selina was born in 1976 through a experiment orchestrated by mother miranda. using alcina dimitrescu as a vessel, miranda sought to create a hybrid, a perfect blend of dimitrescuâs vampiric abilities and the mold. however, selina was born more human than expected, her monstrous traits dormant. believing the experiment to be a failure, miranda allowed alcina to dispose of the child.
but alcina, still having some humanity, couldnât bring herself to kill selina. instead, she left the child in a romanian village, where selina was eventually taken by umbrella researchers working under mirandaâs orders. she was named selina there. for years, selina was subjected to experimental exposure to the mold in an attempt to âawakenâ her latent abilities. however, a sympathetic umbrella scientist, dr. emilia kravchenko, smuggled her out of the facility and fled to raccoon city, where selina was raised under a false identity of lisa kravchenko.
lisa's early years was a patchwork of strange occurrences:
gnawing sensations, scents too sharp, sounds too loud, a hunger she couldnât name. there were nights she woke in a cold sweat, the image of a tall, spectral woman burned behind her eyelids. her adoptive mother, dr. kravchenko, kept her sedated, dulled the edges with little white pills, and told her it was all in her head.
but lisa wasnât stupid. as she grew older, she grew more suspicious. the gaps in her past felt deliberate, her motherâs reassurances too practiced. then came the night she snappedâ tore into a classmateâs flesh like an animal, left them barely breathing. the fear in kravchenkoâs eyes told lisa everything.
kravchenko sent her off to an orphanage and she got adopted by another family after a couple months. starting under a new name of lana falkner. her adoptive father, dr. isaac falkner, was a senior umbrella researcher, and her mother, sophia, was a whistleblower who attempted to expose umbrellaâs crimes. after sophiaâs mysterious disappearance, lana was left under Isaacâs care. though not directly experimented on, she was exposed to umbrellaâs t-virus research and its bioweapon development, leading to deep emotional scars and heightened survival instincts. after another incident of biting off one of her friends fingers, she ran again.
she went from town to town, looking to find peace. she thought maybe the badge would do it, that being on the right side of the law would keep her from slipping into whatever she really was. so she joined the raccoon city police department, hoping it would make her feel human.
it didnât.
avs win and i can finally exhaleđ genuinely was about to start writing my will if they lost. LETâS GO!!!
Alex Brundle weighs in on the Lando Norris Post-Race Smell Debate (a string of words I never thought I'd type out):
THE LAST OF US
đ àŁȘËàŒâ§âË.
JOEL MILLER
lap's still yours. â fluff, one shot.
đ àŁȘËàŒâ§âË.
ELLIE WILLIAMS
lines in the snow. â fluff, one shot.
đ àŁȘËàŒâ§âË.
ABBY ANDERSON
oh have the turns have tabled.. we have lando folding in half this time because of oscar
oscar: âsei matto (youâre crazy)!â lando: folds in half oscar: âandrea is gonna be so proud of us!â lando: folds in half again
you ever think about how hans zimmer composed a score for the nhl team the seattle kraken
are they scouting for their next victim???
Hi! I had this idea and thought you might be the perfect person to bring it to life: a Bucky Barnes x Reader fic where Reader finds an old journal of Buckyâs from his early post Winter Soldier recovery days. She reads it without meaning to at first, but what she finds inside is raw and heartbreaking. stuff he never talks about. Maybe theyâve been growing distant lately, and this gives her a look into just how much heâs been struggling. Would love if it ends with her wanting to comfort him but him not being ready to let her in yet. Quiet, emotional tension, please!
it starts with dust. not metaphorical, just actual dust.
youâre cleaning. or pretending to. rearranging the living room like thatâs gonna fix the silence thatâs been creeping in between you and bucky like fog under the door. youâve been feeling it for weeks now. how heâs been moving quieter, speaking less, disappearing into rooms with the kind of stillness that makes it hard to follow. you donât even remember the last time he touched you without pulling back like his hands burned after.
so, yeah. youâre cleaning. touching all his stuff like youâre trying to find a thread back to him. and then a book falls. black. beat up. spiral bound, barely hanging on. it looks like itâs been shoved there on purposeâstuffed behind old war books and a mug youâre pretty sure he stole from a hotel in zurich. you almost leave it. almost. but then you see the corner of a folded photo sticking out from between the pages. and your name, just a sliver of it, so you sit. floor cold against your legs, journal in your lap, breath a little too tight. you tell yourself youâre just gonna peek. just a glance.
but itâs not that simple. because the first thing you read feels like walking in on someone mid nightmare, mid prayer, midâ something holy and bleeding.
âitâs been 2,190 days since she stopped calling me asset. i still donât feel like a person.â
the handwritingâs rough. not messy, just tired. you can feel it in the way the letters lean too hard in places, press too deep in others. like he needed to write it down or it would claw its way out some other way.
âi keep dreaming about the way the metal felt when it was first fused to me. like i was being welded shut.â
you shift. knees pulled up now. the roomâs gone quiet in that specific way that makes you feel like the walls are listening.
âsometimes i think about running. not because i want to leave, but because i donât want to rot here. it feels like iâm leaking poison into the lives of people who love me. like iâll never stop being dangerous.â
you swallow. the last few months fall into place, a soft collapsing. all the nights he stood outside on the fire escape, just watching the sky. the mornings heâd say he was fine but his voice would crack on the i. the way he stopped playing music in the apartment. stopped sitting beside you on the couch. stopped falling asleep beside you, slowly replacing your shared bed with the cold of the guest room. your eyes burn but you keep reading.
âshe touches me like iâm breakable. looks at me like iâm something to fix. i donât know how to be held without feeling like an apology.â
you donât even realize youâre crying until the page blurs. until the paper soaks a little beneath your fingertips. and you hate that he felt like this. that he couldnât tell you. that you didnât see it sooner. that he had to carve this into paper in the middle of the night instead of speaking it out loud to someone who wouldâve dropped everything just to hold his face and remind him he's still here. still human. still loved.
thereâs one more entry. dated a week ago.
âshe asked if i wanted to go out tonight. i told her i was tired. the truth is, i didnât want to be seen. some days i still feel like a weapon pretending to be a man. and i think if she ever looked too close, she'd see right through me.â
you close the journal. you sit with it in your lap for a long while. the kind of long that makes the afternoon light shift across the floor like slow, golden water. you donât say anything when you hear the door open. keys hitting the bowl. footsteps slow.
he sees you before he says anything. standing in the doorway to the living room, hand still on the frame, like heâs not sure if heâs allowed in. his eyes drop to the journal in your hands. they stay there. his mouth twitches. not quite a flinch. not quite anything. "you read it," he says, voice low. not accusing. just⊠accepting. you nod. barely.
he closes his eyes. presses his lips together like heâs swallowing something sharp.
"i didnât mean for you to see that."
âi know,â you say. voice softer than itâs ever been. âi didnât mean to find it.â
the silence that follows isnât empty. itâs full of everything you donât say. everything he canât. he walks past you. sits down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. you want to go to him. every cell in your body wants to close the space. to curl up beside him and press your forehead to his shoulder and tell him heâs not too broken to be loved. not too sharp to be touched. but you donât. you sit down a few feet away. not touching. not even looking directly at him. just⊠near. a presence. a quiet offering.
âi didnât know,â you whisper.
his voice cracks when he says, âi didnât want you to.â
and there it is. the heart of it. heâs not ready. maybe he never will be. but heâs here and so are you.
the room is dim now. soft golden light painting the walls. somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks as the house settles around you. the air smells like dust and the last bit of coffee he made this morning.
you donât speak again. you just sit. two people in the quiet. the kind of quiet that aches and comforts at the same time. maybe this is love, too. not the easy parts. just the staying.
a/n: luv this req. i literally just need to hug him omg... also sorry this is terribly written i was almost blackout drunk when writing it