waited an extra five minutes, maybe you would have gotten away with sneaking in.

“Did you get hit by a bus?” Kate asked.

You leaned against the entryway of the sitting room. “Ricky got a good hit in with a metal bat.”

“Oo, Natasha is going to be mad at you.” Yelena chuckled, taunting you like a child. You would have thrown a pillow at her if Kate wasn’t in the line of fire.

She was going to be mad at you for not using the buddy system that was proposed and certainly for not dodging the hit that was coming your way. Natasha hated when you got hurt and that sad look in her eyes was worse than whatever pain could be inflicted on you.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It looks pretty bad.” Kate said.

You shot them both the middle finger before turning away and padding up the stairs towards your shared bedroom with Natasha. Most days, she was holed up in her office and you didn’t bother her until the ache for her touch, for her presence, bothered you both enough to cave.

That was most days.

Some days, Natasha could be found in your room in sweatpants with a laptop propped up on her crossed legs. She was dwarfed in the silk bedspread, her hair in a messy bun and a pair of glasses on the bridge of her nose.

This was quite possibly your favorite look on Natasha, this quiet version of her. She’d let you hold her in this state instead of the other way around. You hated to break the mood, hated that she glanced up from her laptop not once, but twice.

Wordlessly, Natasha set her work aside and walked over to you. She cupped your face, her fingers cold against your cheeks. Her voice was soft and when she was angry enough, there was the slightest bit of a Russian inflection to her words. “What happened?”

“I… didn’t use the buddy system.”

“Mm, you didn’t use the buddy system.”

Her thumb moved against the black and blue wound against your eye. She pressed every so slightly, testing its durability. You winced, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. It wasn’t bad, really, her touch soothed you just as quickly as it had bitten you with pain.

Natasha was good at taking care of you and she pulled you into the large master bathroom that the two of you shared. There was an abundance of white and beige. It was always a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house and offered a form of comfort as such.

There were nights where the two of you would simply brush your teeth shoulder to shoulder, and there were nights where she had her arms wrapped around you amongst the deep scent of lavender. Bubble hit her touch as her fingers roamed over the most intimate parts of you.

Now, she guided you to the edge of the sink and lifted you up in a fluid motion. She stood between your legs, making you feel even more like a child when Yelena had scolded you downstairs. Still, there was a degree of affection in her movements. Natasha frowned as she pulled a med kit from the bottom of the sink.

She tutted “Zaychik, this looks bad.”

“Image wise or the actual wound because-“You let out a small noise when she placed the frigid and stinging antiseptic against your face. It sent electric down your spine. “I didn’t know he had a bat.”

“A bat?”

“Right out of left field.”

Natasha’s frown deepened. This was supposed to be an easy job, and by all means, it was. You had accomplished your assignment of scaring up. You were sure he had released his bladder as he slid down the wall into a fetal position. Getting the money from a frightened man was going to be no problem.

Tonight was intended to be calm. You’d come home and shower and eat pizza and spend the entire night curled up in Natasha’s arms while she typed away on the computer. You’d listen to her breathing, her heartbeat.

Instead, she was roughly patching you up, buzzing with anger under her stare. “Why didn’t you take Clint?”

“Nat, I have a fantastic idea.”

“If it involves gutting that man alive and hanging him from a flagpole, then I am all in, darling.” Her words were light, distracted, as she wiped away a good portion of dried blood.

“What if we left things at the office, metaphorically speaking. What if we didn’t bring stuff like this home? Shut it all off.”  

She pulled back far enough to stifle her floral scent. There was an adorable crease between her eyes. “My mind doesn’t work like that, Malysh. This home is my office and vice versa. Someone hurt you and that is my business. That is my work.”

“I know,” you said, tucking a strand of fallen hair behind her ear. She glowered under her thick-framed glasses. You wanted nothing more than to kiss the frown off her face. “I know, but sometimes I just want to be with you.”

“Huh,”

“Huh?”

“Huh.”

This wasn’t exactly a constructive conversation. You figured as much when she ripped a bandage out of its waxy packaging and slapped it onto the gash against your temple. You let out a disgruntled noise and she grasped your waist and maneuvered you back to the floor. Your legs had fallen asleep and you were a little unsteady.

Natasha flicked on the sink and started scrubbing her hands of your blood. “No sex,”

“What?” You blinked at her, scratching fruitlessly at the adhesive on the bandage. It was incredibly itchy.

Natasha dried her hands on the nearby towel, “You heard me, no sex.”

“You… You’re withholding sexual pleasure because of something that happened at work?”

“Not something that happened at work, your refusal to talk about it.”

“Natasha,” You nearly whined.

“No sex!” She huffed, pointing towards the exit of the room “Go sleep on the couch.”

You dropped your shoulders in defeat. You had been banned to the couch? Your girlfriend didn’t’ withhold most things and the two of you had a very healthy and active life. There wasn’t true anger behind her words, instead she was testing you. Watching you until you give in.

“Fine,” You huffed, crossing your arms “The couch sounds lovely.”

“Good,”

“Great.”

“Fine.”

You grabbed the fuzzy blanket at the base of the bed and started to stalk towards the door. You could feel Natasha staring at you, waiting for you to turn around and apologize but it wouldn’t happen. Not this time. You were setting boundaries and if that included…no sex… then that was fine. It was fine.

“Zaychik?”

You turned back to Natasha, one eyebrow lifted, “Yes?”

“Leave the blanket.”

She gave you a sugary sweet smile before settling back into her previous position, pulling her computer into her lap. Your jaw was agape, but you tossed the blanket at her nonetheless and stormed out of the room.

The nerve, the absolute nerve!

Natasha wasn’t particularly hard to have a conversation with, but work was nearly untouchable with her. You knew that. She knew that. You did as you were told and protected her and her assets at all costs.

When you got back downstairs you fixed yourself a sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich before sulking back into the living room and flopping down onto the recliner in the corner. Yelena had since fallen asleep, and Kate was reading the book while her eyes grew heavy.

“You got kicked out, huh?”

“Kicked out, banned from sex.” You waved the sandwich around in the air “doghouse.”

Kate scoffed “the Romanoff sisters aren’t always the most forthcoming, are they?”

She was looking lovingly at Yelena, stroking her hair as the smaller woman curled deeper into her, fingers clenching at Kate’s flannel and then releasing as she settled back into a comfortable sleep.

“They make it hard to love them, but the moments where the mask slips and they’re vulnerable. Moments like these make everything worth it. And despite everything, you know they care. They’ll always care.”

“Sometimes too much,” you took a large bite of your sandwich.

“No such thing.”

Yelena stirred in her arms, nose pressed against Kate’s pulse point. She clenched her eyes tighter, her next words mumbled “Kate Bishop, if you don’t stop talking you will be sleeping on the couch with y/n.”

“Doghouse,” You said with a long sigh.

“Mm,” Kate hummed, letting out a quiet whisper “Doghouse,”

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife]

[mysticgalsworld]

a timeless encounter

a/n: this is my first Leopold Mountbatten fic you guys !! i’m rlly excited but disappointed bc i haven’t seen a lot of fics under this tag :( im sad cause he’s my dream man and i NEED more of him (that’s why i made this 😋) anyways lovelies, as always i take requests but lemme know what you think💕

summary: as the owner of a small cafe in New York that you hate, you don’t expect anybody to change your mind. But the strange-dressed man who wonders into the cafe one day may change your mind…

warnings: Leopold Mountbatten x f! reader, southern! reader, not spellchecked

The line in the cafe is piled up. When you hear the bell ding tediously, announcing another customer, you almost groan. You keep your head positioned on the lady in front of you, half listening as she drones on about what she got last time.

You continue conversing, almost forgetting about the person who just walked in, when an accented voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

“Good day. I am Sir Leopold Mountbatten. How do you do?”

Your head turns to the side as you look to him. Surprised that he has walked to the front of the line, skipping about 10 waiting people, you almost scoff.

When you glance at him more closely and notice the strange clothes he’s wearing, your eyebrows crease. When he introduces himself and asks you, how do you do?, confusion rises to your face.

Keeping a calm, but confused face, you go to respond. “I’m sorry sir, there is a very long line of people waiting. Do you mind going to the back and waiting your turn?”

Leopold looks around, realizing the error he made. He turns back towards you with a sheepish expression on his face. "I apologize, I was not paying due attention."

He glances around, noticing the queue of people waiting. "It appears there are quite a few individuals waiting in line. I shall take my place at the end of the line. Do forgive my oversight."

You nod your head in confusion, agreeing to whatever he’s saying so he listens to you. You watch as he retreats to the back of the line. Shall? Do forgive? You think in your head as you question his strange choice of language. It’s nothing like the people in New York. You were lucky if you even got a thank you, which is nothing like the south, where you were raised.

Meanwhile you continue helping the female customer who’s still gabbing on about what drink she got from the menu last time. Still your mind wonders to the strange man who walked through the cafe doors.

Leopold patiently waits in line, studying the establishment with a mixture of curiosity and wonder, taking in the scents of hot drinks, the lone woman behind the counter.

As he waits, he can’t help but wonder what you think of him, your confusion evident in your expression. He glances at you every now and then, waiting for his turn to approach the counter.

Nodding as the woman finally decides what she wants, you move to take the next customer’s order. You continue this until the line dwindles down, the next person in line being the strange man.

Putting a small smile on your face, you’re sure he can read that it’s not entirely genuine due to your stressed and frazzled appearance.

“Hey sir, what can I get for you today?”

The strange man—Leopold was his name, right?—glances at you with a kind smile. “Good day. I shall have a cup of your finest black tea please, if you would be so kind.”

He glances across the counter to you, taking in your stressed appearance, his expression betraying a hint of concern.

You nod and jot down the order on your frayed notebook before telling him the total. He reaches into his pocket, retrieving a few coins to pay for the tea.

Looking up to him, your mind is baffled with curiosity and wonder. He notices your confusion and gives you a small questioning smile. Your mouth moves before your brain can tell it to stop.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

His eyebrows furrow in surprise before he clears his throat gently. “Indeed, I travel from afar. I hail from the city of Albany originally... Why do you ask?"

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you turn around to prepare the tea on the counter behind you. Glancing over your shoulder absentmindedly but still curious, you respond.

“The clothes. Oh and the accent. But you do know Albany’s the capital of New York? So that wouldn’t make you a traveler from ‘afar’… Or British.”

Leopold chuckles at your abruptness, amused by your observation. You zone in on his face, the small crinkle of crows feet in the corners of his eyes as he smiles widely. "Ah yes, my attire. I am quite well aware of Albany's status as the capital of New York. I was referring to the era I originate from. I hail from the year...”

He pauses, a little uncomfortable as the next words come out of his mouth. You urge him on silently, turning from preparing the tea to instead lean against the counter.

He continues with a slight gulp, “—1876. That is what I meant by saying I am not from around here."

Your body pauses as you lean against the counter. Hoping to not show a reaction, you go back to the forgotten tea, starting to pour it. Your mind is reeling, wondering if he’s being truthful or if he’s just a strange crackhead that managed to wander in.

Blinking a couple times, you place the pot down once you are finished pouring and turn to him incredulously. “1876. You’re from 1876.”

Leopold stands straighter at this, wanting to see your reaction and more importantly wanting to see if you’ll believe him. He tries to put on an easy smile, boarderline smirk to suppress his nerves. “Indeed, I am. I assume you do not believe me, my lady?”

Blinking rapidly, you turn back around to grab the ceramic teacup from the other counter. Grabbing it and placing it in front of him, your voice almost wobbles as you place your hands on your hips.

“You’re not goin’ through some sort of psychosis or somethin’, right? Or you’re not like a really good street performer in character?”

Leopold takes the mug daintily from the counter, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip as he nods. He hums as he takes his first sip of the tea, almost distracted by how good it is. “No, my lady. I assure you I am neither a person dealing with mental illness nor a skillful street performer. I am very much real, and am not pretending in the slightest. I can provide you with further proof if you require it.”

A teasing scoff comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. A small smile appears on your face as you cross your arms. “I don’t need your whole life story, hon. I just met you.”

Leopold nods a little, the tips of ears ears almost reddening as he almost doesn’t catch your teasing tone. When it registers, he can almost scoff at your comment, but can’t help himself from smiling at your wit.

You glance down at the glass counter, an idea popping in your head before you can stop it. Before your brain can tell your body to stop, you bend down and grab a blueberry muffin. Placing it on a small plate, you hand it to him with a soft smile. “Well I’ve always wanted a man from the 19th century to try my desserts. On the house.”

He accepts the blueberry muffin with a gracious nod. “I appreciate your generosity, my lady. However, I must insist you allow me to pay for it. It doesn’t seem right, accepting something ‘on the house.’”

You shake your head, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. Smiling widely at him, you lean back on the counter. “Please just take the muffin and sit down…”

Leopold takes his muffin, tea, and your instruction to sit down, and finds an empty table in a quiet corner of the cafe. He sits down, taking a moment to examine the surroundings, his eyes landing on you, busy at work at the counter.

Looking down at the muffin, Leopold’s stomach grumbles in response to the delicious scent wafting up to him. He takes a small bite, the sweetness of the blueberry muffin filling his mouth. He lets out a satisfied hum, savoring the taste.

Now wiping down the counters, you watch the customers eat peacefully as the full cafe comes to a lull. You turn to restock inventory and leisurely take customer orders, almost forgetting the strange man supposedly from 1876.

Glancing down at the wall clock that’s nudged in the cozy wall of the cafe, you sigh knowing that you need to clean this entire place before you can go home. While you know working at the cafe may be a dream for some people, you are too busy with the hope for something better.

Owning this cafe was just a enclosed way for your late father to trap you. After he passed, he left it to you instead of your mother. Since they had been divorced for a while it made sense, but it was his last wish to spite her. Now this place is just a constant reminder of the crippling debt, unpaid loans, and quitting employees he left.

Taking out your troubles on the counters as you go back to wiping, you barely notice a pair of eyes on you. Leopold watched you as you work, observing your routine in the cafe. The slight tick of his pocket watch indicates that it's getting late. He takes another sip of his tea, watching as the last few customers start to trickle out of the cafe. Once they're gone, he steps back up to the counter.

"Excuse me, my lady. You'll be closed soon, yes?"

Emerging from around the counter, you pass him and walk to the space filled with tables. You move gracefully, picking up empty dishes and cups that people have left. Leopold walks behind you, watching as you gather the dishes.

His mind urges him to take the dishes from your hands, anything to help make it easier for you. He stills, patiently waiting for his answer while holding his hands out to assist you. Absentmindedly you nod, not noticing his outstretched hands.

“Yep, in about 20 minutes.”

He nods, clearing his throat gently. His eyebrow raises curiously before answering. “I see. And you’ll be closing up and cleaning by yourself? Where is your waitstaff?” You sigh, your chest rising and falling with exhaustion before answering with a teasing lift.

“No waitstaff, I own it. Currently taking applications though if your friends from the 19th century wanna help out…”

A small smile played on Leopold’s lips at your comment as he let out a small chuckle. Your eyes lift to his, listening to the deep rumble of his chuckle. Through his small laugh he responds, “I doubt any of my acquaintances from the 19th century would be able to assist even if they wanted to. Their knowledge certainly won't be up to standard here."

You nod with a small smile on your own lips, noticing as the plates start to get heavier in your arms. You adjust them, wanting to continue your easy conversation with Leopold, but he easily notices your discomfort. He steps closer, his arms outstretched.

"Might I offer my assistance, my lady?"

Your arms, filled to the brim with dishes, quake. Before you even nod your head, he moves to take the dishes from your hands. The huge pile of dishes seem almost small in his huge hands. You have to stop yourself from gawking down at them, instead moving to a small closed door that leads to the kitchen.

Turning slightly to the man with a smile, you try to open the small doorway wide so he can get in easily. The door sticks, giving you a hard time as you try to open it. You speak over your shoulder to him, half embarrassed and half frustrated.

“Thank you so much—I’m sorry, this ole thing gets stuck all the time and it’s annoying when you carrying a load’a dishes.”

Leopold just nods, a patient smile on his face as he waits. You open the door with a harsh pull as you open it enough for him to pass. He looks to you with a question and you guide him to the sink where the dishes go. After he sets down the dishes, his eyes remain on you, an earnest and determined expression on his face.

"Is there anything else I can assist with? I am at your disposal, my lady."

You almost flush at his words, used to honey, ma’am, and even sugar from your hometown, but my lady seeming completely different. Wiping your hands on your worn apron, you shake your head with a smile.

“My lady, huh? You sure do know how to make a lady feel special… But no, I got it. You should be focusin’ on how to get back to the 19th century. Seems a more pressin’ situation to get back to where you’re from..”

Leopold grins at your response, standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he listens to you. He question softly, his eyes fixed on you.

“Perhaps it is a pressing matter to get back to one’s home, but what about yourself? Earlier this evening, you asked about my own accent, but now I am wondering about yours.”

Turning away from him, you go to the large sink. You turn on the water, starting to wash the dishes, not noticing Leopold coming beside you. You stare down at the dishes as you respond, “I’m from Georgia.”

He nods, humming with sincerity. He goes to open his mouth to ask another question, but you turn to him, holding up a soapy hand to stop him. “Y’know you don’t have to stay here, I can’t pay you. You should be goin’ on your way.”

He shakes his head with a neutral smile on his face. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back as he leans forward towards you. “Perhaps. However, I simply cannot leave you to close and clean the cafe by yourself. It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and they find their way to your hips. Your southern accent slips out heavily, frustration evident. “I assure you, I’m fine. You should be goin’ on your way Mr...” You pause, hoping for him to repeat his name.

“—Sir Leopold Mountbatten.” Leopold raises an eyebrow at your stubborn insistence, amused by your southern character. He continues, his voice lifting with a smile.

“And I have no doubt you can handle closing up on your own, my lady. But that does not mean you should have to.” He pushes off the doorframe, taking a step closer to you.

"Please, allow me to help. I cannot leave knowing you'll be here for the next few hours, finishing up all by yourself."

You almost smile at his insistence, but push it down. You walk past him towards the heavy, brown door which leads to the main entrance. You open the door with a grunt and hold it open for him. With a small smile, you place your hands on your hips. The twang comes out of your voice when you speak softly to him.

“Well, yes you can and you will. Thanks for the offer, hon…” Leopold looks at you with a mixture of disappointment and acceptance in his eyes. He nods, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Very well, my lady. If you're certain you don't need any aid, I shall take my leave then."

He takes an unnecessary large step in your direction before pausing in front of you, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment. Without a word, he lowers himself into a deep bow, his eyes never leaving your face.

"Farewell, my lady."

Your eyes narrow with confusion as he bows, but you nod and laugh softly in response. “Bye-bye Leopold…”

You watch as he hesitantly walks through the door to the main entrance. He turns back to you with doe eyes, giving you another opportunity for you to accept his offer, then leaves when you shake your head with a smile.

Leopold gives a final wave before stepping outside, the heavy cafe door closing slowly behind him. He pauses for a moment outside, gazing at your silhouette through the glass, a hint of reluctance in his eyes.

With a resigned sigh, he forces himself to turn away from the cafe, his footsteps heavy as he starts walking down the sidewalk. He mentally scolds himself for his impulsiveness and foolishness.

While you clean, you think of the strange man. You wish you accepted his offer. Or his telegram number.. you laugh to yourself at your stupid joke as you continue to scrub the counters.

Hours later, you finally finish. Grabbing your purse, you go to your house, and fall into a deep sleep. Filled with dreams of the 19th century and a man who is almost 150 + years older than you, you sleep more peacefully than you ever had before.

For Leopold, as the evening descends on the city, he finds himself unable to sleep. His mind is consumed with thoughts of the lady from the cafe. He tosses and turns in his bed, the events of the day replaying in his mind over and over again.

He wonders what she is doing at the moment. Is she asleep in her bed? Is she also lying awake, thinking about him? The questions plague his mind as he continues to lie in bed, struggling to find rest.

With a frustrated sigh, Leopold finally sits up in his bed. He throws the covers off and gets up, pacing restlessly in his room. The clock ticks loudly in the background, mocking his insomnia. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the thoughts of the lady that seem to be etched in his mind.

As the next day approaches, you continue your routine. You get out of bed, your feet cold against the unwelcoming tile of your small apartment. As you walk towards the kitchen, you continue your morning routine; making breakfast, showering, changing, and leaving.

When you finally make your way to the cafe, your anxious and somewhat excited. Secretly, you hope the mysterious man from the past comes back.

As the sun slowly rises, Leopold has still not gotten any sleep. He spent the rest of the night pacing in his room, his thoughts consumed by you. Eventually, he gave up on sleep, seeing as he wouldn't be able to get any.

While he goes about his day, his thoughts still drift back to you. He finds himself missing the warmth and homeliness of the cafe. He knows that he shouldn't, but he can't help it. He decides to pay the cafe another visit, hoping to see you again.

a/n: hey you guys, lemme know what you think pls !! i love Leopold so much so i am so excited to write more (he is my Mr. Darcy) also don’t forget i take requests.. anyways lemme know if u want a pt. 2 💕

[therightrighthand]

So the votes came in, and as promised, the Fallout variant of Del for the Del-verse DEE, the (semi) super mutant! This is actually a pt.1 of 2 because another idea for a Fallout Del came to be in the process that works in parallel, so you lucky bunch get 2 Del's for the price of one!

And obligatory ref sheet for Dee and her best pal in the world, Rolls!

Lore:

[???] "Audio recording, date [REDACTED] between Doctor Langstrum, Senior Institute Bio Division, and myself [REDACTED] regarding project D.31, and D.31-B."

[D] "Hello [REDACTED] Hows [REDACTED]?"

[???] "no formalities, please, Doctor. This is a report, not a casual chit-chat. Let us start with Subject D.31, who were they, and why were they picked for projects D.31-A and D.31-B"?

[D] "Oh, right, of course, god forbid we act like people in this place. But, yes, right, straight to business. Let me go on record to remind everyone this project was over 20 years in the making with plenty of oversight, so I refuse to take the blame for D.31-A and B's cost and actions."

[???] "Answer the question, Doctor Langstrum"

[D] "Fine!- Fine. During my early tenure as the Senior Head of the Bio Division, I inherited a task to find suitable host subjects that showed signs of advanced evolution on the surface. Whilst [REDACTED] was busy trying to look for Vaults, I focused on the livestock not on ice."

"After a few years of blood testing, we eventually came across subject D.31. A 'raider' with an unfathomable resistance to radiation without grotesque mutation. Truly an anomaly of evolution, which we believe could unlock the secrets of radiation immunity. In principle." "After 'acquiring' the D.31 we transported her back to the institute and kept her body in cryogenic storage for future study and experimentation. Since then she has been the base DNA code for various projects and studies."

[???] "In this stage of the interview, I'd like us to focus on subject D.31-B, the 'Semi-Super mutant'?"

[D] "I resent that name! Our project far exceeds the original, there is nothing sub par-. Hmph, let me exsplain. The F.E.V virus (Forced Evolution Virus) left to run rampant on the surface only served to create powerful, idiotic monsters. Our Institute variant, the I.F.E.V was designed to improve on the formula using D.31's DNA to create 'Super Drones'." "By limiting their strength, increasing their endurance, allowing for a moderate intellect and mental programming, we would be able to prepare ourselves for the future! Imagine a workforce that is compliant, invulnerable to radiation, able to consume toxic food, strong enough to cultivate the land, clean up the pollution and build cities to our specifications! They would prepare the surface for the humanities future population"

[???] "This project is a recent project correct?"

[D] "Yes, at least one that has taken over 20 years to refine"

[???] "And how many of these "Super Drones" have been produced?"

[D] "...one"

[???] "One?"

[D] "It is still in its infancy. Our first trial subject, subject D.31-B, is still above us now, and we are still collecting data."

[???] "Tell me more about D.31-B"

[D] "D.31-B is the I.F.E.V built clone of subject D.31, who remains in cryo-stasis. With her DNA, we were able to create D.31-B and use her underlining consciousness to build the basic cognitive functions."

[???] "So D.31-B shares memories with D.31?"

[D] "Oh no, no, no, no, that would be catastrophic, we learnt our lesson with D.31-A. D.31-B's memories of her original source are removed, leaving only the basics intact, talking, eating, sleeping, so on, and with our programming, she was ready to get to work immediately after deployment."

[???] "How has D.31-B's progress been so far?"

[D] "Very good in fact. We left her to wander in a safe and isolated part of the commonwealth, and immediately she began to gather resources, build shelter and even cultivate land. All without any prompting or instruction, as she was programmed to do. Granted, her physical appearance has gotten her into trouble with people on the surface, being a mutant and all, but she's proven to be combat effective enough to stay alive." "Interestingly, she is now travelling with a companion as their follower, only reaffirming her subservient nature to help rather than follower her own goals. She even has a name, 'Dee', which I imagine is after the brand-code marking on her arm"

[???] "How is that not a security risk in and of itself, Doctor?

[D] "That's the beauty of our programming! Despite the obvious clue to her origins, she actively ignores it at every step. In a few more months we may even have a case to pitch this to the board for a full rollout."

[???] "Hmph, indeed. Thank you Doctor, that's everything I need for now regarding D.31, and D.31-B. Now, I'd like to turn our attention to the next topic of this interview. D.31-A. The Proptype."

[D] "... It's been 10 years [REDACTED], Sure they are a problem but, if they haven't found us by now then the-" [ Interview end ]

-- Find my Discord and other sites: linktr.ee/The_red_right_hand Do not use, repost or claim (rp) my art/character  Art © The-Red-Right-Hand

[rollinouttahere-writes]

I have came far and wide dear maiden to ask you …PLEASE , PLEASE YANDERE PAULIE!! I’m fine with platonic or romantic I just need more content for this man he’s a rare gem 🥰😍 

I feel like he be the type to use rope to keep his darling safe and captured but if reader ever wants to escape just show some skin and watch him fumble XD 

I've got lots of Paulie requests, so here's a short drabble about that one specific idea. Hope you like it!

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Yandere Paulie x Fem!Reader

.7k words

Tonight was supposed to be a cute little night in with your boyfriend, that’s it. Paulie had invited you over for dinner and to just hang out afterwards, so imagine your shock when you get there only to see all the windows nailed shut and an obscene number of locks on the door. 

Lucky for you, he’d made one massive oversight and forgot about the bathroom window. You’re not sure if he actually forgot, or if he’d just assumed it wasn’t big enough for you to escape through. Regardless of the reason, you were able to squeeze yourself out of it and were currently sprinting away from his home.

“(Y/N)! Get back here, this is for your own good!” You cursed under your breath as you heard his boots running right for you.

You try to turn the corner and get out of his direct line of sight, but are brought to a halt by a rope wrapping itself around your arm and tightening. The sudden loss of momentum nearly bowls you over, but you manage to catch yourself.

“Please just calm down, we can talk this out,” Paulie huffs out between breaths. The hand that isn’t clutching onto the rope attached to you is held out as if he’s trying to placate a scared animal.

“Talk this out?! Are you insane?! You tried to kidnap me!” You spat at him. 

“I did not! Don’t think of it like that! I was just- just- I was relocating you. Permanently,” his voice teetered off towards the end in what you hoped was realization. He shook his head, “It doesn’t matter, let’s go back home and we can talk more there.” 

Nope, Nevermind. He’s actually unhinged. 

“NO! Get away from me, you freak,” you screamed, desperately trying to get the rope unfastened from your arm.

“Would you keep it down?! People are going to think I’m hurting you!” Paulie hissed. He was pulling on the rope to drag you closer and was only a few steps away now. If you didn’t do something quick, he was going to take you away again, and you don’t think you’ll be able to escape as easily this time around.

In a fit of desperation, an idea came to you. An awful, terrible idea, but one that just might work. You stopped pulling away, and instead faced him fully. Your abrupt lack of resistance gave Paulie pause, and he eyed you warily, not sure what to make of this quite yet. 

Your hand found purchase on the front of your button up blouse. You clutched the shirt tightly, then violently ripped it open sending buttons flying everywhere. 

Paulie’s confused face turned bright red and his arms rose up to shield his eyes from the scandalous view, “What do you think you’re doing, you harlot! See! This is why I’m doing this! The world is corrupting you!”

While he’s screeching about your “indecency”, you’re able to slip the rope off and hand it to a yagara tied to a nearby dock. You free it and tell the animal to leave. Understanding the assignment, the yagara nods, takes the rope into its mouth, and takes off down the canal.

Paulie is immediately yanked into the water and is flailing and splashing as the yagara drags him away from you. You can hear him yelling for you to not leave, but you of course don’t listen and keep running now that you’ve gotten him off your tail for the time being.

There’s only one place you can think of that you can go. The train station. Nowhere else will truly be safe. Not only is Paulie well respected in Water 7, he has friends in very high places. If he decides to pull some strings, there won’t be anywhere you can go within the city where someone will be willing or able to help you.

The last train of the day should be leaving soon. If you can get on and it leaves before Paulie catches up, then you’ll be in the clear for the time being. 

And if worse comes to worst, you suppose you can try and kill him by flipping up your skirt if you see him again.

[ourdawncomes]

THORA CADASH

triggers: drug use/drug trade

Notes

I write Inquisition as having been about three years, not one. I do make the time between Trespasser and Veilguard shorter for the sake of the timeline, so Veilguard still takes place in 9:52 Dragon.

Thora's criminal past becomes common knowledge, although what she did is subject to rumour.

Her default Hero of Ferelden is an f!Paragon Aeducan (Tamar Aeducan) written by Joly. I am happy to write with others, naturally.

Iander Lavellan (@theshirallen) is a canon companion/agent in her story.

Any choices she made in-game can be changed to respect the other writer's choices/preferences regarding their character (for example, Thora will always recruit the mages, but if you prefer human!Cole I would defer to the Cole rper).

Basics

Nickname(s): Sunflower, Salroka Title(s): Inquisitor, First-Thaw, Cometesse, Herald of Andraste Profession: Carta smuggler (formerly) Age: 32 (in Inquisition) Birthday: 4th Solace, 9:9 Dragon Race: Dwarf Gender/Pronouns: Cis Woman, She/Her Orientation: Bisexual

Personality

Faith has always been one of the driving motivations in Thora’s life. Faith in the Chant, faith in the Stone, and faith in the people around her. Her willingness to cooperate and spread work around aided her when she found herself leading a small team of smugglers. As a leader she’s personable, and inspires more loyalty in her subordinates than she often realises. The one person she has very little faith in is herself. She has a tendency to second-guess herself and rarely takes credit for her accomplishments, preferring instead to spread the praise to others.

History

Born in Ostwick to the infamous Cadash family. Thora was given two choices: marry rich, or join the Carta. She had no interest in finding a suitable husband, and so as soon as she was physically capable she joined the Carta alongside her brother, Tetrak. For most of her teenage years she was used as a unassuming mule for lyrium deals, a non-threatening presence that rarely drew the eye of the authorities. It was among the Carta she received her casteless brand, the mark meant she was as good as dust, but at least she was apart of something.

Her first real assignment was in Amaranthine. After the Fifth Blight the Cadash family were ready to get a foothold in Ferelden, with the Ferelden Circle decimated and the Templars in disarray it was easy enough for her team to move in. In Amaranthine she witnessed the the destruction of most of the city, but her team were able to make it out with a tidy profit to show for it.

From Ferelden she was sent to Kirkwall alongside her brother. They arrived at the height of tension between the Chantry and the Qunari. Her brother, moved by the purpose and acceptance the Qunari offered, joined their ranks. Thora was left isolated, establishing ties in the fracturing Templar and mage ranks. She didn’t hear from Tetrak until months after the Qunari attack, in a letter which urged her to join him.

Thora remained in Kirkwall, withdrawing a few months before the Chantry explosion set the Mage-Templar War in motion. When the Conclave was called in 9:41 Dragon, she and a team of Carta dwarves were sent to the summit, knowing the decision would impact the lyrium trade as surely as it would the mages.

Verses

v; once more unto the breach ( thora | inqusition ) default. open.

She was a mistake, an oversight- she was supposed to be dead. Whether it was sheer luck that saved her or divine intervention Thora stumbled from the Breach, broken, but breathing.

Before that day she had never been anyone, at least so far as everyone else was concerned. Most days she was lucky if people used her name, she'd been trained to answer to 'dwarf' and worse, 'Herald' took some adjusting, and 'Inquisitor' took more. Yet Thora is determined to do the most with her newfound power, knowing it was broken before any holes tore the sky in two.

Main choices: Mages allied, Celene rules alone, took the Well of Mythal, redeem Solas

v; and then the dawn came ( thora | trespasser ) plotted.

(veilguard spoilers - anything veilguard is a wip)

In the wake of Corypheus's defeat, Thora spent most of her time negotiating and going to banquets. As time went by most of those she considered among her Inner Circle moved on with their lives, with a few exceptions. Though she and Divine Victoria put off the Exalted Council for as long as they could, soon the time came when she had to face them.

She arrived, resolved to keep the Inquisition intact despite Ferelden's call for dissolution, ignoring the ever-present sting in the middle of her left hand that had been getting worse by the day. Considering the revelations of corruption within her own people, and the realities of Solas's plan, Thora disbanded the Inquisition.

In the years since the Exalted Council and Solas's ritual, Thora resides in Kirkwall. Her half-sister takes her family's seat at the Merchant's Guild. She presides over a small network of spies, scouts, and more, and commits to research in her hope of understanding and changing the Dread Wolf's heart.

When the Blighted hordes are at Kirkwall's door, with Morrigan's help, Thora takes refugees to Cadash Thaig through an eluvian. It was discovered during Inquisition by herself and Solas, and now lies under the protection of ancient Elvhen spirits who seek to guard what Kal-Sharok had destroyed long ago. For now, it is safe, and from there she redoubles her efforts to see if there is a better way for her friend's story to end.

v; dust to dust ( thora | youth ) plotted.

Thora is born in the city of Ostwick. She is the eldest daughter, and grows up with an expectation of marrying above her station put upon her by her father. Instead, she joins the Carta when she is old enough to carry a weapon. Though initially she's little more than a kind face to smooth negotiations, she becomes a part of the organisation in her own right.

Over time, she creates a reputation for herself and is given her own team, small though it may be. She deals, for the most part, with breaking deals and pushing lyrium. In the wake of the Fifth Blight the Cadash clan decided that it was best to get their foot in the door of Ferelden, so to speak. They sent several groups, and Thora, now twenty-two, was given a postion in Amaranthine. She was there when the Darkspawn attacked the city, and while the city burned the Carta hid, their swords drawn, but unwilling to fight. She remained just long enough to see that the Carta turned a profit before she left for Kirkwall.

v; because of these souls we sang ( thora | companion ) plotted.

Before or after the events of In Hushed Whispers / Champions of the Just Thora can be recruited as a means to bring more lyrium into the Inquisition. She joins the party, and boasts the powers of a dwarven beserker, albeit an untrained one.

As a companion she is less confident than as Inquisitor, and without the affirmation of a whole organisation is not inclined to think of herself as anything more than a Duster. If befriended, she can be encouraged to leave the life of a Carta agent to pursue other goals. If Leliana is crowned Divine, she may join the Chantry as either a Sister or Left Hand. If it is someone else, then she will put her services to use in some other way.

[fantasyfantasygames]

DD

The official Dunkin' RPG, author unknown, 2020

You remember the official Wendy's RPG? No? Oh you lucky person you. Anyway, yes, there was an official Wendy's RPG, followed by a Burger King RPG, a McDonalds euro-style board game, and... whatever that... thing... Arby's came up with was. A dozen other similar products appeared and disappeared over the course of 11 months. It was the apocalypse at the time; you might as well try anything.

One that I have a copy of is "DD", a game of...

Ok you need some more context here.

While Dunkin' Donuts LLC (aka Dunks aka DuDo's) has spread like a purple-and-orange fungus across every airport in the USA, it originated in Massachusetts. Specifically, it's from Quincy (where Quincy market is not located people, not located), south of Boston (where Quincy market is located). The greater Boston area has a LOT of nerds, and a high number of game designers live in the nearby area. Most of them are indie designers.

So when Dunks decided to jump on the bandwagon, and wanted to "do something different" - to stand apart from, say, the Krispy Kreme Kastle Krasher game - they hired an indie designer whom they never bothered to credit, paid them an unknown amount, and published whatever they wrote without much oversight.

The result is Divers Duties, a game of Pilgrim drama and lawmanship that runs off the Dogs in the Vineyard engine. Yes, whomever wrote this made Dunks in the Vineyard. If you own a copy of DitV, you will immediately clock this as a bizarre reskin, complete with dice pools, raises, Fallout rolls, give, and escalation. Instead of being Mormon-inspired, it's Calvinist-inspired, which... let's just say my partner has a death wish for John Calvin that she's upset she'll never be able to act on just because he's rude enough to already be dead. There's no art. The layout is nice and clean.

What does this game have to do with Dunks? Other than the extremely non-Pilgrim color scheme and a probably-contract-mandated number of references to donuts on each page, nothing whatsoever. There are no extra uses of zeroes in the rules. The city of Quincy is not even name-checked. Nothing gets dunked, except for the company itself arguably getting dunked on by this writer who was audacious enough to obey the exact letter of the contract and run off with the money.

The game ends with a land acknowledgement for the Wampanoag and Massachusett people, a touch I would love to see in more historical US games.

[cayonaa]

– Mechanical Bird – | Prologue

Back to the Future.

Summer 1999.

On the device serving as a clock, the date 05.07 was illuminated with red light bulbs. Because of a colossal catastrophe that occurred 27 years ago due to critical oversights by scientists, after which the country still had not recovered, it seemed like it had just happened.

After nuclear accidents at power plants, flooded oil rigs, collapses of laboratories, and various epidemics in major cities, people decided to completely abandon and prohibit most technologies so that such horrors would never happen again.

Well, the government made another mistake, and this time it's the last one that will undo all the achievements of science and technology. They shut off electricity across the country, silly, right? Definitely. They gave some speech about "ecology," but really, the higher-ups just left their offices running on backup power, claiming it was necessary to monitor the situation.

But it seems like no one was planning to improve the situation, not at all.

Over time, those who realized the hopelessness of their situation fled to neighboring countries, where there were restrictions, but not as severe. The first few hundred stayed across the border, getting used to different laws and thanking their lucky stars for being saved. But after crossing into foreign territory once too often, it became inconvenient for governments to keep so many refugees and soon special military patrols were sent to the borders, sending everyone back.

The last hope of living a peaceful life in comfort and convenience had now been cut off, so people had no choice but to... accept it.

The city began slowly but irreversibly turning into ruins, giving way to nature. At first, the population tried to "revive" the architecture and technology, but nothing improved. Buildings and some non-essential factories, without maintenance, became overgrown with moss and gradually fell apart. Only residential houses looked more well-kept and suitable for living.

Predictably, after such widespread devastation, looters appeared, roaming the abandoned and sometimes inhabited houses in search of goods, medicine, and food just to survive.

Money no longer made sense, as banks had ceased to function, replaced by weapons, food, valuable items, and psychoactive substances. Even behind a locked door of an apartment building, you could never be sure of your safety.

Many staged rebellions and futile attempts to break through the concrete walls of the main administration, but what good were they when even the phones and televisions didn't work? Even the lowest echelons of society already understood that the government was concerned and would only ever be concerned about its own ministers.

Over several decades, the criminal world, as in the 60s and early 70s, was reaching dangerous levels of activity again. Those heading there were not only escapees from malfunctioning prisons but also regular civilians. No technologies can obscure the animal instinct. In such a situation, the desire to survive only intensifies.

Some formed groups, competing with others for a place in the sun and a chance to prolong their existence for another day. This often led to muffled sounds of gunfire, rifle-butts striking, someone's shouts, and swearing heard at night.

If you listened closely to the nighttime silence, which never brought peace or safety, you could make out faint knocks, the hum of an engine from a suspicious black van with tinted windows driving by, the creaking of window shutters, and the cries of birds.

Eyes had grown used to the darkness of dusk, when the sun sets behind the tall buildings on the horizon, and ears had grown used to the absence of the once familiar sound of the air conditioner and the brief signals from the power meter.

[moriavis]

'I think I just played myself' prompt - your choice of fandom

You make it so hard on me, not giving me a fandom. ;_;

However! That put in mind the prompt request I received from @avasharpexme uh... in 2020, for an Iris/Shawna story. I knew you'd also appreciate it. (Also, sorry! @avasharpexme! I didn't mean to take three years to write this for you!)

(Also on AO3.)

~*~

Shawna Baez didn't necessarily have a particular fondness for Central City, all things considered. The Flash really made things a drag. Still, it was home, and at least their local superhero didn't kill most of the time, unlike the whacko over in Star. He was, however, still a white guy with a savior complex and basically no oversight.

The world was the same as always. It just put on new clothes.

Tonight wasn't about superheroes and supervillains though. Tonight was about being free.

Shawna entered the club, shrugging off her jacket and handing it to the bouncer. He took one look at her —black leather pants, green crop top, the strands of lights wrapped around her like she was a fucking Christmas tree— and waved her in without a word. Aaah. Was there anything better than notoriety? She'd gone from the side piece of a two-bit criminal to a force of nature in her own right, and she was living for it.

She was already dancing before she hit the club floor. She was beautiful, sexy, and in control. If it got to be too much, she'd teleport somewhere to get a breather. Being a meta was so damn cool.

Shawna danced, took pictures, and even signed an autograph or two; she hated to admit it, but Cold had it right sometimes. It actually was really nice to meet a fan. She eventually made her way to the bar for her first drink of the night, and then proceeded to do a double-take at the familiar looking black woman in front of her who, she noted, looked amazing in that red dress.

She'd sworn off dating men who weren't metas, but she was willing to make an exception for someone so beautiful. She leaned against the bar and gave the woman her best smile, stealing a look at her from beneath her eyelashes. "I have to tell you that you look beautiful tonight. Can I buy you a drink?"

Beautiful brown eyes locked with Shawna's, and for a moment she couldn't catch her breath. "I won't say no to a free drink." She offered her hand, and Shawna shook it, letting her fingers linger as they parted. "Iris West. What brings Peek-a-Boo back to Central?"

"You know me?" Shawna smiled. "And hey, I know this sounds like a line, but I'm sure I've seen you before."

"I"m the daughter of a cop," Iris said, her mouth curving into an answering smile. "And the owner of the Central City Citizen."

"Cop adjacent and a reporter." Shawna winced. "I think I just played myself."

"I suppose that depends, Ms. Baez," Iris teased. "Are you planning on robbing the place or giving me an exclusive?"

Shawna rested her arm against the bar and signaled the bartender. "I guess that depends on what kind of exclusive you're looking for."

Iris ordered her drink when the bartender got to them, and Shawna paid, just as she'd promised. "What kind of exclusive are you willing to give me, Peek-a-Boo?"

Shawna tilted her head and looked down at the two jello shots the bartender pushed her way, and shrugged. "A drink, a dance? Maybe we'll just see what happens."

Iris laughed, and Shawna was struck all over again by how lovely she was. She wiped her sweaty palms on her leather pants, and for a moment she was just LeShawn, a girl with no future, instead of Shawna, a meta teleporter who could go head to head with the Flash and his team.

"We could do two dances," Iris said, leaning close to be heard over the crowd and the start of a new song. "Maybe we'll both get lucky tonight."

Iris raised her glass. Shawna clinked her glass against Iris' and drank in one swallow. Yeah. Tonight was going to be fantastic.

~^~

[theomnicode]

Burning fever

Archive of our own

-*-

Heroes all around the cities are falling mysteriously ill to the ever present flu. No one is certain what kind of viral infection would affect just the heroes. Some intelligent monsters have been scouting around and seen that there’s far less heroes to actually handle them than usual, so they’ve begun to attack people en masse. Even the fabled Q-city seems to be overrun by monsters. Genos attempts to pull triple duty by taking down as many monsters as possible, as he is not affected by the mysterious viral infection.

One monster, while not a dragon level threat, manages to incapacitate Genos with electromagnetic pulses. Genos internally berates himself for not thinking about protecting himself from electromagnetism. What a massive oversight on his part. 

However, when the monster attempts to finish him off, Saitama jumps into the fray in pyjamas and punches it sluggishly, exploding it into copper and wire particles on the spot. 

“Man, can you guys make less noise right outside my house…I can’t sleep with all that ruckus,” Saitama complains, nose stuffed and looking feverish. “Especially when my head feels so fuzzy…”

Genos looks at Saitama’s sweating form with concern. “I’m very sorry, Saitama-sensei, I was not prepared for the enemy to have electromagnetism. I will—”

Saitama starts to wave off Genos’ long winded apology, but coughs hard instead, almost bowling Genos over in the process and shivers so much that the pavement cracks apart.

“Man, it’s so hot and cold at the same time,” he holds himself as he shivers, “I don’t remember ever feeling this awful…” 

Saitama wavers, trying to stand upright but failing miserably. “Now I feel even worse after I punched it, I wonder why…” he manages to utter out, then faints on the spot.

“SAITAMA-SENSEI!” 

Genos catches him onto his arms quickly before Saitama can actually fall down flat on his face on the pavement and takes note of his actual temperature, noting with distress that it's dangerously high and that Saitama-sensei must’ve exerted himself too much, despite it not being even miniscule amount of effort he normally needs to dispose such monsters. Genos curses the circumstances once more, for inadvertently putting his sensei in danger and begins to rush him to the nearest hospital.

Genos can't for the life of him believe that feverish man in his arms is his master, the same man he deemed invincible, downed by a mere cold. It shouldn't be happening, logically there is no way Saitama-sensei would be able to get sick like this but here he is, carrying his prone, vulnerable master to the hospital for treatment. Perhaps he miscalculated somewhere, maybe common sickness can still affect even the strongest man on earth, but it still feels surreal...

He looks down at the man in his arms and distractedly notes Saitama-sensei is trying to grasp at his clothes weakly, delirious but coherent enough to realize he's being carried at fast speed and his hearing registers sensei mumbling his name. Genos tries to keep calm when he re-scans for elevated heart rate, sensei’s dangerously high temperature and the shivers–-correction, muscle tremors that rock his body. He's lucky that his stabilizers correct his grip, else Saitama-sensei would tremble right out of his arms.

“Do not worry sensei, I am en route towards the nearest hospital for urgent care. I have notified the staff of an incoming patient,” Genos' voice is serious, but soothing. He would carry Saitama-sensei to a proper treatment facility asap.

“Do I...really need hospital? That bad, huh…” Saitama croaks and violently sneezes, which Genos angles away from his head but an unfortunate lamp post still bends from the air pressure.

“Yes sensei, your body temperature is dangerously high for humans and you're experiencing muscle spasms, dehydration and elevated heart rate,” Genos recites his medical condition at a fast rate. “Hyperpyrexia is considered medical emergency, as it may indicate serious underlying condition or lead to severe morbidity or to—”

A sudden finger on his chin and his lower lip interrupts his rambling.

“20 words or less, Genos…”

“Yes sensei. I am sorry, I will stop rambling now. What I mean is, you need urgent medical attention for your extremely high fever.”

“Ok…” Saitama mumbles quietly. “I’m tired, ‘m gonna sleep…” He mutters weakly, then goes out like a light.

Genos starts running even faster.

[greenmansgrove]

RDNA 60th Anniversary; Beltane 2023

I came to druidry at a difficult time in my life. I felt the need for ritual amid all the personal turmoil, even if there wasn't much spiritual involvement to it as an atheist. Having not found much attachment to other practices (largely because of my atheistic leanings), I was surprised to find druidry still very much alive in my online searches, and it just so happened that there was a nearby active grove!

I actually intended to start attending their rituals last year around Beltane, but as a known insomniac, I slept right through both their Beltane and Midsummer rituals. Meanwhile, though, I began my own practice. According to the journal/grimoire I keep, I dedicated myself and my altar space to this path on May 1st of last year. I composed my own liturgy and everything, and I've continued to do so since then.

For a year, I've debated officially associating with the RDNA. I've shied away from other spiritual practices for many, many reasons, one of them being that I am cautious of any doctrine that imposes practices or beliefs of any kind. Reading @minnesotadruids's posts over a couple months was helpful in that regard, however. If nothing else, the RDNA seems to encourage wariness, making fun of its history and practices, and creating a path for oneself. Druidry, to them, is all-inclusive of spiritualities, and one can be a druid, no matter what one believes, including atheism or agnosticism. In some ways, this was an intellectual challenge for me, but a good one, and one I sorely needed in my lifelong, never-ending pursuits at personal growth. Ultimately, this way of thinking about things and practicing in the world is what I needed. It allows me to focus more on meeting people, creating community, listening to others, and acts of service than on practicing in any one specific or particular way. And at the end of the day, or when I go home from a ritual, I can still do things and practice in my own ways, without the permission or oversights of any singular authority. I'm also lucky that my local grove is mostly LGBTQ+ and vehemently proclaims their inclusivity and anti-racism.

I first started attending and getting to know my local grove at their Lughnasadh ritual last year. I've hardly missed an event since, aside from one or two casual hangouts. I've also done my best to continue my explorations of other practices, but continue to find the most joy with Oakdale Grove. I even began having dreams about joining the RDNA or about people I'd met in the grove--all of them happy, with an emphasis on community and creating a path for myself.

But I've still been anxious or cautious about officially declaring my attachment to the tradition of Reformed Druidry. Because of some undiagnosed neurodivergence, I've always taken up and then tossed aside rather quickly my various hobbies. I'm afraid druidry would be like that for me. I'm also afraid of not being "worthy" in my spiritual pursuits. I've never had any particularly strong spiritual experiences. But this past year has shown me that I'm not only capable of finding joy enough in something for it to keep my attention, but also that the experiences I do have are actually deeply spiritual. I've had a deep love for and connection with nature since my childhood, and studying druidry has only strengthened that and driven my curiosity.

So, I decided I would take a chance by joining the First Order during the 60th anniversary of the RDNA, just 45 minutes south or so from the Twin Cities. It's yet another strange bit of syncronicity in my life that I should find my job and move to the state where Reformed Druidry began, and especially as an act of protest, depending on how you look at it.

It was really a very nice time, between Saturday and Sunday, though both days have blended in my memory and I am struggling to separate them. Saturday was a little calmer, with fewer in attendance, but a lovely bonfire surrounded by people from my local grove and those who'd come from across the US to attend. Stacey Jo, who would be ordained into the Orders of Belenos, Sirona, and Ogmios Saturday night, presided as Arch Druid and showed us how she led rituals. During the ritual, one joined the First Order who would be ordained into the Second Order Saturday night, and then the Third Sunday morning, if he made it through his ordeal. In his own words, he said he'd been waiting 20 years for this moment, and I experienced both a mix of relief and imposter syndrome. Each member's story for their path is unique, but I'm continually in doubt if my path is the "right" one--something I'd like to write on more in the future.

Saturday was much longer and busier, and something like 22 druids showed up. Mike Sharding and another Carleton Alum, whose name escapes me, took us on a (semi-)brief tour of the Upper Arboretum to a few of the "holy sites" where Reformed Druidism started, including Monument Hill, the Druid's Den, and the Hill of Three Oaks. I was a little awestruck that so much natural beauty was preserved there and how much work was done to try to keep it that way or improve it.

Finally, though, it was time for the official Anniversary ritual, during which it began to storm. The rites and ordinations seemed punctuated by claps of thunder, which brought some attendees hesitation, but which I personally took as a good sign as a lover of rain and storms who regularly tries to go out and just stand in the rain and splash barefoot in puddles. Besides, the second tenet of Reformed Druidism is thus:

And great is the importance, which is of a spiritual importance, of Nature, which is the Earth-Mother, for it is one of the objects of creation, and with it we do live, even as we struggle through life do we come face-to-face with it. 

I feel that, among many other interpretations, one of them is that nature itself is something through which we struggle, and we are beholden to it. Even for all the offerings and aeromancy that a druid might perform, nature will do as it wills, and we must accept that, especially as part of our spiritual involvement with it. There was definitely much bemoaning of soaked clothes and ritual garb, but I took great joy that my ordination into the First Order was full of laughter and mirth while John the Verbose raised his face and arms to the sky in reciting the second tenet for another initiate and I to affirm.

And so I "officially" became a Reformed Druid. We spent the afternoon drying off, before feasting at a place called "Tanzenwald" (Dancing Forest, in German), retiring to the student union for a break, and eventually reconvening at the Council Ring for the evening festivities and start to the vigils. At one point, while waiting on everyone to arrive, the bonfire re-lit itself, as if signaling to the druids, and had to be quelled by Edward, with dry wood being in short supply.

A handful of Carleton students showed up for their own initiations, Stacey took part in her ordinations, vigils commenced, and the druids dispersed into solitude and meditations throughout the arboretum. I stayed at the Council Ring for quite a while after with Adam, Edward, and John, just enjoying the night. I don't get to spend much time outside at night as a teacher often stuck at home grading and course planning. One of the things I really enjoyed about the weekend is that I didn't feel obligated to speak to anyone or impose myself on conversations. I often just sat on my own, listening to others converse and enjoying being outside. Adam, Edward, and John, though, were all kind and asked questions of me (as many did over the weekend), and as a perpetually socially awkward individual and historic social reject, it was nice to feel included and like I was part of a community. It was something I've sorely needed in recent years.

At one point late into the night, John and I traveled across the man-made lake to the walkable labyrinth they have built into one of the islands. I haven't walked a labyrinth since I was 8 or 9 years old and lived in Arkansas, but I've read plenty about them in my studies and even watched/listened to Sting's (the musician) Songs from the Labyrinth / The Journey and the Labyrinth.

John gave me the lantern and let me go first. I wish I could walk labyrinths more often. It took a minute to get into the rhythm of it, but in just letting my mind wander as I watched my footing, I could begin to feel what labyrinth walking might offer someone. At first, the sharp twists seemed to reflect my inner anxiety, like some strange metaphor for the racing and looping thoughts. But soon enough, the back-and-forth turns opened up into more languishing, longer paths along the outside of the labyrinth, and I felt calmer. That made going back into the tighter turns much easier. I was even surprised when I came upon the center, not sure what to do there. I think my mind expected to find an exit directly out again after making a clock-wide loop around the center, but one is forced to retrace their steps instead. And this, too, was easier and calming. Given more time, I would have walked the labyrinth several more times, but it was getting late and I had two cats at home to feed. After a little more time at the fire with Adam and John, I headed out.

I'm really glad I went. I don't know what the future holds for me within (or without) the RDNA, but I'm eager to see. I don't know yet if I'll join the Second Order and prepare for the priesthood. I've had dreams about it, and my dreams are strangely prophetic at times, but what does/will the call of service sound like for me? I am trying to have patience... and to keep up my studies over the next year. I worry about being over-eager. I need to get better at meditation, and I'd like to finish making one of my staves so I can take up Bodfish's "Salutations of the Day" on a regular basis. I would not say the last year has been smooth for me; I sometimes neglect to perform the rituals I prepare at home and for which I compose my own liturgy. But I will say the past year has brought me more calm and joy than I've had in a long time, especially coming out of several years of chaos and tragedy, both personally and globally. Here's to the safe travel of all the druids who came and to another year of my studies.

[cuntwrap--supreme]

In my city (over 1mil people if you count the metro area), there are 5 main homeless shelters. There are a handful of others, but they're small and more choosy with who gets in.

Of the 5 main shelters, only one doesn't require Sunday services. That single shelter that doesn't require attending church still wants you to verbally say you've converted. If you don't follow these requirements, you're out.

Of the 5 main shelters, none of them allow you to return past 8pm or leave before 6am. If you do, you're no longer allowed in that shelter. If your bus breaks down on your way back, it's back to the streets.

Of the 5 main shelters, only one has any real oversight during nights, and it's city cops who probably resent having to be there. The others have an unpaid volunteer who sits at a desk and is supposed to make sure no one is being assaulted or stolen from or dying, but is usually just a volunteer from whichever church runs the place who sits in a closed room and watches TV.

Of the 5 main shelters, none are disability or child friendly. If you're in a wheelchair, you have to hope someone around you can help you down to your cot on the floor at night, or help you piss when you go to use the non-handicapped stalls. If you have a child, that child is instantly taken from you (from birth to the day before they're 18) and they only let you have custody back if you manage to pull yourself out of extreme poverty. I imagine you do this via the bootstraps method?

Of the 5 main shelters, not a one gives people privacy. At best, you get a ratty old sheet draped across a wire to give yourself the illusion that you're not 2ft away from the next guy. Most just had mats or blankets on the floor and that's that.

I have talked to tons of homeless people in my day. Especially those who are homeless due to untreated mental illness. It's like random schizophrenic people can sense that I'm like them but have just been lucky enough to be able to force myself to hold together and not let the brain demons win. If that makes sense. Anyway. Across the board, I've heard people say they'd rather be in the streets than suffer through sleeping in a shelter. Even in the dead of winter. It was 13 degrees outside early this year and I'm trying to tell this woman sleeping under a bridge that I can take her wherever she needs to go (though I don't make the kind of money that would allow me to book her a hotel room, and I have no space in my apartment) and she told me she'd rather freeze to death than go to a shelter for the night. Or a knew a man once who had finally managed to get himself a job, but the job wanted him to be there at 5am and the shelter wouldn't change when they let him leave, so he had to go back to the streets and lost the job because he then had no address. Or another guy I ran into frequently who knew how to fix shit, but had a really bad meth problem, who would dig through dumpsters for broken electronics and small motor items and fix them for cash; he said it was less dangerous to sleep in the ditch between two highways because no one ever stole from him there, whereas any time he was in a shelter people would steal the stuff he was working on and no one would help and would focus too much on 'you're on meth again huh?'

That being said, there are various churches and nonprofits here who do a good job. There's an organization I worked with for a little while that takes single mothers off the streets, gives them a home, helps pay their legal fees so they get their kids back (if applicable), and gives them free childcare. The only downside is they expect you to have a job to sustain your family within 5 years, but they also have a program that allows the mothers to go to school for free for 2 years. There's also a church that has a creepy basement that they've outfitted with small rooms that they'll allow people to stay in so long as they don't cause trouble. But they only have about 10 beds, so there's not a lot they can do. Or I recently delivered groceries to a lady in a shelter that runs out of an old school. I think they said they have 100 rooms and are geared towards homeless people who want to get off drugs but don't have the resources to do so on their own. They give you up to a year to break your addiction, they give you space for relapses, and they allow people to stay there up to 3 years. If you feel like staying past your 3rd year (which I was told a lot of people do because you form such strong bonds with one another in a place like that), they charge you regular market price for a studio apartment.

But, sadly, the norm is horrible and unsafe conditions, unless you're like the biggest guy there. Staff at most shelters don't care. They don't consider those there to be people. And the few that do can't do much because those places are already so fucked up that one single person can't change much.

I've had this idea for years that, if I ever somehow had tons of cash, I'd buy up one of the dozens of empty warehouses in the city and convert them to studio apartments for the homeless. Just enough space for a bed, closet, kitchen, and bathroom. A place to restart safely. Have full time mental health staff available if anyone needs them. Locate it someplace near bus lines so it's easy to hop on the bus and go. Encourage people to try to get back on track but don't enforce it; rather, focus on building healthier habits overall, whether it's drinking less or not self sabotaging or being better about taking your meds, etc. The idea is to go about it from a mental health perspective instead of the usual, which is just focused on "ew these gross people live on the streets, put them in a building someplace." I think the only requirements I'd want is to check on daily so people know you're safe and a no violence policy.

Anyway. If someone has 5.6mil on hand, I live in a city with a homeless population that like doubles every year due to the ridiculous price of housing.

Also, like, I'm sorry but if you've set up a free shelter, and people refuse to go because sleeping on the sidewalk under a freeway bridge is more pleasant, that's fucking on you, that's not on them.

You really can't compete with sleeping under the overpass so you are going to force people into shelter?

Unspeakably cruel and stupid.

[betshy]

On Sunday 10th November, 2024 we had a mass shooting in England (BBC News, 2024). It was the same day we also had a mass stabbing (Sky News, 2024). Both incidents happened in East London. I was lucky to come across the news somehow, but the reality is that neither of these incidents made it to news' headlines, and were quickly forgotten. Are we starting to get used to these events taking place in this jurisdiction? That is how it began in the United States. First, everyone saw the headlines of mass shootings taking place every few years. For instance, in April, 1999, the prolific Columbine mass shooting took place (CNN, 2024). It shocked everyone, and the entire world witnessed it. The next mass shooting took place 8 years later. It was also shocking and it was actually larger in its impact. Then, every 2-3 years a mass shooting would take place, until it rose to several incidents per year. Nowadays, people in the US are used to this happening on a daily basis (Knutson, J., Axios, 2023). According to Schroering (2024), nearly 43,000 people were shot and killed last year in the United States and 125 people are, on average, shot and killed every day there. Back in the Day Mass Shootings Shocked Great Britain The small city of Plymouth in the United Kingdom was shocked when a mass shooting took place on a quiet summer day in 2021. The perpetrator, Jake Davison, a 22-year-old man with a history of mental health issues, went on a shooting spree, taking the lives of 5 innocent people before turning the gun on himself. Among the victims was his own mother. It was later revealed that Davison had been struggling with severe depression and feelings of isolation for years. He had a troubled childhood, marked by neglect and abuse, which had left deep scars on his psyche. Despite numerous attempts to seek help, Davidson's mental health deteriorated to the point where he felt he had no other option but to lash out in violence. The tragic incident in Plymouth shed light on the need for better mental health support and interventions for individuals like Davison who are at risk of harming themselves or others. It also sparked a debate on gun control laws in the UK, as Davison had obtained his weapon legally before carrying out the attack. In the aftermath of the shooting, the community of Plymouth came together to support the families of the victims and to advocate for better mental health resources in the city. The case of Jake Davison serves as a sobering reminder of the devastating consequences that can occur when mental health issues are not properly addressed and when individuals are able to access firearms without adequate screening and oversight. Gun Violence in the UK Nowadays 🩸 In the last year, mass shootings have become a disturbingly prevalent occurrence in the UK, leaving many wondering why this trend has escalated. While the UK has historically had strict gun control measures in place, mass shootings have still managed to make their way onto the nation's headlines with alarming frequency. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwTv45OW5Yw There are several factors that may contribute to the rise of mass shootings in the UK. One possible reason is the glorification of violence in the media, which can desensitise individuals to the consequences of using guns in violent acts. The portrayal of guns as a symbol of power and dominance in popular culture can inadvertently influence vulnerable individuals to seek out firearms as a means of asserting control over others. Another factor that may be contributing to the prevalence of mass shootings in the UK is the issue of mental health. Many of the perpetrators of mass shootings in the UK have been found to have a history of mental illness or emotional instability. Despite efforts to improve mental health services in the UK, there is still a stigma surrounding mental health issues that can prevent individuals from seeking help before it is too late. In addition, social and economic factors may also play a role in the increase of mass shootings in the UK. Disenfranchised individuals who feel marginalised by society may turn to violence as a means of expressing their frustrations and gaining attention. Economic disparities and lack of access to education and opportunities can also contribute to feelings of hopelessness and desperation that may drive individuals to commit violent acts. While there is no one-size-fits-all solution to addressing the rise of mass shootings in the UK, it is clear that a multifaceted approach is necessary. Stricter gun control measures, increased funding for mental health services, and efforts to address social and economic inequalities are all important steps that can be taken to help prevent future tragedies. Final Thoughts As it can be seen, what first seemed to be a sensationalist headline, became secondary news due to its prevalence and frequency. Is this now happening in the United Kingdom? Even more worrying is the fact that these types of incidents are becoming prevalent in every continent. Is there a forensic mental health pandemic? When will forensic mental health be taken seriously enough to get the World Health Organisation (WHO) involved in the mitigation of this epidemiology? Ultimately, it is crucial for the UK government and society as a whole to come together to address the root causes of mass shootings and work towards creating a safer and more secure nation for all its citizens. Only by addressing the underlying issues that contribute to violence can we hope to prevent future mass shootings in the UK. Read the full article

[sonarryx]

deftones - koi no yokan (review)

the main reason i chose koi no yokan for my profile picture is because it matches my soft sounds from another planet background really well—i tried setting my pfp as the white pony album cover and it just didn't look as good. i'm just lucky that this album also happens to fuck like hell.

so i started listening to deftones back in 2020 and probably reached my peak back in 2021. i frequently played all their albums back to back on spotify for background noise. i looped the absolute shit out of the song knife party off white pony, which will probably remain my most-played song on lastfm for a long, long time (unless diving woman overtakes it, which it's still got a ways to go).

i have this tendency to avoid the newer albums of bands that started in the 90s or 00s. that was definitely the case for deftones. the most recent album of theirs i owned was diamond eyes. i listened to the more recent ones, but i never got into them as much, and i didn't bother to get them on cd back in 2021-2022 when i was buying up all my favorites.

in retrospect, that was a massive oversight on my part. koi no yokan is an amazing album, and if it had only had a different year on it, i'm sure i would have loved it just as much as diamond eyes or around the fur, and certainly more than saturday night wrist. better late than never, i guess.

the opening track, "swerve city," is just perfect. it kicks off the album with an immediate full-throttle intensity. this album is another honorary driving hazard because of how easily it puts me in the mood to drive around like a maniac.

my favorite song on this album is probably "tempest". it feels like a self-contained journey in an album that is itself a much longer journey. the lyrics and instrumental of the chorus combine to form this sort of all-consuming turmoil that you can't help but get caught up in. i'm obsessed with both instances of the line "i know you can't be tired," which serve as the beginning of the heavy part of the song and the last defiant scream before the end.

one thing i've noticed about a lot of the tracks on this album is that they have quite a few outros that change the tempo or the feel of the song altogether. this is probably most obvious on "rosemary," which has not one but two instrumental sections at the end that are completely distinct from the rest of the song and from each other.

another thing that sets this album apart is the complete lack of downtime from song to song. some tracks have transitions that carry over from the end of one track to the beginning of the next, but even the ones that don't have virtually no silence in between. it's all very well-done and doesn't feel overly jarring. you can tell that they put a lot of thought into the overall flow of the album in every step of the production.

i love albums where you can tell the artists came in with a clear vision for what they wanted and executed it flawlessly. that's exactly what koi no yokan is—deftones at their very best. i'm so glad to have it in my life.

[hosticaaa]

"The  only  thing  that  can  defeat  power  is  more  power.  That  is  the  one  constant  in  this  universe.  However,  there  is  no  point  in  power  if  it  consumes  itself."  

A  postulation  that  was  destined  to  haunt  him.  The  virus  in  his  system  had  endowed  him  with  infinite  potential;  however,  just  as  soon  as  he  had  risen  to  embrace  his  accorded  superiority,  he  found  himself  inexplicably  impaired.  He  had  become  scathingly  aware  of  the  temporal  shell  of  his  humanity,  the  feeble  outer  casing  that  contained  him  making  its  limits  known.  

To  keep  himself  stable,  to  prevent  himself  from  being  consumed  by  the  darkness  that  inhabits  him,  his  system  requires  suppression  in  the  form  of  medicine  created  from  the  close  study  of  the  Golgotha  Virus  and  its  remaining  data. His  near  lifetime  acquaintance  with  the  man  behind  the  ill-fated  project  granted  him  easy  access, and  he  had  held  on  to  any  relevant  paperwork  for  himself,  knowing  its  value.  Knowledge  too  was  power,  though  the  power  of  the  pathogen  that  had  monopolized  his  body  had  become  a  riddle  resistant  to  solving.  

It  would  appear  that  there  were  still  some  problems  that  required  human  solutions.  Therefore  despite  all  his  potential,  he  had  to  accept  that  perhaps  the  one  man  who  could  have  helped  unshroud  this  mystery  was  lost  to  the  fires  of  Raccoon  City  all  those  years  ago.  A  mistake  on  his  behalf;  the  tragic  oversight  that  he  had  lived  to  regret  long  before  the  instability  that  festered  to  dampen  his  inhuman  might.  

The  last  thing  he  remembered  was  Chris  Redfield,  an  eternal  thorn  in  his  side  whose  continued  existence  he  had  only  himself  to  blame  for.  A  self-sabotaging  cocktail  of  his  own  hubris  and  a  twisted  sense  of  sentiment.  Truth  be  told,  though  he  knew  well  of  Chris's  capabilities  as  a  soldier,  he  didn't  expect  for  him  to  be  so  damn  lucky.  That's  what  it  was,  of  course,  luck.  It  had  to  be  ━  there  was  no  other  possible  explanation  for  his  continued  survival.

And  what  of  his  own  ?  That  was  something  else  he  lacked  answers  to.  He  remembered  that  woman  shooting  him,  and  he  remembered  falling  from  the  hanger  of  the  stealth  bomber  he  had  so  carefully  acquired,  but  everything  beyond  that  moment  is  missing  to  him.  It  was  only  recently  that  his  senses  had  started  returning  to  him.  He  couldn't  say  how  long  he  had  wandered  or  where  he  was.  His  direction  had  been  aimless  and  subconscious  up  until  the  attacks  of  those  creatures.  

Wherever  the  hell  he  was  ━  it  wasn't  Africa,  the  last  place  he  could  recall  being.  It  was  there  he  had  been,  on  the  verge  of  seeing  his  ultimate  plan  come  into  fruition  when  Chris  Redfield  showed  up,  souring  everything.  Something  he  had  proven  himself  to  have  a  natural  talent  for,  much  to  Wesker's  eternal  frustration.  Right  now,  though,  it  was  apparent  Chris,  and  his  cohort  had  become  a  problem  for  another  time;  now,  his  main  concern  was  finding  out  where  he  was  and  what  exactly  was  going  on.  

Whatever  these  creatures  he  had  been  taking  the  time  out  of  his  hazy  voyage  to  slaughter  were,  were  not  the  products  of  Uroboros.  He  had  pulled  plenty  of  them  to  bits  with  his  bare  hands  in  search  of  answers,  enacting  brutal  and  crude  vivisections  of  force  and  fury,  but  so  far,  he  only  seemed  able  to  uncover  more  questions.  

It's  clear  they  had  been  human  at  one  point,  but  a  pathogen  that  was  largely  unknown  to  him  as  of  now  was  responsible  for  their  animality.  They  weren't  entirely  stupid,  however.  He  only  needed  to  kill  a  few  dozen  of  them  for  the  others  to  realize  he  wasn't  the  easy  prey  they  initially  thought.  On  the  contrary,  they  had  instead  made  themselves  game  to  something  much  stronger  and  much,  much  hungrier.  

Finding  nothing  of  value  amongst  the  dismembered  corpses,  he  realizes  that  someone  else  is  present  here.  His  gleaming  eyes  fix  upon  the  newcomer,  a  minacious  burning  emitting  from  them  ━  he  notices  this  one  appeared  to  be  human  and  unaltered.  Stepping  free  from  the  carnage  that  surrounds  him,  his  predatory  stride  carries  him  directly  toward  the  observer  with  a  glowered  command.

 ❝  You.  You  will  tell  me  where  I  am.  ❞  

𝔒𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯 !

Premises: A groggy and confused Wesker turns up in the region of RE: Village. Works for all RE: Village muses, but also anyone else who has a verse to put their muse in the Village region.

[writer59january13]

Ink roached infestation didst derive within mice elf

Ink roached infestation didst derive within mice elf Minor emendations to following just posted verse oversight to correct dissatisfaction, yours truly I do curse ah... methinks if hands of time can be made to go in reverse a more exemplary version to appease acclaimed unnamed wordsmith cause he feels alarmed

crafting poem worse than ChatGPT artificial intelligence app can write will find him superfluous. Thus writer of these words forever mus lee experiencing

craving to eat cheese,

a milk product eternally preserved within annals, chronicles, epistles, et cetera of human civilization and it's discontents analogous viz ode (old)

as time itself and lustressly buttressed on a Grecian Ode frieze linkedin to Sosibios Vase inductees.

Carp diem bespeaks moment to seize,

whether above memorialized chaste lovers or emblematic, iconic and opportunistic actresses Thelma and Louise the 90's film of female rage an adventure road drama

caper they did stage, but aforementioned seminal wage courtesy Rameses II begat robust lineage synonymous with sturdy anchorage, whereby said prolific breeder endowed legions of sons and daughter to carry on heritage.

Nothing but gridlock traffic (far as thee eye could see) heading east on Schuylkill Expressway (oxymoronic name for quickest route into Greek translation

center city of brotherly love, albeit Philadelphia),

yet this papa promised eldest daughter

then freshly minted University of Pennsylvania graduate

hoping to make amends prior to first born heading of into blue, ...er rather green, asper legal tender beyond without doubt experiencing more financial security than yours truly,

whose penurious crisis tantamount to being self ostracized within luxe MainLine,

where one percent flaunt their wealth

disparage dirt poor

festive folks like this sir meaning husband, his spouse plus attendant two biological kin reinforcing feeling inferior,

among those earning or inheriting fistfulls of moolah,

said offspring also lodged opprobrium citing slovenly housekeeping amidst generations (Zison heirlooms)

housed within residence at 1148 Greentree Lane yielding barely ample space

our family of four analogous

to sardines in a tin packed to the gills,

which pennilessness exacerbated since neither mama

nor papa (me) worked reasons squarely triangulated

linkedin to mental illness

asper myself –

unsung hero of tom tom club

chronic anxiety, panic attacks with concomitant courtesy benefits;

adrenaline maddeningly coursing thru veins

palms sweating profusely, racing heart

irritable bowels syndrome, nausea, vertigo...

physiological symptoms played offal, nasty, malicious

cruel version of

knick knack paddy whack...

with these lovely bones

severely disabled me to function academia, employment, socialization... imperiled satisfactory existence learning, working, commingling

felt like butchered bovine at slaughterhouse five.

Bonhomie within new riders on the purple sage foo fighting

beastie boy here in short air supply,

an evanescent understatement,

now impossible mission to recoup

sabotaged, jackbooted, atrophied....

blissful happy go lucky little boy

blessedly energetic innately

nervousness found

yours truly tensing up, manifesting cringing pose no matter parents lenient,

though father soulfully

bellowed stern rebukes

perhaps interpreting paternal rejection

sole son less gifted prowess with smarts

in short, no weigh,

shape, or form, a polymath

cultivated, habituated, ossified once playful quirky little rascal

set tilled under veritable weathered sedimentary stagnancy for peat sakes psyche got bogged down into impermeable metamorphic igneous hardrock.

[noblehcart]

ensiignchekov​:

It is a different kind of belonging, this, that he’s coming to know and cradle between his ribs the longer he spends on the Neva. He is still new compared to the rest of the crew, bonded by time, experience, and country, but they endeavour to slot him in easily and effortlessly, another Russian added to the ranks.

In a way, it’s a comfort being on a ship with people who come from similar backgrounds, who speak the same native tongue as he, and though they may not be the crew of the Enterprise, he still finds it comfortable here. More comfortable than those few-and-far-between times back on Earth, where his body tells him to return to Russia, though there’s nothing really left there for him now.

There, he’s just another kid. People don’t see the weight of his uniform, the way it has straightened his spine and broadened his shoulders over the few quick years since his first posting to the Enterprise, nor do they see the way wisdom mingles with youthful cheer and optimism he can’t shake.

He has always been odd. Too old for someone so young, yet too young to have half the knowledge and insight he does.

Pavel nods and locks eyes with Vaganov. “When I studied, I didn’t meet many other Russians in the Academy. Many of them tend to study at the conservatory in Star City instead.” He might have as well if things in his life played out differently; if the call of Starfleet and exploring the cosmos hadn’t been a siren’s song that he’d heard when he was barely six, looking up at the stars.

“But the few who came to the Academy, they were all at least four years older than me.” Nobody likes being shown up by a child. “My mom likely would have scolded me for always working so late. She would have said I didn’t need to do all this extra research on top of my studies.”

He likely would have said that he did need to. Maybe she would have argued with him. Maybe they would have fought and then later made up, and it would have been an endless cycle throughout his Academy years.

Maybe.

“I’m happy to be here, sir.” Hearing his name, Pavel, pulls a smile out of him. “The bridge crew has certainly been making me feel welcome. I’m not used to being able to say something without needing to explain.”

"The Academy can make or break a person, especially being so far from home. I almost considered quitting and going to the conservatory myself, but I can be a bit stubborn. I was lucky enough to have our first officer as a friend to help me get through it." And it had been tremendously far in every aspect one can be. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. The ache he carried to return home to see his parents...to his mother, especially after his father's death when he was just younger than the ensign before him. But the two men both knew that Russia held nothing for them, not what they really wanted. Adventure. Travel. The expanse of space ahead of them.

It was almost equally lonely staring out at that dark screen littered with starlight points if it wasn't for the chatter of spoken russian around him. It helped that Lt. Essen was always cracking some terrible joke like terribly crude if not adored uncle that seemed a staple in every family or how Private Ivanov brought a sense of warmth to the bridge with her insight. First Officer Stefan Ivanov tended to be the firmer hand on board, but he often brought a sense oversight of a protective brother. There was one other boy on board who just might know exactly what it was Mr. Chekov was going through and that was the younger ensign Patya Tasarov.

There was plenty of room for Pavel Chekov's optimism, a much needed breath of air from the sometimes stoic air that could seep in. Dostoyevsky themes did not need to find a place onboard his ship.

"Ah thoroughness is something I very much like to hear." He laughed warmly before clapping a hand on his shoulder. Something told him that Pavel Chekov was just exactly what the Neva needed as of late and he'd be lying if he didn't admit that it warmed his chest to have the young man on board. It was wide universe out there and he prided himself on his ship's community.

"I have a lax policy on the bridge about Federation Standard. We all prefer russian conversationally and use Standard on official matters and communications. Feel absolutely free to switch between whichever suits you though." Was the warm addition before his hand dropped to the side. "Now, I'm hosting an officers dinner tomorrow night in my quarters and I'd like for you to attend. You've met and worked a bit with everyone by now, but I generally like to host one for the new bridge members that have come and gone. If you have plans on board with others that's perfectly fine as well if you can't make it."