could you draw a Chibi Crowley and Chibi Aziraphale?

Idk if this ask is from my latest art post, but I did a quick doordle of them in chibi form alongside this biting one. Hope you like it! [⁠ᓀ⁠˵⁠▾⁠˵⁠ᓂ⁠]👍

A Half-Demon’s Kiss

A/N: Hello everyone, welcome to my latest love in the HP fandom, the HPHL OC community, specifically, the relationship between Reuben Willows and Leila Hellebore that I and @whatwouldvalerydo have discussed. So here it is, I hope you all enjoy!

Word count: 1442

MC friends: Leila Hellebore (@whatwouldvalerydo)

Daniel Gibson (@catohphm) (mentioned)

Siobhan Llwelyn (@kc-needs-coffee) (mentioned)

Marigold Sterling (mine) (mentioned).

Fifth year, September

There was a mild chill in the air on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, hardly a cloud in the sky as the sun shone brightly. Many fifth year students would be dreading the times to come for their O.W.L exams. However, one student sitting along the shore of the Black Lake held no such concerns for the moment. No, Leila Hellebore was on her own personal mission.

Teenage rebellion.

Growing up, she and her sister had been subject to their mother’s teachings. For Leila, she had been taught blood magic, that humans would not understand her demonic heritage, and that the only suitable partner was a full-blooded demon, lest her goals be out of her reach. 

Yet, she had come to realise her mother’s teachings were not entirely true. Over her time at Hogwarts, she made many friends amongst the humans here.

Firstly, there was Marigold Sterling, a fellow Slytherin who she had formed a bond with through their shared love of music. Her cello matching Leila’s piano in perfect harmony.

Secondly, Daniel or ‘Danny’ Gibson as he liked to be known. It was only the occasional good morning or hello from him at first but he had always been friendly towards her despite her aloofness. At last, she reciprocated his greetings and was now a trusted friend.

Thirdly, Siobhan Llwelyn, an enabler of her rebellious side. Oh the two had tried to keep to the lady-like roles they were assigned by society but the whole thing was so ridiculous both would now burst into fits of laughter at the very thought.

Lastly, there was Reuben Willows...

Oh Reuben, though he played the position of beater in the Quidditch matches they faced off against one another in, he was such a gentle giant. He had always goaded her in a friendly manner during Quidditch being on opposite teams, her much smaller height of four-foot-nine compared to his still-growing frame amusing him greatly. She had returned the banter gleefully and he became a friend.

He had been the first she had trusted with the secret of her half-demon nature in her third year. At the same time, had laid bare her feelings of fear on not being able to have a normal life. While surprised, in stark contrast to her mother’s belief, he had not judged her for it. If anything, showing such vulnerability had brought the two closer.

Then, he had confessed to having feelings for her in fourth year. On this very lakeshore no less...

She had panicked, pushed him away, yelled at him in an effort to convince him that she wasn’t good for him. That she was bad, tainted and how could a human like him find feelings for someone like her? She still felt a pang of guilt when she remembered the hurt in his expression that day. Regardless, he had respected her wishes and left her alone.

They had spent a couple of months not speaking to each other, maybe the occasional nod of acknowledgement but no words. The guilt and grief had eaten her up inside, she had missed their banter, missed their friendship, missed... him. 

At last, she had approached him, wanting to talk in private. Apologising for what she had said, and just wishing to going back to being friends. He had tearfully, but gratefully accepted her apology, both had cried with relief in the other’s arms from the months of not interacting finally being ended.

Everything had begun looking up.. until she had received word from her mother, she was looking for a worthy suitor for her. Without Leila’s input of course. Though, it wasn’t just that, her mother attempting to micromanage her life, “Show her the right path.” as she had put it. That involved severing ties with her friends and Leila would not allow that to happen, they were far too important for her to lose.

But Reuben was a slightly different case, the summer had given her plenty of time to mull over his confession. The more she thought about it, the more she realised she had developed feelings for her Quidditch rival as well. There was no denying he was handsome and strong, in more ways than one from what he had told her about his troubled home life.

But she admired his loyalty to his loved ones, his enthusiasm when he taught her about dragons, how he pushed her to be her best and so much more. She wanted to be with him, the fact that it would spit in the face of her family’s ideals was only an added bonus. She hoped he would still feel the same way...

Her enhanced hearing picked up footsteps on the sand a ways off behind her, breaking her from her thoughts. She turned to the source, unable to help her face curling into a smile that revealed her fangs. That got the expected reaction out of the Ravenclaw, smiling at her warmly a feeling of joy spreading through her. Though he looked confused, at the fact that she was sitting down on a chequered blanket with a picnic hamper at her side.

“Lei, what’s all this?” He asked, his brow furrowing. Wordlessly, Leila got up, taking his hands in in her own as her green eyes darted between his face and feet. She tugged lightly, attempting to get him to come with her, he didn’t budge.

“What are you playing at Lei?” He questioned, his tone still steady and calm but clearly trying to wrap his head around his friend’s odd behaviour.

“Come and sit.” She responded vaguely, pulling just a bit harder. In response Reuben pulled his hands from her grip.

“No.” He said succinctly, crossing his arms to stop his hands being taken again.

“Please.” She said, hoping that would get him. Though seeing how obstinate he was being was admittedly starting to grate on her nerves.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” He retorted, Leila grumbled at that. She couldn’t exactly come out and say she wanted to kiss the fool now could she?

“Reuben,” She spoke firmly, “If you don’t sit down with me, I’m going to jump you and still have my way.” Her serious tone left no room for argument.

Reuben took just the slightest step closer, towering over her, “Try it.” He challenged. Unfortunately, Reuben had forgotten one crucial detail until it was too late.

Leila’s half-demon strength meant she could easily match him in raw power despite what her slim, petite appearance would suggest. He was knocked over flat on his back in his lack of preparation to brace as Leila lunged for him. He landed without injury, his fall cushioned by the soft sand, but now pinned beneath Leila. Her arms were locked straight, keeping his shoulders down as she straddled his waist. She lowered herself down towards him, causing her grey blonde hair to fall and brush lightly against his cheeks.

He couldn’t deny, the feeling excited him, his heart beginning to race as his steely grey eyes stared into the captivating forest green of Leila’s. Ones that he wanted to get lost in forever. Feelings that he’d sought to bury for the sake of preserving their friendship came roaring back to the surface as he felt his face flush red.

Leila smirked at his flustered but hypnotised reaction, lowering herself down even further, turning her head to kiss him. Reuben didn’t resist as her lips captured his own, in response, his began to to move in tandem with hers. His previously tense muscles relaxing as Leila’s hands moved from his shoulders to the back of his neck, pulling herself closer to him. His arms now free, Reuben placed his hands on her waist but dared not explore for fear of pushing things too far.

At last, they needed the air, Leila breaking their kiss. A gleeful smile making its way across her features, Reuben smiling warmly at the sight of her fangs.

“Are you willing to listen to me now? I really owe you an explanation, about this and... last year.” She stated, her face still inches from his and longing to kiss him again but knew it would have to wait for the moment.

Reuben nodded, “Yeah, I’ll listen.” Leila finally stood back up again, offering her hand to him. Clasping it tightly, she lifted him up effortlessly and without another word for the moment, Reuben let Leila lead him over to the picnic.

If this was why she had called him out here, they truly had a lot to discuss and Reuben was eager to hear every word.

Flight or Fall

Summary: How do the fears of captivity, the intrigue of new discoveries, and the wonders of attraction meld for a man of science and a lounge singer with a secret?

Pairing: Ray Stantz x Reader // Word Count: 1.9 k // Warnings: None!

A/N: This was challenging to write, but I think it came out rather nice! Please do not hesitate to tell me if it can be improved, though! Also I switched it from being a standalone werewolf!s/o to something a little different, but very cool!

They were celebrating the de-ghosting of the bar and lounge next door and gratitude poured from the establishment they were currently in. The restaurant, some high-end place in the Upper East Side, was affected by the rowdy male spirit knocking things over in his constantly drunken state every once in a while. So, they decided to have a bit of a soirée in celebration of the men who rid them of their little pest when all was said and done.

One particular young woman in the building was rather disappointed to hear that Harry had been captured, not that he would ever know. She didn’t like the fact he would come stumbling through her closed dressing room door when she was in the middle of getting ready, but he was still one of the more pleasant ghosts she’d met in her lifetime.

Peeking through the curtains backstage, the singer scanned the crowd. She knew who she was performing for tonight, and why. From the looks of it, they’d have a very good view of her from their seats. One of them in particular would be nearly right in front of her. She thought it best to give them the worthiest show possible from someone of her heritage. Without being too revealing, of course. She would have some semblance of amusement in fooling the four men.

You know, he was supposed to be an honored guest there. Maybe one of several, but nonetheless someone of some semblance of importance. But the moment she stepped into the light he found that that could never be more untrue. She owned not only the stage, but the whole room. Her figure clad in a treacherously entrancing mauve gown, her hair in graceful spirals. He felt stunned in an odd sort of way. When her lips parted, and the band was struck, he felt an energy surge through his chest. She was beautiful.

But something was off.

It took a few moments, several in fact, but it slowly wormed into his senses. The seemingly yellow flecks in her eyes were the first sign. The next thing that caught his eye was her manicure. No, not the chic shade of champagne that glossed over her fingertips. They were long almonds; filed-down claws. Not even the seductive shade of red painting her lips could hide the wicked smile, with canines that were just a little too sharp to be normal.

His heart thudded in his chest.

She could smell him from all this way away. She had to stop herself from smirking.

Givenchy “Gentleman”, some sort of aftershave, and the sweet, delicate scent of cigarettes. She could tell that he knew, she could see it in his eyes. She didn’t know exactly what gave it up, she’d only been up there for fifteen minutes at most. Was he really that observant? She’d have to ask if he ever spoke with her. Perhaps she didn’t give people enough credit. But for now, all she knew was the city’s captors of any and all spiritual creatures were in the same room as her, and all but one were none the wiser.

She was pretty good at this whole “passing for human” thing, she thought.

It struck her then, in the middle of a jazzy tune, if he knew… what did that mean for her? Would he tell the others? Would they take her? What interest would he hold in her? Fear alone? Fear and disgust? Hatred? Or would it become mixed with a fatal attraction? She secretly hoped the latter.

He was handsome, she couldn’t deny that even if she tried. When she first spotted the group from backstage he was particularly vulnerable in that he didn’t know anyone was looking. People tend to be more authentic in those moments. But she found herself unable to stop staring. Effortlessly unkept brown locks framed a gentle face, with eyes that shone and a smile that could’ve dazzled even the most charming of Hollywood sweethearts.

She sped the repertoire up a little, choosing to opt out of her usual spiels she added between songs describing the way she felt about each piece. She liked setting the mood but getting off the stage was just about mandatory. However, she wasn’t exactly sure why. There was a thrill in her veins. She couldn’t decipher if it was a thrill he brought, or the slightly less endearing thrill of being chased. She wanted to figure out which of the two she held inside her.

Each minute that ticked by felt like two. An hour and a half felt so, so much like three. But “Witchcraft” had come. Her last song of the night. The coincidence and irony were not lost on her. She planned on using it to her advantage. When she sang, or spoke more like, the words, “Proceed with what you’re leading me to,” her eyes drew his to them. The flutter of her lashes in his exact direction were obvious and it was nearly like she was asking him to come after her.

No, she was asking him. Daring him. To pursue her in whatever way he wanted.

His friends seemed to think it was flirtation alone, giving him side glances and friendly jests. She smiled to herself, and the song closed. She wished the crowd a good night, personally thanked the Ghostbusters for their, “Service to the state of New York and to our very grateful establishment,” then disappeared backstage once again without so much as a backward glance.

Unbeknownst to her, he’d fled from his seat moments after, citing a smoke break as his excuse. She knew he would be coming. But why was a completely different story. So, she simply sat in her dressing room, gown and all, at her vanity and waited. She brushed the thin mist of hairspray from her curls, making them puff up and volumize. It looked a bit like a lion’s mane, but if she needed to be threatening in any way when he came, she was comfortable with looking a bit feral.

The knocks came nearly the very moment she set her brush down. “Come in,” her voice offered, golden as honey. He stepped in, a look of intrigue plain on his face, and closed the door immediately. He was just as good-looking, if not more so, when you got closer. “How can I help you, Mr.-,” she trailed off, an offer for him to fill in her blank. “Stantz. Ray Stantz.” She looked at his reflection in her mirror, a cunning smile on her lips, “Stantz. How may I be of assist-.”

“What are you?”

Her brow quirked as he cut her sentence short. “I’m a lounge singer at a five-star New York restaurant,” she replied, crossing one leg over the other, “Is that what you’re looking for?” He stepped towards her and grabbed the back of her chair, spinning her to face him. He smiled at her in a way that made her feel slightly more at ease, “You know it’s not.” She frowned. “You know, Mr. Stantz, it’s very rude to ask such personal questions from a lady without even having asked so much as her name.”

He sighed exasperatingly. “What’s your name?” “Y/N. L/N. Thanks for asking,” she said. Each word was dictated with the slightest bit of irritation in it. “I know you’re not human, Y/N,” he hummed, eyes darting over her features as though he was examining each one individually. “But what are you, exactly?”

She gazed at him through her lashes and gave him a view of her tongue running over the point of one of her canines. Though she didn’t give him a hint of flirtation. This was a sign to proceed with caution. “I think you know the answer to that already, Mr. Stantz.” He peered at her, trying to figure out what her game was. If she was what he thought, she had the strength to overpower him in an instant and run off even faster.

“I want a confirmation, humor me.”

She rolled her eyes, “You humans. So melodramatic. An inkling is never enough.” Pushing him backwards with her palm, she stood to back him against the door behind him. “Especially humans like you. Always searching for some solution to your curiosity.”

He didn’t look bewildered in the slightest. It was disappointing. “I can sing because my dad was a siren,” she murmured, smiling when the pulse beneath her fingers picked up as his back hit the wall. She knew it wasn’t because he was afraid, though. “Mom was a werewolf. They met on her vacation in Greece when she was 19. She liked him so much she stayed for three more years.” She missed her father.

“They found out about him in the village.” She paused, her nails only lightly trailing down his blue suit jacket. But a fire began brewing inside her as she remembered just why she’d ended up in New York in the first place. “They killed him. My mom gave birth to me and left me by the sea for the Sirens to take care of. Couldn’t deal with raising a kid without a dad, I guess.”

All she could think was, if he wanted her story so badly, he’d sit through the whole thing. “Neither the Sirens nor the wolves of Europe wanted to take me in, on account of an impure bloodline,” she shook her head, “Elitists, all of them. Worse than vampires about it.” When she looked up at him again, he could see the flames brewing deep within her, “If you’re looking for an easy target to study, I’m not it.”

He stared down at the creature before him, fascinated. Despite it all, he chuckled when her anger intensified. Her blood boiled at that and she scowled at him. It was a look that could send even the toughest of men running for the hills. But he’d seen too much in his lifetime to be truly afraid in the face of such a beautiful woman. He gathered her hands in his, then pulled them off his chest. “Look, Y/N, I don’t know what kind of people you’ve encountered, but I’m not here to persecute you for being born the way you were.”

She scoffed, turning away from him to return to her seat and face her mirror once more, “Well, then what is it that you’re looking for?” He walked to the other side of her chair, leaning against the wall and offering the most reassuring smile he can. “I’d settle for getting to know more about you.” Her heart skipped a little, and she hesitated. “I think I’d like that.”

This was the outcome she could never have predicted. Not such a powerful swing from one emotion to the next. Neither an intense fight for her life, nor an instantly passionate romance. She’d never met a man as rational and understanding in the face of something so strange as him. He seemed interested in her in a way she didn’t understand. But she wasn’t about to complain about that.

She didn’t know where this would go, or where it would take them. Being honest, the possibility of becoming close with a human was a bit nerve-wracking to her. But just as swiftly as she had leapt into meeting him was as fast as she was taking this new path.

And, for the first time tonight, she wasn’t just thrilled in the best way, she was hopeful.

Constellation

Title: Constellation

Pairing: Stucky x reader

Rating: All audiences

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: ...angst? You know me. Can’t resist the pain.

This is written for @the-canary‘s 1k Constellation Challenge. My pick was Cygnus and, well, this is what became of it. Tag list at the end, although I have mostly just included those on my EVERYTHING-list since I wasn’t sure if everyone on my Seb- and Bucky-lists were into Stucky x reader.

Here Phaethon lies who in the sun-god's chariot fared. And though greatly he failed, more greatly he dared.

He can feel the drag of wind, the bite of the cold as clear as when it happened, the thundering of the train that had died away into deafening silence when he started feeling his grip slip. Bucky doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t feel weightless, doesn’t want to hear Steve’s voice shrink away from him, doesn’t want to-

The scream dies on his tongue, both of his hands coming up to clasp firmly over his mouth when he bolts upright in bed, the sheets falling from his sweat-covered body. Bucky’s heart thunders in his chest, the bed he’s in suddenly feeling too small, and he struggles to stumble out of it. The moon filters through the dirty windows, create little beams where he can see dust mites dance.

He’s here. It’s okay.

Here is a shitty safehouse out in the boondocks, too far from comfort.

Here is a bed that barely fits them all, because no one would allow any of the other to take the couch that looks like the seventies puked all over it.

Here is quiet, no distractions and Bucky feels his skin itch.

Behind him, someone, he thinks it’s you, turns over and exhales. Grabbing his tac pants, he pads out into the cramped living room, past the crunchy couch and to the door leading out onto the bare porch. He’d prefer to have sweats, something soft and comfy, not the roughness of the tac outfit, the stains on them dark against the dim moonlight. It’ll have to do, he supposes, running a hand through his hair and cursing when he belatedly realizes it’s his left and tresses snag on the platings. It’s been seventy years, this should not be a problem anymore.

If anything, it takes his mind off the horrors that had been playing like a feature film. It gives him purpose. It distracts him in a way that is. Pleasant. It’s closing his eyes to gently untangle his hair from his bionic hand, breathing long and calm and feeling the cool night air caressing him and drying the cold sweat and making shivers travel down his spine.

His patience, sadly, runs out twenty minutes later, yanking out the final strands that refuse to untwist not matter how he tries to fiddle and make the plates shift ever so carefully. Free of his hair, he turns his hands over, looking at the plates shifting again and again, the ripped strands dancing with each movement.

“Buck?”

You’re standing behind the screen door, arms crossed over your chest against the cold, blinking sleepily. It takes only seconds for you to read him, to push the creaking door open and swallow back the chills. He wants to tell you to go back inside, to crawl back into bed. The night is dark and cold, you’ll catch your death-

“Bucky, are you okay?”

He can only nod, wishing like a fool that you’ll accept it, press a kiss to his head and go back inside to Steve. He’ll keep you warm. Bucky has few memories left of warmth. He is ice and his moniker, stuck in winter’s merciless grip. He should have been more careful, should have kept moving. Bucharest made him lose his touch.

“I can see you thinking.” Your voice is gentle, a breath against his shoulder when you sit down and lean up against him. “And you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but please… come inside. It’s cold out here.”

It’s not funny, but he can’t help the little huff of laughter that spills across his lips. What’s one more icy embrace? Sometimes, you and Steve let him be, allow him the solitude he needs to work through the slumps that sometimes catches him off guard. It’s a strange relationship, interconnected circles, like planets in orbit that only align every so often. You each need space from time to time, need the space to walk alone, but you all relish the intimacy, the safety and love that floods at points of contact. Bucky still feels like he is drifting more than you and Steve, that he his about to break away and it scares him. He doesn’t want to lose Steve again, doesn’t want to let go of what the three of you have built.

“I was falling,” he begins, voice rough and deep. “I-I haven’t- I couldn’t look away. I could feel my grip- Steve’s face, he was- I wake up every time and my ears buzz and my face hurts. From the wind.”

The plates in his hands click with the stretch of his fingers, arcing through them to form a fist, “I can still feel the iron bar I held on to. Of all the goddamn things that didn’t- didn’t get lost, this had to be one of ‘em.”

You stay quiet next to him, letting your warmth seep into him. He feels unworthy of it.

“I don’t…” Bucky hesitates, weighing the words, wets his lips. “I think I wished it would be quick. That it would be over quick and that Steve… could go home. That whatever happened after better end with him getting home.”

“He did,” you affirm, kissing his now warm shoulder. “You both did. Took a while, but you did.”

“Not all of me. My arm's somewhere in the fuckin’ alps and parts of… of me are just… erased. Wasn’t exactly what I’d planned for my life.”

“So what did you have planned?”

Bucky lets out a long breath. “Can’t remember. But it sure as hell wasn’t that. Stevie and I, we could never have lived- We couldn’t’ve grown old together like we’d wanted to if we’d both gotten home. I’d’ve told him to marry Carter. I’d’ve lied through my teeth and coached him through a proposal and I’d’ve smiled until it hurt at their wedding and made a toast and waxed poetic about a love more epic than anythin’ we’d read about the Greek myths and I’d’ve lived on the fact that he was happy until they put me in the ground and no one were the wiser.”

The words tumble from him, pours out of a heart and soul so long forced into dormancy. They hurt in their own way because it’s a life he was denied, even if it would have been a special kind of pain to live through life knowing he’d never be able to have then what he has now. It makes a realization surge through him, crystalline and sharp, that he doesn’t want to lose it now, and panic follows, asking how he thinks he can stop it from happening.

“Greek myths, huh?” you muse, scooting a little forward to be able to look up at the heavens.

It’s a house in the middle of nowhere, and the skies are dotted with stars, far more visible than anything he’d hope to see in New York. At his nod, your eyes search for a moment, flitting back and forth, your index finger absentmindedly tracing shapes and following a path only you know.

“There.” You point, and Bucky’s not sure what cluster of stars to fixate on. “Can you see Cassiopeia, sitting on her throne?”

He strains his eyes, searches the sky, his memory. A queen on her throne, shaped…

“The W.”

“Mmhmm… Next to her is Cepheus, arms spread wide and praying for his daughter’s life. And underneath him, can you see it?”

Bucky cocks his head, following the outline of the ancient king. “The cross?”

“Some call it the Northern Cross. Others call it Cygnus,” you tell him, lowering your hand but keeping your gaze on the formation.

“The swan.”

“Phaeton was the son of the sun god Helios. His friends would mock him, denying his heritage, so he went to his father, asking for a chance to prove that he was a son of Helios.” Your voice sounds dreamy, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. “So Helios finally allowed his son to ride his father’s chariot for a day. But Phaeton wasn’t strong enough to tame the horses pulling the chariot, and in order to save humanity, Zeus struck it down with a lightning bolt. Phaeton fell into the river below. His lover, Cycnus, grieved him and spent days searching for his bones so he could give his love a proper burial. Finally, the gods took pity on him, turning him into a swan and lifting him to the heavens.”

Your voice trails off, settling into a silence that is meant to give Bucky time. Time is treacherous. Time creates space for thought and doubt.

“Who am I supposed to be in this story?” he asks, looking at you under his lashes.

You turn to him with a flourish, an unreadable expression on your face like you know something he doesn’t.

“Does it matter?”

“Shouldn’t it? Isn’t that why you’re telling me this? So I can… see myself in Phaeton?”

“Do you?”

Steve’s voice makes you both jump, and you nearly end up in Bucky’s lap. He’s standing where you stood only a little while ago, leaning up against the door jamb with his arms crossed over his chest. It makes Bucky flounder, arguments and counterarguments forming and failing faster than he can speak.

“See, I don’t. Phaeton had something to prove. Running headfirst into something that is too big for him,” Steve continues with an easy smile, slipping through the door, joining you on the porch.

“But he fell.” Bucky’s voice is failing, he swallows around his memories of the dream, grips at the analogies.

Sadness colours Steve’s features, his head falling down to his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. And so did I. We’re not a perfect simile. You're Phaeton and Cycnus as much as I am Phaeton and Cycnus.”

He pulls Bucky in for a kiss, resting their foreheads together while you stay still between them. “I didn't search for you, Buck. I didn't search and it haunts me to this day. I should have.”

“I don't blame you,” Bucky soothes him, feeling his stomach twist at the thought of Steve carrying this around for all these years. “Never did. Never will.”

“So maybe both of you get saved in the end? Both of you lifted to the heavens?” you murmur, arms snaking up around their necks.

“Only because you pulled us up there.”

You give Steve a playful shove, shivering as a gust of cool air finds its way past the two supersoldiers’ bodies. “Martyrs, the pair of you. Can we please go back to bed now? Relief team isn't picking us up until 0900 and I'm not gonna catch a cold.”

With a snicker, Steve gets up. He's still warm, the serum surging through his veins. Ambrosia from the gods, Bucky thinks. You follow, drifting to Steve's side, but halts when you don't hear Bucky's steps following.

“Bucky? Please… come to bed.”

“I will,” he promises, a small smile to reassure them as much as himself. “Just… in a minute. Promise.”

You look like you want to say something, your lips pursing just a touch. Bucky has seen it before, knows it as a precursor to your final attempt at swaying him. It's so endearing, so sweet and his heart aches for it. Steve pulls at your arm, sensing Bucky a smile that speaks of trust. It echoes in his heart, the image of a smaller Steve, of Sunday mornings and gentle touches that would never belong to anyone else.

He's left alone, no cajoling, just an exhale and the sound of the screendoor and the click of the one behind it. Turning his gaze back to the sky, he finds the swan again, imagines its form fleshed out. Wide wings stretched out in flight, long neck held high. He thinks about the story again, plays it over and over, and though Phaeton is dark and brooding, a mirror image of a golden-haired Cycnus at the start, the men morph into some indistinguishable combination. A slight boy with brown hair and too much to prove. A young man with one arm and a shield on his back scouring the river. Gentle arms cradling his despair, wrapping it in down and giving it wings.

Maybe you and Steve are right. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it's not a perfect simile. But it's enough to make him want to hold on. A gust of wind sweeps in, finally penetrating his defenses and making him shiver. His left shoulder aches dully, and he rolls it, massages the scar tissue when he gets up. Quietly, he pads back in, sheds his tac pants, stands bathing in the dimmed light of the bedroom windows. There is a place for him, a space to fit into, right between you and Steve. Bucky is careful when he crawls in between you, trying to jostle you as little as possible. Arms wrap around him, a nose is pressed between his shoulder blades. He lets out a breath, allows his himself to relax, to accept, to take his place in his own little constellation.

@loup-malin, @brookebarnes, @erisjadeficandficrecblog, @hispeculiartreasure, @bakexprayxlove, @whatisaheroanyway, @callamint, @mrshopkirk, @bitsandbobsandstuff, @hellomissmabel, @jurassicbarnes, @sgtbxckybxrnes, @ceebeetumbles, @thetalesofmooseandsquirrel, @lenia1d, @sebastiansexyseabasstan, @basicallyericharris, @thatgirlsar, @allofthishullabaloo, @amrita31199, @netflixa, @rockintensse, @marvelrevival, @writemarvelousthings, @gallifreyansass, @valhalla-ally, @shy2shot, @engineeringgirlcve, @hellstempermentalangel, @whyisbuckyso, @melconnor2007, @snuggleducky, @impalaimages, @superwholocknda, @shifutheshihtzu, @hennessy0274-blog, @kanupps06, @delicatecapnerd, @beccaanne814, @palaiasaurus64, @thisismysecrethappyplace

@feelmyroarrrr, @legendsaresooftenwarnings, @theglycopeptide, @yourpotatotwiceremooved, @j5kiger, @blazey24, @iwillmakeyoucraveme, @emnebula18, @cupcakeangelness

Confrontation

Hello, not sure if this is fitting here, since Lotor is only indirectly mentioned, but yeah.. if it doesn’t fit for fandomday or is otherwise against the rules, then you are welcome to delete my submission.

Summary: Monika is a human girl who had been with Lotor ever since he rescued her from being experimented on after her abduction from Earth by another alien race. Since then, she has deeply fallen in love with Lotor, but notices his growing feelings for Allura. But she feels that something is amiss, and so she goes to confront the Princess about it.

—————-

Monika stands there angrily, as she waits for Allura to walk by after the talked with Lotor. Allura has a little smile on her face, while Monika just huffs. “What do you think you’re doing?”, she asks the Altean Princess, who is taken in by surprise, as she didn’t think anyone would be in the hallway. The meeting with the other Paladins was supposed to be later, but the angry expression on her face made it clear to Allura that Monika was not happy about something. “What do you mean?”, the princess asks in confusion, but this didn’t deter the other woman. “Don’t pretend to be so damn innocent!”, she whispered in a low growl, “you know exactly what I mean.” Allura shook her head. “No, I cannot read minds, so..” “It’s about Lotor”, Monika interrupted her, “and I can clearly see what you are doing to him.”

“Lotor?”, Allura asked in confusion, “what about him?” The brunette human stepped closer to the Altean princess, her hateful gaze turning almost frightening. What was going on? What was it that made Monika feel so aggressive? The woman stopped right in front of Allura, as she whispered darkly: “I know there is something going on between you two. Lance and Hunk may be too dense to see that they cockblocked your almost-kiss recently when they walked in on you two, but you cannot fool me.” Oh shit. Sudden realization hit Allura and she could feel heat on her cheeks warming her as she recognized that this was about the budding romance between her and Lotor. And it seemed clear that Monika did not approve of it in the slightest.

Was the human jealous? But even if so, she had no right to interfere with the growing feelings that she seemed to harbor for Prince Lotor the more time she spent with him. Monika was right in that they had indeed almost kissed before the Paladins walked in on them. Allura tried to defend herself by saying “So what if we have grown to have feelings for each other? It’s not like you can change anything about it!” “ahh, so you don’t deny it any more”, Monika whispered, and then her expression grew sad. “It’s true that I cannot change anything about that. I may not understand why Lotor is falling for you, nor can I do anything to stop his growing love for you. And while it may hurt me to watch this happen, what ultimately counts for me is that my Space Prince is happy.” “Oh. Then why are you confronting me in this manner?” Monika shook her head before gazing at Allura again. If looks could kill, she would have already dropped dead.

“I came to you to express my warning to you. I love Lotor with all my heart; but if he is happier with you, I will let him go. My problem however is… that I am sure you are more than ill-suited for a match with him.” What the heck. Why was she trying to discuss Allura’s love life with her? And warning? Telling her that she and Lotor would not fit together? A bout of anger that she didn’t think she would be able to feel  rushed through Allura. “How dare you presume that?”, she spat out, “I can’t believe this!” “Easy”, the brunette countered, and then suddenly her tone has shifted into a more casual one, “but let me ask you one question first. You think that you love Lotor, but… what was the pivotal moment when you even considered him as a romantic partner?”

“Hn..”, Allura let out, thinking about that for a minute before answering. “I…” But Monika interrupted her, “It was when you both were in Haggar’s quarters, was it not? When Lotor first confessed to you about his Altean heritage, right?” One eye of Allura twitched at that. “What are you getting at?” “I had no idea our princess would be so damn dense”, Monika giggled darkly, “what I am getting here is that a Space Racist like you would never make Lotor happy. Care to tell me why you only started showing an interest in him once you heard that he shares half of your heritage? It is only once you heard that he is half-Altean that you even considered him at all. Before that moment, you were constantly doubting his intentions simply because he is half-Galra. if this isn’t racist, then I don’t know what is. Not to mention all the other times your racism clouded your judgement. Like doubting even one of your own simply because he is half-Galra.”

Allura couldn’t come up with any witty answer to that, and could feel herself deflate at that claim. She tried to stammer out a reply, but nothing came out, and she had the realization that Monika had a valid point. And the woman knew that as well, if the satisfied smile on her face was any indication. “See, you don’t even deny it.  Now… knowing that, are you really sure that you love Lotor? Do you love him enough to get over your Galra prejudices? My Space Prince deserves to be loved for who he is. Half-Galra, Half-Altean, it matters not.  He is whole and good the way he is.; and he deserves a lover who accepts not only part of him, but ALL of him.” Monika uttered the next words sharply, and her words cut Allura like knives. 

“If you cannot do that, you aren’t worthy of him. And if you break his heart, then mark my words, I will come for you and cut you down.”

Cold sweat broke out in Allura as she felt herself shiver from the way the threat was spoken to her. This human woman, Monika… it was clear that she really MEANT it. That kind of deep devotion was something that she didn’t expect to see from any of Lotor’s underlings. Even his closest generals have already betrayed Lotor once, yet with this woman… there was no doubt that she would lay down her life for Lotor in a heartbreat.

Allura suddenly understood all the glimpses that she had ever caught of Monika. The way she was looking at Lotor specifically, with that soft, warm, dreamy gaze and this gleam in her eyes; like she spotted she most beautiful thing in the universe. She couldn’t help but feel jealous, threatened at the prospect that she had found a rival for Lotor’s affections in Monika.

The brunette turned away from Allura, turning around to walk a certain distance before she stopped. “If you at any point decide that Lotor is a burden to you to be gotten rid off…I will not hold back.” “You.. really DO love him, don’t you?”, Allura let out in a tiny voice, and Monika looked back at her over her left shoulder. “Yes. Like I said, I love Lotor with all my heart. I want him to be happy, but if he can really be happy with YOU of all people… well, time will tell. But I am patient and can wait for the truth to be revealed.” Monika reached the door, “It was nice talking to you, Princess” And with that, Allura was left alone to ponder her confused feelings warring inside of her

Levin’s Wake.

The tombs within the Lochs were frigid at night. Frequent sharp, cutting and howling breezes passed through the myriad passageways, sweeping dust in their wake. To add to the inhospitality of the area, spectres and bhoots roamed the halls and descended upon many a man who thought to find his fortune among the dead Ala Mhigan kings. Yet, Gunnar Bloodblade traversed it effortlessly; the spectres and bhoots paid him little mind. In fact, when he drew near enough to them, the wayward spirits moved away. It made for a quick journey through the catacombs to the room where he was supposed to meet his comrade.

He found the monk in a cold, square room, sitting in quiet contemplation. The room was empty saved a raised dais in the center that had at one point held a stone coffin. Within the coffin had been much gold and precious gems, buried with their owner. It was safe to say that was the reason it was no longer present. The men were dressed similarly, in modified attire that called back to their days within the Fists of Rhalgr, but varied enough to make it clear that they had long since moved on. Black wraps about the torso resembled the tantra chestwrap...but it was there that the similarities ended. The dark gaskins and wristwraps were of another design. Neither of them wore shoes -- and for the time being Gunnar had opted to forego the farce of his eyepatch.

Gunnar eyed the other man for a moment, then made his announcement without ado. "Levin is dead."

While the news did not surprise the other monk, it did clearly interest him. His broad, scarred shoulders lifted -- even for a Highlander he was large, though none had yet dared to accuse his blood of being mixed with that of a Roegadyn's.  "Oh? Not so much a shame. His usefulness was long spent, and it was only a matter of time before he ran out of gullible fools to hide behind. Berrod and his friends saw to that."

"Time that we have made good use of," Gunnar pointed out.

"Indeed. There was wisdom in your mercy toward him, I won't deny that. But now the layer of obfuscation that he provided has fallen away," The monk murmured. He let out a sigh, and got to his feet. The difference in size between them was almost comical. While Gunnar's blood ran thick with the legacy of the Highlands, he was a short man, almost to Midlander measurements. The thick musculature that wrapped his sturdy bones was more than enough to mark his clan, however.

"I still remain unsatisfied that we gave him the name I wanted to take on for myself. I still haven’t thought of another that I like more. What now, then?"

Gunnar approached the other man -- though he spared a moment to look around the little chamber. The decor of it was exquisite, even though it crumbled some. Red stone from the quarries of Ala Ghanna, hewn and polished by masons of exceptional skill. What precious metals and gems that had once been laid within them had been long since stolen away. "We have, both of us, achieved power that rises above mortal ken. We no longer need to sit behind our masks. Let us approach the rest, offer them one last opportunity to ascend with us. They have all fought well. They all have heart...and they are, many of them, our legacy. They deserve the chance, at least. If they refuse to take it, that will be their choice."

"Ever merciful, Master Gunnarson. Your patience is the stuff of Legend."

Gunnar lifted a brow at the other monk -- rare was it for his actual surname to be called. "No more masks," The other monk reminded with a shrug. "Though I think we need to leave them in ignorance for a day or two. Were you able to retrieve Levin's body?"

Gunnar nodded, and made  rapid gestures with his hands. From nothing a massive Hellfrog appeared; red, quivering and far too large for the cramped space. Fortunately, it simply spit up the Roegadyn's corpse onto the dais and vanished again in a blast of white smoke. When it cleared, the other monk looked down at it. Levin had been yet another example of the physical excellence that monkhood often provided, accentuated by his Roegadyn heritage. Still, the observing monk seemed to have nothing but contempt for his paling, lifeless husk. "He vexes me still, you know. A weakling, posing at strength, depending on his pupils to shield him...and relying on my power whenever he had to make shows of might. I'll never forget that day in the Sagolii. It was Berrod and Autgar against him and his ilk. Those two were more than a match for this bastard and his cronies...so I had to intervene and incapacitate them."

"The farce served its purpose," Gunnar reminded gently.

"So it did," The other monk grunted, "And his flesh will serve a higher purpose than it ever did in life."

Even as he spoke, a blue glow flickered on the wall. An aether-gnarled spectre emerged from the red stone and made its way toward the corpse. Lanky, near loping and faceless, an echoed whisper of unintelligible lamentations surrounded it. Both men almost lazily observed its jerking, lumbering journey, then stood at the ready when it drew near to the newly-dead flesh.

It was an odd thing -- two men dressed in monk's attire performing rapid hand motions of eastern origin. When they were done the spectre lurched, spasmed, then swept into the corpse with a brilliant scintillation of blue. Another series of gestures from the monks saw several arcane patterns sealed onto the corpse -- they remained with a blue glow, a consequence neither of them could help. A moment of odd silence followed...then the body twitched.

"It's done," Gunnar announced. "I'll leave the rest to you, Ronsen. Here." From his gaskins he produced a small, yellow crystal. "This should make things easier. His killers were so busy fleeing that they forgot to take it."

Ronsen Armstrong's eyes remained on the animating body, but he moved to take the crystal. "Good. This will save much time. Will you be leaving then, Master?"

The old man nodded. "I will. There are things I need to do before the veil falls away. We are so close. So close. Our old order wished to reach the Destroyer. We stand on the cusp of not only reaching Him -- but destroying and surpassing Him. And from our place on high we will lift mankind into a new era...one where we are not struggling and adrift at the mercy of the Astral and Umbral tides."

"One where your indiscretions will be lost to history, I imagine," Ronsen added with a pointed look.

Gunnar shrugged as that nasty grin of his stretched his lips. "Nowhere is it written that reshaping the world cannot be fun."

Lay Of The Lawless

I crouch on the roof of an old 19th century brick building. The pub that used to operate on the first floor long abandoned. The two apartments above are vacant, their owners dead or… no, they’re dead. I can sense it. Their bloody, gruesome demise at the hands of the Unseelie that blasted through Dublin like a stampede of oversized, rabid rhinos the night the walls between worlds fell left an imprint on the fabrics of this reality. I can see it, taste it, a stain on this planet that no one else is aware of. But that’s another gift, another story, another curse, for another time. I’m not interested in the building I perch on. My gaze is locked on the nightclub across the street. Chester’s. The only club still up and running after the walls between Earth and the Fae worlds fell that night the Unseelie, after being trapped in their icy prison for millenia, were freed. And after being starved for thousands of years, they had cravings that couldn’t be denied. More humans died than survived. The losses were too great to quantify. Chester's has food. Water. Enough alcohol and drugs to inebriate the lost for centuries. My ebony wings arch over my head, keeping balance and providing a cloak of darkness to blend me into the night sky. Eyes are trained on the doorway they leads inside. I dare not enter. But I watch, I listen, for the beasts that lay within. There are many.  Many kinds, many races, many forms. Seelie, Unseelie, humans, maybe a few others that came from worlds unknown that have connected to hours as the universes shift and sacred mirrors align. But there are nine in particular, that have drawn my attention. They were annoyingly unkillable, thanks to an uncanny ability to reincarnate themselves back to life over and over again. Clones of clones, the same predictable pattern repeating. I still was trying to wrap my mind around how it was even possible. I’d spent hours upon hours in the Unseelie King’s library seeking answers. But I always returned to Dublin to ensure I hadn’t passed too much time in the White Mansion. Their egos were astounding. To the point of absurdity. Two leaders, brothers, as it were. And the other seven wore a blind loyalty even my Highlander family couldn’t replicate. At least my uncles had independent thoughts. These soulless men cared only for fucking and following. Jericho Barrons was a walking cockhard--and I didn’t mean the spindle he kept behind finely pressed suits that made a certain blonde go weak in the knees. Jericho Barrons was the kind of man that cared only for himself. He claimed to be faithful to his men, but I was a walking lie detector, after all. I could feel the falsity inside him. He would choose the blonde over his brethren. After thousands of years together, he would betray them to serve himself. They had killed women before. Those who got too close and discovered their secrets. And yet this time Jericho had broken all their rules. Why you may ask? Hardly for some sort of magical soul mate vagina of the gods bullshit. No. He was not noble. I didn't think he really even was in love. He was using her. She was his method for obtaining the one thing he desired more than anything. The Sinsar Dubh. He lured her in and fucked her stupid and now she trailed him like a lost puppy, attending to his every need. And she knew it, too. Jericho made no apologies for the mercenary he was. He’d fuck you over to your face as he told you all about it. Then he’d laugh up and down the streets of Dublin as others watched your demise. He’d glorify himself, all but banging on his chest and pissing a circle in the street. A Silverback demanding penitence. You didn't like it? Too bad. He'd say it was your fault for not seeing things his way. I wasn’t sure how he expected anyone to understand the perspective of an ancient, disturbed reincarnation of a man-beast that just might have been born before Earth even existed. Part of me wondered if he’d just been doing this so long he had gone numb to everything that wasn’t the sound of his size 13 boot crushing someone underneath it. Many claimed to respect him. But there was a difference between respect and fear of his wrath. Respect was earned through character. Fear was forced on the masses like a lion charging through a herd of antelopes. They believed if they stuck together the herd would survive. But the lion excelled at singling out his prey. And once his sights were set on you, he’d spill your blood across the grassland as a lesson to all. Then there was Ryodan. Ryodan was the kind of manipulator that got off on setting his own agenda in motion, watching others fall into his trap without any idea their leg was about to be snagged with sharp metal teeth. He mastered in avoiding direct answers, and even my lie detection skills were strained whenever he spoke. The more precise my questions, the more vague and misdirected his responses. But it was in that very tactic that I knew not a single word of his could be trusted. I couldn’t even talk to him without feeling like I’d just lost a fight. And I hated fucking losing. An Unseelie Prince does. not. lose. And somehow Ryodan had bested me so many times I was starting to wonder if he somehow fucked with my head when I was near. His favorite game was misdirection. Want to know A? Well, looky over here at B. Thinking about C? Well, D sure was bright and shiny all shoved in your face. It enraged me. I was stronger than him. I was Unseelie royalty. One glance from my true self and I could turn a human Priya, a slave for my sex. I was Death. I responded to the unresponsive, their corpses kindred. Wrapping the departed up into my wings was like embracing an old friend. I was a Highlander and a lie detector. I had the knowledge of centuries of Druid practices. And somehow Ryodan had convinced an entire city to worship him, to line up outside the doors of his club every night and beg for admission. And inside his club were subclubs. And those he chose to let into those places were granted special status. Super double secret BFF membership. The f’s stood for fucking. Fucking hard, fucking over, fucking off. And everyone who watched from the outside, noses plastered to the glass knew exactly where they stood as he roared with laughter. In last place. And then the blonde. MacKayla Lane. She was the root of this… public nuisance I had become. A mockery of my Highlander heritage blended with Unseelie notoriety. MacKayla was the linchpin. She had found me in the Silvers, the maze of mirrors that led from one world to the next, and in my vulnerable state fed me Unseelie flesh. Stupid human. She had used the tactic before to stave off her own death, but for a Highlander like myself, who was linked to the spells of his Druid heritage, all she’d done was set a course by which there was no escape. And now I was the last Unseelie Prince, Death. Leader of the very fae my uncles had been charged with keeping imprisoned. She cozied up to me when she needed it, used me, then betrayed me. Just as she betrayed Dani, her coven of Sidhe-Seers, her parents, even the Nine. She feigned weakness, needing rescue, needing comfort, needing needing needing. Like a child. And then she snuck off to whomever had the largest caliber barrel in his pants and spilled everything to earn their favor. Which almost always was Jericho Barrons. She thought it was best to align with the biggest baddest beast in Dublin. MacKayla was Jericho’s pathetic workhorse and self-boasted Priya survivor. But she just traded one sex addiction for another. And Jericho wasn’t her first by far. She’d made her rounds with the Seelie Prince, V’lane, who turned out to be the very UN-Seelie Prince, Cruce. She’d once showed interest in me. She was bound to the Unseelie King himself. She spread herself around every powerful male who looked her way. Did she think we did not know? Did she think she could fish the same lines out to all of us and see who bit? Fool. We were the all supreme, the most potent and powerful beings on Earth. I see right through you, MacKayla. Cast your net and see which one of us yanks you underwater next. Jericho won't always be here to save you. Little did she know her Jericho would outlive her by a few big bangs of the universe and when there was something else he really wanted, she’d be shoved into a corner and ignored. Maybe she’d run to Ryodan the master manipulator next. But he’d be too busy with his double secret members only club. She would try again and again, but he'd never favor her. Last place. He would always protect his own interests first. And the next time she came whimpering my way? Looking for a shoulder to cry on and intel to bring back to Jericho to re-earn his favor and incite his wrath on others? I’d be ready. #LayOfTheLawless