#now this. this is peak irene shape

[sweet-beezus]

Irene

A lovely woman with a huge heart that is mostly put in the right place. Whenever she's not sneaking in visitors or adopting the local children, she's usually baking goodies to share with anyone who needs a little pick-me-up.

[lockefanfic]

Business Trip: Part 40 - Ride

Tokyo was one of those cities that seemed to go on forever.

It never seemed to end. An endless sprawl of concrete, glass, and steel, extending out into the horizon and beyond in every direction, a testament to the history of Japan itself - soaring skyscrapers built with the very latest in structural and engineering knowledge stood next to temples that had endured centuries of history and would probably endure centuries more. Housing and commerce and recreation, all bound together by a network of roads and streets that functioned like the circulatory system of a living creature, transporting its ten million inhabitants like veins might transport blood. 

It seemed, sometimes, like Tokyo was a living creature in and of itself, breathing in and out, always on the move - never sleeping, never resting. Each building was a cell in a living creature, each with its own history and character, each with a story to tell.

But from the back of a motorcycle, it all looked like a blur.

Perhaps it was mostly because you were preoccupied with holding on for dear life. It was one thing to be the one actually operating the vehicle; at least then you knew that you had full control over it and could at least dictate, to some extent, your own fate. But today you were merely a passenger, holding on with a tight grip on the operator’s waist, your life quite literally in her hands.

Park Jihyo drove the bike like she were in a race with only one participant, weaving in and out of Tokyo’s rush hour traffic as though she were behind the wheel of a sports or rally car and not a comparatively flimsy sport motorcycle. In other circumstances you would have welcomed the opportunity to wrap your arms around her voluptuous frame from behind; today you were too busy trying to keep your lunch inside your stomach as Jihyo whipped around corners and sped down straightaways.

Two days have passed since your team landed in Tokyo. The first couple of days were preoccupied with settling down into your accommodations, with everyone aside from Sana and Momo checking into the same hotel. Sana, of course, had an apartment in the city and had invited Momo to room with her. She’d invited you as well, but you politely turned her down, not quite ready to face the prospect of daily living with the two girls given their history with you, and the drama that would likely arise as a result. 

For now you were happy to let the two spend some time together, even if you knew that the “best friends forever” mask that Sana wore around Momo only remained in place so long as you weren’t involved. Once you were, you knew she wouldn’t hesitate to take the gloves off. Sana shot you a suggestive wink as she piled into the cab with Momo, and you resolved at that moment that you’d have to deal with her feelings for you sooner rather than later.

Yesterday was spent mostly formulating a plan of action. The rest of the team was to reach out to their contacts in the city to see if there was any sign of Seulgi, Yeri or Irene. Jihyo and Nayeon had several law enforcement contacts and colleagues they decided to meet. As the team lead, you decided to join Jihyo as she met with the commissioner of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

You had expected to hop into a cab that would bring you to the Metropolitan Police HQ building in the Kasumigaseki district. You weren’t expecting Jihyo to rent a sports bike, toss you a helmet, and tell you to hold on.

Thankfully you eventually made it to the Metropolitan Police HQ in one piece - even if you weren’t entirely sure that your stomach had made the trip. Jihyo turns into a parking garage opposite the large, imposing structure of the police HQ, ascending a few levels until she found an empty parking spot in a corner. 

“Fuck, that was good,” she says as she leans the bike on its kickstand and removes her helmet, her hair falling down her back in a dark chocolate waterfall as she shakes her head free of it. Her tone sounded a bit like someone who had just had sex, given her heavier than normal breathing, and the droplets of sweat slowly dripping down the side of her face - she looked like she was about ready to light up a post-coital cigarette. You found yourself only reluctantly releasing your arms from around her waist.

“We’re taking a cab next time,” you say with a groan as you remove your own helmet.

“Oh, come on,” Jihyo says, half turning to you as she makes no movement to turn off the bike’s engine, “you can’t tell me that wasn’t fun as hell.”

“It was fun for like the first twenty seconds - which is about when my stomach decided to check out.”

“Aww. You’re saying it didn’t get you going? Shame. For me, riding a bike is like shooting guns - it always gets me in the mood.”

“Mood for what?” you say, your interest suddenly piqued.

“Shut up, you know what for,” she replies, dropping her helmet to the floor with a dull thud. She takes your own helmet from your hands and drops it next to hers, before she finally gets off the bike, swinging one leg over the front end of it. She takes only a moment to unzip her black leather jacket and slip it off, the heavy outerwear joining your helmets on the floor before she gets back on the bike - this time facing you.

Her hands reach for your face, and soon she is crashing her lips against yours.

Sex with Jihyo was always so refreshing, for lack of a better world. There was no drama, or feelings, or romance involved here; only a recreational activity between two people. She enjoyed sex the way others enjoyed sports, or video games, or any other activity people did for fun. It was to be had and enjoyed, nothing more, nothing less.

You would be lying if you’d said that sex with the young, voluptuous detective atop a still-running motorcycle didn’t excite you, especially after the rather dangerous ride through the streets of Tokyo that she’d just taken you on. The loud, vibrating hum of the motorcycle between your legs, the warm, tight body pressed against yours, and the passionate, warm, wet kisses you were sharing - novelty aside, it was a fucking turn on.

Jihyo is the first to open her mouth and slip her tongue inside yours, exploring your lips and teeth before finding its counterpart willing and able to duel with it. Your hands are not idle - hers wrapping themselves around your neck and running through your hair, yours wrapping around her torso and enjoying the feel of her naked upper back, moist with sweat.

The detective was wearing a blue tube top and a black leather skirt, which made her look a little bit like she was doing a cosplay of Jill Valentine from Resident Evil 3. It was an outfit that did little to hide the curvy appeal of her chest, putting her large, round breasts on proud display beneath its low cut. You are unable to resist for long, diving into the writhing Korean girl’s neck, nuzzling her soft, warm skin with soft kisses before latching on to the warmest spot you can find and sucking. Jihyo lets a soft moan escape her lips, muffled somewhat by the loud running of the bike beneath you both - her hands tighten their grip on your head, her fingernails digging almost painfully into your scalp.

You eventually break off from her neck, the satisfaction that you’d left a mark there bringing a sly smile to your lips. You slowly lower the path of your kisses downward, until you are leaving a soft trail with your lips on her collarbone. Jihyo leans back as much as she can given her awkward seated position, letting you go further down her body, devouring her soft, perfect skin with your lips and tongue.

Jihyo stops you in your tracks with a palm on your chest. You lock eyes and find hers half-lidded in lust as she raises her back off the bike and reaches behind her. As she undoes the zipper at her back the blue tube top sags a little against her chest, almost revealing her completely - until Jihyo finishes unzipping it, pulling it down with slim fingers until she strips it off, dropping it on the floor to join your helmets and her jacket, and leaving her topless.

The sheer lust and audacity of the situation - of having sex atop a running motorcycle in a foreign city’s parking garage, with a detective, no less - drove you insane with need. A part of you wanted to take it easy, savor the feel of this young woman’s body; but the desire to indulge in the newly unwrapped present in front of you was too great for you to resist.

You almost immediately feast on her breasts, cupping both of her large, perfectly shaped mounds in your hands, squeezing them and massaging them, eliciting a long, drawn out gasp from the girl’s lips that you hear with perfect clarity despite the loud, clanking motor beneath her. You capture her swollen nipples with your index fingers and thumbs, tweaking and teasing the stiff nubs with your fingertips until her light, airy moans turn into long, drawn moans.

“Fucking suck on my tits,” she hisses.

You didn’t need to be asked to do so - but the lust dripping from every syllable that left Park Jihyo’s mouth is impossible to resist. You dive into the needy Korean girl’s chest, cupping her left breast with your right hand from beneath before latching your mouth atop the stiff peak of her nipple, capturing it between your lips, your tongue quickly darting out and tasting the sweet saltiness of her sweaty skin on your palette.

Jihyo moans, her entire body writhing and quivering atop the bike as you suck on her large, round breast, drinking your fill of her body as your tongue plays in random patterns on her nipple and your lips close around it, sucking deeply. Not wanting to leave her left breast unattended you do the same to it, latching on to her stiff peak, sucking deeply, licking relentlessly.

You’d known for a while that Jihyo had the most sensitive breasts out of anyone on the team. From the steadily increasing volume of her moans and the way she quivered and shook atop the bike you knew that the pleasure you were creating in her body was far and above the pleasure the other girls received when you did the same to them. Jihyo needed her breasts to be played with during sex; and it was a need that you were happy to fulfil.

For a few more long, glorious seconds you continue to feast on the young woman’s chest, drinking deeply from her large mounds and enjoying the feel of her taut nipples under your tongue or between your lips. Jihyo moans and gasps and hisses her pleasure, the volume of her lustful chorus rivalling that of the still-running engine. Her legs wrap around yours, her firm thighs on your hips - the bike would have tipped over were it not for your feet, flat on the floor, stabilizing it on either side. She leans back atop the machine, wanting to give you full access to her body as you devour it with a hungry mouth.

Eventually Jihyo raises your head from her saliva-drenched breasts, her eyes, drunk on lust, staring directly into yours.

“I want you inside me now.”

You stand, unzipping your jeans and pulling them as far down as you can, thankful for its stretchy, flexible cotton construction. You pull your boxers down far enough to let your stiff shaft, already dripping with pre-cum, to spring from them. 

Likewise, Jihyo reaches between her spread thighs to pull the short hem of her leather skirt up, revealing a thin pair of panties beneath that is near translucent with her juices. With two fingers she pulls the drenched cotton aside, revealing her moist, dripping lips; the combination of the hair-raising bike ride, having her breasts sucked on, and the heavily vibrating motor between her legs was getting her off.

“Fuck me.”

You aren’t one to resist such a demand, and so you bend as best you can, bringing the tip of your aching, leaking cock to Jihyo’s moist pussy, the round head of your cock parting her slick lips and finding her needy entrance. Gripping your shaft by the base, you swirl the thick head around Jihyo’s moist folds, her wet lips drenching your tip and eliciting deep moans of pleasure from her throat. You want to tease her a little longer, but the wet, hot, pink tunnel of her pussy beckons, and you are powerless to resist.

With one deep thrust you enter her, and the moan that Jihyo releases as she is filled temporarily overtakes the volume of the bike’s motor. You fill her to the hilt, delighting in the feel of her walls clenching around yours, drenching it with slick juices, grasping it with tight walls. Giving her only a few seconds to adjust to the sensation of being filled, you withdraw your cock halfway out, delighting in how absolutely drenched it was in her wetness - before you thrust back inside. Soon you are fucking Park Jihyo atop the loud, vibrating bike, filling her needy pussy with long, hard thrusts of your cock.

Jihyo seemed in a state of euphoria - the adrenaline in her veins, the vibration of the motor beneath her, and the thick meat filling her needy pussy again and again combining to drive her quickly to the very edge of orgasm, where she lingered for a few moments before quickly toppling over it. It surprised you, having her cum so quickly after what seemed like only a few minutes of fucking - but given her state of need after the bike ride and the way she was getting off on it, you suppose you probably shouldn’t have been surprised at all.

You slow down your pace, but only slightly, enjoying the feel of the detective’s pussy clenching and tightening and pulsating as you enter and exit her body. Each thrust sends delicious shocks throughout her tight frame, her large breasts bouncing erotically up and down, stiff nipples still tight with pleasure, still glistening with your saliva. It’s only with a great amount of effort that you tear your gaze from her bouncing breasts to between your bodies, where between her spread thighs the wet, slippery lips of her pussy are taking you in and out, in and out, in and out.

As delightful as the feel of her pussy was, you are unable to giving attention to her bouncing breasts for long. You give her a hard thrust, eliciting a surprised yelp from the girl as you bury yourself inside her to the hilt. Licking your lips, you bend over her frame and grab her left breast roughly with your right hand, cupping and squeezing the firm mound, pressing your thumb over and around her stiff nipple. 

When she moans in lustful pleasure you capture her taut peak between your thumb and index finger, twisting and pinching the bud until Jihyo is moaning and gasping almost uncontrollably. She squirms and grinds on the seat of the bike as the pleasure causes her to lose control of her body, her tightly grasping pussy moving deliciously around your buried cock as she does so.

“Oh, fuck!” she gasps, unable to say much more, unable to keep her lungs filled with air for very long, so often is she exhaling in an unbroken chain of moans and sighs. She grasps the back of your head and almost crushes your lips with her own in a torrid kiss, her tongue slipping fearlessly into your mouth. You pinch her nipple in response, and your mouth is filled with her exhaled moan.

You tear your mouth from hers, and you bend as best you could, cupping and lifting her breast from beneath until you are able to bring your mouth to her nipple. Jihyo arches her back to give you better access as you suckle deeply from her breast once again - this time while you are buried balls deep inside her. After spending a few delicious seconds sucking tightly on her breast you return to her warm neck and re-commence fucking her, thrusting in and out of her tight body once more.

After awhile Jihyo presses a palm flat against your chest and pushes you away - and for a moment you are afraid you’d hurt her by how roughly you are treating her chest or how hard you are thrusting into her pussy. She slowly dismounts both the bike and your cock before turning around, mounting the bike the right way again, her back facing you.

Wearing only a short leather skirt, drenched panties, and knee-high leather boots, Jihyo bends over the front of the still-running bike, draping her upper body over the handlebars. The cheeks of her ass sandwich each side of your glistening cock with soft, warm flesh as she grinds her lower body against it, rubbing your sensitive shaft on either side with her full, round cheeks. You are content to watch the show she was giving you as you thrust your cock between her cheeks for a while, delighting in the way Jihyo moved her body - until she reaches over and spreads her cheeks apart to reveal her absolutely dripping pussy and her tight, pursed asshole. She looks over her shoulder at you, eyes half-lidded with lust.

“Pick a hole and fuck it until you cum in it.”

The very thought of teasing her, of making her wait, didn’t even cross your mind. Likewise, you’d already had her pussy - and as wonderful as her pussy felt wrapped around your cock, the thought of turning down an opportunity to fuck the young woman’s ass didn’t cross your mind either - especially when she wanted you to cum in it.

You grasp the cheeks of her ass, your hands joining hers in spreading her firm, round mounds apart. Gathering your saliva on the tip of your tongue, you spit a thick rope of it between your bodies, landing right on the tight ring of her ass. Taking your aching cock in your right hand and pressing the slick head against her tight opening, you slowly enter her inch by inch, until you finally slip inside her ass. Jihyo was no stranger to anal sex, and certainly not with you - the ease with which she was able to take you inside her rear entrance spoke of both her experience and her desire.

You would later admit to being embarrassed by how quickly you came - but just as Jihyo was so turned on by the situation that all she needed was a few minutes to get off, you were similarly brought to the edge by the audacity of it all. Fucking a beautiful young woman in the ass on a still-running motorcycle in a foreign city - it all seemed so ridiculous, so unbelievable, like some fever dream of sex and lust that could only exist in fiction.

But Park Jihyo’s tight, clenching hole convinced you that it was all very real. Her moans of pleasure reach a new level of volume as you drill again and again into her ass, each thrust into her body pressing her sensitive pussy against the vibrating seat of the bike. Her ass clenches tightly around you, less wet than her pussy but so much hotter and tighter. You bend over her frame and clutch her shoulders from behind as you fuck her tight little hole, not even worrying that you were hurting her - you needed something to hold on to, something to anchor yourself as you pumped again and again into her ass, searching for the inevitable peak of pleasure that was so very close. Jihyo arches her back, her spine creating a delicious looking curve, her caramel skin moist with sweat.

“Fuck, Jihyo, fuck, fuck, fuck, I-”

“Insidemeohgodfuckfuckfuckohfuckfillmyass!”

The words, if you could call them that, spill from Jihyo’s mouth in a barely understandable jumble of lust. Her tight little body quivers with each thrust, her ass cheeks ripple with each impact of your hips against hers, and her tight, hot little hole drives you right to the edge; except she tumbles over it first.

Time had a way of becoming abstract during sex. It might have only been a few minutes. But for you it felt like hours. Hours spent pumping away at Jihyo’s ass as the needy, mewling girl orgasmed once more, the vibrating seat of the bike against her pussy and the thick hard cock drilling into her ass quickly overwhelming whatever remained of her self control, her juices drenching the seat of the bike in slick, clear fluids as she willingly tumbled into orgasmic bliss.

When you cum soon after it takes you by surprise. Usually you saw your orgasm coming, and could prepare yourself for it. Not this time. Not while Jihyo’s ass clenched hard around your cock, so tightly that you almost couldn’t move. Not while she moaned so loudly she almost drowned out the running engine. And not while your cock spasmed and sent thick, hot semen deep inside her ass. The wordless moan that Jihyo gives when she feels you fill her with cum echoes loudly throughout the parking garage, drowning out even the loud noise of the running bike motor.

Time became an abstract concept once again, your pleasure-addled mind unable to comprehend or make sense of things. Eventually, some indeterminate amount of time later, your cock softens enough to slip from Jihyo’s well-fucked asshole, followed closely by a flood of thick white semen that flows down to join the slick patch of pussy juices gathered on the bike’s seat.

At some point - and it might have been just seconds or hours later, you couldn’t tell - Jihyo turns her head to look at you. 

Neither of you were quite sure how to react to what just occurred - and so you both begin to giggle at the audacity of it all, neither quite ready to believe what you both just did.

The stupid smiles and odd giggles continue as Jihyo and you eventually clean yourselves up enough to actually meet with the TMPD’s commissioner. Satisfied that you were as ready as you would ever be, you both make your way into the police precinct for your scheduled meeting -  even if you couldn’t help but smile at knowing you did so with Jihyo’s ass full of your hot, thick cum. 

---

Your meeting with the TMPD turned out to be a bit of a waste of time; aside from providing general reassurances that they would be keeping an eye out for Seulgi and Yeri, the commissioner seemed uninterested with what he deemed to be a Korean affair involving Korean citizens and crimes committed on Korean soil. He assured Jihyo that she and Nayeon, as law enforcement officers, would have full freedom to execute their search as they saw fit, but was unwilling to assign any Japanese officers to actively participate in the hunt, nor would he provide them with access to any significant amount of TMPD resources. 

His one concession was his assignment of a Japanese liaison officer, who would provide liaison services as well as assistance with translation, logistics and other local, on-the-ground needs. You tried to explain that you already had three Japanese members of your team and neither translation nor logistics were likely to be a problem, but the commissioner insisted he assign a liaison officer nonetheless, likely only for appearance’s sake and so that he could tell his superiors he was doing something about the case. It was obvious to you and Jihyo, however, that a liaison officer was the bare minimum that he could have done to assist your team.

After exchanging the necessary platitudes and what you and Jihyo both knew to be empty promises of full cooperation, the commissioner ended the meeting and instructed his assistant to introduce you to the liaison officer, who worked on a different floor.

The three of you found the liaison officer at her desk in an isolated corner of the floor, eyes furrowed in concentration, appearing deep in thought. With a large pair of headphones on her head and her fingers working furiously at her keyboard and mouse, she looked to be hard at work at some important casework. She appeared young and quite attractive, if a little slim and small to be a police officer; not that physical size kept police officers from doing their jobs well, if Nayeon was any example to go by.

When she didn’t reply to your initial greeting, the assistant had to walk over and tap her on the shoulder to get her attention.

“Aish!” she exclaimed in annoyance, glaring at the poor assistant before realizing that there were two visitors nearby. Embarrassed, she quickly removed her headphones, dumping them on her desk before standing and offering deep bows to the both of you.

Her headphones, still on full volume, revealed that she wasn’t working at all - instead, she was likely deep into some first person shooter computer game, if the constant gunfire and loud Japanese announcements of what were probably killstreaks were any indication. 

On her desk is a nameplate with her name and the division to which she belonged: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department - Recordkeeping Department. It suddenly became painfully obvious why this particular officer was the one assigned to you and Jihyo.

“This is your liaison officer,” the commissioner’s assistant states wearily, before excusing himself and leaving the room. The liaison officer smiles, cheerfully, before extending a hand to Jihyo and then you.

“My name is Miyawaki Sakura,” the officer states, “hajimemashite!”

---

The rest of the team apparently shared a similar lack of success. When you met as a group later than night in one of your hotel’s meeting rooms, none of you could report much progress - aside from Nayeon.

“I met with a contact I have in Tokyo PD’s organized crime unit,” she announces as she cracks open one of the canned coffees that Dahyun was passing around. “Apparently there’s a high class cocktail party going on in town in a couple of days. Public advertising says it’s an international fundraiser for a new hospital that’s being built - lots of people from overseas flying in for it. But my contact thinks it’s all just a cover for some international high roller crime bosses to get some deals done.”

“Is there any connection to Seulgi, Yeri, or Irene?” Momo asks.

“No, but it’s at least a start. We could go and ask around if anyone’s heard of any fugitive Korean girls entering the country on the down low.”

“What are the chances that anyone at that party could know anything about Seulgi, Yeri or Irene? Surely they’ve got more on their plates than two random runaways and their prisoner,” Mina states.

“Seulgi and Yeri must have come to Japan for a reason,” Nayeon counters. “They could have gone anywhere else in Southeast Asia, especially countries where it might be easier for them to disappear. Japanese law enforcement has international links - it would be a little more difficult for them to stay under the radar here.”

“I dunno,” you start, “the police commissioner Jihyo and I met today seemed like he couldn’t have given less of a shit about those two. He thinks Red Velvet is a Korean problem, not a Japanese one.”

“Maybe the cops here don’t give a damn,” Jihyo adds, rubbing her chin, “but that doesn’t mean organized crime wouldn’t care. They might be especially interested in Seulgi and Yeri given that they used to be pretty high up at SM. I think a lot of unsavory types would be interested in what they know. There might also be some people who Red Velvet crossed in the past, and who are out for revenge.”

“Which is why it’s interesting that they fled here,” Nayeon continues. “Why come to Japan if it would attract attention, possibly from enemies they’ve made in the past? They must be here for a reason. Maybe they have a safehouse in Tokyo, or maybe someone who can help them - or someone who can help them get rid of Irene.”

“Or her body,” Chaeyoung states, grimly.

The team takes a moment to consider Nayeon’s point.

“Alright, we should go - but I don’t think we all need to be there,” you begin. “Maybe a couple of us on-site, two or three running support. A group of foreigners suddenly showing up to a cocktail party full of gangsters might look a little fishy. I’ll go, with a date.”

“I’ll go. I clean up well, and I’m sexy as fuck,” Momo says quickly with a smirk in your direction, “I won’t have any trouble getting men to talk.”

“Too bad your Japanese is terrible,” Sana quips. “I should go. I’m the cutest one here and we all know these hardass gangster boys can’t hold up to a cute girl in a tight dress. And I can speak the language, unlike some people.” Her tone is that of a lighthearted jab towards Momo, but there is a hint of edge to it that only you picked up on.

“He’ll go with me,” Mina interjects with a tone of finality, “he’ll want a classy date. One that all the people there will be falling head over heels to impress. And you both forget...”

Mina swings her glance over to you, although as she does so her gaze passes over Chaeyoung - who blushes furiously.

“...there could be women there that we need to talk to, as well.”

Next to you Nayeon lets out a loud sigh - on purpose. 

“Whichever one of you goes on-site, I’ll come along in the van. Tzuyu, you’ll take care of transport and on-site logistics. Dahyun, you can run surveillance remotely from the van,” she states to nods of understanding from the two younger girls.

“You’ll probably need to show up in a fancy car if you want to blend in,” Tzuyu says. “We can’t exactly drop you off in the van we rented. I’ll need to find a Ferrari or something we can borrow...”

You suddenly remember the liaison officer assigned to you from the TMPD, and you reach into your jacket to retrieve her business card, which you pass across the table to Tzuyu.

“Reach out to this officer,” you explain, “she’s the liaison assigned to us from Tokyo PD. She works in their Recordkeeping Department, so she doesn’t have a lot of field experience - but she can probably at least track down a car for us. If nothing else she can go with you to the rental car place to translate. Heads up though, she seems like a bit of a slacker and I’m pretty sure the Tokyo PD commissioner only assigned her to us to get her out of the office.”

“Got it, boss,” the young woman says, picking up the card and looking it over. “You should probably dress up nicely, too. We can go-”

Before she can finish her sentence, a loud ringtone erupts from Dahyun’s laptop - causing everyone in the room to cover their ears.

“I-I-I’m so s-sorry!” Dahyun says as she frantically turns down the volume. “It’s a video call. From Seolhyun back in the Seoul office.” She looks to you for further instruction.

“Bring it up on the screen, Dahyun,” you order, motioning to the large LCD screen mounted to one wall of the meeting room. You were anxious as to what Seolhyun could possibly be calling about - a small part of you feared that Jeongyeon, who was still in the hospital, might have taken a turn for the worse.

Dahyun connects her laptop to the screen, and in a few moments a window with Seolhyun’s face is up on the screen.

“Hello everyone,” Seolhyun says, a nervous look on her face, as though she had just received some news and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Everyone in the room nods back, or gives her a short bow.

“What’s up, Seolhyun?” you ask.

The young woman takes a moment to compose her answer. Her brows furrow, and she bites her lip.

“Everyone, it’s about Irene,” she states, pausing to choose her next words carefully, “she’s still here. In Korea. And we have her.”

---

There is a single spotlight above Bae Irene’s head. The rest of the room is dark. The wobbly, shaky camera work indicates that the video was likely taken with a smartphone, by people in a rush.

When Irene raises her head, she reveals a bloodied lip and a gash above her right eye lid. The blood drips down the side of her face, leaving a crimson streak over pale, snow-white skin. There is the start of a bruise forming on her jawline. The past few hours had not been kind to her.

“My name is Bae Irene,” she begins. “I am the leader of Red Velvet, a division of SM Korea. These are my crimes.”

Irene turns her head and begins to read a list that was clearly held off camera by one of her captors. With each offense you watch as a small part of her breaks. Gone is the haughty, dangerous young woman that was the subject of so much of your team’s work over the past year or so. This woman was broken. 

Around the table the girls on your team react similarly - some bringing hands to their mouths in disbelief, others with serious or disgusted or otherwise negative emotions scrawled all over their faces. 

It seemed almost surreal, in a way. Unbelievable, as though it weren’t really happening. Was this really the same Bae Irene that had tormented you and your team for so long? Was she really finally in custody? You’d long dreamed of this moment, and now that it was happening, it was almost difficult to believe.

When it is over, Irene returns her eyes to the camera, looking directly at it.

“I deserve to be punished for what I did,” she says. “I deserve it all.”

Irene lets her head drop, but not before a single tear falls down her cheek. The video cuts to black.

---

“They found her in a washroom at Incheon International,” Seolhyun continues. “She was gagged and bound. She had that video in a USB drive in one of her pockets. As you can see Seulgi and Yeri roughed her up before they left her there.”

“She’s lucky she’s not dead,” Momo says, “Seulgi looked like she wanted to kill her.”

“Where is she now, Seolhyun?” you ask.

“Seoul PD has her in custody. Once she’s received medical treatment they tell me she’ll be prosecuted for the crimes she confessed to in the video.”

“SM’s lawyers will argue, probably successfully, that that was a coerced confession,” Mina observes.

“Inform JYP. Keep us updated. Get on-site and make sure she’s processed fairly and that everything is done by the book,” you order. “Bring all the data and other evidence we’ve accumulated to ensure Seoul PD has proof to confirm everything she confessed to.”

“Roger that, boss,” Seolhyun replies.

“Keep us informed, Seolhyun. If anything at all happens, I want to know about it.”

“You can count on me,” she replies, before signing off on the video call.

There is a moment of silence as your team digests this new development. You were all prepared to continue the hunt for Irene, but her capture was certainly an unexpected twist.

“So how does this change things?” Sana asks, a confused look on her face.

“It changes nothing,” you answer. “Seulgi and Yeri are now the primary targets, just as they were when we arrived. Even if they’ve delivered Irene to us, it doesn’t change the fact that they attempted murder on two people in this room, and one back in Korea - even if one or more of those incidents was accidental. We continue the search for Seulgi and Yeri, starting with that cocktail party. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning to start planning.”

The team gives nods of approval before each gathers their things and leaves the meeting room. Momo stays behind.

“Irene will argue that she was coerced into doing what she did because of YG,” Momo says in a hushed tone, once the others have left the room. “Don’t forget, she only did what she did because YG threatened to harm Seulgi and Yeri - and Red Velvet’s families.”

“I know,” you admit. “YG could still be out there. If I were them I’d want to shut Irene, Seulgi, and Yeri up, and make sure they don’t get a chance to talk.”

“We need to find them before YG does,” Momo states. “If we know Seulgi and Yeri are here in Japan, chances are they do too. They could be in-country as well.”

You nod and rub your head. You could feel a headache starting.

---

At that moment, at Haneda International Airport, a private jet touches down. After taxiing to a private hangar in a secluded corner of the airport, the door opens and the stairs leading to the cabin unwind.

Out step four girls. Each is wearing all black and sunglasses, despite the fact that it was late into the evening. 

The first has an air of haughtiness to her, as though she felt she were above it all. She would have been attractive and cute, were it not for the seemingly permanent frown on her face. From the way she led them out of the plane and from her overall bearing, it was obvious she was the leader of the group.

The next is a slim Korean girl with pale blonde hair, slight and wispy thin. She has a smirk on her face, and features that looked equal parts charismatic and dangerous. She thanks the jet’s pilot and crew with an Australian accent, although it was hard to tell whether she was being genuine or sarcastic.

The third is a foreigner - the only non-Korean amongst them. Her wildly dressed hair and loose, rock and metal inspired outfit mark her out as a bit of a rebel, although there is still a charm to her face and eyes that make her seem almost approachable and kind.

The fourth, if appearances were indeed an indicator of personality, appeared gentle and pleasant. Like the Australian she offers her thanks to the pilot and cabin crew, but unlike her teammate her words seemed genuine. She has soft, beautiful features, but there is a barely noticeable sadness in her eyes, as though she did not want to be there at all.

They step into a waiting limousine that will take them to Tokyo.

---

Author’s Note: 

Two chapters in two weeks? Wtf who am I? lol I got super motivated after the conversations I’ve had with readers recently, so I pumped this out real quick to capitalize on it.

Firstly, I want to thank the anon that gave the idea in an ask awhile back that outlined generally what happens to Irene in this chapter - the more I thought about it the more it made sense. It let me write Irene out, although given the recent news of Red Velvet’s comeback maybe she’ll be back to the story sooner rather than later. :)

Next I want to thank all the readers. This is part 40! I never in a million years imagined I’d be writing this for so long. It still amazes me that people actually want to read the shitty filth I put out. I appreciate all your kind words and hope you’ll continue to support me in the future. 

Stay safe and be kind to one another, y’all. <3

[lubdubsworld]

Silk and lace ( Sneak Peak )

He smiled, curling his fingers and beckoning me over. I moved to stand in front of him and he carefully grabbed my waist, drawing me closer.

“Alright.  Let me make it sexy for you. How hard can I hit you?” He whispered, fingers curving around my waist a bit. I considered that question seriously.

When I was young, I had been clumsy. Always. I loved my brother, chased him all over the place eight year age gap notwithstanding. And that meant getting hurt. A lot. My pain tolerance was through the roof. As I grew older, delved into the world of sex,  the line between  pain and pleasure had begun to fade and blur.  I found myself fascinated by the way my body reacted to getting hurt. Bruises that started out a deep blood red before turning blue and purple before finally fading to a pale yellow green.

There had been one very memorable time with an instructor in finishing school, the man not knowing his own strength and possibly a little  terrified about getting caught banging the future queen of the country in a supply closet . He had pressed his palm over my mouth to keep my voice down as he fucked me from the back and his grip had toed the line of too much, leaving finger shaped bruises along my jaw.

I had spent weeks pressing my finger into the marks, thighs clenching at the dull ache of it. Had wanted those bruises else where. On my thighs. On the curve of my breasts,

Around my throat.

I stared at Jimin and gave him a bright smile.

“Hard. As hard as you like.” I whispered. He looked pleased at that.

“ My little slut, you like getting hurt, huh? Let’s see how much you regret that answer later.” He gave a cruelly impish smile and I felt my body thrum , wanted to ask him to hit me right there, grip me hard and put me in my place but I swallowed the urge.

“ Anywhere other than the face is fine , right?” He tilted his head in question.

I began nodding but then stopped.

It was terrible, the voice in my head was terrible and depraved and I wanted to ignore it. It crossed so many lines of propriety, crossed so many line of what society thought was right and wrong and I didn’t want to seem weak or disgusting. Didn’t want Jimin to think I was flawed, broken in someway to want something so awful and wrong........

“Kitten?” His voice broke through and i swallowed, glancing up at him with my lips caught between my teeth.

“I... yeah.” I said softly, scared to lose him. Scared to say the wrong thing and lose this thing with him.

He sighed deeply.

“What did I tell you about honesty, Nara?” He said softly.

I flushed.

“I...”

“ Anything you tell me, stays between us. I won’t judge you. But I will be very, very  disappointed  if you hide your thoughts. If you don’t tell me what you want, I can never fully give you what you deserve.” He whispered.

“Why not the face?” I mumbled under my breath. I was scared to look at him, scared to see what he thought of that. I felt arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, till my face was buried into his shoulder, my heart racing as I clung to his back.

“My apologies. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. But I have to ask, have you ever had anyone, hit you like that before?” He asked gently, stroking my back gently.

I hesitated.

“No.. but... I like the idea of it...I’m sorry. It’s so awful, I shouldn’t be turned on by getting hit but I...” I blabbered and he made soothing noises, gently hugging me closer and swiping the hair off my face to stare at me. He looked warm and accepting, not an ounce of judgement anywhere and the knot in my stomach loosened just a little.

“Hey... Nara ...none of that. Why should hitting one part of your body be worse than another. Your body is yours and as long as I have your consent, there’s no reason you should let societal ideas of what is right or wrong , shame you in any way....”

“You don’t think its weird?” I asked desperately. “ i don’t care about society , to hell with society. I just don’t want you to think I’m weird.”

Jimin’s gaze softened and he bent down , brushing his lips over mine before pulling back and exhaling sharply. .

“I think its fucking hot.” He said softly, voice dropping low. “But I want you to be sure. I don’t want to hurt you.”

I nodded.

“Okay?”

“You wanna try it now?” He asked gently.

I stared at him, shocked.

“Red to stop.. yellow to slow down.. green to go , okay baby?”

“I...yeah ,..okay...” anticipation made talking difficult.

“ Good girl...Thought you said something about earning it on your knees? ” He asked softly and i felt my skin heat up. i looked around at the glass walls, the garden outside and I couldn’t quite catch my breath at the implication of it. I wasn’t sure how I would react, wasn’t sure what he was going to do ......

“Don’t go all shy on me now, kitten. Whatever happened to the girl who wanted to fuck me in front of Irene?”

I flushed , biting my lips.

“I haven’t got all day, kitten. On your fucking knees. Now.” His voice came out gruff and demanding and I stood rooted on the spot , trying to listen but held back by own inhibitions.

We’re in public a voice kept whispering inside me, a voice that wasn’t really me because honestly, deep down, I didn’t really care... i wanted this ...wanted to get on my knees for him, would do it anywhere , in front of anyone, that’s how much i wanted him but-

Pain bloomed on my cheekbone, Jimin’s palm connecting with the soft curve of my cheek with enough force to make my eyes water, leaving behind pain that was sharp and stinging and practically unbearable..

But it was gone before I could even fully process it. In its wake came heat, fiery and hot licking its way over my skin and it felt so intense i nearly stumbled arousal pooling in my stomach so quick and with so much potency that I could feel myself getting wetter, my heart racing so fast I couldn’t catch my breath.

My knees buckled and I dropped down in front of him, fumbling to get a grip on his legs trying to steady myself but I couldn’t.

Jimin grabbed me by the hair, fingers gripping my hair hard and yanking me away from his legs. I whimpered, staring up at him as he grinned down at me, smile wide and bright.

“So, is  that how you like to be brought to your knees, my little whore?” he drawled.

Oh fuck.

[rvmmm21]

. unpleasant reminders 2.0 (aftercare) .

summary : joohyun isn’t all monster, after all.

small note : no anon prompt this time! big ups to [w] for suggesting this lol. it’s the only thing keeping irene from straying too far off into the murderous yandere cave. first off, never written aftercare, really don’t know how to write it too well (sorry!). when it was suggested i said :o um, yandere aftercare is probably just a comforting guilt trip, let’s be honest, so here’s soft irene! as soft as a psychopath gets, anyway. (please don’t yell i couldn’t get all the softness in).

tw : crying, physical injuries, implied stockholm syndrome, implied imprisonment. (and, my constant reminder that this is an Extremely Toxic Relationship).

...

It’s over, but it hurts.

And it’s silent. Eerily so. Which makes it so much easier for the echoes of sobs and sniffles to reach the ceiling.

…

It was her mistake.

Joohyun’s.

All Seungwan did was ask.

She’d gone along with it. Why she ever said yes in the first place she can’t for the life of her figure out, but what’s done is done, and she’s comes to terms with the fact that they both made mistakes.

Seungwan knew she wasn’t allowed anywhere past their front door without her omega under her arm. Joohyun had promised her it was so she could better shield her from the corruption of the evil outside world.

So she had made a mistake, but Seungwan had too. Sure, Joohyun could admit to her own short-sightedness when she gave Seungwan the green light to go out on a walk (alone and unguarded), but that didn’t excuse nor give her downright scheming alpha the right to ask. Seungwan had to have known full well what she was doing, to have had the nerve to demand such a thing of her defenceless girlfriend. Thus, making her transgression far worse than a simple, fleeting moment of weakness. Such behaviour absolutely required correcting. It was scheming and deceptive, plain and simple… not to mention probably another poorly thought out escape attempt. 

She had to have been thinking it.

Why else would she even need a ‘breath of fresh air’ when Joohyun had taken her out for a walk just last month?

…

“Breathe, Seungwan.” Joohyun calms her frantically heaving alpha, pressing her close and stroking gentle lines down her back. “Just breathe, it’s okay.”

She’s trying to breathe, she’s fucking trying but it’s… wait, that’s… that’s her name, isn’t it? Seungwan. Not puppy, not alpha, hell… not even Wannie.

Seungwan.  

She almost forgets it’s hers, and she finds herself having to adjust to the way it sounds. It feels like forever since Joohyun has addressed her like this. Like she’s supposed to. God, there’s an endless list of titles her omega refers to her by, depending on her mood. Or, more precisely, the mood Seungwan puts her in. Naturally, she much rather likes the nickname ‘Wannie’ as opposed to ‘puppy’ or any of its other derogatory alternatives, particularly with the hurt that usually follows once it reaches her ears.

But still, hearing her full name come from Joohyun’s lips flicks on some sort of intimate, pleasurable part of her brain.

God only knows why.

She can’t bring herself to analyse the complexities when Joohyun’s arms are around her in a proper hug. Now that there are no more chains, no more ropes, Seungwan feels heavier than ever, dragged down by her own muscle mass. Her arms are dead-weight, just a bag of bricks in her lap as she’s being held.

The after-effects of the pain acts like a sedative, ironic as it is. It floods her system. It’s overpowering, and – especially when it’s combined with staggered inhales of her omega’s light and positively calming scent – it always gets her so emotional and so, so sleepy.

(Joohyun being ever the observant mentor always makes it a point to double the concentration of her scent to assist with the come down, to make it as swift and as painless as possible)

It’s been ages but the pain is still peaking. Seungwan tries to squirm because everything - just - hurts.

“It’s sensory overload,” Joohyun stills her, answering a question she hasn’t even asked. It’s an automatic response at this point, the younger girl has heard it all before. “You’ll be alright in a few hours, relax, baby. Deep breaths. It’s going to take longer if you keep moving.”

Seungwan is crying before Joohyun even finishes. When the aggravating pulsing in her head and the searing sting of fresh, open wounds finally fades into a dull ache, hot tears stream down her cheeks before she can reach up to soothe them away. She’s curling further into Joohyun’s front, suddenly shrinking to half her size. Poor baby, the omega thinks. Her poor baby looks so numb, hungry and in pain that it clamps around her heart a little too forcefully for her liking. The fact that the alpha will never know how much it hurts to see her this way far surpasses the twinge from a few electric shocks and a couple of bruised ribs.

Blinking the glaze from her eyes, Seungwan gazes up, and a frail smile traces her lips at the way Joohyun looks just as sorry as she feels.

She always does, though.

Joohyun peers down when Seungwan begins making tiny, muffled noises. She has to strain to make sense of the words being murmured against her collarbone, and it’s admittedly very difficult to do when all she wants is to feel those sobs slowly die down. But she tries, for Seungwan’s sake. She runs her fingers through knotted, damp hair and tilts the alpha back gently away from herself, careful not to hurt her any more than she is already. “Seungwan-ah.”

The command is sweet, gentle. And in her half-asleep state, Seungwan’s brain takes a second to register her omega’s voice before she can respond. “… love you, I love –”

She loves Joohyun. Deep down, she genuinely appreciates everything she does for her, even if she has to sit on the sadder side of damaged and sore for the next few days. Joohyun’s love isn’t always the gentle type, and she knows this. So what? That just means it’s unique; just a few harmless behavioural adjustments. In fact, she thanks her for it, for bringing out the best in her, even if her methods are... rather unorthodox.

With Joohyun, you have to scrape, and you have to scrape hard. But it’s worth every minute, because underneath all those insecurities and the deafening paranoia, she is truly a good person. She’s a protector.

Her protector.

Seungwan’s feeble declaration cuts off into a breathless whine when Joohyun nuzzles into her neck, shushing her with the tenderness she always seems to possess after their sessions.  “Shh, it’s okay, baby, I love you too.”

There’s a leisurely sigh. And then lips are trailing over faded mating-marks and aggressive, pink crescent-shaped markings before choosing to settle on a fresh bruise right below her jaw, causing Seungwan to tense up, unsure. But her eyes roll back into their sockets and she’s tries not to shiver too violently when Joohyun growls, all soft and low, sending pleasurable vibrations against injured skin. 

“Too much. That’s why I do it, you know. I love you too much. I only want you to be good for me.”

She looks down at the delicate bundle she’s cradling,

Her little mate perfectly slotted between her arms; so soft and warm and weak.

Someone like Seungwan really isn’t built to survive on her own. Her mistakes prove that again and again; that she’s helpless without Joohyun.

Joohyun is a good omega, and no matter how harsh the punishment, a good omega never leaves her mate in pain.

She holds the girl whose breathing has finally evened out, the letting her head loll heavily against her shoulder as she drifts off into a pain-induced sleep. The over-exertion has finally taken over, and Seungwan is spared till morning.

They’re going to have to work on her endurance, that’s for sure. This is her worst time to date. Joohyun hadn’t even gotten through two thirds of the session before she saw the warning signs. The serious ones, not the odd whimper and a plea to stop... the serious ones. The ones that forced her to retire early. But Joohyun almost isn’t frustrated at all, this time. Seungwan’s been so compliant lately, taking her training without a single whine. Joohyun knows she could very well have to deal with the added stress of fussing, pouting and whining on top of what happens in sessions, or perhaps even a dare to call for help afterwards when she isn’t looking. She knows Seungwan is more than capable, and yet –

– and yet she doesn’t do it. Any of it.

She’s learnt not to.

Because she’s such a clever girl.

Such a fast learner.

Such an obedient little puppy.

Endurance isn’t going to be pleasant. But Joohyun is sure Seungwan will understand why it’s necessary, when the time comes. She’ll gently introduce this new phase to her tomorrow, she thinks, as she re-adjusts her hold and tucks a limp arm back into place to better accommodate her own limbs that are beginning to ache from the position. She slips her arm out from Seungwan’s back to inspect the damage. Oh no, her wrist looks particularly wrong. She knows she’s not supposed to be able to bend it that way. 

Joohyun carefully sets her down, then quickly grabs the first blanket she can get her hands on to gently drape it over her before heading upstairs to get the equipment she requires. She won’t make any attempt to move her. Not until that wrist has been seen to. 

And then she’ll put her to bed so she can tend to the rest of those horrible, ugly marks Seungwan needs to be rid of. 

For now, she’ll kiss her, she’ll cook for her, she will be at her beck and call. For now, she will be the most dutiful, compassionate, caring partner she can be.

Because she really doesn’t think she can take seeing her poor alpha cry herself to unconsciousness again… not for at least another couple of days.

[way-to-the-future]

#28: Irenic

           It’s a lasting march by less than friendly paths that takes me to the site captain Farid mentioned. I’m not much cheered by the knowledge that these goat trails are the same climbed by novitiate monks and other devotees of the Destroyer to see the face of their god in days past, but it does add a certain historical dimension to my suffering. I can see why the priests of Ala Mhigo are so given to baring their midriffs. Russet doesn’t cooperate with the heights of Gyr Abania.

           Still, I was given no fewer than five lectures on clerical modesty during my catechism, and I’m disinclined to let Azeyma get the best of me while I’m partly on Her business. My waterskin is a quarter full by the time I arrive at the Ephor, as it’s called – and Keeper sustain me, do those waters look fine. I set down in the shadow of Rhalgr’s form with my boots off and reach for my folio, squinting my eyes against the nimbus that surrounds him.

           It’s only because I spoke with a local shaman that I knew how to come here, and that I know what I’m looking at now is the broken body of the saltborn god. Even in its reduced state, there’s still some menace about the thing. It bears still a staff that might rather be a rapier of the red, and I could swear I feel eyes upon me even with Rhalgr’s head gone to dust. Broken by the imperials, so I was told. All things wrought by Spoken go that way, eventually.

           I’m not sure what to make of this Rhalgr as I note down the particulars of his remaining icon. Here, He was the judge, and what is a judge if His judgements do not last? Rhalgr brings down all that’s made, eventually – part of me can’t imagine He’s particularly fond of statues, even in His likeness – but the act of destruction has an inescapable finality to it. What’s broken once can’t truly be rebuilt. Even if they were to shape new stone to fit this image, what of it remains? The worship of Rhalgr has surely changed since this place was consecrated; the ways of sculptors, too, and even the stones of these mountains.

           I wouldn’t see the hand of Rhalgr in the person of the imperials. I don’t believe any of the Twelve are so cruel as to send such a scourge, yet I’m helpless to do anything but go poking through the rubble here. Rhalgr the judge had His time, that much is clear. What remains to be seen – the question that seizes me and stays in my mind – is this: how does the god of revolutions change, Himself? How does He change and retain His essence? Perhaps I would be better served pondering such for my own patron, first.

           I awaken a little sunburned and plenty thirsty. Must have dozed off by the water’s edge. Well, there’s a time for everything, and I surely needed the rest. There’s naught to do but shoulder my pack and beat feet down mountain before the sun dips any further towards the crowns of the Peaks. Yet I spare a glance back, with the mesa now clouded in a near-total shadow – only the very crest of the statue remains in the light. At this time of sun, I’m sure, His eyes would be blazing, His sandstone beard gleaming like a pelt of flame. Now, though, I would think there a weariness to the arm bearing His staff, cast in darkness. Duty’s done, sun goes out, and me with it – as captain was known to say.

[blindrapture]

Under the Read More, I will put a single-sentence question, followed by its answer. This is from Finnegans Wake. For the record, the question is asking “who was the person who matched this description.”

What secondtonone myther rector and maximost bridgesmaker was the first to rise taller through his beanstale than the bluegum buaboababbaun or the giganteous Wellingtonia Sequoia; went nudiboots with trouters into a liffeyette when she was barely in her tricklies; was well known to claud a conciliation cap onto the esker of his hooth; sports a chainganger’s albert solemenly over his hullender’s epulence; thought he weighed a new ton when there felled his first lapapple; gave the heinousness of choice to everyknight betwixt yesterdicks and twomaries; had sevenal successivecoloured serebanmaids on the same big white drawringroam horthrug; is a Willbeforce to this hour at house as he was in heather; pumped the catholick wartrey and shocked the prodestung boyne; killed his own hungery self in anger as a young man; found fodder for five when allmarken rose goflooded; with Hirish tutores Cornish made easy; voucher of rotables, toll of the road; bred manyheaded stepsons for one leapyourown taughter; is too funny for a fish and has too much outside for an insect; like a heptagon crystal emprisoms trues and fauss for us; is infinite swell in unfitting induments; once was he shovelled and once was he arsoned and once was he inundered and she hung him out billbailey; has a quadrant in his tile to tell Toler cad a’clog it is; offers chances to Long on but stands up to Legge before; found coal at the end of his harrow and mossroses behind the seams; made a fort out of his postern and wrote F.E.R.T. on his buckler; is escapemaster-in-chief from all sorts of houdingplaces; if he outharrods against barkers, to the shoolbred he acts whiteley; was evacuated at the mere appearance of three germhuns and twice besieged by a sweep; from zoomorphology to omnianimalism he is brooched by the spin of a coin; towers, an eddistoon amid the lampless, casting swannbeams on the deep; threatens thunder upon malefactors and sends whispers up fraufrau’s froufrous; when Dook Hookbackcrook upsits his ass booseworthies jeer and junket but they boos him oos and baas his aas when he lukes like Hunkett Plunkett; by sosannsos and search a party on a lady of this city; business, reading newspaper, smoking cigar, arranging tumblers on table, eating meals, pleasure, etcetera, etcetera, pleasure, eating meals, arranging tum-blers on table, smoking cigar, reading newspaper, business; minerals, wash and brush up, local views, juju toffee, comic and birthdays cards; those were the days and he was their hero; pink sunset shower, red clay cloud, sorrow of Sahara, oxhide on Iren; arraigned and attainted, listed and lited, pleaded and proved; catches his check at banck of Indgangd and endurses his doom at chapel exit; brain of the franks, hand of the christian, tongue of the north; commands to dinner and calls the bluff; has a block at Morgen’s and a hatache all the afternunch; plays gehamerat when he’s ernst but misses mausey when he’s lustyg; walked as far as the Head where he sat in state as the Rump; shows Early English tracemarks and a marigold window with manigilt lights, a myrioscope, two remarkable piscines and three wellworthseeing ambries; arches all portcullised and his nave dates from dots; is a horologe unstoppable and the Benn of all bells; fuit, isst and herit and though he’s mildewstaned he’s mouldystoned; is a quercuss in the forest but plane member for Megalopolis; mountunmighty, faunonfleetfoot; plank in our platform, blank in our scouturn; hidal, in carucates he is enumerated, hold as an earl, he counts; shipshaped phrase of buglooking words with a form like the easing moments of a graminivorous; to our dooms brought he law, our manoirs he made his vill of; was an overgrind to the underground and acqueduced for fierythroats; sends boys in socks acoughawhooping when he lets farth his carbonoxside and silk stockings show her shapings when he looses hose on hers; stocks dry puder for the Ill people and pinkun’s pellets for all the Pale; gave his mundyfoot to Miserius, her pinch to Anna Livia, that superfine pigtail to Cerisia Cerosia and quid rides to Titius, Caius and Sempronius; made the man who had no notion of shopkeepers feel he’d rather play the duke than play the gentleman; shot two queans and shook three caskles when he won his game of dwarfs; fumes inwards like a strombolist till he smokes at both ends; manmote, befier of him, womankind, pietad!; shows one white drift of snow among the gorsegrowth of his crown and a chaperon of repentance on that which shed gore; pause and quies, triple bill; went by metro for the polis and then hoved by; to the finders, hail! woa, you that seek!; whom fillth had plenished, dearth devoured; hock is leading, cocoa comes next, emery tries for the flag; can dance the O’Bruin’s polerpasse at Noolahn to his own orchistruss accompaniment; took place before the internatural convention of catholic midwives and found stead before the congress for the study of endonational calamities; makes a delictuous entrée and finishes off the course between sweets and savouries; flouts for forecasts, flairs for finds and the fun of the fray on the fairground; cleared out three hundred sixty five idles to set up one all khalassal for henwives hoping to have males; the flawhoolagh, the grasping one, the kindler of paschal fire; forbids us our trespassers as we forgate him; the phoenix be his pyre, the cineres his sire!; piles big pelium on little ossas like the pilluls of hirculeads; has an eatupus complex and a drinkthedregs kink; wurstmeats for chumps and cowcarlows for scullions; when he plies for our favour is very trolly ours; two psychic espousals and three desertions; may be matter of fact now but was futter of magd then; Cattermole Hill, exmountain of flesh was reared up by stress and sank under strain; tank it up, dank it up, tells the tailor to his tout; entoutcas for a man, but bit a thimble for a maid; blimp, blump; a dud letter, a sing a song a sylble; a byword, a sentence with surcease; while stands his canyouseehim frails shall fall; was hatched at Cellbridge but ejoculated abrood; as it gan in the biguinnengs so wound up in a battle of Boss; Roderick, Roderick, Roderick, O, you’ve gone the way of the Danes; variously catalogued, regularly regrouped; a bushboys holoday, a quacker’s mating, a wenches’ sandbath; the same homoheatherous checkinlossegg as when sollyeye airly blew ye; real detonation but false report; spa mad but inn sane; half emillian via bogus census but a no street hausmann when allphannd; is the handiest of all andies and a most alleghant spot to dump your hump; hands his secession to the new patricius but plumps plebmatically for the bloody old centuries; eats with doors open and ruts with gates closed; some dub him Rotshield and more limn him Rockyfellow; shows he’s fly to both demisfairs but thries to cover up his tracers; seven dovecotes cooclaim to have been pigeonheim to this homer, Smerrnion, Rhoebok, Kolonsreagh, Seapoint, Quayhowth, Ashtown, Ratheny; independent of the lordship of chamberlain, acknowledging the rule of Rome; we saw thy farm at Useful Prine, Domhnall, Domhnall; reeks like Illbelpaese and looks like Iceland’s ear; lodged at quot places, lived through tot reigns; takes a szumbath for his weekend and a wassarnap for his refreskment; after a good bout at stoolball enjoys Giroflee Giroflaa; what Nevermore missed and Colombo found; believes in everyman his own goaldkeeper and in Africa for the fullblacks; the arc of his drive was forty full and his stumps were pulled at eighty; boasts him to the thick-in-thews the oldest creater in Aryania and looks down on the Suiss family Collesons whom he calls les nouvelles roches; though his heart, soul and spirit turn to pharaoph times, his love, faith and hope stick to futuerism; light leglifters cense him souriantes from afore while boor browbenders curse him grommelants to his hindmost; between youlasses and yeladst glimse of Even; the Lug his peak has, the Luk his pile; drinks tharr and wodhar for his asama and eats the unparishable sow to styve off reglar rack; the beggars cloak them reclined about his paddystool, the whores winken him as they walk their side; on Christienmas at Advent Lodge, New Yealand, after a lenty illness the roeverand Mr Easterling of pentecostitis, no followers by bequest, fanfare all private; Gone Where Glory Waits Him (Ball, bulletist) but Not Here Yet (Maxwell, clark); comminxed under articles but phoenished a borgiess; from the vat on the bier through the burre in the dark to the buttle of the bawn; is A1 an the highest but Roh re his root; filled fanned of hackleberries whenas all was tuck and toss up for him as a yangster to fall fou of hockinbechers wherein he had gauged the use of raisin; ads aliments, das doles, raps rustics, tams turmoil; sas seed enough for a semination but sues skivvies on the sly; learned to speak from hand to mouth till he could talk earish with his eyes shut; hacked his way through hickheckhocks but hanged hishelp from there hereafters; rialtos, annesleyg, binn and balls to say nothing atolk of New Comyn; the gleam of the glow of the shine of the sun through the dearth of the dirth on the blush of the brick of the viled ville of Barnehulme has dust turned to brown; these dyed to tartan him, rueroot, dulse, bracken, teasel, fuller’s ash, sundew and cress; long gunn but not for cotton; stood his sharp assault of famine but grew girther, girther and girther; he has twenty four or so cousins germinating in the United States of America and a namesake with an initial difference in the once kingdom of Poland; his first’s a young rose and his second’s French-Egyptian and his whole means a slump at Christie’s; forth of his pierced part came the woman of his dreams, blood thicker then water last trade overseas; buyshop of Glintylook, eorl of Hoed; you and I are in him surrented by brwn bldns; Elin’s flee polt pelhaps but Hwang Chang evelytime; he one was your of highbigpipey boys but fancy him as smoking fags his at time of life; Mount of Mish, Mell of Moy; had two cardinal ventures and three capitol sinks; has a peep in his pocketbook and a packetboat in his keep; B.V.H., B.L.G., P.P.M., T.D.S., V.B.D., T.C.H., L.O.N.; is Breakfates, Lunger, Diener and Souper; as the streets were paved with cold he felt his topperairy; taught himself skating and learned how to fall; distinctly dirty but rather a dear; hoveth chieftains evrywehr, with morder; Ostman Effendi, Serge Paddishaw; baases two mmany, outpriams al’ his parisites; first of the fenians, roi des fainéants; his Tiara of scones was held unfillable till one Liam Fail felled him in Westmunster; was struck out of his sittem when he rowed saulely to demask us and to our appauling predicament brought as plagues from Buddapest; put a matchhead on an aspenstalk and set the living a fire; speared the rod and spoiled the lightning; married with cakes and repunked with pleasure; till he was buried howhappy was he and he made the welkins ring with Up Micawber!; god at the top of the staircase, carrion on the mat of straw; the false hood of a spindler web chokes the cavemouth of his unsightliness but the nestlings that liven his leafscreen sing him a lover of arbuties; we strike hands over his bloodied warsheet but we are pledged entirely to his green mantle; our friend vikelegal, our swaran foi; under the four stones by his streams who vanished the wassailbowl at the joy of shells; Mora and Lora had a hill of a high time looking down on his confusion till firm look in readiness, forward spear and the windfoot of curach strewed the lakemist of Lego over the last of his fields; we darkened for you, faulterer, in the year of mourning but we’ll fidhil to the dimtwinklers when the streamy morvenlight calls up the sunbeam; his striped pantaloons, his rather strange walk; hereditatis columna erecta, hagion chiton eraphon; nods a nap for the nonce but crows cheerio when they get ecunemical; is a simultaneous equator of elimbinated integras when three upon one is by inspection improper; has the most conical hodpiece of confusianist heronim and that chuchuffuous chinchin of his is like a footsey kungoloo around Taishantyland; he’s as globeful as a gasometer of lithium and luridity and he was thrice ten anular years before he wallowed round Raggiant Circos; the cabalstone at the coping of his cavin is a canine constant but only an amirican could apparoxemete the apeupresiosity of his atlast’s alongement; sticklered rights and lefts at Baddersdown in his hunt for the boar trwth but made his end with the modareds that came at him in Camlenstrete; a hunnibal in exhaustive conflict, an otho to return; burning body to aiger air on melting mountain in wooing wave; we go into him sleepy children, we come out of him strucklers for life; he divested to save from the Mrs Drownings their rival queens while Grimshaw, Bragshaw and Renshaw made off with his storen clothes; taxed and rated, licensed and ranted; his threefaced stonehead was found on a whitehorse hill and the print of his costellous feet is seen in the goat’s grasscircle; pull the blind, toll the deaf and call dumb, lame and halty; Miraculone, Monstrucceleen; led the upplaws at the Creation and hissed a snake charmer off her stays; hounded become haunter, hunter become fox; harrier, marrier, terrier, tav; Olaph the Oxman, Thorker the Tourable; you feel he is Vespasian yet you think of him as Aurelius; whugamore, tradertory, socianist, commoniser; made a summer assault on our shores and begiddy got his sands full; first he shot down Raglan Road and then he tore up Marlborough Place; Cromlechheight and Crommalhill were his farfamed feetrests when our lurch as lout let free into the Lubar heloved; mareschalled his wardmotes and delimited the main; netted before nibbling, can scarce turn a scale but, grossed after meals, weighs a town in himself; Banba prayed for his conversion, Beurla missed that grand old voice; a Colossus among cabbages, the Melarancitrone of fruits; larger than life, doughtier than death; Gran Turco, orege forment; lachsembulger, leperlean; the sparkle of his genial fancy, the depth of his calm sagacity, the clearness of his spotless honour, the flow of his boundless benevolence; our family furbear, our tribal tarnpike; quary was he invincibled and cur was he burked; partitioned Irskaholm, united Irishmen; he took a svig at his own methyr but she tested a bit gorky and as for the salmon he was coming up in him all life long; comm, eilerdich hecklebury and sawyer thee, warden; silent as the bee in honey, stark as the breath on hauwck, Costello, Kinsella, Mahony, Moran, though you rope Amrique your home ruler is Dan; figure right, he is hoisted by the scurve of his shaggy neck, figure left, he is rationed in isobaric patties among the crew; one asks was he poisoned, one thinks how much did he leave; ex-gardener (Riesengebirger), fitted up with planturous existencies would make Roseoogreedy (mite’s) little hose; taut sheets and scuppers awash but the oil silk mack Liebsterpet micks his aquascutum; the enjoyment he took in kay women, the employment he gave to gee men; sponsor to a squad of piercers, ally to a host of rawlies; against lightning, explosion, fire, earthquake, flood, whirlwind, burglary, third party, rot, loss of cash, loss of credit, impact of vehicles; can rant as grave as oxtail soup and chat as gay as a porto flippant; is unhesitent in his unionism and yet a pigotted nationalist; Sylviacola is shy of him, Matrosenhosens nose the joke; shows the sinews of peace in his chest-o-wars; fiefeofhome, ninehundred and thirtunine years of copyhold; is aldays open for polemypolity’s sake when he’s not suntimes closed for the love of Janus; sucks life’s eleaxir from the pettipickles of the Jewess and ruoulls in sulks if any popeling runs down the Huguenots; Boomaport, Walleslee, Ubermeerschall Blowcher and Supercharger, Monsieur Ducrow, Mister Mudson, master gardiner; to one he’s just paunch and judex, to another full of beans and brehons; hallucination, cauchman, ectoplasm; passed for baabaa blacksheep till he grew white woo woo woolly; was drummatoysed by Mac Milligan’s daughter and put to music by one shoebard; all fitzpatricks in his emirate remember him, the boys of wetford hail him babu; indanified himself with boro tribute and was schenkt publicly to brigstoll; was given the light in drey orchafts and entumuled in threeplexes; his likeness is in Terrecuite and he giveth rest to the rainbowed; lebriety, frothearnity and quality; his reverse makes a virtue of necessity while his obverse mars a mother by invention; beskilk his gunwale and he’s the second imperial, untie points, unhook tenters and he’s lath and plaster; calls upon Allthing when he fails to appeal to Eachovos; basidens, ardree, kongsemma, rexregulorum; stood into Dee mouth, then backed broadside on Baulacleeva; either eldorado or ultimate thole; a kraal of fou feud fires, a crawl of five pubs; laid out lashings of laveries to hunt down his family ancestors and then pled double trouble or quick quits to hush the buckers up; threw pebblets for luck over one sodden shoulder and dragooned peoplades armed to their teeth; pept as Gaudio Gambrinus, grim as Potter the Grave; ace of arts, deuce of damimonds, trouble of clubs, fear of spates; cumbrum, cumbrum, twiniceynurseys fore a drum but tre to uno tips the scale; reeled the titleroll opposite a brace of girdles in Silver on the Screen but was sequenced from the set as Crookback by the even more titulars, Rick, Dave and Barry; he can get on as early as the twentysecond of Mars but occasionally he doesn’t come offbefore Virgintiquinque Germinal; his Indian name is Hapapoosiesobjibway and his number in arithmosophy is the stars of the plough; took weapon in the province of the pike and let fling his line on Eelwick; moves in vicous cicles yet remews the same; the drain rats bless his offals while the park birds curse his floodlights; Portobello, Equadocta, Therecocta, Percorello; he pours into the softclad shellborn the hard cash earned in Watling Street; his birth proved accidental shows his death its grave mistake; brought us giant ivy from the land of younkers and bewitthered Apostolopolos with the gale of his gall; while satisfied that soft youthful bright matchless girls should bosom into fine silkclad joyous blooming young women is not so pleased that heavy swearsome strongsmelling irregularshaped men should blottout active handsome wellformed frankeyed boys; herald hairyfair, alloaf the wheat; husband your aunt and endow your nepos; hearken but hush it, screen him and see; time is, an archbishopric, time was, a tradesmen’s entrance; beckburn brooked with wath, scale scarred by scow; his rainfall is a couple of kneehighs while his meanst grass temperature marked three in the shade; is the meltingpoint of snow and the bubblingplace of alcohol; has a tussle with the trulls and then does himself justice; hinted at in the eschatological chapters of Humphrey’s Justesse of the Jaypees and hunted for by Theban recensors who sniff there’s something behind the Bug of the Deaf; the king was in his cornerwall melking mark so murry, the queen was steep in armbour feeling fain and furry, the mayds was midst the hawthorns shoeing up their hose, out pimps the back guards (pomp!) and pump gun they goes; to all his foretellers he reared a stone and for all his comethers he planted a tree; forty acres, sixty miles, white stripe, red stripe, washes his fleet in annacrwatter; whou missed a porter so whot shall he do for he wanted to sit for Pimploco but they’ve caught him to stand for Sue?; Dutchlord, Dutchlord, overawes us; Headmound, king and martyr, dunstung in the Yeast, Pitre-le-Pore-in Petrin, Barth-the-Grete-by-the-Exchange; he hestens towards dames troth and wedding hand like the prince of Orange and Nassau while he has trinity left behind him like Bowlbeggar Bill-the-Bustonly; brow of a hazelwood, pool in the dark; changes blowicks into bullocks and a well of Artesia into a bird of Arabia; the handwriting on his facewall, the cryptoconchoidsiphonostomata in his exprussians; his birthspot lies beyond the herospont and his burialplot in the pleasant little field; is the yldist kiosk on the pleninsula and the unguest hostel in Saint Scholarland; walked many hundreds and many score miles of streets and lit thousands in one nightlights in hectares of windows; his great wide cloak lies on fifteen acres and his little white horse decks by dozens our doors; O sorrow the sail and woe the rudder that were set for Mairie Quai!; his suns the huns, his dartars the tartars, are plenty here today; who repulsed from his burst the bombolts of Ostenton and falchioned each flash downsaduck in the deep; apersonal problem, a locative enigma; upright one, vehicule of arcanisation in the field, lying chap, floodsupplier of celiculation through ebblanes; a part of the whole as a port for a whale; Dear Hewitt Castello, Equerry, were daylighted with our outing and are looking backwards to unearly summers, from Rhoda Dundrums; is above the seedfruit level and outside the leguminiferous zone; when older links lock older hearts then he’ll resemble she; can be built with glue and clippings, scrawled or voided on a buttress; the night express sings his story, the song of sparrownotes on his stave of wires; he crawls with lice, he swarms with saggarts; is as quiet as a mursque but can be as noisy as a sonogog; was Dilmun when his date was palmy and Mudlin when his nut was cracked; suck up the sease, lep laud at ease, one lip on his lap and one cushlin his crease; his porter has a mighty grasp and his baxters the boon of broadwhite; as far as wind dries and rain eats and sun turns and water bounds he is exalted and depressed, assembled and asundered; go away, we are deluded, come back, we are disghosted; bored the Ostrov, leapt the Inferus, swam the Mabbul and flure the Moyle; like fat, like fatlike tallow, of greasefulness, yea of dripping greasefulness; did not say to the old, old, did not say to the scorbutic, scorbutic; he has founded a house, Uru, a house he has founded to which he has assigned its fate; bears a raaven geulant on a fjeld duiv; ruz the halo offhis varlet when he appeared to his shecook as Haycock, Emmet, Boaro, Toaro, Osterich, Mangy and Skunk; pressed the beer of aled age out of the nettles of rashness; put a roof on the lodge for Hymn and a coq in his pot pro homo; was dapifer then pancircensor then hortifex magnus; the topes that tippled on him, the types that toppled off him; still starts our hares yet gates our goat; pocketbook packetboat, gapman gunrun; the light of other days, dire dreary darkness; our awful dad, Timour of Tortur; puzzling, startling, shocking, nay, perturbing; went puffing from king’s brugh to new customs, doffing the gibbous off him to every breach of all size; with Pa’s new heft and Papa’s new helve he’s Papapa’s old cutlass Papapapa left us; when youngheaded oldshouldered and middlishneck aged about; caller herring everydaily, turgid tarpon overnight; see Loryon the comaleon that changed endocrine history by loeven his loaf with forty bannucks; she drove him dafe till he driv her blind up; the pigeons doves be perchin all over him one day on Baslesbridge and the ravens duv be pitchin their dark nets after him the next night behind Koenigstein’s Arbour; tronf of the rep, comf of the priv, prosp of the pub; his headwood it’s ideal if his feet are bally clay; he crashed in the hollow of the park, trees down, as he soared in the vaguum of the phoenix, stones up; looks like a moultain boultter and sounds like a rude word; the mountain view, some lumin pale round a lamp of succar in boinyn water; three shots a puddy at up blup saddle; made up to Miss MacCormack Ni Lacarthy who made off with Darly Dermod, swank and swarthy; once diamond cut garnet now dammat cuts groany; you might find him at the Florence but watch our for him in Wynn’s Hotel; theer’s his bow and wheer’s his leaker and heer lays his bequiet hearse, deep; Swed Albiony, likeliest villain of the place; Hennery Canterel—Cockran, eggotisters, limitated; we take our tays and frees our fleas round sadurn’s mounted foot; built the Lund’s kirk and destroyed the church’s land; who guesse his title grabs his deeds; fletch and prities, fash and chaps; artful Juke of Wilysly; Hugglebelly’s Funniral; Kukkuk Kallikak; heard in camera and excruciated; boon when with benches billeted, bann if buckshotbackshattered; heavengendered, chaosfoedted, earthborn; his father presumptively ploughed it deep on overtime and his mother as all evince must have travailled her fair share; a footprinse on the Megacene, hetman unwhorsed by Searingsand; honorary captain of the extemporised fire brigade, reported to be friendly with the police; the door is still open; the old stock collar is coming back; not forgetting the time you laughed at Elder Charterhouse’s duckwhite pants and the way you said the whole township can see his hairy legs; by stealth of a kersse her aulburntress abaft his nape she hung; when his kettle became a hearthsculdus our thorstyites set their lymphyamphyre; his yearletter concocted by masterhands of assays, his hallmark imposed by the standard of wrought plate; a pair of pectorals and a triplescreen to get a wind up; lights his pipe with a rosin tree and hires a towhorse to haul his shoes; cures slavey’s scurvy, breaks barons boils; called to sell polosh and was found later in a bedroom; has his seat of justice, his house of mercy, his com o’copious and his stacks a’rye; prospector, he had a rooksacht, retrospector, he holds the holpenstake; won the freedom of new yoke for the minds of jugoslaves; acts active, peddles in passivism and is a gorgon of selfridgeousness; pours a laughsworth of his illformation over a larmsworth of salt; half heard the single maiden speech La Belle spun to her Grand Mount and wholed a lifetime by his ain fireside, wondering was it hebrew set to himmeltones or the quicksilversong of qwaternions; his troubles may be over but his doubles have still to come; the lobster pot that crabbed our keel, the garden pet that spoiled our squeezed peas; he stands in a lovely park, sea is not far, importunate towns of X, Y and Z are easily over reached; is an excrescence to civilised humanity and but a wart on Europe; wanamade singsigns to soundsense an yit he wanna git all his flesch nuemaid motts truly prural and plusible; has excisively large rings and is uncustomarily perfumed; lusteth ath he listeth the cleah whithpeh of a themise; is a prince of the fingallian in a hiberniad of hoolies; has a hodge to wherry him and a frenchy to curry him and a brabanson for his beeter and a fritz at his switch; was waylaid of a parker and beschotten by a buckeley; kicks lintils when he’s cuppy and casts Jacob’s arroroots, dime after dime, to poor waifstrays on the perish; reads the charms of H. C. Endersen all the weaks of his evenin and the crimes of Ivaun the Taurrible every strongday morn; soaps you soft to your face and slaps himself when he’s badend; owns the bulgiest bungbarrel that ever was tiptapped in the privace of the Mullingar Inn; was bom with a nuasilver tongue in his mouth and went round the coast of Iron with his lift hand to the scene; raised but two fingers and yet smelt it would day; for whom it is easier to found a see in Ebblannah than for I or you to find a dubbeltye in Dampsterdamp; to live with whom is a lifemayor and to know whom a liberal education; was dipped in Hoily Olives and chrysmed in Scent Otooles; hears cricket on the earth but annoys the life out of predikants; still turns the durc’s ear of Darius to the now thoroughly infurioted one of God; made Man with juts that jerk and minted money mong maney; likes a six acup pudding when he’s come whome sweetwhome; has come through all the eras of livsadventure from moonshine and shampaying down to clouts and pottled porter; woollem the farsed, hahnreich the althe, charge the sackend, writchad the thord; if a mandrake shricked to convultures at last surviving his birth the weibduck will wail bitternly over the rotter’s resurrection; loses weight in the moon night but gird girder by the sundawn; with one touch of nature set a veiled world agrin and went within a sheet of tissuepaper of the option of three gaols; who could see at one blick a saumon taken with a lance, hunters pursuing a doe, a swallowship in full sail, a whyterobe lifting a host; faced flappery like old King Cnut and turned his back like Cincinnatus; is a farfar and morefar and a hoar father Nakedbucker in villas old as new; squats aquart and cracks aquaint when it’s flaggin in town and on haven; blows whiskery around his summit but stehts stout upon his footles; stutters fore he falls and goes mad entirely when he’s waked; is Timb to the pearly mom and Tomb to the mourning night; and an he had the best bunbaked bricks in bould Babylon for his pitching plays he’d be lost for the want of his wan wubblin wall?

Answer: Finn MacCool!

[dylinski]

Watch Me Bleed (10/?)

Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST, violence, death, language. all of these should be a given by now. implied rape (nothing happens though)

Relationships: Mitch Rapp/Reader

Word Count: 3244

Author: @dylan-obrien-fanblog

A/N: Listen to this for some feels. Headphones are recommended. This one is really angsty and you should be prepared for a lot of that in the future.

Chapter 10

It had been three days since Mitch showed up at your door and things had been painfully quiet. You waited for Mitch to reach out but he had disappeared again, leaving you behind and alone. Worry crept in and you began to fear that maybe something happened like his wound got infected or his injuries were worse than you had thought, maybe Irene found him. You had to fight all your impulses and remind yourself he wasn’t your problem, not anymore. Why should you help him anyways? Maybe he had all of this coming? You knew nothing about him aside from his medical records and the story of Katrina. For all you know, he could be a psychotic killer. You’d spent enough time thinking about him and relapsing, losing all the progress you made at hardening yourself towards him so you pushed the thoughts and feelings down. Preparing for your shift, you put on your scrubs, grabbed a thermos of coffee and your bag, then headed out to the hospital.

When you got to work, Daniel was already there and ready to talk your ear off the minute you walked through the door. Some nonsense about another doctor and nurse hooking up, the usual gossip that made its way through the building. Once you were on the floor and your shift officially started, you dragged along and drank cup after cup of coffee. You had the last two days off, but felt exhausted from the constant state or anxiety that coursed through your veins since the moment Mitch walked through your door. Thankfully, it was pretty quiet and the night was going smoothly. You had an average amount of patients come though, none that were too serious and were easily treatable. Halfway through your shift, the fatigue started to become more prevalent so you decided to use your lunch break to take a nap.

“Hey Dan, I’m gonna go to the sleep rooms to try and rest. You good?”

“All good here. You look like you could use it. If I need you I know where to find you.” He smiled and waved you off. No matter how annoying he was, he was still a sweetheart and meant well. 

You made it to one of the open rooms and walked in ready to pass out, not even bothering with turning on the light. You laid down on the twin sized bed and let out a sigh as you closed your eyes and felt your muscles relax. The room was silent and you found comfort in that as you started to doze off. Your eyes sprung open and your veins turned to ice, terror consuming every atom in your body. Your immediate response was to elicit a scream, but it was held back by the large hand that clasped your mouth. A body was pressed against yours, holding you down as you tried to thrash underneath the weight.

“Shhh! They’ll hear you.” You stilled at the warmth of the voice and opened your eyes to see his brown ones staring back at you. You raised your eyebrows, questioning him and he slowly released his grasp over your lips.

“What the fuck Mitch?” You whisper-shouted at him. He looked unamused as he looked to the door, ignoring your accusatory tone. His features were serious and concentrated. He looked back down at you, his nose brushing against yours. He must have realized how close you both were because his entire body changed and became more relaxed. He tilted his head to the side and curled up the corner of his lips with sympathetic eyes. It looked as though he felt remorseful and apologetic. “Mitch…” You looked down, bringing attention to the fact that he was still lying on top of you.

“Oh shit. Yeah, sorry.” He jumped up and was timid, contrasting his previous state of control and confidence. He reached behind and rubbed the back of his neck as he looked to his feet.

“What are you doing here?” You were too tired and pissed to be anything but blunt. This asshole was really starting to get on your last nerve. His stature changed again, back to a sober face.

“We have to leave. It’s not safe here.”

“Not safe here—Mitch, what are you talking about?” You were irritated and didn’t even bother hiding it. Mitch took notice and peaked an eyebrow like your response was puzzling to him. He came back over to you where you were now, sitting on the edge of the bed, and he kneeled in front of you taking your hands in his. He looked up to you with worrisome eyes as he curled in his lips.

“I tried. I tried so hard to keep you out of this, but somehow they found out about you, Y/N. I got you into this mess and I’m going to get you out of it, but right now I need to protect you. I need to take you somewhere safe.” So many things about what he just said left you with more questions than before. You searched his face like it would reveal all the answers, but he sighed and stood up realizing you didn’t understand. 

“First, I have so many questions. Second, who is they? What mess? What happened? Why am I not safe?” You trailed off and he started pacing across the floor and it made you even more uneasy than before. Mitch looked worried and that made you worried. “Mitch, what did you do?” He stopped in his tracks and thought about it for a second, then turned back and leaned down putting a hand on either side of you against the mattress. He looked deep into your eyes and pulled his bottom lip back between his teeth.

“That’s the thing. I didn’t do anything.” Just when you thought you couldn’t be any more confused, he proved you wrong. He stood up and you threw your hands in the air declaring defeat. You were about to speak when you heard cautious footsteps outside of the door. Mitch ran over and kneeled in front of you, covering your mouth with his hand again.

“Really?” You said through his palm and rolled your eyes, but he jerked his head towards you shooting darts and giving you a look that screamed ‘shut up.’ He looked back to the door and pulled you up to meet him. His expression was a mix of fear and anger, contorting his face into an unfamiliar shape. He cupped your cheeks with both his hands and held you in his gaze, his eyes betraying his serious face.

“Do you trust me?” All you could do was nod, your heart racing in your chest as you feared it would rip through. The door flew open and men poured in with guns and masks. You could immediately tell they weren’t military, but they moved like they were, with order and precision. Mitch fell to his knees and raised his hands up in surrender, you could do nothing but follow his motions. Your heart stopped and you held your breath, trying to process exactly what was happening. Who were these people? Are they going to actually kill you? Five of them piled into the room and then the door was shut behind them. The one who appeared to be in charge came over to Mitch and looked him over, the only thing visible through his mask were his eyes. Another man pointed a gun to Mitch’s head and he shot darts at the person behind the gun. The leader walked over to where you were and kneeled down as he was inches from your face.

You were shaking and Mitch looked over and grunted when the man brushed the back of his hand across your cheek. You shut your eyes and gritted your teeth, holding back tears that were blurring your sight. “Take him, they want him alive.” The man with the gun grabbed Mitch’s arm and pulled him up while another came to his other side. He pulled from them, but their grip was too tight. As they were taking him to the door, the leader continued. “I’ll be out in ten.” You opened your eyes and stared straight into his soulless eyes. The mask covered his face but you knew he was wearing a devilish smile underneath and you knew exactly what he was planning to do.

Mitch’s blood started boiling at the menacing words of the man and it was all he needed to fight back. He screamed as he ripped away from the grip of one of them men holding him. He dropped to the floor, pulling a knife from his boot and stabbed it into the side of the man's leg where his knee was and Mitch pulled it out at an angle, destroying the tendon. He plunged it into the other man's thigh and then slashed his throat when he fell to the ground. A third man pulled out his gun with a silencer and shot at him, but Mitch used the body of the man on the floor to shield him. He grabbed the gun from the man who was now dead’s holster and shot the third man in the head. He rolled and shot the fourth man in his head as well before he could react.

The leader was holding you as a shield, holding his gun to your head and Mitch kept his weapon trailed on the man in case he gave him an opening. One of the men behind him gurgled, so without hesitating or taking his eyes off you, he shot the man and then put the gun back in your direction. There was no point in holding the tears back now, whimpers escaped your lips and you just kept shaking your head and whispering to yourself. “No, no, I can’t die like this. I don’t want to die.” The man holding you let out a maniacal laugh, as though he didn’t fear death or had no doubts of his abilities against Mitch.

“Let her go.” Mitch spat through gritted teeth, looking like it was taking everything in him not to tear the man apart. You had only ever seen this look in his eyes once before, when he talked about how he would kill the men who killed Katrina. After seeing what he just did, you had no doubt in your mind that he could. His face was turning red from rage and he tightened his grip around the gun. The man pulled you closer to his body in response, causing a pathetic noise to escape your lips. For a brief second Mitch looked at you with pity, but he didn’t stay there long, returning his gaze of fury to the bastard holding you hostage.

You could see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out what his best options were. He gave you a look and you knew what he wanted you to do. You wiggled slightly underneath the man’s grip, making his hold uncomfortable and causing him to shift his weight. He exposed his foot and Mitch took advantage, shooting it. He threw you away from him in pain and you landed on the bed, crawling up it and as close to the wall as you could. Mitch lunged at the man and punched him in the face. The man shouted and threw a punch back, reopening the gash above Mitch’s eye. The man threw another punch but Mitch ducked down and pushed him back, knocking him down and spinning around until he was on top of him. His rage took over as he relentlessly pounded into the mans face, long after he was unconscious. It occurred to you that he was going to have a severe brain injury soon if he didn’t already.

“Mitch!” You shouted and he hesitated with his fist in the air. He turned to look at you and his teeth were clashing, his eyes full of fire and fury that sent a chill down your spine. You stared back with wide eyes in horror and he let his arm drop down to his side as he stood up. He ran over to you without saying a word, grabbed your wrist and pulled you off the bed and out of the room. “Mitch...what just…” He pulled you through the corridors of the hospital and you realized he was taking you to the back entrance through the basement. He knew exactly where he was going, like he had been in the building before. You stopped and ripped your hand from his grip. He swung around and looked at you, jutting his jaw out as he cornered you against the wall and he slammed his palm against it while shouting past your ear. He lost control over his rage and it was coursing freely through his veins. All you could do was look back at him horrified, tears accumulating in your eyes again. “Mitch…” you whispered.

His face immediately changed back the one you knew of pain and regret as he backed away until his back hit the wall parallel to you. His head fell and he whimpered as he spoke. “I’m sorry.” A part of you wanted to run to him, throw your arms around him and comfort him, but your instincts were telling you to be cautious and fear this man. You just saw him flawlessly and ruthlessly take out five armed men with nothing but a knife. He killed them, all of them. You had always known he was capable of such things, but seeing him doing it, cementing that idea and it becoming a reality was different. He was everything you were against. You were a doctor who swore and oath to do no harm, to save lives despite who the life belonged to, bring health and heal. This man was a trained killer, a grim reaper, the bringer of death and destruction.

He looked up at you and tears were falling down his cheeks. You had seen his eyes water once before, but this was different. He was hurting and this was his way of begging for help. You lifted your hand slightly from the wall you were clinging to and Mitch noticed. His body timidly raised from the wall in hopes that you were coming to him, but when you let your hand fall back down to your side, defeat covered his face. He wiped his eyes and hardened his features as he walked over to you and took your wrist again. “We’re leaving.” He spoke harshly without looking at you as he pulled you along again. It wasn’t a question or a suggestion, but an order that you had no choice in.

You made it out of the building and he let your hand drop as he neared a car. He turned his back to it and rammed his elbow into the glass window where a person would sit behind the driver. The noise made you jump, causing you to recognize the trauma the last twenty minutes had caused you. You gulped as Mitch’s face remained hard and he walked back over to where he left you, motionless and frozen, and he pulled you over to the car and put you in the passenger seat. He walked around and got into the driver's seat, leaned down and pulled out some wires. He found the ones he was looking for and twisted them together as the engine roared to life.

You were petrified and couldn’t move, your body and mind still as the world continued on without you. Mitch pulled out of the empty parking lot and started towards the highway. Your mind started hurling questions at you. What the fuck is happening? What the fuck just happened? Where was he taking you? Was this your life now? Could you even trust Mitch? Were you going to die? You closed your eyes and swallowed a deep breath as tears made a steady stream down your cheek. Mitch seemed oblivious to your state as he focused on the road. You opened your eyes and couldn't help but notice how obscenely fast he was driving, weaving in and out of traffic flawlessly.

“Mitch, I need you to pull over.” He ignored you, his jaw jutting out and his nose scrunched up. “Mitch, please.” He squinted his eyes at your voice but still refused to rip his eyes from the road. “MITCH STOP THE FUCKING CAR.” You screamed and he looked to you, shooting daggers and pulled his lips in with anger as he veered the car off the road. As soon as it stopped, you jumped out and ran a good distance from it. Your memories flew back to the night Mitch ran to you in the field, but this was different...he was different. He was still sitting in the car, his hand holding his chin while his other tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. You stood there on the side of the highway, holding your stomach as tears ran down while listening to the sound of cars passing by.

He finally got out of the car and stalked over to you. “We need to go.”

“No!” You screamed at him as you tore away from his grasp. He bore a hole into you as he widened his eyes. He was angry with you, but you couldn’t figure out why for the life of you. You’re the one who should be angry, he has no right to treat you like this. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck is going on!” He closed his eyes and turned to the side as he put his hands on his hips. He took a minute to compose himself and think of the right words to say.

“Look, I will tell you everything okay? But right now we need to go. They’re not far behind us.”

“Who are ‘they’?” You shouted, not even trying to hold your temper.

Mitch couldn’t hold his anymore either as he faced you and screamed, “I DON’T KNOW!” You retreated back and fell into yourself, scared the man would hurt you. He immediately recognized his mistake and took a few steps back himself. It dawned on you that he wasn’t actually mad at you like you had thought, but mad with what was going on, mad at himself. You tugged at your bottom lip with your teeth and hesitantly walked up to him. You lightly let your fingers fall onto his arm and he looked back up to you with pain and fear. He grabbed you and pulled you into his chest as he squeezed you so tight it almost hurt. You wrapped your arms around his waist and he nuzzled his face into your neck.

You were the one to break the embrace, still uncomfortable from the recent events and Mitch could tell. He let go and stepped back, giving you some space. “Will you please come back to the car?” His tone had changed and was more sincere and offering. All you did was nod, fearing your voice would only stir his anger again. You followed him back into the car and you both continued on in silence. With everything that had happened, you were physically and emotionally drained so it wasn’t long before you couldn’t hold sleep back anymore. You drifted off to the sight of streetlamps passing by.

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[elisaminimeneghini]

Italian Nats 2019 Recap

The 2019 Italian national championship was held in Meda on September 13-15 and it was also a trial for the upcoming worlds. Asia D’Amato won the AA competition, followed by Desirée Carofiglio and Giorgia Villa. Alice D’Amato came in 4th, Elisa Iorio in 5th, and Martina Maggio in 6th. These 6 gymnasts make up the team plus alternate that will compete in Stuttgart. My personal recap below the cut.

(Pic from GAI on FB)

- Asia D’Amato showed up in really good shape at this competition. She was the only one among the Brixia girls to hit 4/4 which allowed her to win the competition with a 55.200 (no bonuses). Her vault boosted her total with a 14.900 for her DTY which clearly shows that she’s been working on an Amanar lately (which hopefully she won’t debut before next year). Together with her Yurchenko half-on half-off she qualified in 1st for VT EF and went on to win that title (easily) with a 14.375 avg. On bars she struggled a bit with a close pak catch, but recovered and still made UB EF where she then counted two falls but it really wouldn’t have mattered as this is her worst event. On beam she was the only one to hit consistently at nats and also at the previous friendly meet in the Netherlands, even though she only has a 5.1D. On floor she brought her FTDLO (pretty piked and not landed very well) + DLO. She still needs to do a lot of cleaning up on the landings but I’m glad they worked on her stamina, since she finally managed to hit the full routine twice without dying. Casella revealed that the long term plan is for Asia to bring back the double arabian in third and only do 3 passes total (FTDLO, DLO, double arabian...send thoughts and prayers).

- Desirée Carofiglio also looks in an amazing shape. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen her look this confident and solid AA as she is now and I’ve been stanning her for ages so I know what I’m talking about. She was second only to Asia (who had a huge advantage with the big score her DTY earned her) in the AA and only by .2! Absolutely crazy. On vault she has her good 1.5Y back and a second vault which is a fhs pike. She unfortunately sat her 1.5Y in EF which kept her out of medals, but that’s clearly a fluke. She hit bars both in quals and EF, and she’s showing a lot more confidence and cleanliness of execution. Her Nabieva, while still on the pikey side, is getting consistent and her handstands have improved a lot and she scored a 14.000 on both days on this event, finishing in 4th in EF only because the 03s are excellent here. On beam she consistently hit her solid routine, going 13+ on both days and earning again a 4th place. But it’s FX where she truly shines with her beautiful front tumbling and great choreo. She brought back her front layout to double front tuck and her Dowell which she landed extremely well every time and this plus her awesome artistry (with a little help from Lara Mori not being very clean and Giorgia Villa not making FX EF) earned her the gold medal on floor. Overall, an amazing competition for her, and I hope this showed Casella he can count on her for more than just floor at worlds.

- Giorgia Villa, despite not having the best day in qualification (oob by two miles on her triple twist on floor and fall on beam on her tuck full), with her huge vault and bars she managed to snatch the bronze AA medal ahead of Alice D’Amato (who wasn’t exactly thrilled about her 4th place LOL, see pic, she’s in the pink leo)

Anyway, Giorgia still managed to make UB and BB EFs (beam was a bit of a splatfest in quals) and she won gold in both with superb routines. On bars Giorgia now has a consistent 6.2 routine which is full of connections including ricna-pak-maloney-bhardwaj which she sometimes connects to the VL. On beam, the roundoff tuck full has a decent hit rate, but since it’s such a hard acro, it will forever make me nervous. I’m very happy that (for now at least) she has taken out the double pike dismount in favor of a simple double twist which she can stick and, since her twisting form is great, gets wayyy less deductions. It should be noted that there have been hints from Brixia and GAI that both Asia and Giorgia are training Amanars (which is not surprising as both their DTYs are looking really good and you can tell they’ve been working on that extra twist lately, from the way they land the DTY). Hopefully and realistically, we won’t see them before next year but this is both exciting and terrifying. On floor, I’m also pretty confident that a Silivas is in the works for Giorgia, since her full-in is beautiful and high. I hope she ditches the DLO forever in favor of that. At nats (or at the dutch friendly) she hasn’t done the DLO so yay for that.

- Alice D’Amato looked like she was going to medal in the AA over Giorgia but she counted a fall on beam on her new double wolf turn and that put her in 4th place instead. Vault and bars looked great for her as well, however her floor needs extra work as her opening DLO is still short and so is her triple twist in second. This was particularly clear in FX EF, where she landed both passes kinda badly and then scratched the rest of the routine while touching her ankle...It *looks* like it shouldn’t be anything major, but she will undergo some checks before she can be declared fine. Hopefully she’ll be ok, it would be such a shame if she got injured again after all the struggle with her previous comeback. She won the bronze medal on bars with a great 14.200 routine.

- Elisa Iorio looks like she will be the one not doing AA at worlds out of the 03s right now, unless they’re having her peak riiiiiiight before worlds. She’s looking strong on bars, her best event, but on beam, the other event where she should shine, she’s still inconsistent. On vault, she brought back her DTY which, despite not looking dangerous, is not up to speed with the D’Amato and Giorgia’s, “only” scoring a 14.400 (for comparison, Desy’s 1.5 scored a 14.3). This has me wonder whether she’ll be vaulting or not. She definitely won’t be doing floor I’d say, since she got a 12.900 for a hit routine. I think unless her DTY improves in the next few days (unlikely) they should just have her do UB and possibly BB. I don’t know if I would bet on her or Desy’s consistency more tbh. Right now I’d go with Desy. She won silver on bars with a good routine. She didn’t connect out of the pak but she did connect Ezhova-VL which is very impressive. I wish she’d be able to bring back her endo dismount combo but I think she’s been having issues with it since she’s grown quite a bit. So now she’s just doing a double front.

- Martina Maggio proved once again that she can be a great backup asset and she will most likely be the alternate at worlds. She brought back her 1.5Y that is looking strong. Her bars and floor have a low D, but because she’s so clean and precise, she gains in E what she lacks in D. It’s on beam that she could offer the most to the team, with her cleanliness and consistency. She has added a double wolf turn on beam With her 5.3D, she managed to win silver in EF on this event, right behind Giorgia Villa. I’m so happy that she’s back on all 4 events after being injured repeatedly for such a long time.

- Lara Mori didn’t do AA and generally didn’t look too sharp BUT this is definitely understandable as she’s not planning on going to Worlds. This was her decision, she specifically asked Casella not to go because she wants to try and go the world cup route to qualify for Tokyo and get a spot no one will take away from her (smart). For this reason, she doesn’t need to do AA or to peak until Cottbus. Despite this, she still managed to make BB and FX EF and to win a silver medal on floor after a good routine, if a bit unpolished, with a .2 oob. I truly hope she will manage to qualify for Tokyo, however unlikely. It breaks my heart to think that it’s gonna be either her or Vanessa (or neither), but tbh if I had to pick one I’d 100% go with Lara, no matter how sentimental I am towards Vany. Lara is an amazing gymnast and she deserves so much more than what life (and Casella) has dealt her so far. Best of luck to her.

This competition also marked the return from injuries of Giada Grisetti, Maria Vittoria Cocciolo, and Noemi Linari. Giada especially looked very sharp and ready on all 4 events, despite some downgrading. I hope all 3 of them will manage to stay injury free because they can really be assets for the future.

Another notable result is Irene Lanza’s solid AA performance. She made all EFs but beam (where she was third reserve) and snatched a bronze medal on vault with just a FTY. For someone who seemingly came out of nowhere last year (in terms of national team assignments), she’s grown immensely and she should be really proud of herself.

Here are the EF rankings.

VT

UB

BB

FX

[myherorp]

THE QUIRK DATABASE HAS BEEN UPDATED !

incoming information on civilian, riyu.

get to know them !

faceclaim: red velvet’s bae joohyun (irene)

name: seo riyu

gender & pronouns: she/her

age: 28 years old

occupation: receptionist at the angel agency.

the quirk !

quirk name: medusa

quirk description: user has a head of living venomous snakes in place of hair.

abilities:

riyu basically has snakes for hair - said snakes possessing all characteristics and abilities a regular snake would have. she is able to control and command each “lock” of her “hair”, like one would control their limbs. they can wind themselves around objects and lift them (they can lift heavier objects if all snake locks work together). she can also use them to defend herself, like shielding her face from incoming attacks.

when riyu’s sense of control on the snakes is inactive, her living locks slither and wander about her head as they wish. most would just choose to drape lifelessly over her back and sleep, forming a false image of long, regular human hair (in a good ten foot distance, if you squint).

the snakes are venomous. can be fatal once a person is bitten by them and doesn’t receive needed medical help in the following twenty five hours.

the snakes, while idle, reach just below her shoulder blades in length, but are able to extend as far to her ankles if need be.

she has an acute sense of smell that enables her to detect people easier by following their trail of scent; as would a snake would detect prey or predators.

weaknesses:

her emotions would affect her control over her hair. the more unstable she feels, the less she’d be able to deliver effective commands to her hair. for example, if she were in extreme distress, her snakes would be almost uncontrollable and high on defense; ready to attack anyone who could pose as a potential threat to them - including herself. luckily enough, the poison wouldn’t affect her physically as her body possesses a self-made antidote that neutralizes its own venom. regardless of the absence of poison - the bites would still injure her. because of this, she would carry around a medical kit of syringes and bottles of antivenom with her, in case her snakes lash out on others.

due to lack of extensive training, the snakes on her head don’t always obey her every command, and behave as if they have a mind of their own. they would occasionally act to their own desires. their behavior is always unpredictable, which puts her on a disadvantage if she wanted to behave in public.

to keep her snake locks at their optimal condition, she would have to consume generous amounts of meat daily, to keep her snakes calm and sated. the snakes get significantly more restless and snappy (like herself) if she doesn’t get her daily dose of meat. nutrients in exchange for strength - nothing different than a human.

while newer snakes can grow from her scalp, once any of the snakes are severed off her head, they cannot regenerate and she would need surgery to amputate them properly. the pain from having any of her snakes sliced in half is equivalent to having a finger sliced off.

mutation: the actual species of the snakes remain unknown, but they resemble slender black vipers, and cover her entire scalp like hair. in addition to that, her pupils are like a snake’s - oblong shapes that peak at the ends like slits. her tongue is forked and jacobson’s organ is located on the roof of her mouth to enable her stereo sense of smell. she’s almost eerily flexible - just like a snake with its flexible backbone.

the history !

triggers: amputation, animal cruelty / torture, torture, blood

she remembers.

she remembers the shriek that miss sejeong had let out when she came into her room to wake her up for school - only to be greeted with slithering monstrosities hissing at her alongside a drowsy face. her hair was already grotesque before - hard scaly locks that draped over her back like chains - and then they’ve decided to make things worse and grow glowering faces and sharp fangs overnight. she couldn’t get herself to scream - voice clogged up in her little throat and fingernails dug harshly into the sheets as she stayed seated in frozen confusion and terror. miss sejeong, stumbling to get up from collapsing on the floor, had rushed away for help. medusa, she had cried then, voice disappearing into the empty hallway as she skedaddled. your child turned into medusa!

she didn’t understand the name, but she definitely understood the fear that dripped from every syllable, trepidation seeping to even the tips of her toes. by the time reinforcements had returned, her little body was already curled up and pressed against the headboard, snake locks hissing and thrashing ferociously to mirror her despair as she warned for them to stay away in between her sobs and hiccups.

she doesn’t remember much of what happened next. however, her dreams do - flashes of paralyzed bodies and bloody crimson coming to greet her for months on end.

-

at nine, seo riyu insists that she’s beautiful.

she insists that she is, because that’s what her parents and her butlers and maids have always told her - so it must be true. they tell her that what happened wasn’t her fault - and that everyone was just caught off guard. miss sejeong, one of the main maids that took care of her, was fired after that incident, so she doesn’t have to feel like she scares people anymore.

she believes them. even if there would always be a weird look in their eyes whenever she’d approach three steps too close; even if they’d jump if she enters premises without warning them, telling her not to sneak up on them - she believes them.

although her school isn’t as generous with their kindness, she keeps her ground. she doesn’t retaliate despite the derogatory words sent her way. they either taunt her, or stay completely away from her - there is only one or the other. it isn’t even just the students. parents she comes across in school grounds gossiped, too. regardless, she stayed mum. she tells herself that she isn’t the only one with the weird quirk, so they’ll get tired of annoying her eventually. her tutor had told her to stay graceful, as she held the name of the seo family behind her.

so she stays quiet.

-

she stops staying quiet after two years.

she doesn’t know how, or when, but her temper grew with her. the accumulation of anger she’s suppressed through the months gets to her faster than she’d like to admit - and before she knew it - she started talking back. she grew feister. she doesn’t physically retaliate, but one shouldn’t underestimate the power of spiteful words (and hissing snakes).

“you disgust me.”

she smiles at those. these kinds of insults are one of the tamer ones. “oh - you beat me to it.” she titters, all eyes on them. all of her eyes. “i was about to say that to you, too.”

-

she gets into u.y.

it’s a dream come true. a typical ambition - as sharp tongued as she is; she likes to help. she wants to prove that even someone who looks as villainous as her could look heroic to others. she does well, as her diligence proves it. it shows on her grades. she makes a few friends - those who share her ideals and are also not too deterred by the snakes that poke them at the ribs every so often.

she doesn’t think her life could progress as well as it did.

-

the progress stops. if anything, it backpedals entirely.

she doesn’t remember how it started or how it ended - just flashes of memory, of bruises, of malicious laughter, of tears, of blood. she remembers falling asleep. she remembers waking up with blurry vision and restrained limbs. there were faces, but all she could make out was yellowed teeth and sharp toenails as she doubled over, screaming and crying for the pain to stop. the pain doesn’t stop. spurts of blood keep coming, and coming, and coming, each worse than the last, painting red down her face and her shoulders and her back and her feet. the butcher knife shines brightly under the dim light. she remembers voices. they aren’t coming, the voices sneer. it’s been ten minutes. let’s cut off another.

it’s when she wakes up and realizes that she’s at the hospital, that everything ends.

that doesn’t matter. her nightmares continue.

-

she dropped out of u.y. with the power of money, you can do anything, so she does nothing, for a while.

she watches the ceiling fan spin and spin and spin while she waited for new snakes to grow back. she hated them, but they were also her only company. her mind feels a lot less muddled if a lock is alive to distract her by nuzzling against her cheek.

she finishes her education indoors.

-

she’s mellowed down over the years, and prefers working behind the scenes.

she wonders if that’s okay.

the personality !

riyu grew to become more reserved as she got older - although she’s now desensitized by weird looks sent her way due to her intimidating appearance. she’s mature and sophisticated, having gone through a lot through a quarter of her life span. despite that, she still holds the habit of assuming the worst when she meets someone new - continuously wary and defensive unless they’ve proven themselves to be deserving of her undivided attention. once the ice around her heart’s been thawed, however, good luck with that - parts of her traits from her adolescence will shine through - allowing you a glimpse of her true, unfiltered personality: just a woman trying her best to stay sane.

[hecate-herself]

Kai showing Irene his father's library?

"Close your eyes." Kai said. They were stood in front of large doors of dark wood, inlaid with patterns in bronze and copper, shaped like twisting vines and ivy. Irene looked at him and sighed, before complying. His hand had been warm on hers but he released it to open the doors for them, they opened with a slight creak. He took her hand again and tugged her forward a few steps.

"Can I open them yet?" She could feel sunlight on her skin, but they weren't outside. She stumbled, unable to see and feeling a little out of sorts as the lack of sight messed with her inner ear.

"Not yet." He grasped her shoulders and turned her so that her back was to the sun, she could feel it, warm on her back. "Okay, now you can." She slowly opened her eyes, blinking slowly as they adjusted to the brilliant light that streamed in through the massive windows on one side. The other side was books. Row upon row of brilliant, beautiful books! She smiled as her eyes flitted from one shelf to the next.

There were two levels, spiral staircases of bronze were at the far sides of the room and anothet two framed the door that they'd just come through, leading up to the second floor. The second floor, more of half of a floor, had railings so you could see down to the first. There were chairs and sofas dotted around, comfortable reading nooks hidden behind cases.

A few of the cases had doors or what appeared to be quartz. "Can I..." She trailed off, looking up at Kai. He laughed.

"I didn't bring you here to look at them." He said, waving her toward the shelves. She all but ran to the nearest closed bookcase.

"Quartz." She'd seen shelves like them before, in The Library. "To protect the rarer books?" He nodded and she carefully opened it to peak inside. Scrolls lay in neat lines. The quartz filtered out the bright light, to reduce the damage that the uv could cause.

"The windows are specially designed, there's electricity running through them, they'll get darker if the sun gets too bright." Kai said.

"Clever." Irene moved onto the next bookcase, gliding fingers over the spines. "It's beautiful in here."

"I thought you would like it." Kai said, smiling at her. She had her back to him as she flitted from one shelf to the next. She turned to him with a bright smile. With the setting sun lighting her face, and her eyes sparked with happiness, he could have sworn he'd never seen anything else quite as beautiful.

[mihretsgermanlitblog]

10 Interesting German Novels

Siddartha by Hermann Hesse: “Though set in a place and time far removed from the Germany of 1922, the year of the book’s debut, the novel is infused with the sensibilities of Hermann Hesse’s time, synthesizing disparate philosophies–Eastern religions, Jungian archetypes, Western individualism–into a unique vision of life as expressed through one man’s search for meaning.It is the story of the quest of Siddhartha, a wealthy Indian Brahmin who casts off a life of privilege and comfort to seek spiritual fulfillment and wisdom. On his journey, Siddhartha encounters wandering ascetics, Buddhist monks, and successful merchants, as well as a courtesan named Kamala and a simple ferryman who has attained enlightenment. Traveling among these people and experiencing life’s vital passages–love, work, friendship, and fatherhood–Siddhartha discovers that true knowledge is guided from within.” (Amazon)

A Well-tempered Heart by Jan-Philipp Sendker: “Almost ten years have passed since Julia Win came back from Burma, her father’s native country. Though she is a successful Manhattan lawyer, her private life is at a crossroads; her boyfriend has recently left her and she is, despite her wealth, unhappy with her professional life. Julia is lost and exhausted. One day, in the middle of an important business meeting, she hears a stranger’s voice in her head that causes her to leave the office without explanation. In the following days, her crisis only deepens. Not only does the female voice refuse to disappear, but it starts to ask questions Julia has been trying to avoid. Why do you live alone? To whom do you feel close? What do you want in life? Interwoven with Julia’s story is that of a Burmese woman named Nu Nu who finds her world turned upside down when Burma goes to war and calls on her two young sons to be child soldiers. This spirited sequel, like The Art of Hearing Heartbeats, explores the most inspiring and passionate terrain: the human heart.” (Barnes and Noble)

The Eighth Life by Nino Haratischvili: “At the start of the twentieth century, on the edge of the Russian empire, a family prospers. It owes its success to a delicious chocolate recipe, passed down the generations with great solemnity and caution. A caution which is justified: this is a recipe for ecstasy that carries a very bitter aftertaste. Stasia learns it from her Georgian father and takes it north, following her new husband, Simon, to his posting at the center of the Russian Revolution in St Petersburg. A ballet dancer never makes it to Paris and a singer pines for Vienna. For twenty-four-year-old Eva Bruhns, World War II is a foggy childhood memory. At the war’s end, Frankfurt was a smoldering ruin, severely damaged by the Allied bombings. But that was two decades ago. Eager for her wealthy suitor, Jürgen Schoormann, to propose, Eva dreams of starting a new life away from her parents and sister. But Eva’s plans are turned upside down when a fiery investigator, David Miller, hires her as a translator for a war crimes trial. Though it means going against the wishes of her family and her lover, Eva, propelled by her own conscience , joins a team of fiery prosecutors determined to bring the Nazis to justice—a decision that will help change the present and the past of her nation.” (Barnes and Noble)

The Book of Dreams by Nina George: “Henri Skinner is a hardened ex-war reporter on the run from his past. On his way to see his son, Sam, for the first time in years, Henri steps into the road without looking and collides with oncoming traffic. He is rushed to a nearby hospital where he floats, comatose, between dreams, reliving the fairytales of his childhood and the secrets that made him run away in the first place. After the accident, Sam—a thirteen-year old synesthete with an IQ of 144 and an appetite for science fiction—waits by his father’s bedside every day. There he meets Eddie Tomlin, a woman forced to confront her love for Henri after all these years, and twelve-year old Madelyn Zeidler, a coma patient like Henri and the sole survivor of a traffic accident that killed her family. As these four very different individuals fight—for hope, for patience, for life—they are bound together inextricably, facing the ravages of loss and first love side by side. A revelatory, urgently human story that examines what we consider serious and painful alongside light and whimsy, THE BOOK OF DREAMS is a tender meditation on memory, liminality, and empathy, asking with grace and gravitas what we will truly find meaningful in our lives once we are gone.” (Barnes and Noble)

The Little Paris Bookshop: “Monsieur Perdu calls himself a literary apothecary. From his floating bookstore in a barge on the Seine, he prescribes novels for the hardships of life. Using his intuitive feel for the exact book a reader needs, Perdu mends broken hearts and souls. The only person he can't seem to heal through literature is himself; he's still haunted by heartbreak after his great love disappeared. She left him with only a letter, which he has never opened.After Perdu is finally tempted to read the letter, he hauls anchor and departs on a mission to the south of France, hoping to make peace with his loss and discover the end of the story. Joined by a bestselling but blocked author and a lovelorn Italian chef, Perdu travels along the country’s rivers, dispensing his wisdom and his books, showing that the literary world can take the human soul on a journey to heal itself.Internationally bestselling and filled with warmth and adventure, The Little Paris Bookshop is a love letter to books, meant for anyone who believes in the power of stories to shape people's lives.” (Barnes and Noble)

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Phillipp Sendker: “Monsieur Perdu calls himself a literary apothecary. From his floating bookstore in a barge on the Seine, he prescribes novels for the hardships of life. Using his intuitive feel for the exact book a reader needs, Perdu mends broken hearts and souls. The only person he can't seem to heal through literature is himself; he's still haunted by heartbreak after his great love disappeared. She left him with only a letter, which he has never opened. After Perdu is finally tempted to read the letter, he hauls anchor and departs on a mission to the south of France, hoping to make peace with his loss and discover the end of the story. Joined by a bestselling but blocked author and a lovelorn Italian chef, Perdu travels along the country’s rivers, dispensing his wisdom and his books, showing that the literary world can take the human soul on a journey to heal itself.Internationally bestselling and filled with warmth and adventure, The Little Paris Bookshop is a love letter to books, meant for anyone who believes in the power of stories to shape people's lives.” (Barnes and Noble)

The StoryTeller by Pierre Jarawan: “Samir leaves the safety and comfort of his family’s adopted home, Germany, for volatile Beirut in an attempt to find his missing father. The only clues Samir has are an old photo and the bedtime stories his father used to tell him. In this moving and engaging novel about family secrets, love, and friendship, Pierre Jarawan does for Lebanon what Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner did for Afghanistan. He pulls away the curtain of grim facts and figures portrayed in the media and shows an intimate truth of what it means to come from a country torn apart by civil war. With this beautiful and suspenseful story, full of images, Jarawan proves to be a masterful storyteller himself. Pierre Jarawan is the son of a Lebanese father and a German mother and moved to Germany with his family at the age of three. Inspired by his father’s love of telling imaginative bedtime stories, he started writing at the age of thirteen. He has won international prizes as a slam poet, received the City of Munich literary scholarship (the Bayerische Kunstförderpreis) for The Storyteller, and was chosen as Literature Star of the Year by the daily newspaper AZ. His debut novel The Storyteller was a Spiegel bestseller in Germany, proclaimed Book of the Month by the leading Dutch television talk show DWDD, and received unanimous rave reviews from the European press.” (Barnes and Noble)

The Women on the Stairs by Bernhard Schlink: “In a museum far from home, a lawyer stumbles across a painting of a woman he once knew, Irene. Decades before, he had become entangled in her affairs when he was called on to settle a dispute between her husband, who had commissioned the portrait, and the painter of the work—who was also her lover. When, ultimately, the lawyer fell in love with her himself and risked everything for her, she mysteriously disappeared—along with the painting. Now, face to face with the portrait once again, the lawyer must reconcile his past and present selves. When he eventually locates Irene, he is forced to confront the truth of his love—and the reality that his life has been irrevocably changed.  A poignant, intricately crafted novel of obsession, creativity, and love, this is Bernhard Schlink at his peak.” (Barnes and Noble)

A Whole Life by Robert Seethalar: “Andreas Egger knows every path and peak of his mountain valley, the source of his sustenance, his livelihood—his home. Set in the mid-twentieth century and told with beauty and tenderness, Robert Seethaler's Whole Life is a story of man's relationship with an ancient landscape, of the value of solitude, of the arrival of the modern world, and above all, of the moments, great and small, that make us who we are.” (Barnes and Noble)

Wetlands by Charlotte Roche: “Wetlands—an international sensation with more than a million copies sold worldwide—has been at the center of a heated debate about feminism and sexuality since its publication last spring. Charlotte Roche’s controversial debut novel is the story of Helen Memel, an outspoken, sexually precocious eighteen-year-old lying in a hospital bed as she recovers from an operation. To distract herself, she ruminates on her past sexual and physical adventures in increasingly uncomfortable detail. The result is a funny, shocking, and fearlessly intimate manifesto on sex, hygiene, and the compulsion to obliterate the covenant that keeps girls clean, quiet, and nice.” (Barnes and Noble)

[lynenspray]

can you write what you think wenseul’s first time would be like? keep up the great work!!

wah,,, a slightly new format,, thanx for giving me this opportunity, anon!!!! there’s 0 smut here,,, oop – wenseul 01 (below)

—

you’re the living proof

(wenseul fluff)

i think that it happens in between their birthdays, seulgi older by a year in the days it takes wendy to catch up. wendy calls her unnie.

i think it isn’t planned, not like that, anyway, though they’ve been thinking about it. i think it happens naturally, the butterfly kisses wendy delivers upon seulgi’s tan shoulder eventually leading to the taller’s arms slithering around the blonde’s waist, one hand settling low, on the base of her spine. one settling lower.

what is planned, however, is the way they kiss. the way they seemed to be carved out by the heavens above with the sole purpose of melting into each other’s body perfectly. it’s in their movements, attuned to the other like dancing to the same rhythm only they could feel. and the melody told them this: that they were like two burning stars meeting, fusing together, brighter and living longer than they did when they were apart.

i think wendy pulls seulgi first, tugs at her shirt, wraps short fingers around a slender neck and caresses the sharp angle of her jaw with a thumb, licking into her mouth and leading her past the dining table, bumping into a chair and sparking a giggle to bubble out of seulgi–wait, no. it’s seulgi that pushes wendy first, deepening their kiss and breathing wendy in, jerking a rough moan out of the blonde, sneaking her fingers under the sliver of skin revealed by wendy’s shirt lifting, leading them across the living room, the smaller tripping over the rug and gasping before seulgi catches her, safe and sound and with a smile–wait, no. maybe the both of them start it. maybe neither–it was the universe itself gravitating them towards each other, ready to collide, unite and turn into something bigger, brighter, and better.

wendy’s voice is otherworldly, ethereal in every sense, as if it was larger than this plane, but her eyes are soft as snow, expressive to a fault, and so, so lovely. seulgi is the opposite, in a way; her features are strict, sharp lines, edges that can cut, but her voice sounds like wind-chimes singing with the wind.

i think their first time is a lot less about undressing, unveiling, and a lot more about building themselves up: there’s you, there’s me, and what do we do with that? because when seulgi kisses each inch of pale skin that enters her vision, wendy is giving a piece of herself to the taller woman–and seulgi wants to take care of that to the best of her ability. because when wendy licks the corners of seulgi’s sharp edges she doesn’t dull them out, she takes something away, something precious that she can only have if she wants to.

i think they know their bodies are lovely, but they’ve never seen each other like this. wendy’s lips are bow shaped, thinning out at the edges only to quirk upwards, and seulgi loves that about her, i think. she kisses the corner of wendy’s lips the most out of the rest of her body, teasing her, making her blush or whine or pout even more. i think wendy’s favourite spot to kiss on seulgi is the area around her eyes–not only because of their beautiful shape, but because of the beauty marks hidden there too, the ones she’d see if she moves in close enough. and they will never be close enough, i think.

it happens on seulgi’s bed, her room tucked away in the corner of the room, and the walls were thin but yeri’s music is always loud, or she’s always out, anyway. wendy’s room has been unused for a while now, her exploring the nook and crannies of joy’s large room filled with all of her clothes from her dramas, sneaking into irene’s space because it was kept the cleanest, smelled the best, and unnie always had the time and patience to listen to wendy’s worries.

but seulgi was all of that. her movements were music, voice a melody, and the spaces in her heart were always filled by wendy, wendy, wendy. unnie listens but seulgi does that too, mirrors her worries and holds wendy’s hand through them. i think wendy and seulgi are the best pair out of all of them. and wendy’s room has been unused for a while because she makes a home out of seulgi’s.

i think they take it slow. i think they end up defining what lovemaking is, because that’s what their first time is like. there’s nothing rough about it, only tentative touches ghosting over goosebumps. or more like–it’s full of the best things they can make out of what they have. there are moments that are awkward, moments that incite peals of laughter, moments that all they do is stare.

it starts with wendy’s fingers trailing over seulgi’s thighs, gasping at the slick wetness that’s spread itself across her golden skin. wendy kisses her throughout all of it, seulgi desperately moving against her fingers, whining into her ear with that melodic voice, opening up for her, cresting for her, breaking for her. and when seulgi tips over that peak, when she falls, wendy teaches her how to fly. i think seulgi barely lets herself break, barely shows her emotions, but to wendy she’s different. to wendy she’s not made of high pillars and thick walls, wendy slips past them with persistence but ease. i think seulgi only lets herself break when wendy is with her, knowing she’ll pick up the jagged pieces and put her back together with the same patience, the same love.

and that’s what it is, i think. it’s love that burrows itself under their skin–and they knew that, to a degree. they believed they loved each other, sure, and they thought they did, of course–but now they really knew. as if there was a layer of truth that made it sturdier, more tangible: where wendy hides away in her sanctuary called seulgi, and where seulgi breaks free in her refuge called wendy, and that’s love.

i think they’ve always been fair to each other, they’ve always been equals. they’ve always been partners, 94-liners born in february, an identity they share besides their lives as members of the same group. i think they carry this view of each other into the bedroom, under the sheets, too. instead of one on top they lay side by side, watching, listening, praising–just like they always do.

when it’s wendy’s turn and she curls into seulgi, it both is and isn’t something they fall into, you know? i think that it’s both destiny and a choice, what they have. like the higher powers led them to each other but it was up to them to keep it alive. it was a gift, what they had, and both of them treated it that way, something precious but strong, like a diamond, like a heart. when wendy sees that same peak, seulgi kisses her, swallows down her moan, lets it bleed into her and birth her anew. where wendy ended seulgi began again.

wendy yearns for seulgi, sighs for seulgi. wendy calls her unnie.

[buckybarnesappreciationsociety]

“Little One”

Summary: Rebecca Charlene Rogers, a happy chubby cheeked toddler, loved spending time with her parents, Steve and Asha. Also, her ‘Nana.’ Outside of adults, she rarely had interaction with kids her age outside of the park playground.

Steve and Asha have a decision to make…..to daycare or not to daycare; that is the question.

Word Count: 1,289

Pairing: Steve Rogers x PoC Asha Rogers    OFC: Rebecca Rogers

Warnings: None

Growing up as an only child has its advantages and drawbacks. Rebecca Charlene Rogers longed for a playmate. Sure, Steve, Asha and her grandmother were fine, but they weren’t always available.

Skipping into the kitchen, Becca fluttered her long lashes at Steve. “Daddy, I wanna pway wif house wif you.”

Folding his newspaper, her understanding father chuckled, “Peanut, daddy’s reading. Not right now. Maybe later?”

With a dejected expression, Becca sulked. “‘kay daddy. Bye.” Now, if there’s one thing Steven Grant Rogers can’t stand, it’s seeing his baby girl sad.

“C’mere sweetheart.” Reaching her little arms up, Steve lifted Becca in his lap. “I know’ya want daddy to play with ya and I will.”

“Awwight. I go pway wif toys in my woom.” By now, Becca’s beautiful eyes were glossed with unshed tears.

At that moment, Steve realized how lonely Becca was. She longed to interact with toddlers her age. The experience would be beneficial not only for her, but Asha and Steve as well.

“Peanut, tell ya what. Mommy and I will talk about you going to daycare.”

Confused, Becca asked, “Daddy, whut day cawr?”

“Well honey, at daycare, you meet other kids your age, learn your ABC’s, colors, shapes and listen to the teacher read. It’s really fun. Would you like that?’

“Uh huh. Tank you daddy. I wuv you.” Becca placed a kiss on his firm thigh and ran to her room.

Speaking to her stuffed ‘friends’, Becca announced, “I going to day cawr and pway wif fwiends.

Bye for now.” She went down the line, kissing each bear and saying, “I wuv allllll my fwiends.”

Stark Industries boasts the best day care center in the world. Why? Because Edward Anthony Stark performed a stringent vetting for all employees; teachers, cafeteria cooks and servers, custodians and security! Steve knew Becca would be safe, but he knew Asha would avoid the idea like a plague.

Mumbling to himself, “Doll’s a little down in the dumps.” Snapping his fingers, Steve planned a romantic night. Jazz, candles, and a bubble bath. Can’t forget flowers.

ONLY THE BEST FOR YOU DOLL

First, Steve ordered 2 dozen assorted flowers; 12 confetti mums and 12 stemmed Gerbera daisies.

Next, feeding and bathing Becca. That wasn’t a problem because his baby girl loved spaghetti and meat sauce. Yes, it was messy but Steve was prepared. After dinner, she watched Frozen for the umpteenth time.

He pan seared a couple T-bone steaks, roasted garlic potatoes, salad and rolls. For dessert,  chocolate mousse with whipped cream. Asha favored Riesling wine, so her attentive husband chilled a bottle, along with a 2 wine glasses.

Asha called and said she’d be home around 7 p.m. That was perfect timing for Steve. Looking at the clock he saw that it was 6:55 p.m.

As fate would have it, the case assigned to Asha demanded more of her time than previously thought. This was a blessing, more than a curse. More time to finish putting the final touches on ‘Operation Romance.’.

Checking on his daughter, Steve found Becca sound asleep on the sofa cuddling her Iron Man bear. Pulling the phone from his shorts, Steve snapped the precious moment, sharing it with Tony and Asha.

Tony, in return, typed a snide comment……….

See Capsicle, even Becca loves me more than her old man. #UncleTonyRocks

I LOVE YOU ASHA

After putting Peanut to bed, around 8:15 p.m., Steve heard the familiar sound of keys and heels.

Asha’s curiosity peaked, as she saw the gentle flicker of candles. “Babe, what’s going on?”

Standing before her was Steve, wearing a black Under Armour t-shirt, grey sweats and a huge smile.

“Welcome home Mrs. Rogers. I missed you.” Steve held her close to his chest, laying a hot kiss on her lips.

Trying to catch her breath, “Whoa, Mr. Rogers! You take my breath away. Is all of this for me?”

“Of course doll. Nothing’s too good for’ya.”

Steve pulled out her seat. “Why thank you kind sir.” He proceeded to serve her and sit down.

THE DAYCARE DISCUSSION

It was now or never. “Um doll?” In between bites, “Yes baby?” Swallowing hard, “How would’ya feel about Peanut going to day care?”

Laying her fork on the table and narrowing her grey eyes, “So, is this why you’re buttering me up?” Asha’s tone sound accusatory.

“Naw love. You deserve this. See, Peanut said she didn’t have any friends a-”

Brows furrowed, Asha inquired, “What? She said that?”

“Yeah. Becca wanted me to play and I had reports to do. It broke my heart.”

This is an all too familiar feeling Asha knows well. The last thing she wanted was Becca being a loner. She craved interaction with kids her age.

“Alright love,” Asha affirmed.

Kissing her hand, “We’ll do it tomorrow. Right now though, finish your dinner ‘cuz there’s a bubble bath waiting for ya. Afterwards, some mommy and daddy time.”

Asha quirked her eyebrow. “Mmmm sounds devine. You, my love, are just what the doctor ordered. I love you Steve.”

Pushing back from the table, Steve scooped Asha from the chair, carried her bridal style to the bedroom, gently kicking the door shut.

I’M NOT READY

Asha, Steve and Becca attended open house at Stark Daycare Center. You could see the wonder in Becca’s eyes as she looked at bright tables, chairs, bookshelves, letters around the walls, pictures of animals. And the best part, there were other 3 year olds.

The class and parents were in awe of Captain America. Trying to deflect the attention from himself, Steve pulled Asha to his side, “I think Peanut’s gonna be just fine.” Turning her head, Asha wiped a tear from her face. “Where did time go babe?. Our baby’s

Mrs. Nasserman, one of the instructors, asked the kids their names. When Becca’s turn came, she proudly stated, “Webecca Wogers. I’m fwree,” she said holding up 2 fingers on her left hand and 1 on her right.Steve and Asha beamed with pride.

For the next hour, while parents milled about looking over the room, the kids sang songs, played on the iPads and also snacks were served.

Running to her parents, Becca announced, “Mommy, daddy we ate fwoot and say ABC.”

Asha asked her baby girl to recite the alphabets. “‘Kay. ABCCGFGKLOP.” Steve thought it was the cutest thing ever. He even made a video to send to the team. Asha and Becca clapped.

“Yay Webecca big gurl,” Becca’s toothy grin spread from ear to ear.

In that moment, Steve and Asha knew daycare would was beneficial to Becca’s growth. Interacting with kids her age meant she wouldn’t grow up without friends.

SURPRISE

Tangled together on the sofa, Steve mused, “I’m so happy Peanut’s going to daycare.” Gazing into his eyes, Asha whispered, “So am I. And just think, this time next year, she’ll have someone to play with at home.”

Steve’s eyes bulged. “D-d-doll are ya joking?” “No Mr. Rogers. I’m 12 weeks. I didn’t say anything because I wanted to be certain everything was okay with the baby.. SURPRISE!” Wiping his eyes, the overjoyed super soldier leaned in and kissed his wife. “You and Becca are my world. Now, there’s another Peanut on the way. Gosh doll, m’so happy.” “So am I sweetheart.”

TAGS: @omalleysgirl22 @bolontiku @rebelslicious @ @jrubalcaba    @sgtjamesbuchananbarnes107th @love2rhyme @buckybabybaby @irene-rogue-adler @rda1989 @justareader @erisjade@caplanbuckybarnes @reniescarlett @katiej98 @katykyll @e-g-b-o-k @shy2shot @debzybrazy @eve1978 @arabellaaurorabarnes @wintersmiless-blog @this-kitty-has-claws @gingerbatchwife @goodnightwife@pegasusdragontiger @the-witching-hours12-3 @jurassicbarnes @mcuimxgine @supersoldierslover @ek823 @nerdyandproud9

[dmfindinglines]

Statement on Drawing by Stephen Carley

Drawing is simply an ongoing process for me, a studio based process led dialogue between myself and the materials. 

“There are no rules; drawing can be as minimal as a breath and as complex as the wave structures and recordings of the ocean. Drawing is kinaesthetic; a movement between points, a connection, recognition and gesture of any idea, mark, trace, line, symbol, shape, medium, space or surface”

Irene Barberis, from, The Good Drawing, CCW graduate school publications.

These drawings have absolutely everything in common with landscape, rural and urban. They are definitely not ‘abstract’ images. 

They resonate with half remembered images and sounds of Sheffield, the Peak District, Cornwall, motorway journeys, walks in the sun, the sky through the attic window, bike rides, cracks in the pavement…

“It is impossible for me to make a painting which has no reference to the powerful environment in which I live”. 

Peter Lanyon

Mixed media processes dominate with the use of pencil, charcoal, chalk, lead powder, collage and masking tape on paper. As a consequence of exploring what drawing is, they now include more fluid materials such as paint, varnish, dark room processes and found ‘urban detritus’ manipulated via the drawn visual language of tone, line, texture, shape and form.. Subsequently the drawings are evolving into audio 'versions’ or examinations of visual language through recorded, sampled, edited and looped arrangements.

A good drawing?

“A discourse between definition and the unresolved, the systematic and chaotic, certainty and speculation”.

Simon Betts, from, The Good Drawing, CCW graduate school publications.

The current drawings are very large - a little over eight feet wide and five feet high. It is physically demanding to make and move about. In fact it is almost ridiculous, but this takes me out of my comfort zone. 

The audio starts as recognisable ‘riffs’ from a bass or tuned percussion or even a voice but become ‘deconstructed’ via a desktop sampler. Chopped up, tuned up or down, looped, reversed, made more ‘granular’.

Both elements are constantly egging the other on to deconstruct, to choose the less obvious. To enable ‘all the insecurities and doubts of the working process’ to show themselves.

The studio is also becoming more intrinsically ‘part’ of the work. The audio samples are taken live through a microphone and as a consequence the audio detritus of adjoining industrial workshops, adjacent houses, aircraft flying over, etc, are integrated. Likewise the floor, walls, workbench introduce graphic glitches into the drawing process as I cut, rub, spray, scratch, rip and reassemble the paper. 

#drawing - a verb? It’s all about process, instinct, action, acute observation and memory…

stephen carley

www.stephencarley.co.uk

@stephen_carley

@c_y_h_m_n

[forthelulzy]

Heaven By Violence: Chapter 9

Like the stars chase the sun Over the glowing hill I will conquer Blood is running deep Some things never sleep — “Queen of Peace”, Florence + the Machine

Skyhold.

It is exactly what they need, exactly when they need it.

The journey takes weeks, their caravan of survivors winding their way through the Frostbacks slowly but surely, heading north. Through passes and across valleys, hunkering down in blizzards and stopping for a moment on a peak to take in the view of the world below, a world stepping into springtime now while around them it’s firmly winter.

They are lucky, too, because Irene does not want to deal with the avalanches that will become commonplace as the mountains warm.

The scouts keep them supplied with game, and the promise of a new home ahead fuels them. Skyhold. Solas had called it a ruined fortress, and she can only imagine the work that would go into making such a place livable. But as long as his promise holds true — that it is unclaimed by both Ferelden and Orlais, that it will serve them well and can support an influx of recruits too — she doesn’t care. It is the hope that keeps her and the rest of the Inquisition going.

You will lead them, Solas said. And she does. She stays at the front of the line, wading through snowdrifts and testing iced-over streams, following the paths Solas shows her. And when she pauses at the top of a pass and looks back, picking out the familiar faces making their way along behind, she knows purpose again — to lead this Inquisition, these people, in restoring order.

It’s not just the Breach anymore. It’s an army, and a plot, and this Corypheus behind both, and she will destroy them all.

***

Skyhold is certainly a work in progress, but she can see the shape of a home beneath the crumbling stone and rotted wood. The gates nearly give way beneath her hands as she pushes them open. She picks her way over fallen debris in the courtyard, studying the features. That corner, stables. Over here, room for healer’s tents and a training yard. Towers along the outer wall, stone steps leading up to the keep. Some of the glass windows remain; most are shattered, probably by storms over the ages.

“Will it do?” Solas asks, coming up beside her.

She snorts a laugh, feeling freer than she has in too long. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” She turns, watches the people come through the gates with awe and relief on their faces. Julien had been on a bronto most of the journey, still too weak to climb the passes even in the wake of other people to tromp down the snow, but he’s walking now, if slowly. Caius hovers at one elbow, while Tac skips along on the other side, chattering on about who knows what.

“Herald?” Cullen asks.

Oh yes. Orders. She sweeps her eyes over Skyhold again. The keep is probably too dangerous to explore right now, not when they’re all so tired. “We’ll set up camp in the courtyard for now. Delegate soldiers to work on clearing out the rubble when we’re all rested. Section by section, I don’t want any accidents.”

“Of course, Herald.” He salutes and turns away, barking orders as he goes.

Irene sighs once he’s gone, rubbing her wrist where the bruises have long since faded but the phantom pain of her bones being ground together remains. They are recovering, but the Elder One is too. How many did he lose? That army seemed endless, even with the avalanches. Meanwhile, only a fraction of their numbers remain now. Every time she looked back at the top of a pass she counted the faces that weren’t there. As the injured died along the way, that number only grew.

But those that remain are here, looking at her the same way they look at Skyhold.

What would Colm say, if he were here?

She has not missed how nervous Caius is around her now, around all of them, and it hurts to see him like that. He was a prideful, prickly man who would defend Colm to the gates of the Black City itself, but now he just seems exhausted and wary. Worn out.

Dorian, their other Tevinter mage, has kept to himself for the most part, but when she spots him on the edge of the crowd he’s talking to Varric. Amiably, it seems like, though he’s also half-frozen and looking longingly at the fire the soldiers have built. He hasn’t been in the South as long as Caius has.

“Hey, Stormy.” Varric grins as she approaches, and Dorian offers her a tired but genuine smile.

“What do you think?” She gestures to the walls around them. Sturdy walls, strong walls, if in need of repairs.

“It’ll do, certainly,” Dorian says. “This charming southern weather is doing wonders for my complexion, obviously, but so would getting out of the wind.”

“Another day or two,” she promises. “We have to make sure it’s safe first.”

“Oh yes, getting this face crushed by a falling brick would be a travesty.” He winks at her while she snorts in disbelief and no small amount of amusement. Others may not recognize Dorian’s defense mechanism for what it is, but she knows exactly what he’s doing and she doesn’t mind. He’s not hurting anything.

“Oh, Stormy, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Varric says, like he’s not sure about what he’s doing, and that impression gives her pause — and him her full attention.

He draws her away to the far corner of the courtyard, closest to the keep. Hidden, but close by if someone were to shout for her. He perches on a pile of rubble and takes Bianca off his back. As he fiddles with the mechanisms, avoiding her eye, she wonders just what is going on.

“Varric. What is it?” she snaps after a minute of trying to wait it out. Well, no one ever said she was a patient woman.

The dwarf flinches, setting the crossbow down with a sheepish grimace. But then he sobers and says, “Stormy, you remember all that time ago when I said I didn’t know where Hawke was? I wasn’t exactly… telling the truth.”

She opens her mouth, but he stops her with a gesture. “I know, I know! I know. But the Seeker got it in her head that Hawke could help this little venture more than hurt it, and, well, I had to protect us all from that particular disaster. You know me, such a hero. Anyway, I have been keeping tabs on him. He was wandering Rivain and Antiva, doing odd jobs and more often than not leaving a corpse or two in his wake, but keeping a relatively low profile.” He pauses, absently rubbing something carved into Bianca’s frame. It looks like a flower, but Irene can’t be sure what kind. “That changed a few weeks ago. Word is he’s made his way to Tevinter and is trying his hand at becoming a magister.”

Oh, no. “What? Why?”

Varric shrugs. “He’s told different stories to different people. Whatever it is, I doubt it’s rainbows and kittens. Hawke is dangerous. He’s charismatic, patient, and a powerful mage in his own right. And I believe he may eventually come after us — me, and the others from his Kirkwall days. The ones who survived, at least—”

“Let him try,” Irene snarls.

“—Which is why I’ve been sending letters for weeks now, trying to find the others. I’ve got two willing and able to come here and help the Inquisition in exchange for the safety of numbers. They could be here within a few weeks. I’m hoping the others will come around — particularly Aveline.”

“Aveline? The guard captain?”

“She’s still in Kirkwall, trying to keep order in a city that doesn’t want her and never appreciated her. I’ll keep trying. Just— please try to stop the Seeker from killing me before I can succeed, okay?”

“Yeah, I will. So who’s—”

“There you are!” Leliana comes around the corner and spots them, immediately jogging over. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Irene and Varric say together.

Leliana narrows her eyes, but mercifully, files it away for later. “The advisors need to borrow you for a moment, Irene.”

A chill trickles down her spine, but she dutifully follows Leliana back to the courtyard.

~o~O~o~

Irene buries her face in her hands and tries valiantly to unclench her jaw. It is not, in fact, an emergency. The advisors are moving to make her official leader of the Inquisition, the Inquisitor herself.

She probably should have seen this coming.

“If you’re willing, of course,” Josephine chirps, rounding off their explanation of what, exactly, they’re doing by making it seem like she has a true choice in the matter. The fact is, she doesn’t — she is too far invested in this “little venture” by now to decline. She has started thinking of them as her people, their failures as hers, their triumphs as hers. It’s a little alarming when she thinks about it, but then again she’s halfway to leader already.

It’s another title, but at least it’s better than Herald of Andraste. That cheers her up quite a bit. Inquisitor is a title earned; it denotes an action rather than a passive state of being.

She straightens, rolls her shoulders back as she was taught so many years ago. “I accept.”

There’s a ceremony, which is mercifully short, but the little gasp Josephine makes when she holds the heavy ceremonial sword one-handed over her head, and keeps it like that for the entire exchange, makes it more than worth it. She twirls it a bit when it’s all over, getting a feel for holding a different balance than her usual greatsword, and if she catches all three of them staring at her biceps while she does it — well.

It’s been a long time since anyone looked at her like that, with more appreciation than fear as the steel flashed within feet of them.

The last one was Colm. She sighs and hands the sword off to Leliana. She doesn’t know if what she’s feeling is normal. Colm was — is — her first love. She never had infatuations as a teen like so many of the other Templar recruits, or even the other mercenaries after that. And though she loved Colm, she never…

Wait. She did. That last night before the Conclave. The stars are different in the South, he’d said, pointing out the constellations as they laid side by side at their camp in the mountains. Turning her head she’d seen the firelight reflecting in his eyes and known. She’d wanted, for the first time in her life.

After, it remains a void until she wakes in the Chantry’s dungeon.

She’s never felt this acute loss before, doesn’t know how long it’s supposed to feel like she’s shattered into shards of glass. Does it matter? Perhaps she’ll never love again, if it took so long the first time. Perhaps her heart only had room for one.

~o~O~o~

Her sleep that night is restless, though she has a tent to herself. On the march she had insisted on sharing with Cassandra, as they had too many people for what they had salvaged from Haven. Now they have enough to go around, enough for all of the advisors to gang up on her. Inquisitor and all.

She throws up her hands, admits defeat. She does not say that she is never quite alone, not with her thoughts and her ghosts.

The next day she rises as early as she can get away with. She finds Cullen at their command table by the steps. As far as she can tell he never slept at all. She’d always wondered why Varric called him Curly, and now she sees why — his hair is a mess, and getting more so every time he runs his hands through it.

“And tell Rylen the bridge is the priority! We aren’t getting anything in with it the way it is now!” He shoos off the scout and turns to her, a bit of the exhaustion leaving his eyes. “I— Inquisitor,” he greets, almost saying her name.

Yes, he definitely likes her — she isn’t so naive that she can’t see it — but she doubts he will act on his own. Thank goodness. She’s not ready. “Irene’s fine, Commander,” she says. “You know I hate these titles. I can just about barely tolerate them in official settings.”

He blinks but recovers quickly, quirking a smile that accents the scar on his lip. She wonders where he got it from. “Then call me Cullen, Irene.”

“Of course. How are the soldiers and the supplies?”

“Both drained, but morale is up and the scouts report a lot of untapped resources in this area. Enough to keep us going and then some. I set people to start making repairs to the bridge and the courtyard, but it could take weeks to get to the rest.” He pauses to accept a report, whose messenger is gone as quickly as she arrived. “So many died, and many more are still injured.”

Irene nods, glancing back over the people — working, resting, talking among themselves — and counting one more time. “It could be much worse. If we could compensate their families, and hold a memorial, I think it would help the survivors too.” She turns back to Cullen. “Anything else?”

“Leliana’s crows have returned. She and the Ambassador are updating our contacts on the situation. The remaining Templar forces are making their way here as well, and they will be a boon on the reconstruction effort. Oh, and we received a follow-up report from our scouts in the Hinterlands that may interest you.” He pulls a paper from the woefully-diminished pile on the table and hands it to her.

She glances down at it. The handwriting is cramped, but it’s addressed to Sister Nightingale. The first paragraph talks about the rebel mages disappearing from Redcliffe — something Dorian had told her in the attack on Haven, when she saw the mages swarm down the mountains with her own eyes. She had dueled Fiona in Haven, and killed her. The former Grand Enchanter had been the one to sunder her chestplate, and was one of many things to nearly end her that awful night. “The rebel mages were corrupted. Don’t we already know this?”

“Not that. The scout didn’t know we knew, and that’s not the interesting bit. See there, in the last paragraph? There’s a Grey Warden in the Hinterlands, recruiting. So much of our paperwork was lost in the evacuation that we don’t have the original report, but Leliana remembers first hearing about this Warden shortly before you left for Val Royeaux. She suggested you find him?”

“Oh. She did. She was sure he would have information on the Wardens disappearing, but I…” She had been fixated on the immediate mission at hand and had wanted to get it done as fast as possible, and after that had forgotten entirely in favor of the Breach. She flushes; this kind of thing has happened before, but not in such a high-stakes situation.

Cullen nods when she doesn’t say any more. “He’s still there, still in the wilderness. Near Lake Luthias. Shouldn’t be too hard to find him — he’s conscripting.”

She gives the report back and puts her hands on her hips. “Well. I know where to go next, then.”

***

Two and a half weeks later, Irene is just glad to be home.

She walks her horse across the bridge, taking in the improvements that have been made to Skyhold in her absence. Finally, a stop to the accursed riding. Her ass is numb and her thighs are on fire.

A horn sounds from the battlements, where the Inquisition banners hang proudly. The soldiers already have the new reinforced gate open for her, and they salute as she goes by. A stableboy is there to take the horses (and surreptitiously steady her when she nearly falls over) and the advisors are waiting at the stairs to the keep by the time she finally makes her way over, wincing with every step. Blackwall offers his arm and she takes it because he needs her as much as she needs him.

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen swears when she’s finally hobbled over to them.

“They had a dragon,” Dorian groans as he helps Sera down from her horse, which seems happy to have her off its back.

“They?”

Dorian just shakes his head and stumbles past, headed straight for the tavern. Which wasn’t there when they left.

Sera follows him, mumbling something under her breath that Irene is happy she can’t hear.

“There’s no ‘they’, but there was a dragon,” Irene explains shortly.

“You fought a dragon? And won? Oh, the Chief is gonna like you.” This from a man she doesn’t recognize, who has apparently been hanging off to the side without her notice until now. He is wearing the armor of a mercenary, and an easy grin. “I’m Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi of the Bull’s Chargers. The leader of my company — that’s the Iron Bull — sent me to see about striking a deal with you, Your Worship.”

She winces. Not just from the title — it’s not a new one, but it has been thankfully rare thus far. It’s that he’s a mercenary. She knows she shouldn’t judge — she was one for a while after fleeing Ostwick, before she met Colm. On the day they met in Hasmal, she had just been kicked out of the company, having discovered they were working with slave traders along the Tevinter border. She had nearly been killed, all because she’d been deluded into thinking she was doing some good deeds and not selling her sword-arm to the highest bidder.

Well. The real reason she had been with the company in the first place was to die doing those good deeds, like rescuing people from bandits or something. Instead she had become the bandit. An accessory to the slave trade.

Then she had met Colm and left that life far behind.

“My lady?” Blackwall murmurs, pulling away slightly, and she realizes they have been all staring at her while she’s been staring at the Lieutenant.

“I— ah, sorry. I am very tired at the moment. Josephine, do we have a room for him to stay the night? I need to rest and think this over.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor. Lieutenant Aclassi—”

“Krem, please,” he says with a laugh.

“—right this way, if you please…”

They leave, Josephine the very picture of the gracious host, and the twinge of guilt for pushing him away is far eclipsed by the relief she feels when he’s gone.

Beside her, Blackwall shuffles awkwardly.

Leliana comes to their rescue. “Messere Blackwall! It is a pleasure to meet you. Our Ambassador was overseeing the guest accommodations but I’m sure we can fit you in somewhere.”

“Oh no, my lady, you don’t need to go to such lengths on my account—”

“Nonsense! Come along, let’s get you settled and then you can tell me all about what the Wardens are up to these days. I may have traveled with the Hero of Ferelden but since then I have become woefully out of date.”

Blackwall throws a panicked look over his shoulder as the Spymaster drags him away.

Irene tries to hide her smile, but she can tell she’s failing. Cullen doesn’t bother, sniggering like a schoolboy.

Then they are alone, her almost dead on her feet and him looking her over with concern. She is a mess, but it looks worse than it is, and they had plenty of poultices to soothe the worst of the burns. All that remains are a few holes in her underarmor, the singed ends of her braid, and a lot of soot she did not bother to wash off.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently.

She means to nod, but ends up shrugging instead. “Mostly exhausted. I need a bath, too, but I may just fall asleep while washing. Where’d my tent go?” Most of the tents are gone, actually, as is the command table at the base of the stairs.

“Your tent? No, we set up quarters for you last week. I will show you.”

The word ‘quarters’ in that context would normally send a chill up her spine, but she doesn’t have the energy to care. She follows him up the steps and into the keep, focusing on lifting her feet properly so she doesn’t land flat on her face. There’s still some rubble lying around, and a team is currently moving dining tables into the main hall. Varric has already claimed one by the fire, and he raises his pint to her as she passes by.

At the end of the hall is a dais, empty at the moment but there is a dark spot on the floor where a throne might have been. The windows behind are stained glass, the Inquisition’s emblem in gold in the center. Cullen climbs the dais and turns left, to an inconspicuous door on the side.

The room beyond is mostly a stairwell that winds around, and an empty space in the middle that she can’t discern the use for. At the top are three doors, two on one side of the landing and one on the other. Cullen produces a key and opens this last door, ushering her inside.

It is… big. Huge, actually, almost as large as the master bedroom in the Trevelyan estate she grew up in. Too much space, she thinks, for what little currently occupies the room. The four-poster is not large enough to fill the emptiness, nor are the wardrobe and the bookshelf, nor is the ornate desk facing the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to the balcony.

She steps, cautiously, further into the room, trying to imagine herself in this space. Sleeping here. Working here. Living here. Would it be rude to reject it entirely? Probably, and ungrateful besides, as she cannot exactly say why it unnerves her so. She has always preferred another presence, and it has never been such a problem before. As a child, she simply snuck into her baby sister’s room and slept on the windowsill with a blanket. Said baby sister did not mind then, being a baby. Later, she went down to the servant’s quarters where Julien would roll his eyes and grumble but always let her fall asleep on his shoulder while he told her stories in the dark, because one of his bunkmates slept like the dead and the other was nearly deaf. She gave her maids such a scare the first time, but kept going.

Then she’d been alone for a year after Julien left for the Templars, one of the darkest times of her life for more reason than one. Since then, any period of solitude has been brief. From being a recruit at Ostwick to becoming a mercenary, to Colm, who never pushed and always knew without needing telling.

Who would know here?

She turns, realizes that Cullen hasn’t left, is still standing there with his mouth partway open like he’s dying to say something. After a moment he shakes his head as if discarding a thought and says, “If you wanted a bath there’s a rope by the bed you can pull. Or, there’s public baths near the gate when you’re rested. The meeting has been postponed to tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Cullen,” she says. It is still afternoon judging by the sunlight through the windows, giving her over half a day to rest.

He nods and hands her the key, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Within minutes she has collapsed on the bed in just her undertunic and leggings, pulling a pillow over her head and drifting off.

~o~O~o~

Irene awakens to a horn blasting from outside. It is not the short, welcome-home horn from the day before, but a longer blast that repeats. A warning.

She throws open a balcony door and rushes out, leaning over the edge to peer into the courtyard below. The soldiers are not quite in battle formation yet, but are certainly ready for anything, and she spots Cullen on the rampart, gesturing to Captain Rylen as the latter orders the soldiers to hold steady. Across the way, noncombatants are being herded into the keep by Leliana’s people, and Leliana herself is at the top of the stairs where Irene had been for her Inquisitor ceremony, bow held at her side, arrow nocked.

Shit, is all she can think as she ducks back inside and scoops up her discarded armor. Her sword is halfway under the bed, blade out, and she has just wrapped her hand around the grip when someone pounds on the door.

Shit, she thinks again, but it is Julien who calls, “Irene?”

Throwing the sword on the bed, she flings open the door for him and resumes buckling her armor. “Is it Venatori? How the fuck did they find us?!”

“It’s not Venatori, Irene,” he says, too much calm in his voice. She whirls, about to hit him because dammit, this is not a summer picnic, but he grabs her arm and says, still bloody serene, “Varric sent me. It’s his guests, but no one is listening to him. I need you to help me stop this before somebody gets hurt, and it’s not going to be them.”

It takes a moment for the words to get past her anger and her panic, but once they do, he must see it in her eyes because he lets her go. “Come on,” he throws over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.

She grabs her sword, just in case, and follows.

***

By the time they reach the ramparts, she has picked up Leliana, who takes one look at her coming and sprints to join her. Above the gate Varric is frantically trying to get Cullen to stand down, all the while being yelled at by Cassandra. The rest of her inner circle are gathered as well, most of them thoroughly confused.

“What the fuck, Curly!” Varric cries, gesturing at the soldiers in neat formation below.

“You mean to tell me you knew?” roars Cassandra. She is a dangerous shade of red, a vein near her forehead bulging. Her arms are crossed, probably a subconscious check on her need to hit something.

“Of course I knew, but that’s not— would you just listen to me?!”

“You invited unknown actors here without informing any of us! What are we supposed to think, after Haven?” Cullen shouts. He is holding on to a modicum more control than Cassandra, but he is furious as well.

“They’re two guys! Two people is not an invading army! Andraste’s flaming knickers, you are blowing this way out of proportion!”

Cassandra snarls wordlessly and lunges for the dwarf, but Irene shoves her way between them, pushing the Seeker back. With a bit more force than intended — Cassandra falls, sprawling on the stone.

“Would you all shut up?!” Irene shouts, whipping around to glare at each of them. “This is not the time to be killing each other before our enemies can kill us!” When silence has reigned for a full five seconds, she takes a breath and turns to Varric. “Who are these people?”

“If you’d all stand down, you can see for yourself,” says Varric snidely. “But if you attack them, either of them, I cannot be responsible for their actions. Suffice to say, you will regret it.” He gestures at the rampart. It is too tall for him to see the riders approaching at a canter across the bridge, but Irene peers over.

Two of them, as Varric had said, wearing dark cloaks on dark horses in the late afternoon sun.

“Have your forces stand down, Cullen,” she orders. “Leliana, keep your people ready. Get Josephine out here. We will greet them as guests, and see what they have to say.”

Cullen sighs but relents, stalking off toward the courtyard. Leliana is happier by far, nodding to her deferentially before flitting away. And Cassandra…

Cassandra is still on the ground, looking at her with stark betrayal. Irene offers a hand, but she ignores it, rising on her own and straightening her armor with a huff and a scowl. “Cassandra,” Irene begins.

“Don’t.”

Irene can’t deal with her right now, so she doesn’t. She sighs sharply and turns around, jogging down the steps just as the gates begin to open for the new arrivals.

She sees now, as they pass through, that one horse is black, the other a very dark brown. Though they still wear their cloaks she can pick out the details — the rider on the brown horse is broad shouldered, and tall enough to give Julien a run for his money. She can see the shadows of his face under the hood. The other, meanwhile, is on the shorter side, lithe and utterly anonymous — he wears a scarf over the lower part of his face, and his head stays down to hide his eyes.

He is also not wearing any shoes, just footwraps.

The first man comes to a stop and swings off his horse. He lands with a clink of armor, armor that she catches sight of for a moment until the cloak settles again. It looks familiar. Almost like…

Templar, she realizes just before the cloak comes off, revealing the man beneath.

He has black hair and blue eyes, though that is where the similarities to Colm and Caius end. His blocky jaw is set as he glances around warily, and he is, as she saw earlier, huge — wide shoulders and thick biceps from training with a greatsword, tall frame from luck of the draw. He bears the Sword of Mercy crest proudly on armor polished to a sheen.

The second man — elf, she thinks — leaps from his horse gracefully, still hidden beneath the cloak.

And several things happen in quick succession.

First, Varric shoves to the front of the crowd, a grin on his face that makes her realize he hasn’t been truly happy this whole time. “Hey, Junior, glad you could make it. And you, Fenris, though I should probably start calling you Broody again.”

Second, at Fenris’ name, Caius, who is leaning against the wall of the courtyard, far removed from the others, gasps loudly and jumps as if someone has lit him on fire.

Third, Fenris’ head turns. Slowly, but fast enough that no one has time to react before he spots Caius. And the instant after he does, he is glowing, lines lighting up all along his body, and the cloak is off and Fenris is past them all in a flash, a blur of white hair and green eyes with murderous intent.

He has Caius by the throat before anyone can so much as move, least of all her brother-in-law, pinned against the wall with one hand trying to stop Fenris choking him and the other clawing at the elf’s arm, half of which is in his chest.

[myhahnestopinion]

REVIEW: THE NUN

If God exists, then why is there evil? It’s a question that has frustrated theologians and philosophers for many years. Its less famous cousin is the one that frustrates moviegoers to the latest installment in the only other successful cinematic universe, the Conjuring franchise. If God exists, then why does it take a traditional three act structure of a priest and a novice wandering the hallways of a monastery filled with more fog machines and cross cut-outs than a November overstock sale at Halloween City, before they can rid the place of a demonic infestation already known to return later in the series’ chronology? Like the former frequently is by those theologians and philosophers, it’s a question given a silly answer by The Nun, a deeply silly film that treats Catholic relics as if they were the MacGuffins of the latest Marvel movie. Sacrilegious? Almost assuredly. Scary? Not often. But with a thrilling devil-may-care approach to plotting funneled through a zany Gothic atmosphere, The Nun is just awesome enough to make one a believer.

Set in 1952, the earliest of the franchise timeline, The Nun follows Father Burke, played by Demián Bichir, a discount version of Lankester Merrin from The Exorcist, and Sister Irene, played by Taissa Farmiga, a discount version of Vera Farmiga, as they are sent by the Church to investigate the suicide of a nun at a remote monastery in Romania. 

The discovery of the nun’s hanged body, blood dripping down and pooling onto the monastery’s front steps, by the local delivery boy Frenchie (Jonas Bloquet) makes an appropriately moody catalyst for a slow-burn, throwback Gothic Horror piece, but the scene only arrives after the film overplays its hand in an exposition-heavy opener that not even the most devout in religion or cinephilia is going to be able to make much sense of. Thus, the film quickly establishes itself as torn between two natures: an over-the-top, big budget horror showcase that expands the scope of the franchise (until the ending tag limits it once more), and a quiet atmospheric haunt that chips away at its characters’ souls just the same as its once-hallowed halls slowly give-way to the overgrown evil within. Neither of these natures on their own is particularly sinful, but the discord results in something much less heavenly than the finely-crafted main Conjuring entries.

Director Corin Hardy feels most at home in the latter. When the demonic activity is more subdued, Hardy’s camera is more striking, dynamically panning over the haunting Romanian countryside, among the archaic gravestones of the slipshod cemetary in the woods outside the monastery, and down the elongated, dimly lit hallways ornamented with a predictably-inefficient plethora of crosses to keep the evil at bay. The monastery certainly makes for a delightful haunted house setting, though the film lacks the sense of spatial awareness that made Guillermo del Toro’s Crimson Peak a modern Gothic masterpiece. One could perhaps argue that the disorienting shifts in location is intentional, a la The Shining, given how expertly the film plays with the viewer’s conception of time as the mystery of what transpired at the monastery unfolds, though it could just as easily be poor cinematic construction. To paraphrase, The Nun’s editors work in mysterious ways.

 Hardy’s camera movements are no less assured in the more intense sequences of the film, never letting the camera linger long enough to give away an imminent scare. Despite all their creativity and energy though, the scares themselves rarely conjure up any terror. Like a heathen examining a Cathedral, it’s easy to appreciate the technical skill that went into crafting The Nun, but one isn’t moved on any deeper level.

Much like The Conjuring 2, The Nun sets up a huge sandbox of creepy imagery, unsettling objects, combative rituals, and shape-shifting demons to play around with. But as the film makes the efforts to connect back to the rest of the series, it becomes jarringly clear just how absurd the world of The Nun, in which Nazi bombs apparently negate the power of the holy blood of Jesus Christ himself, is when compared to the surprisingly emotional James Wan installments. This lack of logic is likely to frustrate most moviegoers, but there’s lots of Catholic guilt-y pleasure appeal in engaging with The Nun on its own gloriously bizarre terms. All that frustrating question really demands, after all, is a leap of faith.

The Nun, also starring Bonnie Aarons, Charlotte Hope, and Ingrid Bisu, is in theaters now.