#and apparently plumpness somehow associates me with this

[darlingpwease]

wei, WEI WUXIAN... with a soft tummy... WEI WUXIAN whose clothes are pulled up and you see his soft not flat tummy... WEI WUXIAN, who nibbles on a rice cracker and looks at you with interest when you softly pinch his soft side... WEI WUXIAN who laughs affectionately when you wrap yourself around his body and bury your head in his soft chest... WEI WUXIAN who breathes heavily when you bite and squeeze his soft chubby thighs... WEI WUXIAN, who is holding a fluffy rabbit in his arms, not realizing that he is the fluffiest bunny and you need to show and tell him about it...

WEI WUXIAN...

... thinking about the slightly (okay, not a slightly) chubby Wei Wuxian gives me a strange feeling of comfort. I'd like to spoil him. pretty chubby husband.

I guess I'm getting old.

[mabelsguidetolife]

today I was biting my lips until they nearly bled (they didn't but I could taste the metallic element underneath the thin skin) so I went on a dedicated outing just to buy some good repairing lip balm and o’keefe’s is actually really good..... I should’ve expected that kind of quality from a brand with a product called ‘working hands’

[extremelyblackandwhite]

handmaid - prelude

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap

A/N: i’m so excited to be starting this fanfic a bit sooner than expected, but i’ve been outlining it since i finished the outline and end for the unseen one and decided to go ahead with it when i saw a nice pink aesthetic board. i hope you enjoy the prelude, let me know what you think xx

NEXT CHAPTER

handmaid: a female servant, a subservient partner or element.

The lights were unusual shades of blue, green, and red. That was the first thing she noticed as she walked inside the club Genevieve had picked for her last night of freedom, as she called it. Of course the lights weren’t the only thing that was bothering Y/N: the loud music which made it impossible to have a civil regular conversation, the heels that were too tall and did not belong to her, the equally borrowed tight see through black dress, the long earrings that got tangled in her hair whenever she slightly turned her head to the side, the constant on/off rhythm of the lights and the need to squeeze between a sea of people to get anywhere were some of the things that made her want to return home, curl in a nice thick cozy throw and watch TV until her eyes were too heavy to remain open.

Nevertheless, she was to be constantly by Genevieve’s, or Gwen as she preferred to be called, side, mostly by her father’s orders. Therefore, here she was in a Friday night, dressed in mostly Gwen’s hand me downs that would normally lay in a cardboard box in the back of her wardrobe. Soon enough, Gwen had found herself a nice booth, after all being the daughter and apparent heir to the west mob family had its perks. Sometimes, even more perks than dangers. 

       - Oh, Y/N this is Nathan. - Gwen introduced her to one of the man that were sat at her booth. He was the picture perfect look of man she normally surrounded herself with, the type of man you would see in a teen sitcom with plump skin and a Californian-like vibe to them. It wasn’t exactly a hard job for her to attract them either as the young heiress was, in a word, stunning. Her unruly red locks were constantly slicked back in a straight hairstyle, dark makeup and a red pout constantly got her whatever she wanted. However, tonight she was kissing all of that goodbye as first thing in the morning, she would finally be formally presented to that who was to be her husband. 

It had been arranged way before Gwen had even been born and despite the glamourisation and complete debauchery seen in most mobster movies Y/N had grown up watching, most weddings occurred that way, planned. This one in particular was a special one considered the Stan family mafia and Gwen’s had been sworn enemies until the day she was born when her father signed her hand away. It was mostly a tactic to unite both families in a way that was very permanent. Y/N had learned not to be shocked about it, however, she still didn’t like to think of two grown men deciding the future of a unborn baby girl as if she were currency. Yet again, she was a woman and since she had an older brother, who despite working as a doctor and giving up on the lifestyle ages ago was still pretty much the one expected to take on the mob boss title, she was either to life in complete bliss or to get married. 

Her betrothed however was a completely different story. Gwen wasn’t much to talk about either, saying that they had met once when she was eighteen at a formal her father had thrown and that he had pretty much ignored her the whole night, so most of what Y/N knew about him came from rumours. The Stan mob family had quite a reputation, specially when it came to hits and their associates, however they were always somehow shrouded in mystery. Sebastian Stan himself was one to adore that sort of aura, so much that despite it all, Y/N had never seen him or knew what he looked like. She knew him to be older than Gwen, with a sharp tongue and a certain allure that attracted bottom feeders, but other than that, she knew nothing.

      - Gwen, we should probably go home. - she urged, constantly checking her phone and watching the hour number increase as if time was nothing. However, the young girl had no absolute interest in going home, specially when she had found herself a rather interesting company. - Gwen, your father is gonna be mad. 

      - If you’re so worried about my father then don’t question me. - Gwen returned to her flirtatious conversation with the blonde boy, leaving Y/N to huff, grab the pink sugary drink she’d been drinking for the past two hours, and venture herself in the club, they sure probably had a smoking lounge which led to some sort of air she could inhale. In all honesty, even inhaling smoke sounded better than inhaling the smells of the main floor. 

Weak on her feet due to the oversized and worn out heels, she made her way through the crowd, her eyes paying no help at finding any sort of stairs of doors that would led to some sort of freedom due to the constant blinking lights. Defeated, she decided it would be better to return to Gwen before she decided to abandon her for Malibu Ken however, Y/N quickly found herself in the middle of the dance floor being pushed from side to side. Whenever she tried to walk some way, the sea of people would make her walk the other way like some helpless puppet until she hit something rock hard, spilling her drink and sending her crashing to the floor. She felt her chest hit the coloured blinking ground hard, and had it not been for her own hands holding onto the floor, her head would’ve ping ponged off the pavement too. 

Nevertheless, none of that mattered because what first came in sight as she looked ahead were what looked like a very nice pair of leathered shoes which made her face pale and her heart stop. She had spilled her drink on someone. No, not just someone. Someone either rich or with enough connections to get inside one of the most elite clubs of all of New York. 

Y/N looked up, not completely being able to make up every single feature of his face but being able to make up that it was a man, a much taller man who probably did not have a smile on his face. At the thought of being screamed at or thrown out, she immediately rushed to her feet, noticing the big pinkish stain spreading on what looked like a pristine crisp cotton dress shirt. Her hands flew to the napkin holders in one of the tables, immediately grabbing enough tissues to clean a whole country only to dab the drink out of his shirt, her heart racing as nothing came out of it. 

     - I’m so sorry. - she probably said for the 100th time, tissues bunched in her hands as she finally got a good look of his face. He had an unreadable look on what she thought was probably the single most gorgeous face she had ever seen in her whole entire life, and that was something coming out of someone who had met half the models at Paris Fashion Week with Gwen. It was somehow being stoic and classic, like a 50′s mysterious Marlon Brando. He stopped her motions, grabbing the tissues from her hand and placing it at the bar. That was it, this is how I die, Y/N thought to herself. - I’m so sorry, I’m ... I can pay for the shirt, I really didn’t mean to spill it on you. I just wanted to get some air but everything is confusing here and ...

     - It’s alright, angel. - the man raised his hands, showing no harm but still maintaining an aura of mystery, almost as if she wasn’t supposed to be talking to him. 

     - I have to return to my friend. - she stumbled onto her feet, praying not to fall in front of anyone else as he looked at her leaving. She was just a doll and he couldn’t help but observe as she got lost in the middle of the crowd like a sheeps in a wolf’s den. He was hypnotised by her figure in that god awful oversized dress, thinking about how beautiful it would look draped on his floor, how radiant her eyes appeared looking up at him ..

    - Everything alright, boss? - his view of the crowd was obstructed, the clear sight of her disappearing and being replaced by the ugly mug of one of his men. Had he had his gun with him, he would’ve been laying on a pool of his own blood right now. - We saw the girl and ...

    - And now you’re gonna go fucking look for her. Invite her to the VIP room, don’t keep me waiting. - he watched as they rushed into the crowd like headless chickens looking for a girl they barely got a look of. He snickered, taking a step forward to return to the only place where it didn’t stink of cheap liquor. He stopped, noticing he had stepped on something and slowly moved his feet away to see a small dainty necklace with a pendant that looked like some sort of bird. The man scrunched his face as he lowered to grab the chain, probably some cheap metal, before sticking it in his pocket, taking a quick look of the crowd.

Y/N meanwhile was being dragged out of the sleazy club by Gwen who was no longer interested in her boy toy. The girl couldn’t lie, she was happy she was being dragged away from the club, however, rushing down the street in oversized heels. Due to the rush of exercise and adrenaline coursing through her blood and turning her rather breathless which led to her putting her hand over her chest and noticing the lack of her necklace’s chain.

      - Wait, Gwen. - she stopped the heiress before they could get inside the car where the chauffeur had been patiently waiting their arrival. - My necklace, I don’t have my necklace.

      - Maybe you didn’t bring it, Y/N. - the redhead spoke up, already inside the car, phone in hand. - C’mon, it’s probably home. 

      - I’m sure I brought it.

      - You’re worrying too much, c’mon. - Gwen patted the leather seat of the car. The young girl took a long full look at the club, Gwen was probably right, maybe she didn’t bring the necklace. With a quick motion, she closed the door of the car, watching as the club became more and more distant. 

A memory.

[onemuseleft]

Okay, okay, but. BUT. can we also get Zhao Yunlan/Shen Wei Blind Date AU?

Okay but: (this got way out of control, sorry)

So Shen Wei doesn’t exactly socialize with his coworkers, per se, but he does attend department meetings and he’s on a couple of committees and there are events meant to foster teamwork and comaraderie. Shen Wei attends exactly as many as he needs to in order to maintain his cover as an awkward but harmless introvert who has few interests outside his research. It’s more than he’d like. 

Anyway, there’s Professor Jiang Yue in the History Department. She’s brilliant, well-respected, and knows more about the history of Dragon City than anyone else in Haixing. She’s one of the few people who doesn’t think his research is entirely hypothetical and often likes to pop by and discuss something she’d recently translated that supports his theories that there may have been “mutants” in history. She’s also terrifyingly outgoing, finds Shen Wei’s deliberate stubborness and not-so-deliberate awkwardness endearing, and has decided he needs a wife. 

Or a husband. She’s open-minded.

Jiang Yue tries to hook him up with two grad students from her department (he declines for ethical reasons, even though they don’t work for him, which he suspects was a test), a young professor from the Literature department, her sister-in-law and a young woman she met at the market. 

This all occurs over a period of about ten days.

In semi-desperation Shen Wei tells her he’s not interested in women, which she takes to mean he is interested in men, but which Shen Wei had meant to mean he wasn’t interested in anyone.

Look, he’s never been good at this sort of conversation, all right? No one’s ever tried to fix him up before. 

Once she’s narrowed down the list of applicants to available young men, Jiang Yue appears to get a little more discerning. At the very least she spaces them out a little further.

(”Men are harder to come by,” she tells him much, much later. “You have to be more discerning. Also I had a bitch of a time pinning down your type.”)

She did, in fact, pin down his type, he just didn’t know it at the time.

Jiang Yue’s new husband is a police officer.

“I met someone at a fundraiser last night,” she says. “He’s very handsome, but the downside is that he knows it. Cleans up quite nice, but he mentioned he had a motorcycle so clearly he’s not afraid of a little excitement. And he had lips that I would have attached myself to were I not a happily married woman.” 

Shen Wei had ducked his head and smiled and agreed that sounded very nice, but he wasn’t interested.

Kunlun’s face had lingered in his mind’s eye; dark, knowing eyes and pink, plump lips that would press against Shen Wei’s own until he could lose himself in their kiss. He’d made up an excuse to leave early and spent the rest of the night unable to ground himself in the present. He’d given up, eventually, let himself fall into the memories in a way he usually won’t allow. He closes his eyes and remembers the way Kunlun would run his tongue over his lower lip when he was thinking about something, the way his lips would be pink and swollen from Shen Wei’s kisses, the way his mouth moved when he called Shen Wei baobei and Xiao Wei. (The way those lips looked wrapped around Shen Wei’s cock, eyes gazing up at him with a wicked glint in them as he made Shen Wei shudder and come apart beneath him). The way they felt in the dry mountain air, soft and just a little chapped as Kunlun brushed them over Shen Wei’s temple - the last kiss before the Hallows separated them for a hundred lifetimes.

He’s a little more brusque than he really needs to be the next time she mentions a potential date but he can’t bring himself to regret it.

There is a brief cooling-off period in which Shen Wei thinks he has communicated his lack of romantic interests quite clearly and she has decided to respect that and back off. 

He hasn’t communicated shit, it turns out she just thinks he’s not quite over an ex and is giving him some room to breathe. She’s right, of course.

“We’re having a little dinner party,” Jiang Yue says one day while they’re allegedly meeting for the efficiency committe, but really everyone is just gossiping about some rumors that the Chancellor is going to make them start submitting online lesson plans. Shen Wei wants to be outraged but he doesn’t even know how that would work. He makes a mental note to ask Li Qian. “We just bought our new house and we’re having some friends over. You should come!”

He’s flattered for half a second and then remembers who he’s dealing with. “Who are you trying to fix me up with?”

It’s the same cop. Apparently he’s friends with her husband even though they don’t work in the same department anymore. “He got promoted a couple years ago, but they still talk and hang out sometimes. He was at the wedding, apparently, but I was so nervous I don’t remember anything but staring into my husband’s eyes.” She smiled a little dreamily, then added, “That and my mother-in-law getting drunk and passing out in the photographer’s lap.”

He does not go to dinner.

She mentions a young man from the bookstore, and spends a few days dropping hints about Professor Chan in the archaeology department (he has a boyfriend, Shen Wei’s met him) before the cop comes up again.

She’s never been this persistent, usually taking his refusals as a challenge to do better next time. Shen Wei is wavering. If he says yes and it’s awful then maybe she’ll stop.

And it will be awful. Shen Wei feels faithless even contemplating it.

“He’s a department chief,” Jiang Yue says in a tempting voice one afternoon toward the end of the semester. “Apparently the youngest ever. He took down a bunch of Triad bosses a few years ago and saved a bunch of people’s lives and now he’s, like, the second most powerful person in the DCPD.”

That jiggles something at the back of Shen Wei’s mind. “What’s his name?” he asks. It’s been several years since he worked with the SID, and he never had any close associates with the main DCPD but something about what she’s saying rings a distant bell.

“His name is Zhao Yunlan,” she says, excited that he’s shown some sort of interest. “I told him about you and he said I could give you his number if you were interested-”

“Absolutely not,” Shen Wei says in a dull roar.

He spends five minutes apologizing and then pretends to have a headache that he can blame his rudeness on.

Jiang Yue lets the whole thing drop after that, not just her attempts to fix him up with Zhao Yunlan, but the match-making in general. 

He feels bad about not feeling bad about it.

Everything goes back to normal though, aside from the matchmaking, so he’s reasonable certain she isn’t upset with him.

And then a few months go by and she mentions her husband is coming to pick her up for dinner. It’s getting late and it’s fairly dark out, even with the streetlights, so he offers to walk with her. Jiang Li is waiting for them on the sidewalk and he gives his wife a quick kiss, and holds his hand out to Shen Wei. “Professor! It’s been a long time. How are you?”

Shen Wei’s not great at chit-chat, but he taks Jiang Li’s hand and says something.

He’ll never remember what, because at that moment he happened to look over Jiang Li’s shoulder, and saw Kunlun.

Kunlun.

He can’t move, he can’t think, he can barely breathe. His eyes are locked onto the man leaning against the Jiangs’ car and he can’t tear them away. He’s positive if he looks away, Kunlun will vanish like a soap bubble, or turn into another person entirely

It has to be someone else. A trick of the light, his mind playing games with him. A similarity, a distant descendant whose blood ran true, a coincidence.

He stares until his eyes burn, but Kunlun remains.

He’s as beautiful as Shen Wei remembers.

Kunlun is dressed in modern clothes: heavy black leather boots, tight fitting denim pants that do nothing to disguise his lean calves and muscular thighs. He’s wearing a grey shirt beneath a black leather motorcycle jacket. His hair is short, in the modern fashion, brushed forward so it almost falls over his eyes, and his beard is little more than scruff, a carefully groomed five o’clock shadow.

He’s sucking on a candy, the same kind he gave Shen Wei that first night. The same candy that belonged to the scrap of paper Shen Wei carried in the pendant over his heart.

He’s too far away for Shen Wei to see his eyes. 

And then Kunlun looks up at him.

And smiles politely, with no sign of recognition.

And looks back down at his phone.

The Jiangs leave but not before Jiang Yue leans in and whispers “I told you he was gorgeous, didn’t I?” and laughs in a friendly way at his stunned expression.

After they leave, Shen Wei stands there, watching the car vanish from sight, Kunlun, his Kunlun, vanishing with it, gone as soon as he was found again.

His Kunlun, who is, apparently, Zhao Yunlan, the son of a monster. Somehow. Reincarnation, or - the lollipops, the gun, baobei. Shen Wei has long entertained the idea that Kunlun had been familiar with the modern day, possibly a time traveler - the Hallows were near-infinite in their power, when used properly and combined. Perhaps Kunlan had always been Zhao Yunlan. Perhaps he looked at Shen Wei with eyes devoid of recognition because… Because this was the man who would become Kunlun, but wasn’t yet the man Shen Wei loved.

“Fuck,” Shen Wei said, softly but with great feeling, and went to send Jiang Yue an email asking her for that date after all.

[seokjxnnie]

celestial (pt. 2) | kth (m)

↠ genre: (future) smut, angst, demon au, incubus!taehyung x f reader ↠ warnings: blood and violence ↠ length: 5.6k

↳ her flesh and blood imparts immortality to any demon, but the incubus protecting her from the hunt requires something else of her body.

↞ part 1 | masterlist | part 3 ↠

a/n: thanks for your patience! it’s always such a struggle to write the first couple parts bc it’s boring trying to introduce characters, concepts, etc. through exposition :(( but thank you for your feedback it’s been my favourite meal ❤️

She trembled at the sensation of his hot breath grazing her neck as he cascaded kisses and licks down the curve of her neck. His lips were soft, plump, and its departure from her skin nearly elicited a whine of discontent from her throat. But he closed right back in with the sensual tickle of wandering digits that drifted to the hem of her pants, curling around the waistband. She sighed in anticipation, feeling him drag the material down her hips.

Her eyes jolted open. A panic that electrified her body brought her to urgently sit up. Her tautness calmed when she realized she was in her own clothes and in her own bed with sheets that were fluffy. She pushed out a tired exhale as her head wilted on her shoulders, fingertips kneading her temples. It was really just a dream this time.

Her legs swung off the edge of the bed and her feet flattened against her floor when she paused.

The air was oddly quieter today.

She had awoken well into the afternoon, having only slept once the sun had risen. Neighbouring residents must’ve already been out enjoying their weekend then, leaving the dormitory vacant and quiet. But still, it was calmer. Too calm.

A tilt of her head out her agape bedroom window confirmed her suspicions. Accustomed to the years of waking up to unwelcomed monsters in her bedroom, outside her window, bordering her vicinity, silence and solitude stuck out like a sore thumb. For the first time, she registered what it was like to be completely alone. The stillness would’ve been solacing if it wasn’t more arrestingly unfamiliar and eerie.

She stared down at her bracelet and thumbed the mahogany beads, only now tangibly confronting their purpose in keeping her surroundings clear of demons. It only further hammered in the awareness of how real this all was, regardless if she wanted it to be or not.

Following was a tangle that tightened in her stomach, recalling her curt departure from the group of men that had essentially stood between her and the brink of death. They had stopped her from becoming a meal, aided her recovery, and evaporated away the big fat question mark that had branded her for as long as she could remember. They had even been anticipating and preparing for the dramatic change that would come with her 20th birthday for years. And her grand indebted response was to flee their estate.

However, a night to recover from pulsing temples and dwindling vision allowed her to better wrap her head around her new reality, once the overwhelming first impressions had subsided. Now, the guilt associated with a gratitude improperly expressed was the symptom that currently plagued her. Despite wanting to be far from the uncanny concepts revolving around her “celestial blood”, the girl had to admit she was unrested by how she left things after what they did for her, as accommodatingly as they could’ve been given the unforgiving circumstances.

That exact unrest somehow brought her to the front of the shrine. She hardly even remembered exactly how she ended up here. All she knew was an urge that drew her out of bed and arrived her just outside the gate of the sanctified establishment. She wasn’t equipped with a plan in the least, even her own intentions were unclear. Maybe there was something comforting about this place that magnetized her. Regardless, a thumping heart came with the uncertainty of what to do next as she stared on at the rustic and humble exterior.

A swift tension claimed her figure when the front door unexpectedly slid open. To relieve her of the pressure of initiating, Namjoon greeted her with a warm smile at the entrance. “Princess, happy to see you looking healthy.” Relief freshened his face upon sight of her coloured and glowing skin, opposite to the paleness that sullied her last night. He stepped down the porch stairs towards her.

Seokjin appeared and followed behind him. “How are you feeling?” his voice casted a gladness.

She could only return the welcome with widened eyes. “Good, better, I—how did you know I was here?”

“We could sense you,” Namjoon replied.

“We could actually smell you from the next street over,” Jungkook blurted from the front doors behind the pair of broad shoulders that arrived in front of her. The curious excitement to see her poured the rest of the residents out onto the porch. Even the incubus quietly leaned against the frame, face hardened by a stoic quality.

She avoided fixing on his gaze for too long. A hard gulp travelled down her throat. “S-Smell me?”

She had only now realized Seokjin and Namjoon had already began guiding her in past the gates and towards the rest of them.

Seokjin cocked his head in disapproval at the poor word choice from the youngest member. “He just means we as demons have heightened senses is all.”

“Did you come to stay for dinner with us?” Jimin’s fluffy locks bounced in rhythm to the beam playing in his voice.

With the generous vibrancy aimed directly at her, her jaw stuttered, uncertain if she could be accompanied by these handsome faces for the rest of the evening. “Oh, no, I… uh, I really just came to thank you guys for last night.” It was the lack of preparation for how the situation was going to unfold, the unfamiliarity in the demonstration of demons showing amiability, that flustered her so that the only speech she could form was splintered.

“Princess, I can hear your stomach growling,” he snickered in retort to her protest.

Her lips pursed in embarrassment as arms folded over her abdomen that apparently made noises she didn’t hear. “Please don’t call me that,” she muttered.

“Besides, we have a birthday cake for you!” Hoseok’s expression lit up with a broad grin.

“We’ve actually had the cake since last night. But then Taehyung brought you home bloody and unconscious, so we thought ‘Ah shit, you know what? Maybe now is not the best time’,” Yoongi deadpanned, earning himself an assembly of uncertain and disbelieved looks from his housemates, all of which failed to faze him. Only, except the sombre Taehyung, who instead wordlessly left and returned inside.

She took a second to silently acknowledge to herself his withdrawal before Yoongi’s refreshingly brutal honesty elicited a snort from her. Her taut lips smoothed into a soft smile. “You guys got me a cake? That’s…” a warmth blossomed across the plump of her cheeks as she peered back at the bright eyes looking at her, “so sweet.”

With everything that had occupied her, it had once again slipped from her mind this special day for her. While she had forgotten about it, they had already intended a celebration for it. It seemed as though everyone had remembered about her birthday except her, but that might’ve been because the mass majority of the demon kind had been anticipating this day much more than she ever could.

Nevertheless, barely more than strangers or not, how could she refuse them when they’ve bought her cake?

“Oh, no, maybe you should…” she gasped and reached towards Namjoon. Knife in hand, he was struggling to steady the halved onion as it wobbled on its rounded side atop the cutting board. “Lay it down on its flat side so you don’t cut yourself.” Flipping it to lie level to the plank, she lightly tittered as he shame-facedly nodded in illumination to her insight.

Surrendering to their insistent invitation to dinner, the household was bustling in meal preparation now, with Jimin and Hoseok setting the table, Jungkook and Yoongi in the kitchen assisting Seokjin in cooking, and Namjoon apathetically casted aside to occupy himself with some novice onion chopping for his own safety and of those around him. Adamant in barring the birthday girl from doing any sort of labour at her own celebration, her persistence earned her the minute responsibility of seeing through that Namjoon doesn’t miraculously burn the sacred shrine down. Taehyung was nowhere in sight.

“Jungkook, did you pick up green onions from the store like I asked?” Seokjin’s eyes narrowed under furrowed brows as he searched the open fridge.

“Yup.” The youngest sauntered over and dragged out two separate bags of green stem bunches from the crisper drawers. “I couldn’t figure out which of the two were green onions, so I bought both.”

Seokjin’s tongue prodded his teeth in aggravation as he glanced into the plastic sacks. “Amazing, because you still managed to fuck up,” he huffed, following an exacting tone. “You didn’t buy green onions. These are chives and leeks.”

Jimin’s face of mischief peeked into the kitchen, a howl of mocking laughter readying at the tip of her tongue. “Dude, you don’t know what green onions are?”

“Why the shit do they all look the same?” the youngest cried in disbelief.

“Jungkook, you know there are signs there for you to read, right? They’re there to help you, right?” Yoongi paused in his soup brewing to squint with genuine perplexity.

“Shut up, I’ll go buy the right ones,” the latter grumbled vexingly.

A sigh rasped in Seokjin’s throat as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “God, no. Your fuckass is probably going to come back with eggplants or something if I let you go again. It’s fine, leeks will do.” With a glare, he antagonistically grabbed the bags of failure from Jungkook, whose eyes were stained with a venomous glower.

The girl was slightly taken back at the hostility that was a possibility amidst everyone’s kind spirit, all the while having to stifle amused chuckles at their childish quarrel. She turned back to Namjoon, who remained quiet and uninvolved towards the spat in reflection of the deflating spiritual exhaustion he was unfortunately accustomed to. He promptly moved on.

“We’re sorry about last night. I know it must’ve all been very overwhelming, and god did we wish it could’ve happened differently,” he sighed with an apologetic shake of his head.

The edge of the kitchen counter nuzzled her hip as she leaned against it, peering up at him as his wrist gingerly rocked the chopping knife against the vegetables. “Not at all. I should really thank you guys for taking me in after… that.” Her fingers curled into fists, her arms enveloped her chest, a cold sweat casted over her skin. Images of the unparalleled, gruesome face of the monster child was perpetually singed into the back of her mind. She took a slow breath. “I was a mess last night and couldn’t properly tell you how grateful I was… am.”

His volume sympathetically softened, “And Taehyung is… the way he is,” his head cocked and his lips shrugged, “but he means well, believe it or not. When he brought you home yesterday, he was pretty hard on himself for allowing you to get hurt. I think he’s still beating himself up over it, thinking ‘if he had been on time’…” There was a brief darkness that draped over his eyes that kept her tension steadfast.

The same bead bracelet that he wears wasn’t just to bound him as her familiar, it was also to contain his strength, Namjoon continued to explicate. Taehyung might’ve been chosen because of his inborn incredible strength, but if it weren’t for the limitations of the bracelet, he’d probably surpass the combined strength of the remaining six of them.

A gloom tautened Namjoon’s face, seemingly reminiscing something unpleasant.

Before Taehyung had met them, he was a recklessly freewheeling teenager, getting irrepressibly stronger and stronger as he matured. More and more, controlling his powers and impulses as an incubus slipped from his grip, and he began killing demons and mortals left and right, sucking their life energy until they were dry. Behind his untamed violence, though, the monk saw a scared kid who was a slave to his own unhinged force, and decided to take him in. Curbing Taehyung’s strength and training him for years to instead channel it into being a familiar and protector, he’d learn the values of self-control and his priority of the celestial mortal’s safety. Now, he wears the beads without a thought of removing it, in fear of unleashing what’s been bottled and hurting those around him with it.

Her apprehensive fingers tweezed the side seams of her shirt. There was a tightening at the edge of her throat as she recalled the vague visual of his bare fists cutting through a skull and leaving a cavernous pit where a face used to be. And that might’ve only been a pedestrian demonstration of the whole of his power.

She sucked on her cheeks, now reading the incubus’s earlier withdrawal and absence as a by-product of blame. There might’ve been a twinge of remorse for snippily kicking him out last night after all he had done to save her. “Where might he be now?” she tentatively inquired.

A pace down a suggested hallway brought her to the shrine’s back doors that opened out to a picturesque stretch of courtyard, inviting in breezes of grass-scented air and staging the colours and bounty blossoming in the early summer weather. Taehyung sat on the bordering steps leading down into the backyard, his back turned to her. She didn’t need to warn of her presence with the tread of her foot or the clearing of her throat when he interrupted the still silence with the slight turn of his head to meet her eyes.

A fleeting yet palpable shudder coursed her spine when his arresting face recapped the unsolicited, sensual dream that she awoke from this morning, which she hastily worked to suppress. Even more aggressive was the subdual of the reminder that he had previously stripped her naked and tasted her skin with the run of his lips. It was to stop the bleeding, she tried to remind herself in good faith.

His illegible gaze lingered as his lips remained unmoving, and it grew a crippling fluster within her. She tore her eyes away to fix on the ground instead. “Dinner’s almost ready. They wanted me to come get you,” her rigid words scarcely left the edge of her tight mouth.

The familiar’s voice and expressions continued in its absence. He turned back around.

She sighed with a step forward. “Listen, I know I’ve been—”

“I’m sorry, you know.”

He remained still, his murmurs quiet, nearly getting lost in the soars of the wind. The girl paused in her tracks, taken aback by the unanticipated tone of sincerity, playing the unanticipated words of apology.

“If I had just gotten there in time, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I’m sorry I let that happen.”

Taehyung wasn’t one with a way with words, clear in the way his speech was muffled and tentative as they were forced out past lips that were only sparingly ajar, constrained by a tautened jaw. Nonetheless, the regret that his voice conveyed was vivid. It delivered a heaviness upon her for having misinterpreting his character completely.

The beats in her chest accelerated and moisture took over her palms, but she swallowed as she continued in her plod forward. His stare lifted to her as she sat down next to him. It was only then did she realized she had never looked at him long before a rattled retreat stole her gaze away. It had kept her from catching the gentle quality hiding in the vast of his irises that, though were still piercing, adorned a deep brown colour instead of a sharp crimson.

“Whatever happened, happened,” she started before hesitation caught up with her and prescribed a belated translation of her thoughts. “But, I’m still sitting here, with all of me still intact, because of you. So… thank you.”

Their eyes kept their affixation on one another. The surrounding hush seemingly began to escalate to a deafening roar. The mesmerizing web of bronzed pleats in his irises were easy to get lost in, threatening of an unyielding capture. She almost didn’t register it when he inched forward ever so slowly, until she felt his temperature closing in on her, with the palpable daubs of his breaths that tantalized the surface of her skin. Nearer were the pillows of his lips, framed by sharp edges that she could never decipher, especially when they moved to intrude the calm air with a rasping whisper.

“Are you going to thank me properly, then?”

Her respires idled at the cap of her throat as she lagged in grasping his query, to which he exploited with the stretch of his palm fastening down on her hip. Her chest relentlessly drummed as immobility claimed her limbs.

Taehyung leaned in more, so her ear could capture him in his full husk. “It’s been years since I’ve had my energy refilled,” Taehyung almost growled. “Just a kiss will do... for now.”

Hair’s breadth away from her neck, she could almost feel the plump of his lips shape against her skin. A foreign feeling she’s never known before clung to her bones, like a simmering of an unignorable, unparalleled, unescapable need that appropriated the control of her own body. She quivered as the apparent otherworldly force within her hungered to melt into his instigation.

But…

Right.

 He is an incubus after all.

Nearly gasping as if she was finally surfacing for air from a smother, her hands splayed across his chest to thrust him away. “Fucking Christ, you’re full of shit,” she hissed, exasperated, leaping to her feet.

“What if we doubled down on security?” Namjoon’s words made garbled by a mouthful of cake toppled from lips that pursed to catch crumbs before they fell. The vague proposal made the girl stiffen in her chair with cheeks that were already rosy from the birthday song that had just unsolicitedly sprung on her. “Is Taehyung alone enough to keep an eye on her 24/7?”

“What, like, should we enrol as students at her college?”

“I’m too old and withered to try to fit in with a bunch of doe-eyed, spring chickens.”

“Exactly. And then what? Apply to be her roommates?”

“I mean, that’s not a bad idea. Taehyung as her roommate could keep him close without seeming suspicious.”

“I don’t think her dorms are co-ed.”

“Yeah, and Taehyung is nearly six feet with hips like a plank board and ass that wouldn’t bounce the quarter but miss it entirely. He could never pass as a girl.”

“Jimin probably could.”

“Me? But Yoongi’s got the legs for it.”

The aforementioned cocked his brow in doubt, mouth opening in protest when he stopped and looked down at his legs. The rebuttal dissolved from his face and relaxed with a shrug of agreement instead. He did have nice legs.

Everyone contributed except for her familiar, but she couldn’t bring herself to his eyes the entire dinner. “Guys, guys, please, I don’t think that’s necessary,” her hands waved with rejection front of her insistently.

Hoseok nodded regretfully, sighed, and apologized on for them trying to make decisions revolving her life without a request for her discretion. Even then, it didn’t stop Taehyung from joining her side heading to lecture come Monday morning. Her classmate was nowhere in sight.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Unforgiving murmurs filtered past gritted teeth when he followed all the way to the seat beside her in class.

“I’m here to learn about the range of our responsibilities and civil rights as we confront moral—the fuck do you think I’m here for? I’m here to make sure no one else takes a chomp out of you again,” he hissed in retort, shrill with sarcasm, slumped back in his chair.

“I don’t need—“

The incubus straightened in his seat when the professor and his couple of teaching assistants entered to commence lecture. There was something cold in the way his gaze narrowed as he eyed the teaching team. The timeline of class discourse didn’t leave a lot of room and volume for her to further discuss—rather, argue with him. Even more so when, at the dismissal of class, he got right up and treaded down the steps towards the front of the class without a warning of his intensions to her

She watched as he caught the gaze of one of the TA’s, Sunmi, the pretty one with sharp eyes and cascading locks of lush, as he took assertive strides towards her. With his back to her and the distance between rendering their conversation inaudible, she intently squinted to investigate a purpose. What she found was a shift in the woman’s body language when her lips curled into something coy and her fingers laced around the waves of her hair.

Grimacing, she shrank back in presumption of the provocative nature in their exchange. Quickly, she was introduced to doubt that he could be capable of anything beyond his impulses as an incubus. If she wasn’t going to provide what he needed, then he must be exploiting the new hunting grounds, where he’s found his next prey.

“Please just don’t hurt her.” Something between a sigh and a grumble escaped her lips before he could complain about her disappearing when he caught up to her in her next class. He had found her all too easily, sniffing her out in the vastness of the campus and its attendants strangely quick.

“What?”

“My TA,” her voice fell to an intimate volume when the professor started lecture. “I know you’ve got needs. Whatever you want from her, just don’t hurt her.”

A disbelieved huff rocked his head in exasperation. “She’s a demon.”

Shock swelled her eyes open.

“I came to give her a warning. She insisted she doesn’t plan on hurting you. Steer clear of her anyway.”

Even at a hush, his words laden with vex straightened her forward and sank her in her seat, tautening her with a shame for misreading the situation so grossly. The pen in her digits hovering above her notebook fluttered fitfully.

“Besides,” the familiar demanded her attention right back when he seized her wrist, his other hand jutting an antagonistic finger at the air above her bracelet. “This means I don’t gain anything from anyone else but you. You know I belong to only you, right?”

Fuck.

He had to go and say gratuitously arresting words like that and now she was impeaching her own heart for beating so quick and her face for being vulnerable to a rosy flush while her betraying thoughts echoed reminders of demons having augmented senses. She didn’t even want to breathe in case the stammers in her respires was a ten-fold blare to the opposition.

Choi Minho (choimh@snu.com) [4:53pm]: The argumentation assignments have been marked and will be ready for pick up in office hours. I’ll be extending mine for another hour if you’re still on campus and would like them immediately. Otherwise, they’ll be available in Sunmi’s office hours starting tomorrow. Good work, everyone!

The conclusion of her day was kept from dismissal in receipt of an email that underlyingly warned of a brief window in which she could avoid receiving her grade from the other TA – the demon. It’s not like she truly did fear that Sunmi’s intentions superimposed with her mortal demise, but she thought she should cautiously heed her familiar’s warning as her ignorant kindness had already betrayed her previously.

Taehyung had left her alone for the rest of the day, but having spotted him lounging in the thick of a tree branch that towered over the window of one of her classrooms, she knew he was close by. So, she desperately adhered to that reassurance when she knocked on Minho’s office door and Sunmi answered instead.

“Hey! Here for your argumentation assignment?” she welcomed with a grin, unflinching in contrast to her opposite.

With the unexpectant keeping her breath captive at the edge of her throat, the girl didn’t respond. Just as detained by anxiety were her limbs that were uncertain in how to follow when Sunmi walked back around to the office desk splayed by wads of paperwork. She was chilled by the exemplification of how well supernatural beings melded in with plain sight. Throughout the semester, along with the email exchanges and the trading of friendly passing-by smiles, not once had she suspected that the teaching assistant she shared mornings with three times a week was a demon. She thought the only unhuman thing about her was her ethereal beauty.

The tutor's bewitching gaze searched for hers when she remained by the door. “Well, come in. I don’t bite,” she chuckled. “Minho just took a quick bathroom break and asked if I could tag in for a few minutes.”

Is she really not going to address the elephant in the room?

She watched as the TA plucked a grape from her Tupperware to drop into her mouth. She ate human food, and the student hoped it coincided with her abstinence from human meat, just like Taehyung and them.

“I remember marking yours. It was impressive.” Sunmi had her eyes down at the stack of assignments that she flipped through, which prompted the latter to consider the lack of a hungry glare fixed on her. “Ah, here,” she pulled out one decorated by an attractive grade.

A startled gladness brightened the girl’s eyes, shocked that her work laced with time-crunched panic had still earned her a grade as lavish as that. She took a step closer to verify the mark

“It was well structured, you made some strong points, and your conclusion was thoughtful. The only criticism I have is in your second point.” Sunmi flipped to the appropriate page and her polished nail gestured to the exert in question. The other girl moved closer to follow. “Your opening here is a statement rather than an argument opposing the claim, which steered you towards a doubtful warrant. Apart from this, you have an excellent paper.”

She replied to the TA’s praise with a bashful smile. A couple more strides closed their distances so she could receive the assignment extended out to her. “Thank you, I’m—”

Her proximity brought into her line of view the opened laptop on the desk. Displaying was an email browser. Logged in was Choi Minho’s account.

It wasn’t Minho who sent out the email.

Everything spun and a pang struck the back of her head. A couple blinks weren’t enough to straighten her oscillating vision, but her affixed wrists above her head and the silhouette hovering over her were enough to interpret that she had been thrown down and pinned to the surface of the desk.

“S-Sunmi?” The bewilderment crippling her volume rendered a whimper hardly penetrative to the air between them. Her eyes settled only to instill dread within her when she watched youthful brown eyes mutate to an eerie yellow, the blacks narrowing to menacing slits. Her black hair blanched to a silver and proliferated in length until it draped along her sides and blanketed her victim in a sleek smother. The girl struggled, but paled in competence against the unfaltering force. Apprehensive quakes swathed her when a scaly hand gripped her jaw to lock her head in place.

“God, you smell so fucking good.” Ravenous hisses were punctuated by the slithers of a thin, forked tongue in and out of a fang-bearing mouth. The graze of her nose dragged against her jaw, then the outline of her neck.

“No, please,” she feebly begged. However, the greed, the appetite, the animalistic keen in the aura that pinned her down bordered near a promise of trepidation, and it made her eyes stung with hot tears. The laden terror weakened her with nausea when Sunmi boasted her sharp smirk that outlined threatening fangs before they dipped down towards her clavicle. She gasped with a scream preparing to leap from the edge of her lips, “Taehy—!"

Her breath hitched when the daggers broke skin. A deafening pain swallowed her entirety in quavers. But just as quick, the fangs were wrenched away.

A stillness, a soundlessness settled down in the air around her. She was alone. There was a slight draft that wasn’t there before, or maybe the fright made her body tremor with a chill.

Taehyung.

Weakly, the pads of her fingers travelled to gingerly dab at the ache on her neck. The demon hadn’t completely buried herself into her skin, and so left hardly anything more than a couple of nicks. So, why was the ache thundering through her veins as agonizing as it was? Her digits drew away and hovered over her face, telling a story of the light trickles of viscous crimson that dyed her skin.

She fought the limpness that threatened to colonize control over her movements as she struggled to pull herself up, only to tumble off the edge of the wood and slump to the cold, unwelcoming floor instead. Panting as the pain was ensnaring the stability of her vision now, she pushed herself off the floor and pulled towards the frame of the window that was now open.

The sound of Taehyung throwing open the office window behind the desk and dragging the assailant out must’ve gotten lost in her shrill sheath of fear, because when managing to gather her torso onto the sill, she found the incubus and snake-like woman moving in blurs produced by inhuman speed in the vacant lot of gravel five storeys below. Although in a dizzy haze that couldn’t keep up, she couldn’t neglect the hostility plastered on the familiar’s face. An acquainted red glowed in his irises.

Sunmi proved to be a capable opponent as the two donned tatters in their clothing and scrapes on their surface, yet neither had incapacitated the other. That is, until Taehyung with peaked fury hurled her across the field and she destructively collided with a tree. Seemingly in a fraction of a second, he closed their distances and she doubled over with a choked grunt.

When his hand retreated and dripped with streams of blood, blood that wasn’t his own, it was resolved that he had burrowed his fist into her abdomen. Sunmi hissed, hands folding over the gape left over. She must’ve understood the odds were no longer in her favour, because when a gust blew, she disappeared with it.

His glare darted back in forth in searching before ultimately cursing for letting her get away. Though, the damage done was near irreparable, so she shouldn’t make it too far before expiration catches up to her.

Sighing with relief, the girl fell to her knees and wilted against the wall. The roaring ache was subsiding now, and control of her own limbs was returning to her. Her familiar somehow scaled over the window and joined her side in a blink. He panted, and she almost didn’t recognize the concern and guilt that plagued his face.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung carefully reached his fingers out to embrace her jaw and tilt her head so he could observe her wound. His eyes softened back to the normal brown.

Her feeble and unsteady fingers gripped onto the cuffs of his sleeves, suddenly shivering in the relieving sensations of security allying with his presence. For the first time, she yearned for the warmth he offered, and she learned into it. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Surprisingly, she found a voice, although frail.

“I came here as fast as I could, as soon as I sensed she was close to you. And I was still late.”

She swallowed dryness at his tone darkened by a self-chastisement. “You’re here now and I’m safe. You came before she did a lot of damage – just a couple scratches. I’m not even bleeding anymore.”

His gaze found hers, and it seized her respires to see a glimpse of tender eyes. Her grip found his shoulders and tightened when he took her into his arms and stood up, carrying her effortlessly. He set her down on the desk, his hips against her knees when he closed in and his digits moved to undo the top buttons of her shirt. She gasped, limbs saturated with tension. “What are you—?”

He paused and glanced with firm eyes that sent a voltage down her spine.

Right.

She gulped and retired her resistances for him to dip his head and nuzzle her neck with his nose. His sturdy hands gripped her waist and fixed her in place. Then, he once again introduced ache when his tongue dabbed at the bite marks. He moved in deeper against her skin with the drag of his mouth and the swirls of the wet muscle in between, and she threw her head back in a squirm. Her lips pursed in attempt to muffle the whines that tried to escape. Nails digging along the slopes of his back, his lapping, gentle suckling slowly began to soothe. With pleasantness taking over, replacing the hurt with relief, her head felt light again and a pant made her chest rise and fall.

Taehyung broke away from her healed skin with a hot sigh that grazed her sensitivity, prompting her to press her thighs together.

In the gradual descent into bliss, the phantom sensations of his soft, plump lips kissing her skin lingered, and it felt so compatible, belonged. But she’ll never admit it aloud.

tag list: @ehu-agavebaby @http-jinnie @ggsmashgg @la-vie-en-tae @tangledsparkles @lilacdreams-00

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[currytums]

Don't worry about what I do

A fluffy ficlet

Lydia rested beside Vergil, cuddled up with her face buried against his neck. Her breath was just a little too warm against his skin for his comfort, but she was dozing in and out of consciousness - not to be disturbed without urgency.

Her eyelids fluttered open when he spoke her name, a not-so-graceful whistle from her nose as she glanced up at him with a smile. Her cheek that rested on the bed scrunched one eye up oddly as she watched his peaceful expression, but she seemed nearly ready to sleep again.

One of her hands already clasped his own matching one, and she brought the other to rest on his side, near his waist. Her eyes closed, but she had a mischievous smile as her hand trailed across his chest briefly, then down his abdomen. Her fingers tickled at something soft and warm, peeking out of his just barely too tight shirt.

He sucked in air, and the beginning of a gut he had developed only recently, so he thought. Even as the muscles contracted, the tips of her nails still grazed the puffy skin ever so slightly and a warm laugh fell from her lips.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Vergil, pulling her tightly against his form to restrict her movements.

It was his own fault. He had started learning to cook, partially to impress her, but somehow he had become a little too fond of his own fare. The often dehydrated and malnourished abs he once sported had melted into a plump little tummy. To his disdain, it made him feel more human, but that was the very reason Lydia loved it so.

"You've been practicing again," she hummed, still sleepy. "Have you always been this comfy?"

He buried his nose in her scalp, enjoying the pleasant scent of silky honey. "You know the answer to that very well."

Lydia's eyes opened again and she cooed just a little. "You're not blaming me, are you?"

His grip relaxed as she curled against him, putting both of her hands on his hips now, where his sides were just a little softer than either of them were used to. "Not blaming, no, but you haven't exactly helped. You're an enabler."

With a delighted twinkle in her eye, she gave him a gentle squeeze. "It's not all bad, is it? You used to be so sharp and bony…"

He didn't care for the way her hands groped at his fleshier sides, and he nudged one hand away. Her freed hand came up to his face to cup his cheek while she looked at him, a loving expression that he felt he was melting under.

"I don't know how Dante does it," he muttered, placing his hand on top of the one on his cheek so that she wouldn't pull it away. "All that pizza and he stays as trim as ever. Don't I stay in practice just as much as he does? Where does it go?"

Lydia giggled, stroking his cheek with her thumb. He had warmed up to the idea of her and only her being allowed to touch him like this. It warmed her from the inside out, knowing how far he had come, from his cold exterior all the way to going so far as to keep her from stopping when she touched him.

"You don't take on as many jobs as he does," she said. Though it wasn't an insult, his competitive nature bristled. "But you have that… teleport thing you do. I won't say it doesn't take a strong core to swing around a sword like the Yamato, but Dante might be a little more mobile than you."

She was pretty sure Dante was just as baffled by that situation, as much of the greasy food as he inhaled, over the years he had bulked up rather than out.

Vergil, on the other hand, who had been eating healthier, probably just didn't account for the extra calories when he started taste testing his own cooking. On the subject of human fare, with which he was barely accustomed, he was starting to form Preferences. Preferences that were making themselves quite known in that ring of chub around his middle.

"Maybe I do need better exercise," he mumbled to himself, tugging his shirt down over his belly. The shirt made it over the lip of that pudge, but it was stuffed in, the line still visible from the underside where it stuck out just a little too far. "Or at least new clothes. Dante will hardly let me live it down if he sees this."

He didn't like to stand out in a way he wasn't comfortable with. Between the two brothers, being "the fat one" wasn't at all appealing.

"Get a bigger shirt," teased Lydia, leaning up to give him a gentle peck on the cheek. "I'm still loving this softer you."

His nose crinkled with repulsion when her hand on his hips moved, swiping her finger along the underside of his bloated middle. "Don't get too used to it. It won't be here for much longer."

-

Vergil found himself lying on his back, biting his lip with effort as he tried to get his pants button to close. It was so close, how had this happened? His face felt warm from frustration and shame, but at last the button was fastened. Wasn't this his biggest pair of pants? Had it shrunk? The care instructions for leather were very particular, but he had gotten caught in the rain only a week ago.

No, he knew the truth; he couldn't delude himself even at the worst of times.

His pants had been tight the day before, but now it had somehow become impossible. He suspected he was still bloated from the previous night's dinner, being an early riser, but that meant that growing out of this pair wasn't too far ahead of his future, if he couldn't curb himself. His diet was out of control.

He was a picky eater, he'd discovered, with particular tastes. He hated anything that settled too heavily by itself in the pit of his belly, but he had developed a tendency to feed and overfeed whenever he cooked. His skills were improving, taking to the craft surprisingly quickly, and there were rarely leftovers. Lydia appreciated his home cooking, but she enjoyed even more watching seconds and then thirds disappear into his ever growing stomach.

He couldn't quite explain what would come over him when he ate like that, perhaps so used to ignoring any hunger he might have felt (since he technically didn't need to eat for survival) that he didn't know when to quit. Or maybe he was enjoying it. The sensation of fullness hadn't been unknown to him, with old, fuzzy memories of his mother's cooking. Perhaps he'd forgotten what it felt like.

It didn't exactly benefit him to gorge himself so eagerly, though. On Lydia's suggestion, he attempted to rely less on his ability to teleport short distances during combat, but that proved difficult for a few reasons. One being that his personal combat style relied on it more than he realized. The other was that all the extra weight was beginning to slow him down, and he wasn't burning his feasts off as quickly as he was putting them away.

He had replaced his meager wardrobe once already, but he was due again soon, it seemed. His shirts would be alright for a little while longer, but his pants felt much like a second skin, leaving a tantalizing muffin top around his positively stuffed waistband.

Though he only truly felt frustrated, rather than self-conscious, his vanity wouldn't allow him to associate the swollen figure in the mirror with himself. His pudgier hand rested on the thick layer of fat above his waistband, and he sighed. He didn't particularly feel like facing this side of him right now.

At least Dante was kind enough, or smart enough, to keep his mouth shut, but Vergil knew his brother wasn't blind. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I regain my form after throwing away twenty years of my life, only to ruin my figure immediately. This life has been one bad decision after another."

Tired of seeing himself in this state, he flipped a switch and began to change. Scutes and scales covered his body, as horns protruded from his increasingly less human head, becoming something made of teeth and claws and bitter cold. Wings hid most of his form, and a long tail extended from somewhere down his back, snaking uncomfortably in the suddenly smaller room. This form couldn't blink, or he might have been tempted to squeeze his eyes shut before he could get a good look at the damage he'd done to this form as well.

He would admit, he spent less time in this form than his human form, especially lately. Dante had some rather crass words about both of their devil trigger forms, finding them unsightly at the best of times, but at the very least, Vergil enjoyed the sheer power it rewarded him with when he entered that state. He had never really thought of it as being ugly, or even particularly handsome.

Still, things were different than he remembered.

His room was a bit more cramped than he remembered, in this form. Lifting his wings away from his body, he could see that he remained quite heavy-set in this form as well, but he couldn't recall having to stoop to stand in the room without his horns reaching the tall ceiling before. Had he gotten taller to accommodate the extra weight?

His wings ached for the open air, but as large as this form had become, there was no way he was squeezing his girth through the hatch to the roof, and there was little room to open a portal with the Yamato.

The door creaked open, and Lydia walked in. She had gone home the previous evening, but hadn't hesitated to come by first thing in the morning, apparently.

"Whoa," she murmured.

Her eyes followed from his clawed feet to his face as her eyes trailed up his figure. Her expression confirmed his suspicion, and he released a metallic sounding sigh, sitting down on the floor to relax his shoulders.

She shut the door behind her, blinking up at him. "I thought it felt a little cool up here. What's, uh… all this?"

Vergil shrugged, waving one hand flippantly, a somewhat comical gesture from the overgrown demon. "Taking stock, I suppose."

She loosened her scarf as she entered the room further, walking close enough that she was standing right beside him.

The difference in his size was much more staggering with her as a point of reference. She was a little on the short side already, and his devil trigger form was already by no means petite, but he knew how he measured up to her. Easily. Now, in the high-ceilinged room, she looked even smaller.

He lifted his clawed hand, studying the cracked and scaly palms for a moment, before she put her hands on his large one. She was looking at him with a baffled expression, but he couldn't offer much of an explanation.

"Did you, uh… hit a growth spurt?" she asked.

He snorted, turning his head away, but not moving his hand. "It's because of my human form."

"Yeah, I guessed that," she said, fitting one of her hands around his entire thumb. "But hey, looking good."

He decided to transform back, not thrilled with how little he could move in his own room that way. He would at least be able to stretch in his human form, though not too much, or he risked making a spectacle of himself for Lydia. He returned to the form and height she was most familiar with.

She came in closer, delighted, content to cuddle up to his soft sides. She couldn't help herself, wrapping one arm around his belly from behind, burying her face against him. "You look like you have a lot on your mind."

The idea that he could enjoy any part of this experience revolted him, but the hand on his middle was soothing. He didn't push her away, even when her fingers started to tease the taut buttons of his shirt.

"Careful," he warned, aware of exactly how tight those buttons were.

"Relax, I'm not going to mess anything up," she said, nuzzling him with her cheek.

Peering in the mirror, he turned his head from side to side, blinking. He felt heavier than he knew he actually looked, but he was sure his face had plumped up some as well, by this point. He felt himself warming up from embarrassment. His jaw had definitely not been that soft before.

Her hands were becoming a welcome distraction to keep him from dwelling on it, even though it also proved how big he was getting. She moved her hand in wide, deliberate circles across his belly, and he found himself more focused on that motion than anything else he saw in the mirror.

"You really like this body, don't you?" he asked, looking down at her hand. He placed his hand over her arm, and she brought her other arm to wrap around his waist in a warm hug.

Contact like this… it still made Vergil nervous. To be held close in someone's arms, in a human's, no less, was strange. It was a sensation he'd craved for so long… he wouldn't question it, for fear that she'd let go.

"I really do," she hummed, pressing both hands flat against either side of his belly.

His shoulders relaxed slightly as he gave a well-meaning sigh, accompanied by a soft smile. "Enough to come visit me before your normal waking hours?"

"I thought we could get some breakfast," she admitted, looking up at him. "I know you don't really need to eat and you've only really been eating to taste your own cooking, but… I just thought it would be fun?"

As she spoke, she squeezed gently with her hands, kneading his doughy middle.

He looked in the mirror again, on a whim, assessing the damage again. His biggest problem was that he wasn't burning enough calories, not the fact that he allowed himself to eat at all, though he had been eating more than his share as well. If his habits didn't change, he would find the measurement of his waistline continuing to climb.

He was reminded of his time as the demon king, gorging himself on the blood of thousands of humans. The high had been dizzying, kept his mind foggy with euphoria while he rooted himself in that heinous tree like a fattened tick. Now he actually resembled one.

But he didn't want to say no to her, either. A weakness. He didn't want to admit be had one, but having something to treasure - and keeping it - was the very reason he had lived the way he had, as misguided as he may have been when he was younger.

"Aren't our choices fairly limited, at this hour?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

Lydia trailed her fingertips on him as she pulled away, grinning. "Yeah… but there are a few diners in town. I know this one place, it's a little pricey for the kind of food, but the portions are huge, so it's worth it. If you don't want to risk it…"

She was definitely egging him on, as he suspected. He didn't quite see the appeal of this figure of his, with his less defined features, softer chest, and the red marks that mottled his bare skin because of how portly he had become in such a short time. He didn't see what she saw, he guessed. How could this appeal to her more than when he had been fit? But the way she touched him was more tender than it had ever been before, a surprise to both of them. As long as he could still keep her from harm, he didn't want that to stop.

He turned to face her, stroking the back of his hand down her cheek. "If we leave now, there won't be very much of a crowd."

He didn't want to admit that the reason he didn't want to be observed by any other patrons was because of his struggle to button his pants. If he stuffed himself, he would probably lose the button entirely. If his favorite coat still fit… but he had been unable to button it closed around his corpulent figure for some time, and the sleeves were just a tad too tight to move comfortably in.

"Let us go," he murmured, a fond look in his eyes as he petted her face with his thumb.

If he didn't like the restaurant, he didn't have to finish his food, after all. Perhaps he could take it home…

[cjwegner1]

That Certain Something

How is it that a singular word is used to embody an impossibly incalculable concept? It stands alone and is suffocated by droves in the same moment. How could the lay person ever understand it when the poet, the bard, and philosophers have spent thousands of years attempting to define its essence? Nobody has ever been able to fully comprehend what most of us spend our lives attempting to possess. It’s the one abstract concept that seems to be more important than all others and yet evades interpretation, like attempting to see a floater in your eye that will always be just out of range in one’s sight. Though many abstractions exist that we can point to as characteristic of love, the very notion seems impossible to grasp.

One could poll a million people and find a million different nuanced facets of the same idea. Perhaps love is malleable. Its meaning and existence shaped by the tongue and experience of its users; a coat that is at first thick and warm yet fades in time as it loses its newness. Though it is still the same coat it has been worn over years as the down become less plump and the stitching comes loose. Though we can repair it over and over, eventually it either becomes so much a part of us that we can’t tell it's even there anymore or we’ve shrugged it off years before and never even noticed until the coldness that seeped into us becomes apparent when a new warmth brushes past our lives.

Conceivably a reason so many of us struggle to find love is that we should never have been looking for it in the first place. Perchance if we love ourselves fully we wouldn’t need it from anybody else; and still we would search out of sheer inculcation. Nevertheless, if nobody can agree on one definition, since we can’t communicate what that definition might be, how is it to ever be something agreeable between two people?

Though there are many kinds of love, as far as I can tell, the one I truly yearn for involves trusting another with all that I am, that they will never abandon, desire more than, or ask more of me than I could be. It appears that might just be the very crux of it, a need beyond ourselves for acceptance. In there somewhere is a misconception that I think a lot of us make, and that is that love, by its name should somehow be glorious and wonderful when in fact it could not possibly be as it is such a sweeping emotion. It must include the pain of not having it at all times and the fear of losing it or someone whom we have associated it with.

Despite the fact that it has been attempted to be described with words such as, “an intense feeling of deep affection,” or “”to feel a deep emotional or sexual attraction to someone,” it remains intangible, elusive. Still, the words such as fondness, tenderness, warmth, intimacy, attachment, endearment, adoration, devotion, doting, idolization, worship, passion, ardor, desire, lust, yearning, infatuation, adulation, and besottedness offer a glimpse not a single one of them embodies love as a whole. Maybe it is all those things and more. It’s possible that it is the great concept beyond our comprehension that we must surrender ourselves to so as to feel it again, and again, for the first time.

[writingismyhappytime]

Bucky Barnes

Bucky Barnes x reader (eventually)

Warnings: Language, violence, explosions, mean aliens, pie

A/N: I have no idea what come over me, or why I’m suddenly delving into the Marvel franchise headfirst. All I know, is this is pretty long, but then again, I did write it. I have no self-control, I swear. Enjoy!

Bucky.

"Barnes!" you gasp, lying flat on the ground where you've been thrown by the explosion of a nearby car. You're really getting sick of being knocked around all the time, tossed through the air by some kind of freaking alien or asshole in a suit.

You regret ever associating yourself with the Avengers.

This isn't even your day job!

You own a bakery, for fucks sake!

You know your cheek is cut, you can feel it stinging, the blood starting to run down your face. The pavement is hot beneath you, and you reluctantly push to your knees, body aching in every possible way.

Stupid Captain America.

If he'd never walked into your bakery, you wouldn't even be in this situation!

It had just been another Saturday, where you'd been icing your cakes and baking your fucking muffins like you always do. You like routine, you like knowing what to expect out of your day.

You'd known who he was the second the bell above your day had dinged, but you'd plastered a smile on your face and asked how you could help him.He didn't look that intimidating in person and out of his fancy, patriotic suit, either. He'd just been a blonde man in your shop looking at overpriced cupcakes.

If that damned earthquake hadn't happened, due to some alien interference you're sure --- if the stupid ceiling hadn't cracked, if that stupid beam had just stayed in place ---.

You can literally go on forever.

You'd literally made a list at one point.

You never should have reacted the way you had, but it had been instinctual. You'd reached up thoughtlessly, jutting your hand into the air. The ceiling, which had started to collapse on the two of you --- how the hell did you have such bad luck that he of all people was in your shop that day??? --- causing it to halt in middair. You'd held it there for a moment, then shoved with all your might, forcing the ceiling to go back in place. You'd twitched your fingers, hearing the grind of metal twisting.

You weren't an idiot, you'd known if you didn't fix the beam somehow the ceiling would just fall down again, and you'd just finished baking that tier cake, it didn't need to be squished!

However, saving your cakes had put you in the spotlight. You'd had the unfortunate mishap to be born with an extra ability, one you've mastered quite well. You'd never been afraid of it, rather, you'd embraced it. You're an orphan, so you've never had some caring, prying family in your life.

You grew up by yourself, made your own way in life, and mastered (you hope), your ability. You're no Scarlet Witch by no means, but you consider yourself a force to be reckoned with. Apparently, thanks to Captain America's big mouth, so did S.H.I.E.L.D. You'd been put on their stupid watch list, and basically been drafted against your will into the Avengers!

You're still incredibly pissed over it, having to drop everything to rush out everytime some alien got a hair crossed in his ass. You blame Steve Rogers, and you remind him of it every day you're in his presence. You know he feels guilty, and you're going to milk that as long as you can.

You should be home working on your cake, drawing those cute little frogs across it for that kids birthday tomorrow. This stupid battle was making you incredibly behind schedule!

Oh, wait --- you shouldn't be lost in thought right now, had you hit your head or something? Yeah, because a concussion is exactly what you need right now.

You shake your head, trying to concentrate. You look up, and force yourself to your booted feet, having to wear the black armor with the governments logo on it --- you can't very well save the world in a dye-stained apron, you suppose.

You lick your lips, finding you're steady. Bucky is halfway down the block from you, his metal hand wrapped around some other mans throat --- you hope that's just an enemy and not an unfortunate civilian.

Battle is so loud, too!

You've never been in a fight, so of course they'd trained you how to defend yourself. You know the basics, although you doubt you'll ever have to use it. If you notice someone, they're not getting anywhere close to you.

You can hear some more errant explosions, the sounds of fighting and angry voices --- is that a dog barking somewhere?

"Stupid freaking aliens," you mutter, brushing your black clothing off, dust covering your dirty hands. You're a stickler for hygiene, something else you're not appreciating.

You start forward, knowing you can't just stand there all day. You're not sure who exploded the car ten feet from you, but they're getting an earful back at their tower! You're not invincible, or in a multi-million dollar suit, either!

You're literally in some tough nylon or something!

You raise your hand, your body moving before your brain even registers what happens. The piece of falling building, a good chunk of a skyscraper, suddenly hovers in the air. Ah, yes, more random civilian screams, wonderful for your headache.

You frown, and move your hand, gently setting the chunk onto the sidewalk.

Natasha had asked you once how your power worked, if you felt the weight of the objects you could move. You don't, it's not like you can actually --- well, it's hard to explain. You just think about something, and it moves. You've found using your hands help you maneuver it a little better, help sort out where you want it to go, although you don't need to use them. You can feel a pull, and eventually it's like your muscles start to ache and burn if you use your power too often.

Today, though, mostly you've just been tossed out of a moving car and tossed through the air.

It's not started off well, you realize.

The scowl on your face is permanent as you stride forward, your long hair drawn back into a ponytail, which you can feel hitting your back. You're impatient for the fight to be over, for everything to calm down where you can go home again.

You just want your peace and quiet back.

To be alone once more.

"Barnes!" you call, seeing the metal man taking a brief moment, his beady eyes flicking around the war torn area of the city. He was surrounded by debris and a few bodies, and you gave him props for being such a badass. He doesn't talk much, he has that wounded, angry look in his eyes all the time that lets you know the world was shit to him too.

You know Rogers story, what happened to him --- the entire world basically did. You know about Hydra, how it kidnapped Barnes and tortured him and made him go all badass for a while. Rogers gets stuck in an ice berg and his buddy becomes the Terminator --- another reference neither of them get, too.

Bucky doesn't hear you, your voice is drowned out by the rumbling. Your steps falter, and you look up, eyes widening as the sun is blocked out.

No one said anything about some crazy spaceship!

Fucking aliens!

You hesitate, then make for cover immediately into one of the empty shop doorways, not about to be a target on the middle of the street. Bucky, however, doesn't move, just stares up at the giant, hovering craft. It's humming, which you find kind of strange, you're not sure what it's doing.

You can hear the radio crackle in your ear, the ear piece suddenly reminding you that you're connected to everyone else as well.

Huh.

Have they heard all your cussing?

"Does anyone else see that giant tin can?" you hear Rogers ask, sounding resigned. You've no idea where the rest of your teammates are, you're all spread out around the city at this point, Iron Man and his winged brobro flying around above.

"Who's is it?" Natasha demands, her voice crackly and hard to hear, she must be farther away. "Can anyone tell what it's doing?"

"Right now, it's just hovering." Barnes says, his voice clear in your channel. His accent isn't as heavy now as it used to be, not like when you first met him a few months ago. Sometimes it slips back in, little words lilting. "Should I investigate?"

"No, don't engage. Let's not entice it." You hear Tony Stark interrupt. "I'm a few minutes away, I'll scan it. Is there any markings?"

"Not that I can see." Bucky's voice is thoughtful, but you can see his scrutinizing gaze. He has no idea you're nearby, you're sure of that. You don't intend to reveal yourself, either. Hopefully, you can just disappear into another direction.

"Everyone, check in." Rogers sighs. You hear everyone mumble into their mics, and you know Rogers is counting off on his fingers, making sure the number is right. You don't immediately say anything, it not occurring to you to even speak. Most of the time, you feel more like an observer, just like you have your entire life.

You're not really a part of them, and you never will be. You're just someone who's come into their lives for a brief moment, staying on the edge of their attention spans. You'll disappear soon, just like you always do, and they'll forget all about you.

It's happened enough to you in your life that it doesn't bother you anymore.

Your eyes flick up, your white teeth digging into your plump lower lip as the ship suddenly makes a funky sound, like crunching metal. You stare as the bottom starts to open, metal grinding as something starts to drop out of it.

"Shit! Shoot it down!" Barnes suddenly gasps, his voice startled. "It's a weapon, it's another one of those ---."

He doesn't get to finish.

The weapon he spoke of, it looks like a giant laser. The spaceship is hovering between the buildings, probably about eighty stories above you. It's blocking the sunlight, making it impossible to focus on anything else. The laser is now out in the open, very machine looking, something you're not very good with. It almost looks like someone just build a large version of a childs toy.

However, as you see the rings around it spin quicker, lighting up a bright, bright red, you know it's no toy. You can feel the heat from where you stand on the street, and you grit your teeth, hunching down a little more into the brick doorway.

This so isn't your day.

The laser deploys, causing you to gasp as your hands fly to your ears. You whimper, curling in on yourself at the high pitched, milk-curdling sound it emits. The sound of the explosion is awful, and the ground around you rocks and rumbles. You can feel the backlash seconds later, the force of the attack shoving you hard into the wall; you can't move, all you can do is helplessly lean against the wall, the force absolutely too much. You can't even breathe, your lungs feel like they're burning!

Shit!

Finally, finally, it's over! You collapse down onto your knees, sucking in long lungfulls of air. You hardly dare look behind you, you hardly dare think about what you're going to see. You can hear everyone screaming over the radio channel, bellowing to take the ship down no matter what. You don't see what everyone is going to do about it, you can see Stark hovering around the ship, staring down at the glittering shield around it.

This is your city, and it's being destroyed.

You feel almost helpless as you look up, knowing you're once again covered in dust and ash. Your skin is prickling, the heat is starting to get to you, and you're having a hard time breathing again there's so much pollution in the air.

You've been in a few battles, but nothing has ever been like this.

It's awful.

And you can't do anything about it!

You clench your hands, your hair falling around your face, sticking in the blood on your cheek. You stare upward, watching as Tony throws everything he has at the spaceship, missiles lifting from his shoulders and smashing into the craft over and over --- he wasn't making any difference!

"Status report!" Rogers demands, and for a brief moment you're irritated; did none of them even notice you didn't say a word?

"The south side of town is done," you hear someone cough, although you don't recognize the voice. "It's burning to the ground."

Wait.

The south side?

Your shop!

No!

You worked twelve years to buy your own bakery, you've basically worked it from the ground up! There's no way --- did aliens just destroy everything you care about? Your home? You live above your bakery, it's literally all you have in the world.

No, no they have to be mistaken. Your shop is on the higher end of the south side, in a nice neighborhood where people walk their dogs down the street and you offer them homemade doggy treats because you like animals better then people. Surely, the ----.

"How bad is it?" You hear Rogers ask hesitantly.

"It's bad."

Fuck!

They'd fucked up your shop!

You look up angrily, your nails digging rivets into your palms. These aliens, whatever the hell they were, are ruining everything for you! You've worked so hard --- you'd just baked that kids stupid cake, and you're supposed to put the stupid frogs on it today!

Your eyes burn for a brief moment, but you're too angry to really grieve. No, you're enraged. You can feel the heat sweep your body, tighten your throat, squeeze your spine. You tense for several seconds, all your happy moments disappearing before your eyes.

You'll destroy them.

Once again, your body moves. This happens a lot, you moving or doing something before you register what's happening. You find yourself crawling up onto one of the nearby cars, getting a little closer to the spaceship. Your neck aches from looking up so long, but at this point, it's the least of your pain. You rub your hands together in anticipation, cracking your knuckles, as if any of that helps.

You tilt your head a little, your eyes narrowing as your hand rises. You know what you want to do, you want to crush every being. You want to start at their throats, you want to squeeze until their eyes pop from their skulls.

Unfortunately, you'll have to settle with that stupid weapon. You angle your fingers, forming them into an almost claw. Considering your body is already aching, if you feel any pain from concentrating your power so hard, you don't notice.

"My fucking bakery," you mutter, your nose curling. "My fucking bakery!"

It's like you can feel your power, another part of you, wrapping around the laser. Stark is still fighting the shield  around the craft, as is Falcon and another you don't bother to look at. They're never going to get through the shield in time, you don't see why they don't attack the fucking weapon that's obviously through the shield.

You grind your teeth, hearing your jaw pop. Your power is slithering its way around the weapon, almost like a snake getting ready to squeeze its prey. You can't explain the feeling, you can't explain to anyone how your power works, how it's just simply an extension of yourself.

All you know is that you can control it, you're not a danger to anyone, you've obviously survived the past twenty-something years without causing some kind of catastrophe.

Well, maybe that should change.

You're about to show these aliens who they're bloody well messing with.

You can feel it, your power has curled tightly around that weapon. Now all you have to do is squeeze is a little.

You feel the resistance immediately, your fingers not wanting to curl inward. You're trying, and you can feel the muscles in your wrist strain at the pressure. It's as if your own hand is around the laser, and you're trying to crush it.

You're going to crush it.

You hold your breath, thrusting your other hand into the air. The ship rocks immediately, turning nearly on its side. It rams into the buildings closet to it, causing more debris to crumble downward. You ignore it, feeling your hair lift off your shoulders --- great, now you've lost your hairbow.

That was the last one you had!

Damned aliens!

You shove your hand up again, and for the briefest moment, you can see your power shifting through the air, ramming into the underbelly of the ship and sending it rocking dangerously again. Good, that should help expose the weapon some more.

The craft is half in the building now, and you know it's stuck, it's having a hard time moving. It's not humming quite as loudly now, for which you're glad.

Now, about the crushing.

"Shit!" you hear Stark say, and you see his iron suit back off the ship.

Smart man.

You squeeze your hand again, feeling the pressure start to give. Your lips press into a thin line, and your freezing fingers wrap around your wrist, steadying it. Your neck aches, but you don't break eye contact with the laser weapon, feeling like you're some idiot in a comic book.

You're beyond enraged, all you can think about is your bakery, your livelihood. You don't want to save people for a living, you don't want to fight for the betterment of the world --- it was shit and that was never going to change, so why bother?

The bakery made you feel normal, it's all you have in the shitty world. You treasure it, it's your baby --- and now they've taken it from you!

There's a horrible crunching noise as the weapons begins to collapse in on itself, pieces of it flying off in different directions as your power overwhelms it, choking it. You hear the groans of scraping metal, the explosions as it starts to malfunction. You can feel the smirk overcoming your lips as you tilt your wrist back, the laser groaning as its tilted upward.

They can shove it up their ass.

You bend your arm at the elbow, and then shove up again with all your might, sending the laser smashing through the bottom of the ship. Immediately, fire explodes into the air, and for a moment, it blinds you.

You raise a hand to shield your eyes as the ship literally implodes, taking down the building it's lodged in and everything else around it. You feel the force of the backlash, just like you had the first time.

It knocks you right off the car, sending you sailing through the air --- you should really invest in some bubble wrap or something for the hard landings.

To your inane surprise, the landing doesn't hurt as badly as you expect. You're disoriented for a few moments, your ears ringing painfully, your breathing shallow. The aching of your body is nothing to joke about, your body is letting you know how much it dislikes the situation you're in.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your hand lightly spasming. You hold it tight against your chest, your elbow down tingling, as if it's been asleep for a long time. You're not sure where you are, if you're dead, if you're under debris or if you're ---.

Is that a hand on your ass?

Your eyes pop open, bloodshot and immediately furious. It takes them a second to focus, and you blink, suddenly deflating.

Oh.

You're on top of Bucky Barns, apparently he pillowed your landing earlier.

Nice!

Well, that he pillowed your fall, not that you're on top of him.

Is he okay?

"Barnes?" you wheeze, unable to currently move your body. He's on the sidewalk, his good arm wrapped around your hips, which is why you feel his hand on your ass. He must have grabbed you just as the backlash hit --- he probably saved your life!

So, naturally, you're concerned for him.

His eyes are closed, his head rolled to the side where you can see some cuts on his scruffy cheek. He's breathing, so he's not dead, maybe just unconscious? You hesitate, then roll, groaning as you fall off his chest and onto your side. You cough, your throat burning from the dust in the air.

You can't move, your entire body hurts so badly you could cry. You fight the painful tears, forcing them back --- you can't lost control, not now. You hold your hand to you, just now starting to get feeling to return. You finally dare to look up, seeing nothing but fire in the sky. The ship is done, its in flames, but so is half of the city.

You hope they're all dead.

"Barnes," you mutter again, rolling around until you manage to get to your knees. You frown as you look over at him, hair straggling in front of your eyes.

Is he okay?

You hesitantly raise a hand to your ear, but the piece there is gone, apparently knocked out. You don't know how anyone else is, if they're okay or not. You hope so, but they're of no concern to you now.

"Barnes?" you reach over with your right hand, patting his chest, shaking him slightly.

Well, he's unconscious, that's lovely.

You grimace, glass and concrete crunching beneath your knees, biting into your skin as you shuffle closer. You grab his collar, shaking him roughly, hoping he didn't hit his head too hard.

"Barnes, you fucker, wake up!" you snap, starting to grow worried. He didn't get hurt helping you, did he? You didn't even realize he knew you were around, let alone would rush to you to grab you before you could be seriously injured!

Oh lord.

Now you're starting to freak out.

"Bucky!" You hesitate, both of your hands suddenly cupping his face. "Bucky Barnes, wake up!"

his eyes flutter, but that's the only response you garner.

Your brows furrow, and then your palm strikes his cheek sharply. His eyes pop open almost immediately --- you barely dodge his metal arm as it reaches for you, his body feeling like hes under attack. You roll hastily away from him, watching in alarm as he turns toward you, reaching for you with no emotion in his eyes.

You can see how he could be frightening, that soulless look in his eyes --- you're almost scared of him yourself.

"Barnes?" you gasp, skittering back, as you see the sound of his name jogs him. He blinks a few moments, a look of confusion overcoming his face before he comes back to himself. You let your breath go a little, seeing his dark eyes become their normal warm color.

You like it much better.

"Are you okay?" you demand, although you don't move any closer to him. He nods his head, looking up, hardly acknowledging you now. He stares at the destruction above him, at the heat. Flaming pieces of debris are crashing down all around, it's sort of surprising neither of you have caught fire yourselves.

You probably should move somewhere else, you reason.

You crawl to your feet, letting the wall help you as your legs wobble. Okay, so taking down an alien ship single handedly takes a toll.

You rub your face, brushing the strand of hair off your cheek that had dried in the blood. You pat your pockets, but you hadn't thought to pack anything handy.

Not even a napkin.

You frown, flexing your hand again, feeling it start to return to normal. It's bruised, you know it'll be black and purple in the morning, but you don't care.

It's worth it.

"Come," Barnes suddenly says. You hesitate, tearing your eyes from the flames above you to stare at the dark headed man walking away from you. You don't want to follow him, you want to go home, see what's left of your life. You want to just walk away, go in the opposite direction and not ever look back.

You shouldn't even be in this mess.

But, your legs start moving, although you sort of limp, admittedly. You follow Barnes, seeing he's leading you to where one of the parks are. Are some of the others meeting there? You'd love something cold to drink, something to soothe your throat.

Maybe a hamburger too, that would be nice.

Mmm.

Your stomach rumbles, and you sigh, wishing you'd thought to grab lunch. Your day had turned out so differently then you'd expected.

You and Barnes don't speak, you have nothing to say to each other. You don't know him well, just of him. You know he's quiet, that he and Captain Fancy Pants are close. Rogers babies him, kind of treats him like a wounded, wild animal most of the time. You doubt Barnes will turn on the Avengers any time soon, he seems pretty attached and content in his place at the moment.

You figure you like him well enough, even with those wounded eyes of his. You don't like looking at them, you feel sad every time you do. You can't imagine what he's gone through, what it must have been like. You're not sure if he was awake all those years, when he was brainwashed and all that, if he knew everything he did. You sort of hope that he didn't know, maybe it would be a little less guilt for him.

Poor Barnes.

You think that sincerely.

You know you're half sarcasm, but it's how you function, get through the day. Usually your smart comments are taken the wrong way, and you don't bother to correct people. The less they like you, the more they'll leave you alone.

"You could slow down," you finally grumble, irked at his quick pace. You're having a hard time keeping up with him now, you're absolutely exhausted. You've fallen quite a bit behind him, and finally you just stop. He ignored your words, so you doubt he'll notice.

You sit down heavily on a set of steps, your legs going out from under you. You simply can't walk another step, and you're not going to force yourself. You're very sure you're going to have blisters tomorrow.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, looking at the holes and rips in your black jeans. You're so tired, you don't want to fight anymore. You can still see the spacecraft from where you sit, and you're content to watch it pop and crackle from the distance.

You look over, but Barnes is no where to be seen. You're glad he kept going, you don't really want to see any of the others. You lean your shoulder against the railing, taking mental notice of all your aches and pains.

It'll be worse tomorrow, of that you're sure.

You continue to work your hand, if you don't it burns. It's so sore, and you hate it when it's like that.

You're also glad you lost your ear piece, you don't have to listen to anyone speak, either.

What's that?

You blink, seeing something suddenly detach from the flaming spacecraft. It's another, much smaller ship, probably full of whatever survivors were left. The survivors of the evil, fucking aliens that burnt down your fucking bakery!

Your hand rises again, and you see the escape pod suddenly jerk in midair, struggling. It's all you can do to hold it still, to not let it escape. You can feel it pushing, bending your hand back, but you refuse to let it escape.

They're not going to get away with this!

You won't let them!

You’re going to crash it.

You bring your hand down, and the pod follows, tumbling hundreds of feet and smashing into the center of an intersection a block away from you. Your hair lifts off your shoulders, but you don't move from where you're sitting, just watching.

God, your hand hurts.

You give it a moment, and then fumble to your feet, hopping a little to take pressure off your aching leg. You watch the pod as the dust clears, seeing the dents in it, almost like fingerprints. You hobble forward, your hair falling into your eyes, starting to feel a little numb.

You're so tired, but you're not going to pass up on this opportunity.

You gaze at the pod, seeing the side door fly off, a few aliens staggering out in disarray. They're coughing and hacking, dressed in strange clothing with tight, stretched skin across their faces. You don't know what they are, you don't really care --- they're going to pay.

Again, your hand rises, catching one of them as they start to dart for safety. You catch him by the throat, your head tilting a little again as a small smile plays on your lips. You like watching him squirm in the air, how his legs twist and flail. You're going to choke him to death, you're going to make him suffer.

Or her.

You can't tell.

Your eyes flick to the other aliens, just daring them to make a break for it, to dare move. You'll snap their leg bones into chop sticks.

"Do you know what you did today?" you ask, your voice raspy and harsh. You're not sure if they even understand your language, but you don't care. "You destroyed something very precious to me with your toy gun up there."

You lower the struggling alien to the ground, releasing him. You group your hands together into a circle, forcing all the aliens back to back, whether they like it or not. You know you can crush them, just give one good squeeze and make all their eyeballs pop right out their pointy skulls.

It's not going to bring your bakery back, it's not going to return your life to normal --- but it'll certainly feel nice.

"(Y/L/N)!"

Huh?

You glance over your shoulder.

"Dont!"

"Don't want?" you snap at Barnes, seeing him running towards you. He's pretty quick for a man his size with a metal arm.

You're a little surprised he came back.

"The others saw the pod fall, they're on their way," he informs you, his eyes on your face. He finally gets a good look at you. Your hair is loose now, and there's blood on the left side of your face, strands of your hair dried there. You look rough, your hands shaking where you hold them still. You're going to be in a lot of pain tomorrow, he can tell.

He saw what you did.

He'd turned, he'd watched as you'd climbed on top of that car, how you'd thrust your arm into the air. You'd taken down an entire spacecraft whereas none of Stark's explosives could even make a scratch. You'd brought it down like it was nothing!

What the hell are you?

He's never seen anyone with power like that, not unless they've been genetically messed with. Sure, there's that young witch girl, but she has no idea what she'd doing. The rest of the Avengers are modified, or heavily trained and skilled... or just rich and have their toys.

But you... you're not like the rest of them.

The first day Bucky saw you, Agent Coulson was dragging you into Stark tower, the unofficial headquarters for the Avengers these days. You'd had almost a sullen look on your face, white powder on your clothing, flour he realized later.

Agent Coulson had just sort of announced the newest addition to the team and shoved you down everyone's throats. You're a baker, you have your own place, and you'd stopped a ceiling from falling on Steve's head with telekinesis, if Bucky recalls correctly.

He's seen you fight before, always with an annoyed look on your face. You disappear as soon as the battles are done, he assumes you go home and return to your normal life. You heavily dislike being involved with them, you've made that abundantly clear from the start.

Bucky likes you, honestly. You're quiet, but when pushed, you have a razor tongue. Back in the day, he would have gone after you like a man with a death wish. He would have pursued you until you punched him in the nose --- which is pretty likely, considering your personality. He doesn't say much to you, mostly because he doesn't know what to.

He hasn't read your file, he doesn't know what you're about or your history. He prefers not to know, to not get to know you. In this line of work, you're going to get hurt, maybe even die. He doesn't want to let himself like you and then watch the life drain out of your eyes a few days later.

Still, you amuse him with your biting, sarcastic comments to the others, how obviously disdainful you are. You don't think being an Avenger is glorified, you seem to despise every second of it. You've said over and over what a waste of time it is, and although Bucky doesn't agree, he doesn't argue with you.

Now, he has a great respect for you. You've been holding back a long time, in every battle he's seen you in. Watching you take down an alien spaceship made him understand why you always looked so bored and impatient. You're a strong woman, passionate about your work --- you have a fierce control over yourself he's not seen in anyone. You can control your powers, there's no worry you're going to fly off the handle and destroy half a building.

You managed to stay under the radar for your entire life, until Steve walked into it.

He seems to have that affect, screwing people's lives up just by entering them.

"Don't kill them." Bucky says after a moment, drawing your attention back to him. You're a good person, he knows you are. He doubts you've ever killed anyone in your life, and you don't need that blood on your hand, alien or not. There's a line he doesn't want you to cross, if he's being honest.

He can see it in you, the same pain he feels sometimes. You're uncomfortable around the others, as if you don't quite fit in with them, and he feels the same way. He was once their enemy, and now their friend? No, he knows some of them still hold reservations against him, but he doesn't blame him.

One word from a Hydra agent, one specific word, and he'd be their super soldier again.

It's not safe for people to be around him, to trust him with their lives when so clearly he's dangerous. You have walls, thick ones, built so hardily around yourself Bucky's not worried they'll ever break.

Maybe that's why he likes you, why he'd run towards you when that ship had hit, the only thought on his mind catching you before you hit. He didn't want you hurt anymore then what you already were, he wanted to stop your pain ---.

"Why shouldn't I kill them?" you demand, glaring at the metal man beside you. "Look at what they've done! They've destroyed my shop!"

"You don't know that." You're worried about your bakery? Is it on the side of town that the laser obliterated? Bucky has never been, although he's tasted your cupcakes and they're divine. You're an excellent cook, and your designs are pretty, too. You're an artist as well as a soldier, but every person does have two sides to them.

"Aren't I? They hit the south side, that's where my shop is," you mutter, staring the aliens down, tightening your hands just enough to make them squirm. "I don't have anything left."

What?

Bucky stares at you, a little surprised. He knows you're serious about your shop, but... does it mean that much to you? It's just a building.

"Just don't kill them." he repeats, not knowing what else to say. You glance at him again, growing edgy. His brown hair is in his eyes, black on his cheeks from the fires and all the fighting. He reminds you of a small child, meek almost, despite you know what kind of killer he really is.

You just don't get him.

You doubt you ever will.

"If you kill them, if you take that step, no matter what race they are, you'll have blood on your hands." Bucky says after a moment, still not looking at you. "It's something you can't come back from."

"What makes you think I haven't killed people before?" you scoff.

"You're not that kind of person."

You frown at his words. True, you're not really the malicious, murdering type. You might be spiteful and vengeful, but you've never taken another life. You look at your captives, your helpless would be victims.

You don't want to let them go. They'd destroyed the city, taken countless lives --- why shouldn't you break their bones and make them wish for death?

Admittedly, the first snap and you'd probably puke, you're not really that good with the whole gore thing. Odd, considering your new line of work, but you definitely didn't choose it.

You cut your eyes at Bucky, then back at the prisoners, and then back at him.

You know he's right, that you shouldn't kill them. His words are pretty firm, and you suppose coming from an assassin they're sound. He should know what he's talking about. If you kill them, you won't feel any better about yourself or your situation. Taking their lives won't replace any of the others lost, and it'll just make you feel worse.

You'll become just like them.

You don't want to be a monster.

You hesitate, but slowly your grip laxes, all of the aliens looking relieved as they slump. Bucky relaxes, and you swear for a moment you see the hint of a smile on his lips.

You're suddenly unsure if you let them go for your own sake, or for his.

~~~~~~~

"It looks like just a scratch, you shouldn't need stitches," Natasha says as she leans over you. You nod your head, barely listening to a word she's saying. She and Stark had come blazing in like their asses were on fire, quickly apprehending the very still captives. You and Bucky had just stood there, side by side as they were carted off.

Your fingers curl against your raggedy pants, letting the red haired woman wash the blood from your face. You'd looked horrid, and already your hands are turning blue and purple. No one has mentioned the fact you took down the spacecraft, and you're wondering if they even know.

If they don't, you'd prefer it that way. Your eyes flick to Bucky where he stands with Rogers, a butterfly bandage on his cheek. He doesn't look injured, he looks perfectly ready to rush into another fight.

You don't see how he's still standing.

Your muscles are aching, and their shaking, making it impossible for you to get up out of the chair any time soon. You've never been through anything like that, and you hope to never go through it again. You despise ---.

"It looks like they're retreating for now," Tony Starks voice interrupts your thoughts, and you turn your gaze to him where he walks into the room from the elevator, holding a thick stack of papers in his hand. "Taking down their weapon earlier proved that we're a force to be reckoned with."

"That's a relief," Natasha says, straightening as she looks at Stark. "We'll have time to regroup and form a counterstrike if necessary. We don't know who these guys are, or even what they want. They could be in league with Loki like Thanos, or ---."

"Or they could be something completely different," Falcon interjects, looking troubled. "We're at the disadvantage, I don't like it."

"We'll figure something out, we always do," Natasha assures him, wiping her hands.

"So, how did we take down the ship?" Hawkeye asks, his bow and arrows at his feet. Everyone is gathered at Stark tower, recovering from the recent battle. Everyone else is patched up, you just happened to be last because you're fussy and don't like attention. "Did anyone see what happened?"

You suddenly tense.

You don't want anyone to know what happened.

Your eyes flick to Barnes of their own accord, your face passive but eyes betraying your fear. You don't realize it, but Barnes reads you easily.

"I did." he says after a moment, all eyes turning to him. Your fingers clench nervously in your lap, your back rigid as you wait for him to spill. "It escaped the main ship, but the pod appeared to be damaged. It made it a little ways through the air before something inside malfunctioned, causing it to crash into the street where (Y/L/N) and I were."

You stare at him, an obviously surprised look on your face.

He didn't rat you out?

"Are you sure that's what happened?" the blonde Rogers asks him, standing across the room with shield still in hand. Did he knows Bucky was lying?

"Yes. That's what I saw," Barnes nods his head firmly, unwavering. He doesn't look at you, his poker face is much better then your own. Your shoulders relax slightly as everyone accepts the story, not thinking twice about it, you hope.

You lean back into your chair, gazing at Barnes for a few moments before looking back out over the city.

You hope you have a home to go to after all this.

~~~~~~~~

It's not as bad as you'd thought it would be. Your building is still standing, most of the street is. From the looks of it, though, you won't be opening any time soon. Your windows are all smashed out, whether from looting or just the resonance from earlier, you're unsure. Glass and wall fragments crunch beneath your boots as you hesitantly step inside, sighing at the wreckage.

Your tables and chairs are all turned over and busted, and you didn't even want to talk about your glass display cases, or lack there of. It looks like a few pastries made it where you had them stored in the back, but overall... your bakery is doomed.

How are you supposed to survive when you don't even have a business? You didn't spend eight years slaving away at someone else's bakery, learning all their tricks so you could one day have your own, only for it to end like this!

This sucks!

You walk over to the counter, sliding the back door open.

One apple pie, still in pristine condition thanks to its container. You lift it out of the box, setting it on the counter where your register should be. You stare at it a couple minutes, your heart sinking low in your chest.

Everything is ruined.

What are you supposed to do?

How can you build back from this?

Your eyes go to the door as you hear the bell above it ding, probably the one thing that had survived the explosion. Your brows rise as you see your visitor; at least he'd been nice enough to use the glass-paned door (although of course it held none now), instead of just stepping through the massive holes in the walls.

"What are you doing here?" you ask Barnes, seeing the hesitant look on his face. He glances around, taking in the wreckage of the bakery you'd been so angry over. He supposes it was a nice place a few hours ago.

"I... came to see if you needed anything," he says uncomfortably, not looking at you; he has a habit of that, of avoiding eye contact at all times, kind of like a whooped pup. You wish he would look at you, just once.

"Unless you can rebuild my bakery, I don't need anything from you," you say shortly. You figure he has some ulterior motive, he wouldn't come of his own free will. One of the others probably sent him for one reason or another.

You turn away from him, shuffling through the mess.

"It doesn't... need too much work." he says after a moment, stepping up to the counter. You have a random pie sitting out, the only thing that looks normal and untouched in the entire store. You're fumbling around through some of the debris, mutterng beneath your breath about damned aliens again.

You snort at his remark.

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to open again," you sigh, finally finding what you're looking for. You lift up the squished box, tugging it open. "It's ruined."

"It's not ruined, it just needs some work."

"Work? You mean the entire building needs to be dozed a new one built," you huff, lifting two forks out of the box. You don't want your pie to go to waste, yet you know you can't eat the whole thing by yourself.

And, well, since Barnes is around... you could offer him something, as a thank you.

"Here," your offer him a fork, seeing his brows furrow. You wave it impatiently in his face, wanting him to take it already. "You know what a fork is, don't you?"

"I --- yes."

"Good. Then help me eat this pie, it's the only thing in here that isn't ruined." You mumble, digging your own plastic fork into the crust. "It's apple, so I hope you aren't allergic."

"I'm not."

"Good." you sigh, leaning against the red counter as you lift a bite to your lips.

You want to ask Barnes why he didn't rat you out earlier, why he didn't tell everyone that you're the one who took down that spacecraft. Your stomach had twisted itself into knots wondering over it, but you're honestly too afraid to ask.

He has his own reasons, and you don't want to question them. You hope he doesn't intend on hanging it over your head later on, because you're very sure you'll turn his silver arm into a tuna can.

So, you let it go, instead choosing to eat in absolute silence. It's strange at first, but amiable. He doesn't turn down the pie, nor does he spit it out after the first bite, so you're assuming he likes it. He's just eating silently, his eyes on the counter, never wavering.

Why doesn't he look at you?

Or anyone?

What is he so afraid of?

You're afraid you're growing more and more curious about Bucky Barnes, much more then you should be. You're worried about the fact that maybe --- just maybe --- you're starting to like him in a way you shouldn't. He is attractive, even with the fact he could be a robot. You never denied yourself that, but you definitely don't know this man.

You try not to know anyone, actually.

But that's not the point.

Point is --- you kind of want to know him.

You want to know a little bit about him, he intrigues you. He's a warrior, a fighter, and he'd saved you earlier today when he didn't have too. He'd convinced you not to murder anyone, of which you know you'd have thought of for the rest of your life.

He is just.... peculiar.

The curious case of Bucky Barnes.

You take another bite of your pie, shamelessly looking over him.

It's starting to look like a case you'll want to solve.

[lillotte17]

General Lavellan AU for the Time Travel Baby Anon! Better late than never, right?? >_>

@feynites for Uthvir/Squish/Lavellan mentions

Aili is coming to the end of what has proven to be a very long and trying day.

She climbs up out of one of the discreet entrances to the sewers in the Lower City, covered in bruises and slime, and drenched in foul-smelling water. Weary, down to the very marrow of her bones. But at least this section of the tunnels has been cleared of demons, and the new wards that the General had wanted laid down have be successfully put into place.

There is some satisfaction to be found in that; a sense of pride that does not fade even when she is met with a cold gust wind hurling a flurry of snowflakes directly into her face.

She wraps her arms around herself and shivers, rubbing at her sleeves with a touch of magic in an effort to dry the thin material of her shirt a little. It doesn’t help much. Things will be better as soon as she can change into a fox, and have a nice layer of fur to keep her warm.

But that will have to wait until she gets up onto the rooftops.

She hastily ducks into a nearby alleyway, it’s very late, but she would rather not run the risk of someone seeing her if she can possibly help it. This is mainly a warehouse district, so anyone else wandering around at this time of night probably wants to avoid being seen as much as she does, but she would rather be safe than sorry. There are a lot of wards laid out around the buildings to protect precious goods, but she knows where the merchants tend to set them, and they aren’t likely to be an issue once she is up on the roofs anyway. But she does have to get there first.

A few blocks down from where she started, she knows of a storehouse for various imported pottery and fresh clay that has an awning low enough for her to pull herself up from the street. She is more than two thirds of the way towards her intended destination, picking her way carefully over a few large crates that have already been divested of their previous cargo, when she is blinded by a sudden flash of light. Startled, her fingers lose their purchase, and she finds herself falling backwards, her elbow smashing painfully into the smooth stone of the street. After a low hiss of pain and several muttered curse words, she shifts into a fox and tucks herself into the shadows, hoping that the burst of magic was someone else in the vicinity setting off an alarm, and not something she has managed to trip herself.

For a minute or so, there is nothing but silence and snowfall.

And then she hears it; a thin, high keening sound, muffled by one of the crates. She might mistake it for a stray cat, or some other small lost house pet, that had somehow succeeded in trapping itself beneath a stack of boxes, but there is a palpable aura of grief permeating the air. And a thick, cloying fear, intense enough that she could almost swear she could taste it in the back of her throat.  

Aili pads out of her hiding place on nimble paws, sniffing cautiously until she thinks she has located the box the noise is emanating from. There is a strange acrid smell lingering in the air, almost enough to scorch the inside of her delicate nose, but beneath that, there is a definite scent of…person.

Quickly and quietly as she can, she shifts back into the shape of an elf and begins to move the crates away from the one that seems to be occupied. Not as easy a task as she might have hoped, as it turns out. Although they are empty, the boxes themselves are large and sturdy, and not even the frequent exercise of lugging Uthvir out of danger has built up her upper body strength to the point where this is an easy task. And she was tired to begin with.

Still, she manages. Perhaps spurred on by adrenaline, or concern, or genuine empathy for the poor little creature trapped in the dark. She is fairly certain that there is really only one thing it could be, and it is doubtlessly going to cause her no small amount of trouble, but that doesn’t mean she has the heart to simply abandon it to its fate.

Sure enough, when Aili finally pulls the lid off the crate, she is met with a startled, hiccupping gasp, and a pair of wide green eyes. He is a bit hard to make out at first, a little smudge of olive skin and dark hair nestled in a pile of wood shavings. Long and lean, and without any sort of injury or defect that she can immediately discern; she wonders what in the world could have caused someone to abandon him out in the snow.

A baby, thrown away with the garbage.  

For a moment, they both simply regard one another, the little boy’s gaze boring into her with an intensity that she does not tend to associate with babies, black brows furrowing in an expression of obvious misgiving. She did not think a child so young would be capable of suspicion, but perhaps, given the circumstances, it is not so strange. He cannot have learned much of love or trust if his caretakers were callous enough to dump him in the warehouse district.  In the dark. And the cold.

A great swell of fury rises up in her. Surely, this was not his parents’ only option. There are plenty of elves who would have taken him in, even knowing the risks. He could have been left in the Upper City, were some high-ranking follower might have found him. He could have been left in a tavern somewhere, sheltered and warm. …They could have at least left him a blanket.

Unless…it was not their intention that he survive.

Aili shakes the thought away, as it is far too horrible to even imagine, before reaching into the crate to scoop the child up into the relative warmth and safety of her arms.

He makes a startled squawk at the sudden movement, visibly recoiling from her outstretched hands. The fear around him sharpens again, and she hastily pulls away. She frowns, puzzled. Uncertain if the child is afraid because she is a stranger, or if his treatment before now has been so terrible that he is actually petrified of being held.  

Very slowly, she reaches one arm into the crate, extending a single finger and tracing soft patterns along the skin of his arm. He flinches slightly, at first, but slowly seems to relax a little when it becomes apparent that she is not going to grab him again. Then he fixes her with the same penetrating gaze as before, though perhaps with a trace of pensiveness, now. She heaves a weary sigh.

“I know I don’t smell very good,” she whispers in what she hopes comes off as a soothing tone, “but coming with me has to be better than spending the night in an old shipping crate, hm?”

They sit together for a few minutes, the baby still contemplating her with an air of great solemnity as she hums to him in a low voice, slowly moving her touch until she is brushing fingers across his chest. Over the plump curve of his cheek. Into the dark sweep of his hair. He no longer seems dismayed by the contact, but he does not lose the tension in his limbs, and there is a lingering wisp of anxiety curling around him.

Sooner or later, she will have to take him, regardless of his protests. The snow does not accumulate in the streets, of course, but that doesn’t stop it from blanketing the discarded crates, or an abandoned child, or her, for that matter. There is not much call for weather regulation in this part of the city, as no one lives here, and the individual warehouses are kept at the appropriate temperature for whatever they might be storing. Already she can feel the stiffness settling into her clothing, the numbness in her bare toes and the tips of her ears. She can only imagine how cold it must be as a small naked child without even the aid of magic to keep him warm.

As if on cue, the baby shivers and glances around, as though just now noticing the state of the weather. His face scrunches in a look of consternation before letting out a deep breath and burbling something at her. The sound seems to take him by surprise, as he makes another soft squeal of dismay, glancing down at his limbs and flailing them a bit. Wriggling as if trying to get somewhere without much success.

“Are you cold, little one?” Aili wonders, “I admire your determination, but if you plan on getting anywhere, I think you’re going to need some help.”

She holds her hands out to him, in offering this time, waiting to see if he will shy away again.  

He blinks at her. Gurgles something reluctant, before twisting his face into a look of utter frustration. The behavior seems a bit strange for such a young baby, but there is something undeniably endearing about his apparent orneriness as well. He huffs at her, petulant, and Aili does her best not to giggle.

Finally, he extends his hands back towards her, making a grasping motion that is clear in its meaning: ‘Pick me up.’

Aili beams at him as she complies.  

He grumbles a bit when she takes a moment to snuggle him, but she finds that she cannot help herself. Sullen or not, he is still a baby, and an uncommonly adorable one at that, though she might be slightly biased in his favor. She plants a kiss on his brow, and he puts his little chubby hands over her mouth in an obvious objection.

She snorts in amusement, grinning down at him and kissing at his fingers instead. Which earns her even more disgruntled babbling as he hastily moves his hands away from her mouth. What a strange little thing.

She loosens the ties on her tunic enough to tuck him into it, though the fit is a bit snugger than she would like. She does not envy him the smell that must be pervasive in there, but he only makes another low burble of dissatisfaction before settling in and accepting his lot. At least he is a quiet baby, she hates to think what might have happened if one of the Peacekeepers had come upon her has she was making this little discovery.

The thought stills her, and she takes a moment to actually consider the situation she has now found herself in.

It’s the middle of the night, she can’t just waltz into one of the Great Leaders’ palaces and hand him off to the first person she sees and expect to go skipping home afterwards. Cruelty towards a child is a very serious offense. There will be an investigation. Questions. Where did she find him? What was she doing out there so late?

And they will know if she lies. And she will be…punished.

Aili is a low-ranking servant. A nobody. An easy scapegoat. Many high-ranking followers would be content with blaming the entire incident on her and calling it a day. It certainly isn’t like Ghilan’nain is going to get worked up over the loss of one person under her ‘protection’.

She cannot do it. Outside of the risk to her own life, she would be risking the carefully laid groundwork that the resistance has been setting down for decades. And it would put other people at risk as well. Her friends, the General, and Dorian, and Squish… Uthvir…

She shakes her head.

Well…wherever she ends up taking him, they can’t stay here. And it would probably be best for everyone if she changed into something that didn’t stink of the sewers. And the baby could probably do with something to eat and a nice warm bath after his ordeal.

Back to her living quarters it is, then.

It takes her nearly twice as long as it normally would to get back to her little room, since she was not about to risk jumping from rooftop to rooftop with a baby in tow. She also tried to stick to as many of the back alleys and less-traversed areas of the district as she could, in the hopes of avoiding anyone who might be out for a late-night stroll, or just getting up to cover the early morning shift of their duties. Which, unsurprisingly, slowed her down considerably. But it is worth it if no one saw her roaming around covered in muck with a very suspicious lump under her tunic.

She ducks into her parents’ rooms to quickly gather some provisions, relieved for once that they are both out attending to their duties. Her father tends to keep all manner of goods hoarded away, in order to look after whatever strange little beasts he can smuggle away from Ghilan’nain’s laboratories. The failures are either executed out of hand or picked apart in search of flaws, usually while still very much alive, and Adhamh has never been able to bear the sight of suffering. Most of his brood tend to be young, so there are plenty of things that could easily be converted into some essential supplies for infant care.  

The baby blinks up at his new surroundings curiously when she finally settles him down in a nest of blankets on her bed. There is not much to see in her cramped little quarters, but she and Uthvir had made a small decoration from discarded pieces of pretty glass and beads rescued from the incinerator in June’s tower that she keeps hanging near the window so it catches the light. She twirls it gently and the child’s eyes latch onto it in apparent fascination. She smiles down at him and heaves a sigh of mingled satisfaction and relief.

Safe.

For now, anyway.

Quick as she can, and with at least one eye trained on her little guest to make sure he does not roll off the bed or attempt to eat something not intended for consumption, Aili strips off her dirty clothes and does her level best to scrub herself free of the sewers with nothing but a wash basin and a simple bar of soap. It takes a bit of doing, as it always seems to, and her skin is pink from furious scouring by the time she is free of any unpleasant stench, but in the time she is clean and dressed in one of her night shirts, the baby seems to have grown bored with the makeshift mobile and started an inventory of all his limbs. He’s got one foot almost all the way up to his mouth and a look of befuddlement on his face, and she can’t help laughing at the sight.

“I think I can find something better for you to eat than toes,” she grins at him, daring to sneak a few fingers over and lightly tickle his belly before going to make up a bottle for him. Getting the proper formula for infants had not been an option, but there had been milk and bottles for nursing in her parents’ rooms. It is not ideal, but it will do well enough for a single night.

Aili sits down on the bed and pulls him back into her arms. He makes no fuss of it this time other than a look of mild concern, which she takes as a definite sign of progress. She shows him the bottle with a smile, sending a brief pulse of magic to her hand to warm it before offering it to him.

This is apparently the wrong thing to have done.

Fear bursts into the air around them as the babe makes a startled cry and begins a frantic bid to escape from her grasp. Aili finds herself at a complete loss, and it is all she can do to keep a hold on him so he does not end up toppling onto the floor. When it becomes apparent that getting away is not an option, the baby sags in her arms, dissolving into a hot mess of tears.

She moves him so that his head is resting on her shoulder, smoothing her hands down his back and murmuring words of comfort as he continues to wail into her shirt. He grabs a fistful of her hair, a great wave of grief rising up to mingle with his terror, and she does not know what else she can do to help him.

She starts singing.

The old lullabies her mother used to get her to sleep as a child. Silly songs about rabbits and cats and bumblebees. Soft songs about water and wind and ships sailing at night. Songs about trees and rain and sunlight. Songs about love.

Eventually he quiets, his sorrow mellowing to hiccups and the occasional sniffle. He looks tired when she cradles him in her lap again, pink-faced and yawning. She hesitantly lifts the bottle again, and he does not cry or flinch or push it away. He suckles at it as though on instinct, his eyes drooping slowly until he is finally claimed by sleep.

Aili stares down at his little face as he finally seems to relax, utterly at a loss.

He was not afraid of the bottle when she picked it up in her parents’ chambers, and he had not seemed remotely scared of it the second time she had offered it to him. What could have upset him? Had she moved too quickly? He does not seem to like sudden movements or a lot of touching, but while he had been wary of her holding him at first, it pales in comparison to the visceral reaction he had to a warm bottle of milk.

She pauses, considering.

Could it have been the spell she had used? Could it be that the people who had been looking after him had hurt him with magic as well as physical injury? Such a thing seemed too ghastly to even imagine, but…

But someone had left him alone in the snow. Left him to die.

Her heart aches, even as she feels a fresh wave of anger roiling in her gut. She can’t be sure if her theory is correct, and she would rather not test it and upset him again. He has already been through so much. Too much for someone so young.

She lays down on her bed, loosely curled around him, watching his face until she falls asleep.

~

She wakes a few hours later to the pale light of sunrise and the soft sounds of her little guest’s discomfort. She changes him and feeds him and sets up his nest of pillows and blankets again so she can put on fresh clothes. He lays there placidly enough, wide green eyes still peering around the room curiously.

On a whim, she turns and looks at the carvings she keeps on the top of her dresser. They are only made of scrap wood, but they are pretty enough in their way, and she is starting to build up quite the collection. Her father’s stag. Her mother’s barn owl. Her own pert eared little fox. The rough beginnings of a hawk, wings spread wide. And the oldest one; a crouching hare with long ears.

Aili palms the little creature, running her fingers over the smooth worn grain of the wood. She brings it over to show the baby, who reaches for it instantly. It is big enough that she doubts he could manage to choke on it, so she lets him take it, smiling down at him even as he regards the rabbit with a look of confusion.

“You remind me of someone I used to know, little man,” she tells him, running her fingers gently through the soft tuft of his dark hair, “He was always landing me in some sort of trouble, too.” The baby blinks up at her, the hare’s nose jammed half way into his mouth, and she sighs at him, lightly tugging it away. He can’t swallow it, but she probably shouldn’t let him try.

“What am I going to do with you?”

She…she cannot keep him herself. Not with her low standing and poor resources. This matter will undoubtedly be taken before the Evanuris themselves, who will squabble and bicker and pass him around to whichever of their followers seems the most suitable. Even if the term ‘most suitable’ really means ‘whoever is in favor right now’. Being good at political machinations is no indication of parental competency, not that being inept ever seems to stop some people from rising to prominence.

But what does she have to offer as a counterpoint? She is too young. Too lowly. Too unattached. The only people who really trust her judgement are her parents and the General’s ragtag group of miscreants.

The General. Now there is a thought. She will at least hear her out, and listen to her concerns about his dislike of touch and his sensitively to magic. She already has an adopted son of her own, after all. A foundling, just like her baby.

Aili swallows thickly, something unexpected and heavy lodging itself in her throat.

Her baby.

She shakes it away. Even the General could not convince Ghilan’nain to allow her to raise the child on her own. But Lavellan will look out for him, she can be certain of that. She will make sure that the parents who take him in are good, kind people. Uthvir and Squish and Haninan will keep an eye on him too, when they can. And maybe…maybe she will still be permitted to visit him every now and then.

She bundles him up in an absurd amount of blankets and tucks him into a deep basket. She lets him keep the hare, a token to remember her by. And then she takes a deep steadying breath, and heads out of her building in the direction of June’s tower.

It takes her the better part of the morning to get there. There is not anything overtly suspicious about a servant toting around a large basket, but she would prefer to avoid scrutiny just the same. Her cargo is mercifully quiet, and the few times she ducks into an alcove to check on him, he never seems to have managed anything worse than drooling on his toy rabbit.

She comes in through one of the servants’ entrances that Uthvir showed her. It can be a bit tricky to find her way through June’s ridiculous puzzle house, but she can usually find the meeting room the General favors, as well as Uthvir and Desire’s private rooms. She wishes she would run into one of her friends though. It feels like her heart is liable to beat its way straight out of her chest.

She comes to a junction of passageways and pauses. Weighing her options. Determining likely outcomes. She tucks herself into a little dark nook behind a statue and pulls the blankets away from her baby’s face. He looks up at her owlishly, glancing around at the strange new place she has brought him to, uncertainty permeating the air around him.

He reaches out and takes hold of her finger.

Resolution solidifies in her chest.

~

Uthvir answers the door when she knocks, looking half asleep and wholly surprised. She can’t exactly blame them, as this is neither the hour nor the place they would usually meet each other. She bustles her way into their room without so much as a greeting, too caught up in the flurry of her own feelings and choices.

This is utter madness.

They look like they are about to make some sort of joke about the state of her arrival, but something about her expression must still their tongue. They do quirk a brow at her, though. Expectant.

She holds the basket out to them, tears welling in her eyes.

“Please, help me.”

[patrickdkim]

Blog Post #4

Patrick Kim

Professor Rosetta Brooks

Critical Practice

February 6, 2017

The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street

In the article Monster Culture (Seven Theses) by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, the idea that a “monster” originates based on a difference in race, gender, sexuality, and religion amongst individuals of society is heavily argued and discussed through seven different theses. A monster, as explained by Cohen, may differ from culture to culture depending on the current time and social era. However, by the end of his article, it is apparent that Cohen is truly trying to express the truth that every individual has a little bit of monstrous characteristics within themselves.

In his first thesis, Cohen explains how a monster is created as a representation for a specific movement or prejudice occurring in a certain time period. Individuals channel their fear and anxiety towards another who appears different from themselves into a representation or a “projection” of a creature. Cohen then goes on to state in his second thesis that monsters take on various forms in different cultures because the views of the creators of one culture may differ from another, such as vampires. The original idea of a vampire has transformed greatly over the decades. In the past, vampires were depicted as pale, grotesque demons that possessed human characteristics and wore capes and dark, unusual clothing, such as Count Orlok from Nosferatu. Now, in pop culture, vampires are depicted as sensual and enticing bloodsuckers that never age and wear common, human clothing, such as how they are represented in Julie Plec’s The Vampire Diaries and Stephanie Meyer’s “Twilight” series. Though a monster may perish in forgotten or finished tales from the past, the physical idea of that monster still continues to thrive and reinvent itself into something new because it constantly recurs in other culture’s fables.

Thesis III states that monsters tend to run away from the scene in fear of being compared to humans, which can be seen in situations today. When the bias opinions of Society begin to classify what is considered the norm, others who are deemed as “freaks”, “outsiders”, and “aliens” due to the certain qualities or characteristics they posses, tend to shy away from the public in fear of being picked on. This intolerance ties into Cohen’s fourth thesis in which people of color and different sexual orientations are feared by Society due to myths that arise about them. As stated by Cohen, Ethiopians were feared in the past due to a misconception that their dark skin tones somehow “associated with the fires of Hell” (10). Though dark skin is not associated with Hell anymore, I believe that racial injustice towards black people still occurs because there is a bias belief amongst some individuals that if one’s skin tone is extremely dark then he or she is somehow scarier and more menacing.

In his fifth and sixth theses, Cohen also warns that whenever a “monster” leaves his or her home area, he or she is at risk of getting attacked by others who are not used to seeing another that is different. A monster is feared, but it “also attracts” (16), which is why humans tend to alter their own appearances to resemble and steal the qualities of certain “monsters” and use it as their own, such as how some white people try to plump their lips, tan their skin, and curl their hair in order to make their features look more like black people, even though those same white people most likely made fun of black people in the past for their natural and beautiful features.

In his final thesis, it is evident that Cohen is trying to express that humans are the creators of monsters. We have the tendency to form grotesque ideas and myths about others and make them out to be abnormal due to our fear towards something that is different than what is deemed “normal” in our high, societal standards. I believe that “monsters” are one in the same with humans because we learn from each other and act based on what we are influenced or taught by. We fear one another based on differences we can't seem to accept. A line, which may be found in his fourth thesis, that struck me the most throughout the article was that “the East becomes feminized (Said) and the soul of Africa grows dark (Gates)” (11) because it visualizes that as time progresses, equality seems to slowly digress as well. Equality will never be reached for women, people of color, people of different religions, and people of different sexualities, and there will always be prejudice. Though it may not seem like it, all humans are “monsters”, and we will continue to judge and be judged for our actions and for being ourselves.