Little Schemer

Adoring Fool

Part 1

Pairing: knight!bucky barnes x queen!reader

Word Count: 7.7K (don’t come at me, y’all voted for this to be a long one)

Summary: Sir James competes in the annual tourney every year, always winning in your name. But with how things have been the past couple weeks, his heads not quite in the game, not with the decision he’d made regarding his feelings for you - and the mystery person you mentioned courting. 

Warnings: smut 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI, katoptronophilia (sex involving a mirror), fingering, p in v sex, angst, minor injury, hurt/comfort, bucky is dense but so is reader a little bit, bucky and reader are emotional messes, forgive me for anything that doesn’t line up with historical accuracies - i took a lot of creative liberty with this one. I will include a divider where the smut begins for those of you who do not wish to read it. 

A/N: Thank you so so so much to my friend @perdidosbucky-yyo​ for talking with me on this and bouncing around ideas with me and for helping me bring these two to life and for beta reading it! I love youuuuu <3 

Bucky Masterlist || Main Masterpost

The kingdom was busy recently, bustling with constant energy as everyone worked to ready for the Annual Tourney being held in your name. Townsfolk and servants alike had spent days readying the south field for the events and the town was decorating itself in the kingdom’s colors as they prepared for the fair that would follow. 

Usually, plenty of visitors meant that James was as near as ever, always keeping close just in case. But you hadn’t seen much of him. 

Steve had taken over most of his shifts during the day, and they’d switch around supper time. You’d asked him after the second day where he had been and he’d claimed he was training for the tourney. You missed having him near, talking and eating with him throughout the day, but he fought in the tourney every year. He fought in your name, for your honor - and won every year - so you didn’t argue against him. 

However, you couldn’t help but feel something was wrong. You knew he was training, you’d walked past the training grounds enough times to see him with your own two eyes, so it wasn’t that. 

Rather, it was the way he carried himself. 

Keep reading

omg i love this

Since many of you were interested in them here are all my ghost photocards i have so far.

there are also some with a special finish:

they are far from perfect but they make me happy hehe

Arcane Silco x Reader One-shot - I Trust You

Synopsis: After the incident with Vander, you find what remains of the Silco you left at The Last Drop the night before. Now heart shattered, terrified, and close to death, he grips on tight to the only thing he has left as you try your best to comfort him and aid his wounds.

Young!Silco, Pre S1, Implied Fem!Reader but could be read GN, mentions of injury, blood, typical canon violence, knife mentioned, Hurt/Comfort, angst, established relationship, Medic!Reader

I've been inspired after wasting DAYS reading Silco fics, thank you fellow Arcane fanfic writers ❤️ Maybe I'll write more for the fandom?????

The cracked cobblestone paths of the cramped Undercity clack loudly under the worn soles of your boots. Your medic bag hangs loosely over your shoulder, the parched leather splitting at the seams as you toy with the fraying material between your nails.

You don't need to be told that tonight's highly-anticipated Uprising was a failure. You can judge its success based solely on the amount of rioters you saw in your office today; chipped teeth, brutal burn wounds, broken limbs, concussions. The unrest between Zaun and the ever-oppressive Piltover thickens with each passing minute, Enforcers becoming more violent and Zaunites only more angry.

Tonight's rally was meant to be the turning point, Zaun would fight back and push past the bridge, securing their futures with an iron grip and hearts full of hope. Vander spoke of it just yesterday evening, eyes gleaming with ambition saccharine sweet as he raised his glass of ale high in cheer. Silco, your Silco, with a smile so sure, so wide, you were certain you'd never seen him so excited.

"You're sure you can't make it?" He's asking you, shoulder jostling your own as he slides into the seat beside you at the bar. The cacophony of cheer around the bar following Vander's inspiring speech seems to die down and reduce to a droning chatter of voices and clinking dish ware.

Your eyes peel away from Vander — who is serving patrons left and right with an energy so radiant you can't help but shake your head at him, a small smile gracing your features — to meet Silco's sea-foamy green ones, peering down at you from the slant of his nose.

"You know riots mean people tend to get hurt. I'll be more needed at the med center, that's where I can do my part." You say, and it's true. The Undercity lacks in abundance, especially lacking in individuals with medical knowledge, much less an affordable one, or even a doctor you can trust. You've become an important addition to The Children of Zaun, and even more important to the citizens you look out for.

Silco nods, understanding, albeit disappointed that you won't be by his side. He wraps an arm loosely around your shoulders, pulling you in so he can press a chaste kiss to your temple.

"I know. This will be a big one, an important one. We'll be needing you down here."

You smiled softly, "You'll be careful, won't you?"

"As careful as I always am." Silco smirked.

"Great, so I'll be seeing you tomorrow night in my office is what I'm hearing?"

"Well, when you make it sound so scandalous I couldn't possibly miss out, my dear."

You're rolling your eyes at him, nudging him back with your adjacent shoulder as he chuckles. A peaceful silence overcomes the two of you as you soak in your surroundings at the bustling bar. Felicia is bickering with Vander at the counter, her vibrant purple braid flicked over her shoulder and Vander is laughing at her playful scowl.

"What will you do, if you succeed?" You ask suddenly.

Silco doesn't hesitate a second, "Not if. We will. We must succeed." His brows furrow for a moment, "I don't know what I will do. I'll come back for you, and then I suppose we will figure it out together like we always do. You trust me, don't you?"

You can't help but grin at that, "Of course I trust you."

Trust has always been one of the most important values holding you and Silco together. No matter what, you would always trust each other, to the ends of the earth. And you'd never stop reminding the other.

Your next thought is interrupted by Benzo, at least six ales down.

"There will be celebrations all through Zaun tomorrow night just you wait! In just another twenty four hours we will be commemorating our victories with each and every Zaunite throughout the city!"

But, as you make your way home it becomes blatantly apparent that there are no celebrations raging through Zaun tonight, there was no victory, and instead just an evening full of shattered hearts and broken bones.

Needless to say, Silco never did make it to your office tonight, and now as you walk back home on tired feet in the early hours of the dawn you find yourself wondering what state he could be in.

Silco may not be the strongest, but he's quick, and he's so painfully smart you can bet he hadn't been caught by Enforcers — but then if not carted away to Stillwater, why hadn't you seen him at the med center as you usually do after a riot? The nerves bite at your system, and you can only hope he is safe and sound at The Last Drop where you left him yesterday night, waiting for you to find in a few hours. First, you know you need to sleep off the fatigue of tending to the injured all night long.

You turn right into the alleyway that cuts through the block of stacked houses and cross the street to your home. As the door comes into view it is then that you feel a prickling sensation of unease creeping into your very being. You remove your hood from your head, peering at your surroundings cautiously in an effort to calm yourself. There's no one around. Nothing to explain the worry woven into your deepest instincts as you quicken your steps to the entrance of your abode.

The single key fished from the pocket of your med bag rattles in the rickety doorknob before the lock unlatches. The wood swings open with a creak.

There's water everywhere. Puddles of the polluted brown liquid spreads from the front entrance. It trails through the house where cabinets and drawers are left ajar and furniture lies knocked over on the uneven floor. You freeze in horror at the state of your belongings before spotting the streaks of blood on the floor and the counters of your kitchen. Whoever had trespassed had done it in a panicked struggle, things haphazardly left out all around the property. You huff a swear before dropping your bag as silently as you can at the front door, your tiredness suddenly swept away and replaced with unfiltered adrenaline. Survival-mode kicks in, and you're creeping with predator-like stealth to the kitchen. A peek into the open drawer confirms your suspicions, and whoever had broken in had stolen the large kitchen knife you stored and was likely wielding the weapon somewhere in your home.

You go for the next best thing, a rusted but still sharp pair of cooking scissors which you grasp tight in your palm, blade poised.

Following the trail of blood and water, your head swiveling vigilantly in every which direction, you make your way up the short flight of stairs to the second floor. Your bedroom door is wide open, a handprint of blood smeared across the edge of it in a rush. You take a deep, shuddering breath before slipping through the threshold.

The bed is left tidied and made, moth eaten sheets folded over the top of the frayed duvet and curtains billowing softly from the cold breeze which spills through the crack in the window. It's all in the state that you left it in. Your brows furrow in confusion before spotting the faint light which emanates from the crack under the adjoining bathroom door.

Your hands tremble as you creep towards the door, wondering if what lies behind it is the means to your fateful end. Teeth wearing into the flesh of your bottom lip, you stop and lean against the wall beside the bathroom. You listen, ears straining hard to hear through the barrier before you catch it.

It's the faint sound of someone crying, notable only by the quiet, shuddering breaths and wet sniffling that periodically breaks the whimpering noise.

It's then that you hear the low whisper interrupting the soft sobbing, the voice tinged with abysmal pain and fear, "Fuck—,"

Silco.

You're not even thinking as the scissors fall from your grasp, hitting the floor with a metallic clang before you wrench open the door and burst inside, heart thrumming viscously in the cage of your chest as you recognize your lover's voice.

Your breath catches hard in your throat at the sight before you; Silco, curled tightly in the basin of your bathtub, head to toe in soaking wet clothes stained with blood which drips from his face. His wet black hair hangs disheveled over half of his features, cloaking him in the raven locks. Your missing kitchen knife is clasped rigidly in between both hands, blade sticking straight out and bobbing with his labored breaths. His one visible eye widens in what you think is fear and his whole body freezes up at the sight of you, his legs scramble against the edge of the tub like he's trying to get away from you but all you can think is, he's hurt. You have to fix him.

"Silco," you rasp, reaching for him frantically with tears brimming in your eyes but before you know it he's yelling, pointing the blade of the knife at you and waving it around haphazardly.

"Stop—" He's crying, but the syllable comes out guttural and hoarse, "Don't touch me!"

You freeze, hands up to show you mean no harm and falling back on your knees to be eye level with him.

You swallow before you try to say anything, but the lump in your throat only grows ten-fold.

"Silco," you try, tentatively. "What happened?"

"Felicia's dead." Is what he manages to gasp, teeth gritting hard and eyes squeezing shut, another stray tear falling down his face.

You don't realize you're treating him like a patient until you're halfway done examining him with just a glance. His nails are bent and broken like he had scratched desperately at an unrelenting force, the torn collar of his jacket reveals blooms of a deep purple encompassing the surface of his throat and neck, blood pours from what you could see of his cheek, down his jaw and off the point of his chin. His eyes are swollen and bloodshot and his nose is definitely crooked— likely broken and the bruising is beginning to swell beneath his eyes. It doesn't take a genius to tell he had been asphyxiated, and beaten, hard.

Felicia. Felicia is dead. You're trying to hold onto your resolve, face relaxed as to not alarm him any further but your heart wants to cry out in agony. Another good soul, lost to a helpless cause. Another loved one, gone. You want to ask where Vander is, where Benzo is. Whatever it is that happened at the Uprising has clearly shaken Silco to the core, nearly unrecognizable with fear and shame and you worry that if you break down now nothing will be left to hold the rest of him together.

"I don't know where to go. I don't have anyone else." Silco is rambling now, voice sore and body shaking. "I can't go back. I can't go back, he'll finish me off."

"Silco, who? What's happened to you? I don't understand—" You can feel the tears spilling over and you choke on a sob, terrified for the man you love.

Silco shakes his head rapidly, he opens his mouth like he'll try to explain but is cut off by a cry so anguished you feel your own soul shattering. His shoulders tremble and you realize he must be freezing, his clothes saturated and the chill of the night air permeating his figure.

"I'll be right back. I'm going to get you a blanket and I'll come right back." you say gently.

He nods and hangs his head low, avoiding eye contact.

You retreat to the bedroom and pull your duvet right off the bed, also grabbing the forgotten glass of water left on the nightstand from the night before. You stand at the threshold of the bathroom peering in as non threatening as you can before taking a deep breath.

"I need you to put the knife down." you whisper.

Silco glances at the object in his hand and stares at it in shock for a split second, like he had not even realized he'd armed himself with your household items.

"I would never hurt you, Silco."

He takes a deep breath, and flips the blade before handing it over to you, handle out.

"Thanks," you whisper, placing the knife on the bathroom counter across from you. You trade it for the glass of water. "Here. Can I touch you?"

Silco takes a deep breath, eyes shut before nodding and wiping crudely at his cheek with the back of his hand, the skin pulling away wet with his tears.

You sit at the edge of the tub and pull the thick duvet into the basin, pausing over Silco's soaked figure.

"Do you want to take your clothes off? We can get you dry and warm."

He shakes his head no, but does pull off the bulky jacket, the wet fabric slapping against the surface of the porcelain bathtub. You drape the blanket over his shoulders, wrapping it around to his front and tucking it around him the best you can manage. He takes a long sip of the water, grimacing as he swallows and you try to catch a glimpse of the bruising on his neck.

"It's okay, I got you." You whisper. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, but I need to know what's wrong so I can fix it. You can even just point." You say, hand massaging tenderly over his blanketed shoulder.

"I-I can't see out of my left eye," He says, voice low and gravelly, "it hurts."

"Can I look?"

Silco lifts a hand and runs it through his long hair, pushing most of it back out of his face but a few unruly tresses fall back over his forehead. You can't help the gasp that falls from your lips as you survey the gashes running across his eye and mutilating the whole expanse of the area. Blood oozes from the wounds and the flesh swells bright red and pink and you know it's already infected. You can't save the eye, that much is evident.

"I need to clean it before the infection spreads any further, I'm sorry." You cringe, "It's going to hurt but you could die if I don't treat it now."

He nods. Silco seems to be of sounder mind now. Not relaxed by any means, but his breathing is controlled, his good eye is focused and he's understanding you.

You turn around to retrieve your personal medical supplies in the linen closet and find the bottle of antiseptic and gauze, when you turn around you meet Silco's gaze, his brows pressed together with worry and mouth pressed into a deep frown. The blood from his eye drips on the fabric of your blanket and stains it the color of rust.

"It was Vander." he says.

You freeze up, nearly dropping the bottle, "Vander did this to you?" you ask incredulously.

Silco nods. "I didn't mean to get her killed. I didn't mean it, none of this was supposed to happen, I—" he breaks off into silent tears again and you gently hush him.

You've never seen him cry in the many years you've spent together, now to witness it so many times in one night you have no idea how to handle it.

"It's okay, you can explain later. I trust you." You assure.

You tilt his chin to look at you and wipe the tears from his face.

"I trust you." You say again.

"Okay." Silco appeases, "I trust you, too."

It takes nearly an hour to clean out his wounds, by then the sun is beginning to rise, a blue haze filtering in through the windows and casting a glow on everything the light touches. Silco has stripped from his wet clothes and showered, but had asked sweetly if you would wait for him in the bathroom to which you comply.

He changes into dry clothes he had left here ages ago and now lies in your bed, curled up on his side. The blankets are tucked over him and he lays silently beside you while you card your fingers through his hair. His sighs against the skin of your shoulder.

You know he wants to sleep but fears the playback behind his eyes of the events of the failed Uprising, but his body can't physically stand to move anymore. His injured eye is packed under gauze and medical tape and you can only hope you did all that you could.

His eyes flicker up to yours, "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I owe you a proper explanation. Thank you, for caring for me."

"I'll always care for you, Silco. You don't owe me anything, this is what I'm here for. You can tell me when you're ready."

"Okay." He replies, stroking your cheek with the backs of his split knuckles before tangling gently in the hair at the nape of your neck. You lay like that together for a while, you drifting in and out of consciousness as the adrenaline wears off and the chaos of the day becomes a memory. You trace the sharp angular features of Silco's face lovingly, pressing a sleepy kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your mind wanders to Vander, to Felicia, to Felicia's two beautiful children and Benzo and The Last Drop.

You wonder if things will ever be the same again and your heart aches at the silent answer. You know you'll never be able to forgive the man who hurt Silco like this; destroyed him at his very core and you know he will never be the same again.

"We can't trust anyone now. Only each other." Silco says, voice thick with pain.

"I'll always trust you." You reply softly, "Sleep, Silco. You need to rest. We will figure it out in a few hours."

Your eyes drift closed after that, the last of your sentence trailing off as you succumb to your exhaustion. The last thing you see is the pretty green-blue eye of your lover, half lidded and glistening in the light of the sunrise.

"I love you."

I love a good comfort fic

*insert Elmo in flames meme*

Ahhhh! I'd be happy to give you some Ominis fic ideas 😁🩷 of course, you could just scrap this altogether but I was thinking 🤔 could we have a 7th year Ominis being able to gain financial freedom from his family because MC gave her Hogsmeade shop to him? I know a lot of people want him to escape to America but Hogsmeade just feels so cozy and perfect for him being a shopkeeper.

And MC realizing her feelings for him during one instance when she had to return to him to replenish her supplies from her travels, and maybe decides it's time to be with him? 😣💕

It's okay if you don't like this plotline but I just finished the Haunted Hogsmeade quest, and I immediately thought of Ominis being its owner!

Thank you so much!!

Threads of Fate | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

Anon, I hope this is everything you hoped for! Thank you for the request and inspiration <3 it was my absolute pleasure writing this.

Words: ~6,700

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Post Canon, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Fluff, Fluff AGAIN

“You’d think after all these years I’d be better at writing letters, but somehow, I still find myself pausing, trying to decide how to start. Then again, you always make it easier when you write first. Your last letter was… exactly what I needed. You have a knack for saying the right thing, even when you don’t realize it.”

“Anne stopped by the shop recently. She told me to stop ‘hovering like a nervous bird’ over your enchanted scarves and to start charging more for them. Apparently, she’s appointed herself my business manager, whether I wanted one or not. She also asked about you—how you’re doing, where you are, why you haven’t written her back, and, most importantly, when you’re finally coming home. I told her I didn’t know, but she was unimpressed by my answer. Honestly, I’m not impressed either.”

“Sebastian, meanwhile, has decided that I’ve become too boring for his liking. He keeps trying to convince me to pack up and visit you, as though I could just leave the shop to run itself. His words, not mine. It’s ridiculous, of course, but I wonder if there’s something to it. You’ve been gone so long now, it’s hard not to feel like there’s a part of this place missing.”

“Speaking of which—are you planning to come back anytime soon? You told me six months, and that was, what, six months ago? You’re not terrible at keeping promises, but you’re testing the limits here. I’ll forgive you if you write soon with some good news—or better yet, with the promise of coming home.”

“The shop is still standing, though I’ve made a few small changes here and there. I hope you won’t scold me when you see them. It’s funny, even when you’re not here, I find myself thinking, ‘What would she do?’ And sometimes, I swear I can hear your voice, usually chiding me for something I’ve misplaced or forgotten. I wonder—did you know, even then, how much this shop would mean to me? …Did you know how much you mean to me?”

“Take care of yourself, won’t you? Though I doubt I need to remind you. You’ve always been reckless, but you’ve never been careless. But I can’t help worrying about you—it’s impossible not to.”

“Write soon, or better yet, come home. I’d like to see you again. I’d like to… well, there’s plenty I’d like to say in person.”

Yours, always, Ominis

The letter, over a month old now, was worn at the edges, its parchment soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. Your fingers traced the familiar loops of Ominis’ handwriting, lingering over the slight smudge where his quill must have hesitated.

Even as the train carried you closer to Hogsmeade, you felt guilty. You hadn’t written back. But you hadn’t trusted yourself to put quill to parchment, not even to Anne or Sebastian, neither of whom could be trusted to keep your long awaited return a secret.

Six months. You’d promised him six months, and here you were, long past that mark. You’d wanted to return sooner—Merlin knew how much you’d wanted to—but there had always been one more ruin, one more curse to break, one more excuse to stay away.

It wasn’t just the work, though. The truth you hadn’t dared admit to yourself was that the thought of walking into Stitches and Draughts again, of seeing Ominis after all this time, terrified you. What if things had changed? What if the delicate balance of your friendship—of your stupid, traitorous feelings for him—had changed?

Merlin knew you had.

You caught your reflection in the train’s window, and for a moment, it felt like looking at a stranger. The girl you once were, the one with the boundless energy and effortless grace of youth, was nowhere to be found. Gone was the lithe figure and carefree ease that had come with an 18-year-old’s metabolism, replaced by a version of yourself you were still learning to accept. The life of a cursebreaker hadn’t been kind to your body—or your soul. Years of chasing dangerous leads, grueling physical labor, and long nights spent deciphering ancient scripts had taken their toll. Meals were often hurried, whatever you could grab between assignments, and the relentless travel left little room for rest. You were softer now, and your body bore the marks of your journey—an ache in your shoulders from carrying too much weight, faint scars from brushes with danger, and an exhaustion that felt carved into your very bones.

You turned away from the window, forcing your reflection out of sight. The sight of it only dredged up insecurities you had no business indulging—not now, not when you were so close. It was stupid to worry about it, you told yourself. What did it matter whether Ominis found you attractive? Seven years had passed. Seven years of separate lives, separate paths. You couldn’t expect him to still see you as he once might have—or to have waited for you at all.

Back then, you were just kids, after all. Even when your friendship had danced on the edge of something more, neither of you had ever been brave enough to take that final step. You thought of the moments that had felt like more—his hand brushing yours when you walked side by side, the way he’d linger in the shop late into the night, his head tilted toward you as though he could hear the shape of your smile. But those moments were fleeting, always followed by silence or a change of subject. Neither of you had ever said the words.

And now? Seven years was a long time to expect someone to wait for something that was never truly spoken aloud.

Still, the thought haunted you, gnawing at your resolve. Would he notice the changes in you? Would he care about the extra softness to your curves, the faint lines of exhaustion that hadn’t been there before? The idea that he might—that he’d look at you with anything less than the quiet warmth you remembered—made your stomach twist.

The train jolted, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts as it slowed to a screeching halt at Hogsmeade Station. The sound of the brakes, sharp and familiar, was like a spell breaking. You rose stiffly from your seat, clutching your bag as you tried to gather yourself.

The platform was just as you remembered it: bustling with witches and wizards, steam curling in the crisp air, and the faint smell of coal mingling with the fresh, wintry scent of snow. Twinkling fairy lights hung from the lampposts, casting a warm glow on the frosted cobblestones, while festive garlands of holly and enchanted mistletoe draped along the edges of the station roof. You adjusted the strap of your bag and stepped off the train, your boots crunching against the frost-dusted ground.

The walk into the village was surreal, like stepping back into a dream you hadn’t dared let yourself miss too much. The bustling streets, the cheerful glow of the shop windows, the distant chatter of students—every detail tugged at something deep inside you. It looked the same, as though no time had passed, and yet that was precisely what unsettled you.

Time had passed. Seven years, to be exact.

Seven years since you’d walked these streets as a Hogwarts student, clutching a bag of Honeydukes’ sweets or ducking into the Three Broomsticks with your friends to escape the cold. Seven years since you’d stood inside Stitches and Draughts as its owner, turning your ideas into enchanted creations, the room filled with the warmth of softly glowing candles and the sound of laughter. Seven years since you’d worked side by side with Ominis, his sharp wit cutting through Sebastian’s dramatic tales of Quidditch triumphs, all while the three of you shared late nights in the shop as though the world outside didn’t exist.

But even then, you’d known the shop wasn’t meant to be your forever.

The decision to give it to Ominis had come in the quiet months of your seventh year, after countless conversations where he’d confided in you about his family, his fears, and the cage he felt he could never escape. You’d listened as he spoke of the suffocating expectations of the Gaunt name, how every aspect of his life had been dictated by tradition and duty.

And money.

It wasn’t fair. Ominis deserved more than that. Far, far more.

Your Ominis deserved everything.

The idea had taken root during one of those late nights in the shop. He’d been helping you charm a batch of scarves to repel rain when you’d caught him standing at the counter, running his hands over the worn wood. There’d been a wistful look on his face, one that had stayed with you long after the candles were extinguished and the shop had gone dark.

By the time graduation loomed, the decision felt inevitable.

You still remembered the day you handed him the deed, the way his pale fingers trembled as he unrolled the parchment. His expression had been unreadable at first, his face carefully composed as he scanned the document.

“What is this?” he’d asked, his voice low and wary.

“It’s yours,” you’d replied, keeping your tone light even as your heart pounded. “The shop. Everything in it. Consider it a… graduation gift.”

The silence that followed had been deafening. Ominis had stared at you, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“You can’t be serious,” he’d said finally. “This is yours. Your work. You can’t just—”

“I can,” you’d interrupted, placing a hand over his. “And I am. You’re the only one I trust to take care of it. To make it more than I ever could.”

He’d tried to argue, of course. Ominis always argued. But you’d stood your ground, knowing in your heart it was the right choice.

“It’s not just about the shop,” you’d said softly, looking into his unseeing eyes. “It’s... about giving you a way out. A chance to build something that’s yours—not theirs.”

That had silenced him.

He’d accepted the deed reluctantly, his gratitude laced with disbelief. And though you hadn’t admitted it aloud, you’d known you were giving him more than just the shop. More than just securing his freedom. You were giving him a part of yourself, a way to stay connected even when you left.

And now, as Christmas loomed all these years later, your legs carried you through the village, back to that very same place. You were almost on autopilot, even as your heart pounded erratically in your chest with every step that brought you closer to the shop. Around you, the village bustled with holiday cheer, but all of it faded into the background, a distant hum drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat.

And then you were there.

And Stitches and Draughts looked beautiful.

The building had been freshly painted, its trim gleaming with a soft, snowy white that contrasted perfectly with the deep emerald of the shop’s sign—still the same one you’d painted years ago, but lovingly restored. The doorframe was draped with enchanted holly garlands, the bright red berries twinkling like tiny stars. The windows sparkled in the glow of lights strung carefully along the eaves, and the front display was nothing short of magical.

Inside the glass, enchanted scarves floated gracefully in midair, their threads shimmering with subtle, festive embroidery—snowflakes that danced along the hems, holly leaves that twisted and turned like they were caught in a gentle breeze. Beside them, self-heating gloves sat arranged in neat little bundles, their tags tied with golden ribbons that seemed to hum faintly with charmwork.

It was perfect. Too perfect. And the sight of it, so familiar and yet so undeniably different, had your heart aching in your chest. This wasn’t just a shop anymore—it was his shop. Every detail spoke of Ominis’ care, his precision, his thoughtfulness. He’d taken what you’d built and turned it into something so much more.

Your grip tightened on the strap of your bag as your eyes flicked between the display and the freshly polished door handle. The urge to turn and flee surged through you, but your feet remained rooted to the spot. You’d faced cursed ruins, ancient traps, and magic designed to kill, but nothing—nothing—had ever felt as daunting as the prospect of walking through that door.

Would he even want to see you? Would he welcome you after all this time, after the months of silence and unfulfilled promises? Or had the years widened the distance between you too far to bridge?

The bell above the door jingled as someone exited the shop, their arms laden with carefully wrapped packages. They offered you a polite smile as they passed, but you barely noticed, your gaze fixed on the door that had swung closed behind them.

Your legs felt heavy as you took a hesitant step forward. Then another.

With a deep, unsteady exhale, you pushed the door open, the familiar chime of the bells above echoing like a memory brought to life.

The warmth of the shop enveloped you immediately, the scent of cedar and lavender mingling with something faintly sweet—probably from a batch of enchanted candles near the counter. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bolts of fabric, potion bottles, and racks of neatly displayed scarves and gloves. The hum of magic thrummed softly in the air, a comforting, familiar sound.

But none of it mattered, not really.

Your eyes were drawn to the figure standing behind the counter, his back to you, the blond of his hair catching the golden light.

"Be with you in a moment," he said, his voice smooth and warm, but it hit you like a jolt of lightning.

It had been so long—too long—since you’d last heard his voice, and even now, it was exactly as you remembered, richer with age but still undeniably Ominis. It overwhelmed you, the weight of it pressing down on the breath you tried to draw, stealing the words you’d thought you’d prepared.

And then he turned.

The sight of him was truly your undoing.

Ominis was taller than you remembered, his frame lean but strong, elegant but unyielding. He was wearing a soft sweater in a deep charcoal gray, the fabric snug across his broad shoulders and loose around his narrow waist, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp angles of his wrists and the pale skin of his forearms. His blond hair, a touch longer than it had been when you’d last seen him, was still combed back, though a strand at the front had fallen to rest against the curve of his face.

Time had only refined the sharpness of his cheekbones and the strong, angular line of his jaw. His features were striking in a way that felt almost unfair, the kind of beauty that drew the eye and held it captive.

And yet, there was something softer about him, too—something that hadn’t been there before. The rigid tension that had so often defined him in your Hogwarts years seemed less pronounced, replaced by a quiet ease as he worked. He looked… content.

It was too much.

You’d imagined this reunion a hundred different ways, but none of them had accounted for the way it would feel to see him again, to hear his voice, to stand so close and yet feel the weight of all the time and space that had separated you.

“My apologies for the delay. Welcome to Stitches and Draughts,” he said, his tone polite and practiced, yet warm in a way that made your chest ache. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening more intently. “What can I help you with today?”

The words hung in the air, impossibly ordinary for a moment that felt anything but.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. All the carefully rehearsed greetings, the lighthearted explanations you’d planned for why it had taken so long to return, evaporated.

Your silence stretched just a second too long, and you saw the faint furrow of his brow, the slight tilt of his head as he picked up on your hesitation.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softening, concern creeping into his tone.

That was what finally broke you.

“Ominis,” you managed, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it.

His lips parted as though to say something, but no words came, and his sightless eyes, usually so calm and focused, seemed to search for you in the space between.

“Is it—” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges. “Is… it really you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and relentless. You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see the gesture.

“It’s me,” you managed.

Ominis moved before you could register it, stepping out from behind the counter with a swiftness that made your breath catch. “You’re here,” he murmured, his voice filled with something close to wonder. “You’re actually here. But you… you didn’t write back. I thought—”

“I know,” you said quickly, guilt flooding your chest. “I’m sorry, Ominis. I—” Your voice faltered. How could you possibly explain everything? The silence, the distance, the fear?

Before you could try, Ominis closed the gap between you. His hands reached out, tentatively searching, as though he were afraid to reach out and find nothing there. When his fingers brushed against your sleeve, he inhaled sharply, and then his hands moved upward, settling on your shoulders.

You watched as his expression crumbled. The carefully constructed composure he’d always worn fell away, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“You’re home,” he said, his voice trembling. “How long have you been planning this?”

The crack in his voice broke something inside you. “I… for months,” you whispered, your own voice shaking. “I'm so sorry, it took so long—”

Your words were cut off again as Ominis pulled you into him, strong arms wrapping around you with a desperate urgency, his hands firm against your back as if he were afraid to let go, afraid you might slip away again. The suddenness of it made you stiffen, your insecurities flaring instantly to life.

He’d know.

He’d feel the difference—the softness of your curves where you’d once been lithe, the weight you carried now, both physical and emotional. The image of what you’d been years ago, the version of you he might still hold in his mind, clashed violently with the reality of who you were now.

But then there was the feel of him.

Him, warm against you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of his characteristic cologne—it was all so achingly familiar, so Ominis, that you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the way you’d changed.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you let yourself sink into his chest, your arms lifting to wrap around his waist. You clung to him, the years of distance and silence collapsing between you as if they’d never existed.

His hand moved gently, brushing over your hair in a soothing rhythm that made your heart ache. “I missed you hopelessly.” He murmured, his voice muffled by your hair

“I missed you more than anything,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at him, tears still streaming freely down your cheeks. “I thought about you every day.”

Ominis pulled back slightly, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders. His sightless eyes searched your face as though he could somehow see you, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles. You felt his thumb brush against your sleeve, as if he needed the tactile confirmation that you were truly there. One of his hands slid down to grasp yours, his fingers curling firmly around yours as if to anchor you both in this moment.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you spoke.

Then, without a word, Ominis turned toward the shop’s entrance, your hand still firmly in his. He moved quickly, his steps sure as he crossed the space to the door. Releasing your hand only briefly, he flipped the sign to Closed and twisted the lock with a decisive click.

“To hell with work,” he muttered under his breath, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The words caught you off guard, pulling a startled laugh from you—a sound you hadn’t realized you’d been holding back.

When he turned back to you, his expression softened further, though there was still an edge of something you couldn’t quite name in the set of his jaw. Relief, perhaps. Or the determination of someone who wasn’t about to let this moment slip away.

“Come upstairs,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The shop can wait.”

He didn’t give you a chance to argue—not that you would have—before leading you to the small staircase tucked behind the counter. His hand stayed in yours as he guided you, his grip firm but gentle, like he was still afraid to let go.

The stairs creaked faintly under your feet as you followed Ominis into the flat above the shop. The scent of cedar lingered here too, mixed with something faintly herbal—his cologne, no doubt.

“Forgive the state of things,” he said quickly, his tone uncharacteristically self-conscious as he gestured toward the room. “I wasn’t exactly expecting... well, anyone. Least of all you.”

But as your eyes roamed the space, you couldn’t find the “mess” he spoke of. The room was tidy, cozy, and so very him. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, lined with neatly arranged tomes you recognized from your Hogwarts years, alongside a few newer additions. A comfortable-looking armchair sat in one corner, its seat draped with a soft, worn throw blanket. A half empty mug of tea sat forgotten on the small table beside it, next to what appeared to be a half-finished crossword puzzle.

There were small signs of his life everywhere: a folded sweater resting on the back of the chair, a walking stick leaning against the wall by the door, a well-cared-for violin resting in its case near the bookshelf. The window was framed by simple curtains, their edges charmed to shimmer faintly in the light, a detail that felt unmistakably him.

“It’s perfect,” you said, turning to him with a soft smile.

He let out a huff of disbelief. “Hardly. It’s small, and I wasn’t expecting guests, so it’s a bit—”

“No, really,” you insisted, stepping further into the room. “It’s... you. I mean that in the best way.”

His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to argue, but he seemed to think better of it. Instead, his free hand gestured vaguely at the space. “I haven’t had much reason to bring anyone up here,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “I usually keep to myself unless Sebastian or Anne drag me out for something."

You turned back to him, catching the faint blush dusting his cheeks as he moved to straighten a few items on the table near the armchair. The sight made your heart ache in the best way, the years falling away as though you’d never been apart.

“It’s nice to see you’ve kept up the crossword habit,” you teased, gesturing toward the table.

Ominis smirked, his confidence returning just enough to quip, “It’s either that or let my mind wander, and we both know that can only lead to trouble.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy, "That's true."

He gestured toward the couch near the window, its cushions plump and inviting. “Sit,” he said, his tone soft but insistent. “I'm sure you’ve been traveling all day.”

You hesitated, still standing near the door, but Ominis stepped closer, his expression gentle. “Please,” he added, his voice quieter now.

With a nod, you set your bag down near the door and crossed to the couch, sinking into its cushions. It was as comfortable as it looked, and you let out a quiet sigh as the tension in your body began to ease.

He moved toward the kitchenette. “Tea?” he asked, his head tilted slightly in your direction.

“Yes, please,” you said quickly, your voice softer than you intended.

Ominis nodded, his movements fluid and purposeful as he filled the kettle and set it on the small stove.

“I’ve got chamomile, mint, and… some Earl Grey that Sebastian swore I’d love but tastes like someone soaked socks in bergamot,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk.

You laughed softly, leaning back into the couch. “Chamomile sounds perfect.”

He nodded, plucking the sachet from its place with an almost practiced precision, his hands moving with the same quiet grace you remembered so vividly. Despite the ease of his movements, you could see the faint tension in the set of his shoulders, the way he hesitated before reaching for the mugs.

"Did Sebastian and Anne know about you coming back?" Ominis asked, his voice calm but carrying a subtle edge of curiosity.

You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of the couch cushion. "No," you admitted softly. "I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t… want them to spill the secret. I thought it might be better this way."

He turned slightly, his sightless eyes tilted in your direction, one brow arching faintly. “Better for whom?”

You huffed a humorless laugh, biting your lip. "Me, I guess. I thought if I just showed up, it would be easier. Less... complicated."

Ominis tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words, his fingers brushing the rim of the mug as he prepared your tea. "You thought sneaking back into Hogsmeade unannounced would be less complicated?"

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite the knot of nerves in your chest. "Okay, maybe not less complicated. But at least it meant I wouldn’t have to explain myself to Sebastian. You know how he gets."

He let out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine, and it warmed something deep inside you. "Indeed. He is relentless," he said, placing the mug of chamomile tea in front of you on the low table. "Though, I can’t say I’d have been any better. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything else."

You looked up at him, startled by the quiet sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t smiling anymore, his expression open and unguarded as he sat down across from you, his own mug cradled in his hands.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait,” you said softly, your fingers curling around the warm ceramic. “I just—” You paused, your words catching in your throat. "I don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. I'm here now."

Ominis’ lips pressed together for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly as though he wanted to press further. His hands tightened almost imperceptibly around his mug, the tension in his shoulders betraying his thoughts.

But then he exhaled softly, the lines of his face smoothing as he nodded. “You’re here now,” he repeated, his voice quiet but steady, though you could hear the unspoken for how long? lingering in the air.

You quickly took a sip of your tea, the warmth a welcome distraction as you scrambled for something that would steer the conversation elsewhere. “This tea is lovely,” you said, offering a smile that you hoped looked effortless. “Everything is. The flat, the shop... it’s all incredible. You must be so proud of what you’ve built.”

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something almost amused. “That’s kind of you to say, but I hardly think a well-stocked tea shelf qualifies as incredible.”

You laughed, grateful for the easy banter. “It’s not just the tea shelf, though it is very impressive. The shop looks amazing—I noticed the display when I walked in. And the enchanted holly on the door? It’s such a nice touch. It’s all so... you.”

He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I did have some help with the holly—Anne insisted. She thought it might ‘soften my cold, foreboding reputation.’”

You grinned, picturing Anne bustling around the shop, her infectious energy clashing against Ominis’ quieter demeanor. “I think it works. Though I can’t imagine anyone thinking you’re 'foreboding'.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said dryly, his smirk deepening. “Anne says I scare away the first years who stop in. Apparently, my ‘stern demeanor’ doesn’t pair well with curious children looking for enchanted scarves.”

You laughed, the image of wide-eyed first-years inching cautiously into the shop playing vividly in your mind. “I’m sure you’re not that bad,” you teased. “Maybe they just don’t appreciate your charm.”

Ominis quirked an eyebrow, his smirk softening. “Charm, is it? I’ll be sure to tell Anne you said that next time she accuses me of being the ‘shopkeeper equivalent of a Boggart.’”

That earned another laugh, lighter this time, and you shook your head. “If she really thought you were a Boggart, she wouldn’t have helped with the decorations.”

“She likes to keep me humble,” he replied, his tone full of wry affection.

But even as Ominis joined in your banter, you could see the way his fingers drummed absently against the side of his mug, his thoughts clearly turning over something unsaid. He was playing along with your attempts at small talk, but you knew he wasn’t fooled.

Still, for now, he let it go, his quiet smile lingering as he said, “So tell me, how does it feel to be back?”

The question caught you off guard, and your smile faltered slightly. “It feels... surreal,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Like I’ve been gone forever, and yet somehow nothing’s changed.”

Ominis nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Hogsmeade does have a way of staying the same. But you..." He hesitated, and his words hung in the air, unfinished but heavy with meaning.

You’re different.

He had noticed. Of course he had. Ominis was nothing if not perceptive.

You lowered your mug to the table, your hands curling into your lap as if that could somehow steady you. The warmth that had spread through your chest moments ago was now replaced with a twisting unease, a voice in the back of your mind whispering, This is it. This is when he sees what’s changed and decides it isn’t enough. That you aren’t enough.

"I know I’m different," you murmured, your voice trembling under the strain of your nerves. It cracked as you spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "I… I’m not the same person I was when I left. I know I’m not exactly how you remember me, and I—" Your breath faltered, hitching as you shook your head, your thoughts spiraling. "I just didn’t want you to be disappointed."

“Disappointed?” Ominis’ voice broke through your spiraling thoughts like a sudden, sharp wind, and when you looked up, his sightless eyes were fixed on you, his expression taut with something between shock and frustration. "Is this... is this why you've taken so long to come home?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting, like the edge of a blade poised to strike. You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came. The truth was tangled in your chest, knotted with years of insecurity and fear, and the weight of it pressed down on your throat, stealing your voice.

Ominis’ expression softened as he straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening as though he were holding back his own frustration—not at you, but at the very idea that you could feel this way. He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his mug before setting it aside with deliberate care.

“Is that really what you’ve been carrying all this time?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “You thought I’d be... disappointed? In you?”

The lump in your throat grew heavier. "I’ve been gone so long... and you’ve built this incredible life here, and I—” You hesitated, your breath catching as you fought to steady yourself. “I didn’t know if I’d still fit into it.”

“You think I could ever—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Merlin’s beard, don't you have any idea how much of this life exists because of you?”

Ominis leaned forward further, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His fingers curled and uncurled against one another, as though he were searching for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less firm.

“Do you know what I thought when you walked into that shop today?” he asked, his words deliberate.

You shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No,” you whispered.

“I thought I’d finally woken up from the longest, most frustrating dream of my life,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "And now, you’re sitting here, telling me you’re afraid I’d notice you’ve changed. Of course you’ve changed. I’d be more worried if you hadn’t. Life does that to people. It changes them. But just because you're different doesn't mean..." he swallowed, his words catching for just a moment before he pressed on, his voice quieter but laced with conviction. “Just because you’ve changed doesn’t mean you’re any less.”

He paused, his fingers tightening where they rested, his knuckles pale with the effort. His expression softened as his words seemed to tumble out, as if he couldn’t hold them back any longer. “That couldn’t be further from the truth, actually.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone, by the faint flush creeping up his neck.

Ominis sat back slightly, his hand running through his hair in a rare display of bashfulness. “It’s been seven years,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Seven years, and in the brief time I’ve had to—to touch you, to hear you, to smell that very same perfume you always wear, you’ve only… Merlin, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding foolish.”

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse quickening as his words sank in. He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly, but the intensity in his voice made it feel as though he could see every piece of you, laid bare and vulnerable.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly in your direction as he gathered his thoughts. “You’ve only improved,” he said finally, his voice low but unwavering. “Despite whatever ridiculous notions you’ve been carrying around, you haven’t diminished. You haven’t become ‘less.’ If anything, you’re... more.”

“You’ve been away, yes," he continued. "You’ve faced things I can only imagine. And yet here you are, sitting in front of me, as strong and resilient and...” He hesitated, his lips curving into a faint, almost shy smile. “As breathtaking as the day you left. You think I’d notice the changes and find fault with them? How could I, when every single one is just another piece of the person I’ve been missing for so long?”

Your hand flew to your mouth, your vision blurring with tears. "Are you... you sure? You really don't have to say this, I—"

He shook his head, raising a hand to stop you, though his touch hovered just shy of reaching across the small space between you. “Of course I'm sure,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “I’ve never been more certain of anything."

He drew in a slow, measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling as though he were steadying himself for a duel.

“I’ve spent seven years wondering if I’d ever get the chance to say this,” he admitted. “To say all the things I was too much of a coward to admit before you left. And I won’t waste it by letting you believe for even a second that you’re anything less than extraordinary," his voice softened, trembling at the edges as he stood from his chair. For a moment, he simply stood there, his sightless eyes cast downward as though steadying himself for what he was about to do. Then, slowly, he moved forward, kneeling on the floor in front of you with a grace that made your breath catch.

His hands reached out, tentative but deliberate, brushing over yours where they rested in your lap before curling around them.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly, his voice raw with emotion. “But I need you to hear this. I need you to understand.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head, cutting you off gently.

“I love you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, his thumbs brushing over the backs of your hands. " I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t even remember what it feels like not to. And I know I should’ve said this before. I should’ve told you when we were still at Hogwarts, when you handed me the shop, when you left. But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean, scared I’d ruin what we had. And then you were gone, and I thought… I thought maybe I’d lost my chance.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, your heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might shatter through your ribs.

“But now you’re here,” he said, his words almost a whisper. “And I can’t let you leave again without knowing how much you mean to me. You are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known, and I’ve spent seven years building a life that, no matter how complete it might seem from the outside, has always been missing you.”

You stared at him, your breath catching as the world seemed to slow around you. The face you’d waited seven years to see again—its every detail etched into your memory but now somehow more vivid, more real—was right before you. The faint furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips as though bracing himself for your response, the glisten of unshed tears in his sightless eyes.

It was all so achingly familiar, and yet time had made him even more beautiful in his quiet, unassuming way.

And you loved him.

You always had.

The years apart, the missed chances, the countless letters you’d written and rewritten but never sent—it all fell away, leaving only this moment. This man. The only person who had ever made you feel like you belonged.

“I’ve loved you too,” you whispered, the words spilling from your lips unbidden, your voice trembling but resolute.

Ominis stilled, his brows furrowing further as though he hadn’t quite heard you. “What?”

You reached out, your hands shaking as you cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble on his jaw. His breath hitched, his sightless eyes searching the space between you as though trying to see what your touch already told him.

“I love you, Ominis,” you said again, your voice steadying as you saw the hope flicker to life in his expression. “I always have."

His lips parted, his breath catching audibly as he tilted his head toward your hands, leaning into your touch as though it were the only thing grounding him.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You smiled through your tears, leaning closer until your forehead rested against his. “I love you,” you murmured, your voice soft but sure.

A shaky laugh escaped him, a sound filled with so much relief and joy it sent a fresh wave of tears streaming down your cheeks. His hands moved to cradle your face, his touch reverent and tender as his thumbs brushed away your tears.

“Merlin,” he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. “I can’t believe... after all this time...”

“Believe it,” you said, your voice filled with quiet certainty.

His grip tightened slightly, his hands trembling as he pulled you closer. “Promise me,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Promise me you’ll stay—I’m begging you—don’t leave again. Merlin, I... I can’t go another seven years without you. Not knowing where you are, if you’re safe, if you’ll ever come back.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

Looks Like We Made It

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Bucky ponders whether your paths were always meant to cross, if fate was what brought you together. You offer a different perspective.

Warnings: Bucky’s POV, established relationship, fluff, flirting, sexual innuendos (no smut).

Author’s Note: Divider by @saradika-graphics

I’m back with a Bucky fic!! Finally 🥹 this instalment is part of the Love In The Woods Collection ❄️, but can absolutely be read as a standalone 🤍 hope you enjoy, friends x

Bucky loved to reminisce. 

And it wasn’t in favour of gone days or that he didn’t enjoy the present — because Bucky couldn’t adore living in the moment more if he tried. 

Rather, he held a fondness of the journey the two of you had taken over the years; how life played its funny little tricks to make sure everything turned out as it should. 

Bucky wasn’t a believer of God, didn’t hold much faith in destiny or fate or a path already paved by a higher power. 

But holy fuck when he looked at you, it was impossible to imagine that there wasn’t any kind of influence to your souls finding each other and intertwining for eternity. 

Either that, or he was a lucky man. 

The thought ricocheted in his mind as he watched you from the bar, dancing to an old 80’s song. Your moves were sloppy and you were singing the lyrics all wrong. Yet, you threw your head back and laughed without a care in the world and for a countless time, Bucky was blessed with the avid reminder of just how much he loved you. 

Of course, he was always aware of his affections. There wasn’t a day that went by where Bucky questioned himself. But in certain moments, when the full measure of his feelings came rushing in all at once, he’s knocked off kilter once more and suddenly his love for you is so overwhelming that it’s hard for him to breathe. 

Magic was laced in everything you did. From how you greeted your friends with pure happiness no matter how often you saw them to the way you sat by the fireplace, swaddled in the masses of blankets you owned, and hummed in bliss at the taste of your homemade hot chocolate. 

It was simply extraordinary and Bucky couldn’t picture a better way to describe you; there was no one else who could make the mundane feel ethereal. 

Bucky’s life may have been simple. But it was yours and his. There was nothing more remarkable than that. 

Natasha knocked against the wood of the bar, gently pulling Bucky from his stupor. “Gonna gawk at your girl all night, Barnes, or are you planning on joining her any time soon?” 

“Wife.” He corrected instantly, though his tone held no animosity, only awe. “She’s my wife, Nat.” 

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head with a grin as she refilled Bucky’s glass. “And doesn’t everyone and their mother know it.” 

Shrugging, Bucky lifted his drink to his mouth and sipped, the whiskey smoothly burning his throat. “You look at her and tell me that I shouldn’t shout it from the damn mountain tops.” 

She did so, glancing over at you with a fond smile. “Then you’re a wise man, Barnes.” 

“Maybe.” His eyes gravitated over to you. He had already looked away for too long for his own liking. “Or I’m just a really lucky fool.” 

It was that moment your gazes locked from across the room. The music played on, the patrons of the bar continued their conversations. However, the world stopped spinning on its axis for Bucky and he wasted no time in taking advantage of the little pocket of time spared for the two of you. 

Parrying his way through the sea of bodies, Bucky made his way towards you, gaze never straying, focus never drifting. He reached you by the vintage jukebox and instantly weaved his arms around your waist. 

“Hi, there,” you grinned, snaking your hands around his neck. Bucky shivered. “I was wondering when you were gonna come over.” 

Bucky bumped his nose against yours. “‘M sorry, baby. Wanted to sit back and watch you for a little while.”

“You’re forgiven.” You teased your lips over his, whispering your wicked hymns against his mouth. “It’s hard to be annoyed at you when you look this good.” 

“That right?” Your outward appreciation of him never failed to fill him with a smug confidence. Compliments from you made him feel like he was on top of the world. “The jacket workin’ for you is it, Dolly?” 

You looked up at him with hooded eyes, licking your lips. “Sure is, handsome. I wonder whether it’ll work for you tonight when it’s the only thing I have on.” 

All the blood in Bucky’s body rushed down to his lower region, hardening his cock in his jeans and weakening his knees.

He groaned, deep and raw. “Fuck—You sure know how to kill a man.” 

Creating a gun with your fingers, you pointed the barrel against Bucky’s chest and mimed a gunshot to the heart. He couldn’t help how his heart stuttered as you winked and whispered a soft boom. “I’m dangerous for the heart, Bear. Haven’t you heard?” 

That you were. “You’re the talk of the town, sweetheart. But I want you anyway.” 

And suddenly, the heated lust dialed down to a tender intimacy. Something only lovers could appreciate. “Very smooth.” 

Bucky began to guide you into a gentle sway, hugging you tighter until any space between you was diminished. “I aim to please, Wife.” 

The name rolled off his tongue so easily. He wasn’t ashamed to say he called you by it as often as he could. It could have been interpreted as a sense of ownership to others. But those who knew the two of you understood that Bucky just couldn’t get enough of reminding himself — and everyone else — that you had married him. 

A true pinch me moment. 

If your smile was anything to go by, you savoured it just as much. “You like saying that, don’t you?” 

Bucky beamed. “All the damn time, you have no idea.” 

You kissed him. A slow, drawn out peck that swallowed his stomach whole like a blizzard. He wasn’t sure if he could ever get used to that feeling; how you continued to steal his heart years on. 

“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” Bucky confessed, eyes closed with his forehead resting against yours.  

Your brows furrowed and you let out a shocked laugh. “What are you talking about, silly? Does the cabin or the ring not seal the deal enough for you?”

“‘Course it does, Dolly.” As if anything could hold a candle to the pillars of bliss that was your story. “It just doesn’t feel real sometimes, y’know? Like surely someone as amazing as you can’t have come into my life without circumstance. Someone must’ve been having a good day when they made you my soulmate.” 

“Are you drunk, Bear?” You giggled. 

“No, darlin’.” Bucky may not have been drunk, but you sure did make him feel like it. “Just wanted to let you know how much I love you.” 

You fell quiet as you slightly backed away. Eyes turned inquisitive, you observed him and Bucky felt more naked than ever. For once, he was clueless to what you were thinking and the unease had him desiring his long forgotten whiskey. 

You finally settled his nerves. “Can I ask you something, sweetie?”  

Bucky swallowed the dryness of his throat. “Anything.”

“Have you ever considered that there’s no other reason as to why I fell in love with you other than that I like you?” 

Frowning, Bucky voiced his bemusement. “Well, I would like to think so.”

You shook your head fondly. “As a person; your personality, your humour. You’re kind and sweet and thoughtful. You're not too bad on the eyes either.” Fingers tangling into the roots of his hair, you coyly pulled before soothing the sting. Your attempt at some lightheartedness before you resumed. “I enjoy spending my time with you, Bear. None of those are miraculous things. You are just you, that’s what love is.”

Though Bucky recognised you were trying to make a point, the pinnacle of your moment wasn’t reaching him. He was silent, struggling to connect the dots in his head. 

You sighed softly. “Believe it or not, I don’t need you, Bucky.” 

The revelation was one he hadn’t expected and for a minute his stomach pitted. Pouting, Bucky attempted to mask his slight hurt. “Ouch.” 

“Oh, stop it. I’m not finished, you big lug.” You smacked his chest playfully. “What I mean is that I’ll never need to rely on you to make me happy. It implies that I have no autonomy and I stay for all the wrong reasons. I’m not some estranged princess, whose only purpose it is to find a prince to save them. I’ve lived a life without you and I was content. But it’s because of you that life is much more fulfilling and it’s because of you that I spend every waking moment thankful that we met.” 

A spark of peace brightened Bucky’s eyes, the bigger picture finally revealing itself and your message becoming clear. You must have caught the subtle undertones of his relief as your lips curved into a smile. 

“I choose to love you, Bucky. I choose to be by your side every single day for the rest of our lives. And I think that’s a lot more meaningful than the idea that some greater good already decided our fate. Instead, out of any other choices we could’ve made, we chose each other.”  

You were right. You were so completely right that Bucky cursed himself for not comprehending it for himself. Because of course, what was better than the act of fortifying a bond so strong that you didn’t have to rely on anything other than knowing what you felt for each other. That your care and warmth of the other was enough to keep your relationship solid rather than depending on the notion of destiny.

No. You and Bucky had created something so stunningly special by yourselves. And he was an idiot for ever thinking anything else.  

Standing in Nat’s bar, in the middle of the dance floor by the vintage jukebox, the world came rushing back in. The music, the chatter. It was reality — tangible. And it was the outcome of your own doings. Better than anything the universe could have concocted for you. 

“In the future, when you think back to each memory of us, remember that there was nothing binding us together. I just wanted to be with you.” You booped his nose, a delicate glisten in your eyes. “Know now, I’ll want you forever.”  

Bucky cleared his throat, discreetly trying to blink away the tears that threatened to break the surface. Even so, his voice cracked with an overload of emotion. “You’re somethin’ else, Dolly.” 

You sniffled, not as willing to hide your sentiment. “Nope. Just me. And you love me all the more for it.” 

“I do,” he breathed. “God, do I fuckin’ love you, more than you could ever know.” 

“Well,” you grinned, as beautiful as always. “We’ve only got the rest of our lives for you to make sure I do.” 

Your excited squeal of laughter echoed around the bar, your friends and family cheering as Bucky swept you off your feet and gathered you into his arms. His smitten smile rang loud for everyone to see, but his soft promise was dedicated to you alone. “Then I best get makin’ good on that then, sweetheart.”

Redemption

Bucky x reader, Morgan & Tony Stark, Alpine!

A/N: Been sitting with this idea for a while and I finally decided to write it. This doesn’t follow the events in the movies. Always wanted to see something where Bucky feels like he redeems himself with Tony, and Tony accepts Bucky. The ending felt a little rushed, might go back and edit this later but I hope you enjoy it! Please like, comment, reblog <3 

Warnings: Angst (some violence), fluff

Word count: 3.4k

Bucky padded down the hall, wondering how come the left side of his bed was cold and empty this morning, though he had a sneaking suspicion of why.

“Alpine? Where’d you g-”

Bucky smiled, shaking his head as he entered the living room, watching Morgan set up her tea party, her stuffed animals and Avengers actions figures all lined in a row. In the middle, was a large fluffy cushion with the special guest of honour.

“Did you want Friskies or Temptations today Alpine?” Morgan held up two treat bags she had snuck out of Bucky’s room, nodding when Alpine pawed at the chicken treats.

“Chicken for you, shawarma for daddy’s friends, cheese burgers for daddy, Mr. Snuggle, you’ll have to share with me, I only have 1 chocolate chip cookie”

Morgan put 3 teats in a dish for Alpine, setting it in front of her. Alpine sniffed the bowl, waiting for Morgan to give her permission to eat.

“Let’s see, scotch for daddy, Thor I have Asgardian mead for you, and for Alpine- oh! I forgot your water bowl, let me go get it!”

Morgan got up, making a bee line to Bucky’s room, turning back to make sure the little white ball of fur stayed in her seat.

“Just give me a second Alpi- Oof!” She collided with a large wall of muscle, two strong hands safely catching her before she stumbled back.

“Hi Morgan” Bucky smiled softly, setting her back down “Whatcha doing?”

“Hi Mr. Barnes” grinned sheepishly, knowing he was looking for his fur baby “I’m having a tea party! But not a boring one, we can have alcohol! Did you want to join us, Alpine is the special guest”

Bucky snorted, nodding his head; he’d noticed Alpine getting slightly fuller from the many tea parties she’d attended but he didn’t mind. Alpine certainly didn’t seem to mind, enjoying the pampering and head scratches she got for hours on end.

Keep reading

I NEEDED THIS—

Feigning Indifference

"— And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference."

 (I promised Quidditch!smut for the girlies a literal year ago, oop. 🐢🐢🐢 Anyhoo...)

Rated: Explicit. MDNI. NSFW. 🔞

Content warnings: f!reader, no mention of house or appearance, size difference kink, semi-public sex, voyeurism/exhibitionist fantasies, possessive!Sebastian, Beater!Sebastian, feral!Sebastian, excessive use of the word fuck, p in v, unprotected sex.

Word count: 1.8k

[MASTERLIST] [WATTPAD]

Sebastian descends onto the Quidditch pitch, wind-swept, sweat-soaked — victorious.

Like a stone in quicksand, he's swallowed up by the cheering throng of admirers before he's even fully off his broom; Slytherin's mostly, their faces painted emerald, scarves transfigured into woolly snakes around their necks — they crowd around him, beside themselves with the thrill of Sebastian's triumph, back-slapping, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing. Sebastian is glad to be wearing his protective gear against the most enthusiastic among them — not that he's weak without his shoulder pads and arm guards, but some thump him so hard with their congratulations that he wonders if they're Gryffindor’s in disguise trying to put him out of action before the next match.

Once he's past the worst of it, he shirks off his Beater's gear: pads, guards, helmet (even cup, which he unashamedly yanks right out of his pants) hit the ground in quick succession, discarded for the teams’ first-year assistant to collect in his wake (provided his rabid fan club doesn't get to them first.)

Thanks to his seventh-year growth spurt, Sebastian is hardly any smaller without his bulky gear on — a fact he uses to his full advantage to shoulder through the crowd. It takes him several minutes to wind his way through; supporters and haters in equal measure jostle for his attention, girls squeal and find excuses to touch him, Imelda criticises his technique as he passes (even though he just won her the bloody match), and somebody lets off a series of explosions overhead that shower the crowd with green and silver sparks. — And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference. 

He wants to kiss the frown right off your face. 

‘There you are.’ He grins down at you. You glare up at him.

‘Seven different girls touched your shoulders just now,’ you grumble, scanning your narrowed eyes over the crowd. ‘Two more touched your chest, and that last one tried to climb you.’

Sebastian's grin widens, delighting in your jealousy. ‘Did they?’ He affects a look of innocence. ‘I didn't notice.’

‘Liar.’ You shoot him a deeply contemptuous look. ‘Maybe I should take up Quidditch, see how you like seeing your girlfriend being groped after every match.’

His amusement drops faster than a fumbled Quaffle. Usually, he finds your little jealous streak endearing — after pining after you for two long years, convinced his feelings were one-sided, your possessiveness makes him embarrassingly gooey-eyed and lovesick. But today he's too jacked up on adrenaline to let that comment slide: nobody touches you but him. Not even in your imagination. 

With no more effort than he expends on waving his Beater's bat around (less, even), he lifts you with one arm, bringing your face level with his. 

‘I wouldn't let you play Quidditch,’ he says lowly, his voice deep with authority.

Authority which you completely ignore, like always.

Incensed, you scoff and wiggle and squirm for freedom (‘Ugh, put me down, you brute! — You can't tell me what to do! — If I want to play Quidditch, you can't stop me!’) but Sebastian only waits, watching your little tantrum with a mix of resigned patience and wry amusement. 

‘You're not the boss of me!’ you wail. You’re tiny in his grip, slender limbed and delicate, but you’re agile enough to break free if he doesn’t handle you right. His arm tightens around you, pinning you so firmly against his chest that you squeak. 

‘Yes,’ he growls in your face, ‘I am.’

Despite all the height and the strength he’s gained since you met in fifth year (or the physique if all the giggles and whispers about his shoulders are to be believed), Sebastian is, generally speaking, an unapologetic softie when it comes to you: the most precious thing he's ever beheld, there's not a girl alive more loved than you. But fresh off the field, bolstered by the dizzying rush of glory and adrenaline, all his usual gentleness eludes him. — Suddenly, he wants to do more than kiss the frown off your face. 

A hot lick of desire alights in his belly, as familiar as it is impossible to ignore. Without another word, he hoists you higher and carries you off beneath the stands; game forgotten, celebrations be damned, he only has eyes for you, little doll, little bunny caught in his hungry gaze, so small and soft and devourable. 

You yelp when your back meets the wall, but hidden now deep in shadows, Sebastian only grins, wolfish. Grateful he'd thought to discard his cup, he pins you there with his hips, making sure you feel every sudden aching inch of him between your legs. 

You're his now. You both know it. 

‘How can you be jealous when you're the only one who does this to me?’ He leans in close enough to spill hot words right into your pretty, parted mouth. ‘I should fuck you standing. Right here,’ — he punctuates with a sharp thrust that makes you gasp, — ‘right now.’

Your eyes go wide, but whether you're scandalised by his audacity or desperate for him to keep whispering filth, Sebastian doesn't particularly care.

He wants to fuck the shock right off your face. 

‘R-right here?’ The wobble in your voice makes him twitch. He grinds into you again, sloooowly this time, rolling the entire length of himself against you while he watches you shift from stubborn brat to good fucking girl; no matter how many times he's seen you like this, flushed pink and panting, he's still utterly obsessed with the moment you finally give in. 

Because you always give in. 

‘Why not?’ He begins the careful crumbling of your resolve with the top button of your blouse, then the second button, third, fourth… But by the fifth his patience snaps and he yanks — hard; no need for a vanishing charm, he rips your shirt clean open. Buttons pop off in all directions; he knows you'll scold him for that later, but right now you only have strength enough to whimper. 

‘What if they see?’ You palm his shoulders — but you're pulling, not pushing. 

‘Let them.’ His lips are on the hollow of your collarbone, sucking shivers out of you. ‘Let them watch me fucking ruin you.’

Yanking you away from the wall, he spins you around and envelopes you from behind, one arm curled so tightly around your waist you couldn't wiggle free even if you wanted to. Not that you do want to; that much is clear when his other hand slides beneath your undies. Fingers slick, he fucking moans his way down the side of your neck, his tongue laving a hot, wet stripe down to your shoulder. 

‘You think I want to touch any of them like this, huh?’ He bundles your little body against him like a blanket, his arms taut and muscles straining as he works your moans free with his hands and his tongue. You buck obediently against his palm, and when he slides two thick, long fingers inside you, your knees give out. He holds you up, pinned pretty to his chest, your tits heaving in the open air, nipples begging to be painted wet by his hungry mouth. 

Sweat drips from his hair and lands on your face. ‘You think I want to fuck any of them the way I fuck you?’

Through the gaps between the stands, the Quidditch pitch is empty, quickly abandoned for post-match festivities (or commiserations if you're a Gryffindor). He imagines marching you back out there right now fucking you in the middle of it, stripping you bare and pounding you silly while the teams debrief in the changerooms and the Slytherin's celebrate their win in the dungeons. — He'd never do it for real, of course, but the fantasy of claiming you so openly, having you exposed and babbling on his cock for anyone to see makes him dizzy. 

He wants everyone to know you're his. 

The thought makes him fucking — lose — it. 

Hot and thick in his hand, he strokes himself free from his trousers with frantic pumps and a long, drawn-out whimper. If he's teetering on the edge of control, then you don't stand a chance; he hoists your leg up and rubs himself desperately against your underwear, mouthing your neck from behind, palming your tits with his big, calloused hand. Never has he been more grateful for all the grueling training sessions that have granted him the strength to manhandle you onto his cock whenever the mood strikes.

Undies bunched to the side, you arch your back and reach an arm around his shoulder, begging, begging, begging even as he's pushing in, in, into you. The sound he makes when he's fully sheathed is nothing short of feral; he stumbles forward, that hot, tight squeeeeeze of you so good it makes him weak in the knees. 

It's fucking unbearable what you do to him, the way you make him dribble and buck and moan all sorts of dirty things in your little ear — the way you make him lose control. 

‘Look at you,’ he slurs, anchoring you to his body with the full, hot length of his cock. ‘S'fucking good, s’all fucking mine.’

Holding your leg up, he sets a slow, deep rhythm and imagines himself watching you: a last-minute straggler drawn to your hiding place by your sweet moans. He imagines how pretty you'd look all stretched out and stuffed full of himself, tits bouncing, mouth agape with pleasure, too fucked out of your mind to realise how loud you are. He'd touch himself to it — oh fuck yes he would, edging himself to time his climax with yours. And maybe you'd notice him, a pair of dark eyes burning with desire. Maybe you'd like it. Maybe it'd make you cum harder. 

Fuck. Lust roils thick and luscious in his stomach and he makes a mental note to fuck you in front of a mirror next time. 

He's gasping now, slamming into you so hard your foot almost leaves the ground with every thrust.

‘If only —’ he groans, ‘— they could — see you —’ He drops his head to your shoulder and bites. ‘You're the — ngh — only one — oh, fuck —’

Surely you know — surely you understand that it's always been you; that the way you surrender makes him feel strong; that being inside you makes him feel less broken. Surely you know that he uses his body to say the things he can't put into words. 

It's more than sex: he fucking loves you. 

Your peak hits you first: a long, slow, wet release that Sebastian rides out as best he can without falling over. He moans along with you, echoing ecstasy into your ear, holding you up while your body succumbs to the overwhelming love he gives and gives and gives over to you. And when you're done, spent and shivering in his arms, sweet and limp and loved to the extreme, he follows. 

I am OBSESSED this might seriously be my favorite thing ever

Are You Going My Way? | Collection | John "Bucky" Egan

Lost and found in four parts. John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Warnings: 18+ smut, mentions of blood, wounds, operations, hospitals, war -> Taglist open! ***

Hitchin' a Ride Part 1

Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes. Words: 7k | Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals

***

Follow Me Where I Go Part 2

Or how you stopped worrying and learned to love trouble.

Words: 8.5k | Warnings: smut, 18+

***

As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death Part 3

***

Lights Will Guide You Home Part 4

Camellia: Popia x f!reader - Chapter 2

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You start work on Elizabeth's diary, and finally get a good look at Papa.

Word count: 5.5k

A/N: Hey hello, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a bit of a monster, but worth it, I promise!

Warnings: Mentions of reader having religious trauma

AO3 Link / Chapter 1

~~~

You’ve been hunched over this damned diary all day. 

Sister Imperator was right. None of the Abbey’s translators or archivists would have been able to read Elizabeth’s writing because she had written in a cipher. With no spaces between words and with no obvious keyword to decipher her entries, the first page of her diary looks like nonsense. Just absolute gibberish. 

But to you, it isn’t. 

With each passing hour you spend at a small table in the restricted room, you admire Elizabeth more and more. She was smart as a whip and even more clever. You figure that, if she wanted her diary to be kept secret, she could have simply destroyed it. Burnt it, ripped it, buried it, dipped the whole thing in black ink—anything surely would have been easier than creating a cipher which has no discernable pattern. 

She didn’t destroy it, though. She wrote on each page, front and back until the entire book was filled, and then she hid it. If something is truly never meant to be found, it won’t be. Which leads you to believe Elizabeth’s diary isn’t a diary at all. It’s a record. 

A record of what, you have yet to be sure. It is secret enough for Elizabeth to want it to be discovered someday, but only after she is long gone. That intrigues you enough to sit hour after hour over this book, trying every word you can think of that might be the key to the cipher. So far you have crossed off ‘Satan’, ‘Lucifer’, ‘Beelzebub’, and other aliases of the Dark One. You hadn’t expected those to work, because Elizabeth seems smarter than that, but you had to try just to rule them out. You also tried words like ‘chapel’, ‘altar’, and other imagery of the Satanic Ministry, with no luck. You thought perhaps the first five letters of the entry were the key to the second five, or vice versa. You tried again with the first six letters, the first two, three, four. Nothing. 

The only words you have been able to read are the dates of each entry, the month and the day, which she wrote in the top-left corner in plain English. Those were not much of an accomplishment to decipher.

You sigh and sit up straight for a moment. Your back is sore after hours of slouching and writing. The once-crisp notebook under your pen is nearly half full of incorrect keywords and mistranslations. The small window on the far wall of the restricted room has grown dark and no sounds echo to you from the hollow of the atrium. 

You’d gotten up to find something to eat (and to uncross your eyes) during the dinner hour. Tonight you opted for a hot meal but decided not to stay in the refectory. You don’t know if food is even allowed in the library but all the Siblings who work there were at dinner, so you snuck it in anyways. You aren’t careless, though, so you ate your dinner at a different table, far away from the one where Elizabeth’s diary and your notebook sit open. That had been a few hours ago. 

As far as you can tell from the small window in the door, the lights in the library have been dimmed for the night. No one came and fetched you to tell you that it was closing, so you assume it stays open at all hours. Your own desk lamp is the only source of light in the restricted room. 

You rise from your workstation and move towards the closed door. Such an enclosed room tends to get stuffy and humid, and it’s still too chilly outside to open a window. You gently prop open the door to let in the relatively fresh air of the library. No one said you couldn’t keep the door open when you’re inside the room, only that the door must be locked when you aren’t. 

Returning to your desk, you can already feel the cooler air drifting through the bookshelves. You’re content to work for a few more hours like this. It feels wrong to give up for the night when you have nothing to show yet. It feels wrong to stop working when you have something to prove, and somewhere to return. 

The night here is eerily silent. At home in Marseille, if you open your dormitory window and sit on the end of your bed to look out over the water, you can hear the soft lapping of water against the marina docks. If the wind carries just right, you can also hear the creaking of masts and cables as the sailboats list back and forth in the water. Sometimes the gulls stay out at night during the summer months, calling for one another from their perches on a bow pulpit. The breeze carries the saltiness of the water and the sweetness of the hillside wildflowers into your dormitory, illuminated only by a small desk lamp and the moon—

A sound from outside the room breaks you from your reverie. Your consciousness whips back to the present, to the Abbey. The ghostly scent of salt and flowers fades, replaced by old leather and dust and ink from your pen. 

You raise your eyes to look through the open door when you hear another sound. There’s no one visible to you—whoever they are must be between shelves, looking for a late-night romance novel to put them to sleep. 

You haven’t figured out why the romance section is so tucked away yet. Though, perhaps if erotica is shelved nearby, the librarians would want any wandering hands to stay hidden. Not that lust is shameful here—it’s the Satanic Ministry, it’s actually encouraged—but the library is not the place to get hot and heavy. 

Knowing that someone is nearby distracts you terribly, and you decide to stop for the night. The little analog clock hanging next to the door reads past midnight. At this hour, you likely won’t get much done anyway. You need sleep and a proper breakfast to let your mind work. 

You take the time to gently wrap Elizabeth’s diary in the white linen and return it to its lockbox. The rest of your things don’t take long to gather, having only brought the one notebook and a few pens, plus your empty dinner box. You close the door behind you as you exit, fishing through your habit pocket to find the key. It and the key to your dormitory are affixed to a single keyring which jingles as you fumble with it one-handed, but you lock the door successfully and turn to make your way to the staircase. 

Rather, you try to make your way. 

As soon as you turn around, a figure emerges from the bookshelves. You promptly run into him, which sends your materials to the floor and your mind reeling with apologies. “Oh, je suis vraiment désolé—Er, I’m so sorry!” you bluster, holding your now-empty hands out to plead for forgiveness. You kneel to gather your things into a messy pile, then stand and finally meet the eyes of the poor soul you’d accosted with your body. “I should have been more careful, but it’s late so I thought…” 

They’re the same eyes you’d met yesterday, in the refectory. Still striking, still surrounded by black, but up-close and more relaxed. And no white paint. Just the black upper lip and the black eyes of Papa Emeritus the Fourth. 

“It’s, eh, it’s quite alright, Sister,” Papa says with an awkward little laugh. You notice he’s not wearing his robes or his mitre. In fact he’s not wearing anything that might remotely indicate that he’s the Antipope. He wears a simple black t-shirt and red sweatpants, and gray fuzzy slippers that have the eyes and whiskers and pink nose of a rat which you thought looked cute when you’d knelt down. 

But he’s still Papa, and you still barreled into him like a brute. 

You try to smile but it feels more like a grimace. “Still, I shouldn’t have just…” you gesture with your free arm. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?” 

Papa pats his chest like he’s searching for injuries. You hit him hard, but not that hard, and it makes you laugh softly. “I’m fine. Quite good. Still in one piece,” he says. “Are you? And why are you here so late?”

You blush. “Oh, does the library close at night? I’m sorry, no one came and told me, I just assumed…” 

“No, no,” Papa reassures you, waving a hand in front of himself. “No, it doesn’t close. But it’s usually empty at this time of night, you see.” 

You nod in understanding. “It is pretty late.” 

“It is,” Papa echoes. “So… pardon my asking, Sorella, but why are you still awake?”

“I was, um,” you try to explain, looking down at the messy pile of translation work cradled in the crook of your elbow. “I was working on Elizabeth’s diary, but it may take longer than I expected.”

Papa’s face seems to light up at your mention of your work. “Oh! Forgive me, yes, I should have known,” he rushes out. “You are the, eh, visitor? From Marseille?”

You nod and give him your name. He repeats it softly to himself, as if to remember it. You doubt he will, but you won’t hold it against him—there are many, many Siblings at the Abbey and many names to remember. So if he manages to distinguish you from the rest of the crowd, you will be pleasantly surprised. Not to say you don’t have faith that he could, but… well. You’re running yourself in circles. 

He narrows his eyes slightly, but pauses for a moment. “I saw you yesterday, at dinner,” he tells you. 

So much for not remembering a face in the crowd. You mentally kick yourself. 

“Ah, yes,” you chuckle nervously. “I’m not the biggest crowd person.” Papa chuckles. “Yes, I noticed. To be honest, neither am I.” 

That’s hard to believe, coming from him. To be Papa is to be a figurehead, a symbol of unwavering faith and devotion to the Olde One which the entire Satanic Ministry worships. One must be a bit of a crowd pleaser in order to be successful in his position. “It doesn’t seem that way, Papa,” you tell him. “You command a room very well, from what I’ve heard.” 

A smug little grin grows on Papa’s lips, and it suits him. Smiling suits him. “So word of my immense charisma has traveled all the way to Marseille, yes?” he asks, mostly teasing. But a small lilt in his voice betrays that he really does wonder. What does this foreign Sister think of him based on word of mouth alone? And does his person size up to his reputation? 

You laugh. “It has,” you say. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you are uncomfortable in a crowd.” 

Papa tuts his tongue, his grin growing into a fond smile. “You should have seen my brother.” There’s a small sparkle of reminiscence in his eye as he says this, and you wonder which of the three other Papas he speaks of. You’ve heard different stories about all of them. 

His eyes drop to the papers and notebook in your arm, then back up to your face. “But, eh, you are settling in well, Sorella?” he asks. 

You can tell he wants to change the subject, so you let him. “Yes, Papa, thank you,” you smile. 

“That’s not very convincing.” 

You release an airy laugh and drop your head. He can see right through you. “It’s very different here,” you say. “Marseille is… small. Cozy. Secluded. Not to say that I don’t like it here, because it really is very nice—”

“It’s crowded,” Papa cuts you off. It’s soft, and not intended to be rude, but to agree with you. “And big. I understand.”

Your shoulders drop, but you hadn’t realized they were raised in the first place. “It’s not home,” you find yourself admitting. 

He nods. “And so you work late into the night because you do not want to sleep in an unfamiliar bed.” 

You stare at him for another beat. He seems to know what you’re feeling even before you do, because yes, your bed here isn’t the same as the one back home, and suddenly you’re very close to crying. Don’t cry, don't cry, don't cry…

“May I tell you something, in confidence?” Papa asks. His voice is low and gentle. It soothes you. His eyes search your own, flicking back and forth between them, and you begin to understand how this slightly awkward man in rat slippers is able to enrapture an entire chapel of people. 

You nod. 

“I miss being a Cardinal,” he tells you. “Truly, I do. Becoming Papa has been the only goal I can ever remember having, ever since I was old enough to care. But as soon as I ascended I…” He pauses. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should finish his thought. 

He sighs. “What I mean to say is, There is no shame in missing where you used to be.”

You hold his gaze for another long moment, wondering what it is he was going to say. His words linger in the silence between you and you let them. As soon as he became Papa he… what? 

“Thank you, Papa,” you say quietly. The moment feels almost intimate, like he’d confided his biggest secret to you. But for all you know, he tells every Sibling he comes across the same thing. It’s his duty to counsel everyone under his roof, visitors included. 

No, you chastise yourself. Papa doesn’t seem like the kind of man to have practiced lines for serendipitous meetings… but you are still learning not to assume the worst of people. You had been far too young when you learned not to trust anyone, even those deserving of it. But Papa… he seems genuine, and it’s all you can do (for yourself and for him) to believe that he is. 

You realize that this is the natural end of your conversation. That now is when you should say goodnight, nice to meet you, see you around, but you don’t want to. You can’t tell if it’s because you’ve been on your own all day, or because it’s late and you’re tired, or because the air around him seems to grow warmer and more… comfortable. Papa radiates an aura of peace that you haven’t felt since you received Sister Imperator’s letter nearly a week ago.

“If I may ask, Papa,” you start, just as the silence begins to grow awkward, “what are you doing awake at this hour?”

Papa’s eyes turn down, and a small smile graces his lips. “Ah, I was just looking for something to read,” he says, and you nearly laugh at yourself for asking such an obvious question. Of course he’s looking for something to read. The two of you are standing deep in the bowels of the library. 

Oh, who are you kidding? Papa likely came here to find a book in peace, not speak to some foreign Sister. Who are you to keep his attention? 

“I see,” you say, in your practiced voice. “Well. Good luck, and I hope you find something, Papa.” 

Before you can blurt out any more feelings to him, you turn and walk briskly towards the winding staircase that leads you to the first floor. 

~~~

Copia watches you retreat, slightly confused and halfway ready to call your name to make you stay. Something had changed in your demeanor just before you left, and he wants to ask if you’re alright, or if he said something wrong and caused you to close yourself off like that. Was it his little comment about missing the past? No, no, it couldn’t be—your eyes had been wide and searching, but you weren’t offended. Your brow had furrowed but not out of disgust. 

He’s not as clueless as most people think he is. Just because he has a hard time finding the right words to say what he’s thinking doesn’t mean he’s stupid. In fact, Copia prides himself on his ability to read people. His ability to speak as eloquently as he does in his head… that’s another story. 

When he’d first seen you in the refectory yesterday, you had already been looking right at him. He was curious about the straggler who’d wandered in so timidly. Your face isn’t one he’d seen around the Abbey. If he had, he would’ve remembered you because frankly, you’re striking. 

Copia doesn’t know why he hadn’t connected the dots sooner. It seems obvious that a brand new Sister should appear only weeks after Sister Imperator mentions bringing someone in to translate the document that had been found. Your presence had been a single talking point during some meeting or another, and if he’s perfectly honest, most Clergy meetings seem to blend together into nonsensical mush when he thinks back on them. Your mention of Elizabeth’s diary had reminded him of a few vague details. But the rest of that discussion, unsurprisingly, slips his mind. 

He finds himself feeling guilty. He’d been at that meeting, he knows for certain. The paperwork to confirm your temporary transfer had landed on his desk and he’d signed it. He must have. Your file must have been sent over from Marseille ahead of your arrival, why hadn’t he seen it?

Copia runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He should have welcomed you to the Abbey himself. He should have sought you out and personally offered his hospitality, because he knows what it’s like to be across the world from home. He knows how lost and alone you feel. He’d felt it himself, after he transferred to the Abbey as a newly-appointed Cardinal. 

I miss being a Cardinal, he’d told you. And it’s true, he does, but he misses being an Archbishop more. He held less sway within the Satanic Ministry as an Archbishop, but he was allowed to stay in Italy. His home. 

As soon as he’d ascended to the rank of Cardinal, Sister Imperator had called him to the Abbey as a permanent transfer. Sure, his brothers had all been transferred from Italy one by one as they were called up to the Papacy, so he had family at the Abbey. But they had all been busy, constantly, and so had he. 

You’d told him you miss home, and a very strange, very tender part of him wants to comfort you. 

~~~

You replay your conversation with Papa all the way back to your dormitory. Stupide, stupide, stupide… 

He told you that he’s not much of a crowd person, and then you go and tell him that his Abbey doesn’t feel cozy enough for you? And you nearly knocked him over in your haste to return to a bed that you told him isn’t as good as the one in Marseille. What a way to thank him for opening his home to you! Thanks, Papa, but here are all the reasons why your Abbey sucks.

“Fille stupide,” you mutter to yourself. The sound echoes off the walls of the dark, empty corridor. The wall sconces are dark for the night, so the only illumination comes in the form of pale blue stripes of moonlight along the tiled floor. 

When you finally reach your dormitory and softly shut the door behind you, you take a moment to breathe. You’d been walking rather briskly in order to get back. Your fingers clench so tightly on the edge of your notebook that your fingernails are white, and your joints creak as you release your hold. The slap of the spiral-bound book seems loud when you drop it onto the small desk below the window, reverberating around the room. There are no posters, no tapestries, no curtains to absorb the sound like there are at home. 

You loathe the sound. You loathe the echoes. You loathe the tip-tapping of heels on the pristine floors of the Abbey. You loathe the muffled sounds of laughter coming from a dormitory a few doors down. You loathe how desperately you want to find something to hold onto here, something that feels personal. And you loathe how you crave familiarity despite the fact that you’ll return to Marseille as soon as that little book is translated. 

You practically rip your habit off—a habit that is uniform in France, but sets you apart here—in favor of your sleep clothes. Climbing into the small bed, you begin to recite your prayer in every language you know. It’s a habit you’d developed as soon as you began learning a second language at the ripe age of nine. Only then, the prayers had been directed at the cruel, unforgiving Catholic God. 

Salut Satan, notre Ténébreux juste et indulgent…. Ave Satana, il nostro Tenebroso giusto e indulgente…. Salve Satanás, nuestro justo y perdonador Oscuro…. 

You continue until you’ve exhausted all the languages you know, and then you start over again with a different prayer. And again. And again, until somewhere in the middle of your Portuguese Hail Lilith you drift to sleep. 

~~~

You wake the next morning in a much better mood. Perhaps last night you’d just been frustrated and overtired from working from dawn til far past dusk, but the bright birdsong from outside sounds happier today. It follows you from your dormitory, down the corridor and to the main hall, where the sounds of the breakfast hour echo out into the large space. 

You could walk into the refectory if you wanted, without feeling intimidated (at least not as much as the day you arrived), but you don’t have much of an appetite this morning. Instead you take your time walking the length of the main hall. There are sculptures in spaces between the wood benches that you hadn’t noticed before. You find one you recognize, and it doesn’t surprise you that the Abbey houses a replica. 

La génie du mal is a welcome sight. The Marseille Abbey also keeps a replica, although it is slightly smaller than this one. It’s a depiction of a fallen angel chained to a rock, with a crown held loosely in one hand while the other runs through his hair. His stone face is solemn but the bat-like wings splaying from his back seem to welcome you, as if saying, Hello child, do you remember me? 

Yes, you do remember. You remember being eleven years old and traveling to Liège at the whim of your parents. You remember touring Saint Paul’s Cathedral and pretending to marvel at the Catholic imagery that you didn’t understand (or care for) at the time. Every depiction of Jesus on the cross looked the same. Every statue of a veiled Mother Mary reminded you to be chaste and pure and subservient to a God who thinks you a lesser being. 

And then you’d seen him in the chapel of the Cathedral, placed at the back of a pulpit which wrapped around a stone pillar. The four sculptures of saints (whose names you don’t bother to remember) stood at the front of the pulpit, facing in towards the pews, as if standing guard over the sculpture. La génie du mal was tucked into the back, hidden from view, but you knew something must have been there. Why else would not one, but four saints be guarding a single pillar, when there were dozens lining the interior of the chapel? 

So you’d slipped from the watchful eye of your parents while they were distracted by the tour guide, and rounded the pulpit to see the backside. He was there, carved in white marble and stationed in the niche between two curved staircases. The elaborate stained-glass windows cast speckles of yellow, blue, and violet over his body, and he glowed in the sunlight like he was a real angel fallen to Earth right in front of you. 

You visited him a lot, afterwards.

You learned later that the pulpit was commissioned to represent “The Triumph of Religion over the Genius of Evil,” but you thought—and still think—that it was executed rather poorly. The four statues facing inward protect only the Cathedral from La génie du mal, but he, facing outward towards the windows, can see the rest of the world. Anyone looking into the chapel for refuge or guidance would only see him, colorful and bright, through the holy scenes of the stained glass. 

You jump nearly ten feet in the air when a voice beside you snaps you from your thoughts. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” 

You look to your left and catch the mismatched eyes of Papa. You hadn’t even heard him come up beside you. “Oui—ah, yes,” you say, swiftly correcting your French to English. 

“You know,” Papa says, looking back to the marble replica, “the original was commissioned because the first version of it was too, eh, sexy.” 

You do know, but the fact makes you laugh anyway. “The first version is nothing compared to this. It makes me think that the artist made this version even sexier, just to spite the Catholics. And to avenge his brother.” 

Papa turns to you fully now, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wears a smart black suit adorned with an elaborate grucifix on the lapel. It’s a far cry from the sweatpants and t-shirt from last night, but no less comfortable. You can’t help but notice that the suit is tailored to perfection. 

“His brother?” he asks. 

You nod. “The original sculptor was the younger brother of this artist,” you explain, gesturing to La génie. “It’s a bit of a slap in the face for them to ask his own brother to redo his work. I can imagine they both felt a little slighted.”  

Papa chuckles. “Perhaps just a little.” 

A brief pause falls between the two of you, and you begin to wonder just how long it will take for the silence to grow awkward. So far you haven’t reached that point. Not with Papa, at least. 

“It would have been nice to have the original piece,” Papa says unhurriedly. “I can’t imagine the Catholic Church would have agreed to let us buy it.” 

You turn to look at him briefly, letting out a small laugh. “If the price was high enough, I’m sure they would have,” you say with an almost imperceptible edge of bitterness. “But I do think its place at Liège is where it belongs.” 

“Have you been?” Papa asks you, his eyebrows slightly raised as he turns to meet your gaze. 

“I have,” you answer. You don’t elaborate further on the nature of your visit. “That’s not to say I don’t believe it would have a good home here, Papa. I just think that the irony of its placement is lost on the Catholics.” 

He asks about it, and you explain. His eyes never leave your face as you talk. You don’t feel scrutinized like you had under Sister Imperator’s gaze, though. Papa’s eyes are warm and interested and you could swear they almost glow in the morning light. He nods and hums with each point you make, seeming genuinely intrigued by your argument that La génie holds more influence facing outward rather than inwards. 

It’s a subject you’re passionate about. La génie had set you on a path towards the Satanic Ministry that day. By age eleven you already knew you didn’t want to be Catholic despite your parents’ efforts to instill their beliefs on you, but you didn’t know exactly what you believed in. Until you saw him, solemn and still, his magnificence hidden behind a stone pillar at Liège. 

Despite Papa’s careful listening, you realize you must be rambling and cut yourself off. “Sorry, Papa. I don’t mean to talk your ear off.” 

“Oh, no!” Papa says, shaking his head. “No need to apologize, Sister. I enjoy listening to you speak.” 

Heat blossoms over your cheeks. You almost miss how his own face flushes a slight shade of pink. Almost. 

“Eh, I mean—” Papa begins to fiddle with his own fingers. “What I mean to say is that you make a lot of good points. Yes.” 

It’s obvious that he’s nervous over the comment he made. It was straightforward and a little flirty, and you know that in the bright hall he can most likely see the pink beneath your skin. Maybe he hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so… well, flirty. Or maybe he thinks he overstepped a boundary, that he said something he shouldn’t have? It was just a comment about listening to you talk, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Satan, why are you so flustered all the sudden? 

You give him a small smile. “Either way… thank you, Papa. I should, uh—”

“Yes, me too—”

“Right, have a good day,” you say, a bit quicker than is necessary, and turn on your heel to start towards the library. 

~~~

Once again, Copia finds himself watching you go. 

Rationally, he knows that you’re not upset with him. You didn’t leave because of something he’d said or done that made you uncomfortable. If that was the case, he hopes that you’d tell him. He would hate for you to feel unwelcome or upset, especially because of him. 

But oh, how your eyes shone while you spoke about La génie. 

Hearing footsteps approaching from his right, Copia turns and finds Terzo looking rather smug as he strolls towards him. He wears a big, stupid grin on his face and looks at Copia like he’d just discovered the stash of sweets on the bottom drawer of his bedside table. 

“And who was that?” Terzo asks with feigned innocence. He comes to a stop next to Copia and clasps his hands behind his back. They both stare at La génie. 

Copia chews the inside of his cheek. “Who was who?” 

Terso tuts his tongue. “Oh, don’t be coy with me, fratellino. We both know I’m talking about the Sister you were just ogling.” “I wasn’t ogling,” Copia protests. Terzo is always teasing, always nudging, always subtly poking fun at him for no reason other than he finds it fun. That’s what little brothers are for, Terzo says. To poke fun at, and to teach the ways of the world. “And we both know that you know who she is.” 

“Ah, yes, I do know,” Terzo says with a shrug. “But I wanted to hear what you had to say.”

Copia looks at his brother. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Terzo says, “you seemed quite invested in that conversation just now. And then you turned a very obvious shade of red, and she walked away. Forgive me, I’m a gossip.” 

Copia laughs. “There’s nothing to gossip about, Terzo. She told me about this sculpture and where the original is housed. That’s it.” 

Terzo tilts his head, leaning in slightly. “That does not explain why you both were so red in the face, fratellino.” 

Copia sighs and runs a hand through his hair. So it was obvious, even from down the hall. “I… may have said that I like listening to her speak.” 

“Oh,” Terzo says flatly. He sounds almost disappointed. “I thought you might have told her something else.” 

“What? Why?” Copia asks. “Was that a weird thing to say?” 

Terzo chuckles, shaking his head. “No. It’s a perfectly good compliment. But you both turned so red that I thought you invited her to your chambers.” 

Copia nearly chokes on his own saliva. “Wh–what?” he sputters. “Terzo, I barely know her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t think so with the way you were looking at her!” Terzo says, his voice pitched higher to his own defense. “‘My darling, you speak so beautifully, it is like birdsong in the early morning. I simply cannot resist the way you look—’” 

“Stop—”

“‘—in the sunlight. Your eyes shine so brightly and your mouth moves so gracefully—’” 

“Terzo, I—”

“‘—that I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like on my—’” 

“Okay,” Copia throws his hands up. He storms off towards the refectory for breakfast. 

Terzo’s laugh echoes through the main hall as he jogs to catch up with Copia. “What? I’m only saying what I thought you said.” 

Copia hadn’t said any of those things to you, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t thought them. It’s true; your eyes did shine in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and your mouth did move gracefully. Although those parts of you are attractive to him and he’d readily admit that you’re beautiful, it was the way you spoke that caught him. You seemed to forget your timidness, your reservations. You spoke freely and enthusiastically, like you’d forgotten you were speaking to Papa and instead spoke to a friend. Copia wonders if La génie holds some significance to you outside of just being an interesting sculpture. 

Copia resolves to ask you the next time he sees you, and he finds himself hoping that it’s soon.

Through Sea Mist and Shadows — Bucky Barnes x Reader — Masterlist

after many years away, you return back to the small family farm that was once considered your home. nestled above the cliff-sides of a remote Maine island, sea mist cresting at its edges, you find that things are far different now. your family bears you sad smiles, the fisherman's boy is quiet and reserved, and you yourself have changed beyond your own recognition over the years.

a story about returning to your roots and finding yourself where you least expected it; in the arms of an old friend.

started: 5/2/23 rewrite: 5/22/25

status: ONGOING! IN THE PROCESS OF BEING REWRITTEN!

warnings: mature readers only! 18+, discussions of mental illness and emotional trauma, death of a loved-one, suggestive, no use of (Y/N), cursing but come on now, we're all adults, I do include vague descriptions and interactions with readers' parents for plot points

CHAPTERS

prologue

one

two