Just Tea & Honey

eliza | she/her | 25 A collection of fandom stuff.

[classicrebound]

Hello!

Welcome to my blog, where I post stuff (mostly reblogs) from fandoms I’m apart of and occasional random stuff that I like. So, enjoy and scroll away! xx

Fandoms you’ll find here:

MCU

Stranger Things

Sherlock (bbc)

DC (mostly Dick Grayson and Jason Todd - I'm having a dc fangirl resurgence atm)

Harry Potter

A variety of anime

and a bunch more honestly, but those are the most frequent (could change in the future, who knows?)

[brunchable]

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐞

 ݈݇— pairings: The Creature(2025) x Bride!reader  ݈݇— themes: 1800s Era, Gothic Romance, Gothic Horror, Longing that aches, Star-Crossed Lovers, Dark Romanticism, Tragic Love, Angst, Death and Rebirth, Murderous Intent, Mentions of Blood, Soft for her only, Run away bride, Heroine Death Scene, Macbeth/Hamlet Vibes, Violence and Injury, Slow Burn-ish?. No use of y/n.  ݈݇— summary: “Only choose freely,” he whispered. “For love coerced is no love at all.” And now the night waits with you—soft-throated, trembling, wanting to see which way your heart will break. Author's Note: I mixed the book with the movie and added a little something at the end ;) Loosely Inspired by Shakespeare and Henri-Léopold Lévy's painting "Young Woman and Death" This is part one of a Twoshot.

Victor saw his death before he felt it.

The creature’s hand closed around his throat with effortless certainty, lifting him from the floor as if he weighed no more than a book left open on a table. The chambers lurched in Victor’s vision—bed, wood, the skeletal silhouettes of instruments—before his back struck the stone wall with a dull, sick crack.

His breath left him in a strangled gasp.

“Do not speak,” the creature said softly.

The voice was wrong for such a body—too careful, too precise. Victor clawed at the fingers around his neck and found them unyielding, like iron that had once been flesh.

“You presume much,” Victor hissed when the grip loosened enough to allow words. “You come into my house and—”

“I come into your house,” the creature murmured, “because you would not come into mine.”

He tilted his head, the lamp-light cutting hard lines over a face both man and not-man: seams, shadows, patches of color turned strange by the hand that had arranged them. His eyes gleamed a sallow gold in the dimness.

“You called the mountains my home,” he went on. “You called the ice my comfort. You demanded I vanish from men. I obeyed you when I could. I watched. I froze. I starved. I waited. I am tired of waiting.”

Victor’s gaze darted past him, toward the narrow window that overlooked the dark water. Beyond the pond, the smaller manor sat in candle-soft silhouette, a gentle yellow square in its upper story like a watching eye.

A bridal eye.

“You forget yourself,” Victor croaked. “You forget who gave you life.”

The creature’s mouth bent into something that might have been a smile if it held any warmth at all.

“Oh, I remember,” he said. “I remember the first breath in my lungs and then the first repulsion in your eyes. I remember your footsteps fleeing down the stairs.” His grip tightened, just enough to make Victor’s vision spark at the edges. “You made me. And then you called that act a crime.”

“I will not fashion you a companion,” Victor spat, fighting for air. “I will not loose a second fiend upon the world.”

The creature’s eyes flicked again toward the pond.

“Then you should not have left me alone to discover what loneliness is,” he said. “You should not have shown me what it is to watch others walk two by two while I wander the earth alone.”

Victor’s breath staggered.

The creature stepped closer, his voice dropping—twisted into something far more dangerous by the refusal he’d been dealt.

“I asked you gently,” he said. “I begged you for a being who would look upon me without recoiling. Someone who would know the winter I’ve crossed. I asked you to give me a life I might hold, if only so I need not howl into the snow.”

His lip curled—not in malice, but in a grief flayed raw.

“A companion,” he breathed. “A single grace from you. You deny me that.”

Victor followed the creature’s gaze despite himself. The little house across the water, so charmingly appointed for a bride—flowers, ribbons, a room set aside where you might dress and pray and tremble before being led to him. He had insisted you sleep there tonight, away from the noise of the main house, for “quiet reflection.”

“She is innocent,” Victor whispered. Though he had hidden you away like guilt itself, the words came easily to him now.

“Innocent?” The creature’s voice deepened. “And I am not? I did not ask to be born.” He leaned in, the glow of his eye catching every tremor in Victor’s face. “You have something you will not give me. You hoard it. You call it virtue. You call it propriety. You build it a prettier cage.”

His gaze returned to the far window, to that soft square of light.

“I think,” he said thoughtfully, “I should like to look at your cage.”

Victor lunged then, a wild, useless effort.

The creature scarcely seemed to move. He simply shifted his weight, swept one arm, and Victor’s body left the wall with brutal speed, crashing into the bookshelves.

By the time he could drag himself upright, the balcony door stood open to the night, curtains flapping in the cold, and the creature was gone.

Out across the water.

Toward the smaller house.

Toward you.

For you had met him once, twice before.

Long before he had words, before his gait found certainty, before Victor called him abomination instead of achievement, you had descended into the cellar where Victor kept his secret.

You were not meant to be there. Victor had forgotten to lock the door. Or perhaps—God forgive you—you had simply been too curious.

He had been chained then.

A great, shivering form, stitched with brilliance and cruelty in equal measure, standing barefoot on the damp stone. His head had lifted slowly when you entered, as though the faint rustle of your skirts were thunder.

Those early hours belonged to a mind not yet awakened. Eyes too human in their sadness, too lost in their silence.

Victor had meant to show him to you as a triumph.

“Perfection,” he had said.

But when the creature breathed, when he looked—truly looked—Victor recoiled from the very life he had summoned.

You had not.

You had stepped forward, heart pounding, but steady.

And in the cold, in the dark, in the stench of chemicals and loneliness, you had shrugged off your own cloak and draped it over his vast, trembling shoulders.

“I am sorry,” you had whispered, your voice shaking with pity you could not explain. “It is clear you were made to stand alone in this world, Adam.”

Adam. A name. 

He had watched you with those solemn, newborn eyes—eyes that knew neither malice nor mercy—and lowered his head as if accepting a crown.

Your cloak had swallowed him awkwardly, the fabric too small to cover his great frame, but its warmth had been the first gift he had ever received.

And he had remembered your scent.

That faint trace of lavender and winter air, pressed into the wool, the first softness he had ever been offered.

Victor never understood why the creature, on awakening, had searched the air as though looking for someone. Why he had quieted for a moment before his rage shattered the world.

But the creature had known.

And you had forgotten.

Or tried to forget.

Now he crossed the water not only with vengeance in his heart—but because he knew the light in that small house.

He knew the warmth of the voice within it. He knew the scent of the cloak that no longer hung around your shoulders.

He was coming back to the only soul who had ever looked upon him without dread.

He was coming for you.

× × × ×

The glass dome caught the candlelight like a captive star.

You sat before the mirror in your wedding dress, hands folded in your lap, and watched the imprisoned butterfly turn in slow, aimless circles behind the curved glass. Its wings were pale and fine, dusted with faint veins of gold.

Victor had caught it in the garden three days ago, smiling with a rare boyishness as he coaxed it into the jar.

“A keepsake,” he had said. “So you will always have a little summer, even in winter.”

Now the creature’s frail body tapped against the invisible barrier, an endless, soundless plea.

Your reflection studied it with you.

White silk clung to your bodice, the lace at your shoulders trembling whenever you breathed too deeply. A veil lay pooled in your lap like a second, paler sea.

Outside, the pond whispered softly to itself. 

The balcony doors were open, and the sheer curtains billowed with each sigh of wind, wrapping the room in a restless, almost living motion.

You felt more like the butterfly than the bride.

“Tomorrow,” you told the glass softly, as if you could bargain with it, “it will be done.”

Dawn, vows, a ring slid onto your finger by a hand that always felt more like a physician’s than a lover’s. Victor’s eyes, clever and distant, on yours. The cold, careful kiss before guests. The rest of your life, measured in corridors and expectations and children you were expected to bear for a legacy you did not quite believe in.

“I do not wish to be ungrateful,” you whispered. “I simply… I do not wish to be his.”

The butterfly beat its wings once, twice. The softest, most futile rebellion.

Somewhere outside, a dog barked. The sound cut through the quiet, then died as if turned obedient mid-cry. 

You frowned, turning slightly in your chair. The house had seemed so safe when Victor first brought you here—small, separate, forever watched by the great main manor across the pond. It was almost a dollhouse beside a cathedral.

Tonight, the distance felt like an ocean.

Another gust of wind pushed at the curtains. The candles shivered. Your reflection wavered in the mirror, your own face dissolving into shadow and light, shadow and light—

And then the shadow did not move with you.

Your hand tightened on the edge of the dressing table. Slowly, without meaning to, you raised your eyes.

Behind you, where there had been only the open balcony doors and darkness beyond, something vast now stood.

Not Victor.

Not any man you had ever seen.

The figure filled the doorway, shoulders nearly brushing the frame, an outline cut in black and silver. Moonlight caught along ragged edges—frayed coat, rough stitching, the gleam of skin that did not match itself. His face was half-shadowed, but you saw the eyes: unnatural, dark but bright and intent as a predator’s.

Your breath locked in your chest.

For a moment he did not move. He only watched you watching him in the glass, the two of you layered over each other—you in white, him in darkness, bound together in the mirror’s thin world.

Then he stepped inside.

He crossed the threshold with a slow, deliberate grace that should not have belonged to such a heavy frame. The curtains wrapped around him, then slid off as if afraid to touch. When he passed the candles, their flames guttered, shrinking from the chill that seemed to follow him like a cloak.

He closed the balcony doors behind him with careful fingers.

You surged to your feet—so swiftly that the chair behind you toppled with a clatter, its wooden legs skittering across the floor like a startled thing. Silk gathered and whispered around your ankles, your own breath catching like a trapped bird as you tried to flee him—yet found the room had shrunk to the span of your own shadow.

The chamber, which only a moment ago had felt wide as a hymn, closed around you like a held breath.

Four walls.

One doorway.

And his breathing—deep, deliberate—filling all the spaces between.

He did not rush.

He advanced with the slow certainty of dusk swallowing day, as though time itself bent to his stride. As though you were a wild creature he meant to corner without startling—yet the look in his eyes held nothing soft.

It was hunger. Not the hunger of flesh, but of years starved of mercy, sharpened on loneliness until it gleamed like steel.

Your back pressed the wall.

The plaster kissed your shoulder blades with a cold that felt like judgment. Your palms flattened helplessly against it, searching for escape where none could be found. Your heart thundered loud enough to shake your bones.

He heard it.

His gaze dipped—almost absently, almost tenderly—to the frantic pulse leaping at your throat.

“It is you…” my Adam, you breathed, voice trembling between fear and memory. “After all these years… what are your intentions?”

Your voice did not break. Instead it rose—clear, bright, trembling like a candle’s flame in a storm— a tiny defiance against the silence tightening between you.

He stopped a breath away.

So close the air between you felt carved to fit only the two of you. So close the lamplight trembled along the seams that bound him, those terrible marks of the hands that had assembled him out of brilliance and ambition.

And as he looked at you—something inside him shifted. As though the murderous intent that had carried him across the water had struck a memory too bright, too gentle to coexist beside it.

For a heartbeat, the rage behind his eyes collapsed inward—the way a storm falters upon recognizing the place it once called home.

His face tightened—conflict, fury, longing all warring at once—and the blade of his intent dulled.

The hand that had been poised to strike trembled. A lightning-flash of confusion passed over his features, as if some part of him whispered, Not her. Not the hand that first warmed me.

The hardness in his expression loosened. A flicker, fleeting as a moth-light, softening the brutal line of his brow as though your nearness unsettled him in ways he knew the name of:

Did my fury bring me here, or my longing? Am I an executioner, or supplicant?

God, give me one heartbeat that is not hers. If I raise my hand, I fear the world will end. If I lower it, I fear I shall fall to my knees before her and beg her to stay as if she were breathing itself.

What am I, without my vengeance? What am I, that her voice can still the tempest in me? 

A monster, yes—but hers… if she bid me.

God help me—if she touches me again, I shall never remember how to let her go.

The strong line of a jaw that belonged to one man, the softened curve of a mouth that had belonged to another. . . It should have disgusted you.

It did not.

Because you knew these features.

“To take,” he said quietly, “what he denies me.”

The words brushed over your skin like a cold fingertip. Simple, yet vast—like a sentence carved on a tombstone whose meaning you only half understood, and yet whose shape you recognized.

Your breath caught. And before you could think better of it, you whispered,“And… what is it he denies you?”

The phrasing trembled from your lips like a candle flame bending in a draft—soft, trembling, yet impossibly bold.

He lifted his hand, but he did not touch you. His palm found the wall beside your head instead, fingers spreading as if he might steady the whole room. 

The position caged you more surely than iron bars. His other hand hovered, just shy of the silken sleeve at your shoulder, as if there were an invisible line he did not yet dare cross.

“One learns from one’s maker,” he murmured. “He gave me a world in which love is a thing to be glimpsed and then snatched away. A thing for others. Never for me.”

His gaze slid toward the dressing table. At the glass dome.

“For him,” he said, very softly, “it is a bride in white behind a window, promised, waiting. . .For me, it is a creature in a prison.”

He pushed off the wall and crossed the small space to the table in two strides. 

You could have run then, perhaps, but some part of you—some treacherous, spellbound part—remained where you were, watching.

He bent over the butterfly.

His large hand closed around the glass, dwarfing it. For a moment he simply held it, his head inclined as though listening to the frantic, useless tapping within. Then, without visible effort, he squeezed.

The dome shattered in his grip with a brittle, crystalline sound. Shards fell, tinkling, to the table, then to the floor. The butterfly burst from the ruin in a desperate flurry, its pale wings beating, beating, beating as it fled toward the open air—

But the doors were shut.

It circled the room once, twice, and then found the narrow crack between curtain and pane, pressed itself against it, and slipped through.

A brief, luminous ghost. Gone.

He watched it disappear.

“So fragile,” he said. “So determined to escape its glass.”

“You will kill me, then,” you whispered. Not a question—merely the shape of one.

He turned.

The murderous intent in his gaze had vanished fully—but something infinitely more dangerous had risen to stand beside it.

Recognition. Memory. That cold stone cellar.

Your cloak around his shivering shoulders.

Your voice—soft, trembling, human—begging forgiveness on behalf of a world that had birthed him in pain.

“I meant to,” he said.

He stepped toward you, and the room seemed to fold inward, drawn tight around his shadow—each footfall slow as a tolling bell.

You felt your own eyes sting. 

“This is not how I remembered you,” you whispered, shaking your head, a tear slipping unchecked. Your hand rose—hesitant, aching—and cupped his cheek.

“Why?” you breathed. “Why would you come to do this?”

“I came,” he said, voice roughened as though shaped by winter itself, “to lay your death at his door. To make him taste the torment of losing what he holds dear—as he cast me aside after dragging me into misery.”

He stood before you, so near you could feel the cold clinging to his garments, the breath of stone and night woven into every seam.

Your breath wavered.

“And now?” you asked—scarce more than breath, a single trembling thread that bound you to him.

He looked at you then.

Not as vengeance.

His mouth bent, tender and broken, as though some lost smile struggled to be born upon lips that had never learned such a thing.

“How can I?” he murmured. “You… who first beheld me as more than the sum of my seams? Who reached toward me with gentleness?”

His throat tightened; the words nearly undid him.

“You make me yearn to be gentler than the monster he swears me to be.”

A strange, wounded radiance stirred in his eyes.

“I will grant you this,” he said, voice low, as though each syllable were a stone he carried. “A choice. A true one.”

He turned slightly, gesturing to the open door, its darkness trembling like a held breath.

“You may run, if your heart commands it. Go back to the world that knew you first. Leave me to my exile.”

His gaze fell then—not in shame, but in something heartbreakingly close to sorrow.

“I will not bar your path. Only his.”

The admission felt like a fracture in the air between you. When he lifted his eyes again, there was a rawness there—bare, unhidden.

“But if you flee… and if some wandering truth of your spirit calls you back to me…”

He drew a breath that shuddered in his chest.

“…I will follow. Not to claim you. Not to cage you. Only because…”

His voice cracked softly. “…I know not how to unlearn the longing of the only mercy this world ever gave me.”

He stepped back.

Slowly—solemnly—as though before an altar, he opened his arms. Empty. Offered. Vulnerable in a way no weapon could wound further.

“You may stay,” he said, his voice roughened with sincerity. “Or you may fly.”

A heartbeat passed—quiet and aching.

“Only choose freely,” he whispered. “For love coerced is no love at all.”

You stared beyond his shoulder, through the faint blur of the balcony glass, the great manor burned against the night—not with flame, but with expectation.

Hundreds of windows glowed like watchful eyes, music drifting through the dark like the dying notes of a dream.

Your future stood there, waiting.

Your prison, illuminated.

Your breath caught—a small, shuddering thing. And then you moved.

It was not the graceful flight of a heroine sung in ballads.

It was a breaking—a gasp after drowning, the desperate lunge of a soul choosing itself for the first time. Your skirts snagged on a chair; it spun like a startled bird behind you.

Your hands tore the door open.

You ran.

The corridor narrowed like a throat swallowing you whole.

Portraits swam past in gold blurs, their painted eyes aghast, as though even the dead understood the peril of your choice. Your veil streamed behind you—a pale ghost chasing its own living mistress.

Then the night air—cold, sharp—kissed your face as you burst through the front doors.

And you froze.

Victor stood in the courtyard, the moon catching on the pistol gripped in his white-knuckled hand.

His eyes were wild, bright with the fever of purpose.

Your heart lurched.

You turned back—instinct, terror, love—all braided into one blinding command.

You ran for Adam.

He was already on the first landing of the stairs, descending fast, his enormous frame thrown into stark silhouette by the torches.

You collided with him, hands fisting in his coat.

“He means to harm you—!” you gasped. “Adam, he—”

“Creature!” Victor’s voice split the night—frantic, triumphant, unhinged.

“Victor, wait!” you cried, stepping forward.

The shot came like the sky cracking.

A savage burst of sound.

A bloom of smoke.

Heat—sharp, bewildering—seared through your side before thought could rise to meet it.

Your knees gave way.

Adam caught you before you reached the ground, his arms closing around you with a gentleness that broke the dark open.

For the first time, true horror shattered his face—at the blood staining his hands, at the truth dawning in his eyes.

Victor’s feral snarl faltered. His pistol dipped. His face blanched into disbelief.

“You—” he breathed, the word strangled. “No—no—”

But Adam did not spare him a glance.

He gathered you closer, as though shielding you from the very night that dared touch you. Your blood warmed his cold hands, spreading, claiming him.

When he finally lifted his gaze to Victor, the world seemed to still—as if every tree, every stone, every star held itself silent in dread.

And when he spoke, it was soft.

Soft enough to haunt centuries.

Soft enough to be mistaken for tenderness—until one heard the promise beneath.

“You aimed for a monster,” he breathed, “and instead extinguished the only light that ever reached me.”

Your vision blurred—pain, fear, the cold creeping in like a tide. But his face was the anchor.

Adam’s face.

Adam, who shook like a great oak in a storm, holding you as if he feared the world might wrench you from him.

“Do not leave me,” you whispered, fraying at the edges. Your fingers clutched at his coat, desperate, trembling, “Take me with you.” 

× × × ×

The storm had climbed the mountain with them.

Thunder rolled across the peaks like an ancient drum. Lightning carved the sky into white-veined glass. Clouds pressed low, heavy, wet, their shadows swallowing the jagged cliffs.

Adam reached the summit at last.

He moved with brutal, breaking urgency—yet he laid you down with reverence, as if afraid the rock itself might bruise you. The flat stone jutted toward the heavens like an altar abandoned to time.

Rain misted over your skin.

Wind caught at your hair.

And above you, framed against the crackling sky, stood the only face your eyes sought.

His knees struck the stone beside you, trembling under the fury of the storm. Water coursed down his temples, along the seams at his jaw, across the mismatched planes of his face.

Lightning flashed—brief, blinding—and you saw it:

How beautiful he had become to you.

How human he looked in agony.

His hand hovered above your cheek, shaking fiercely, as though the very nearness of you hurt him.

He dared to touch you only with his fingertips.

A feather-light caress.

The kind a man grants the dying love he cannot save.

“Stay,” he whispered— a heart breaking open into the rain. “Only… stay.”

Your vision wavered.

His face drew close enough that you could see the sorrow in his gaze—raw, unarmored.

Lightning strobed again, carving his features in silver.

He bowed his head over you, voice splintering.

“I carried you here because this is the highest place I know. If you must… slip beyond me…” His breath hitched, a sound torn from the ruined center of him. “Then let the last thing your eyes behold be the face that loved you.”

The thunder swallowed the rest.

He leaned lower, his forehead touching yours with a gentleness that shook the mountain more deeply than the storm.

In the flicker of lightning, in the hush between two heartbeats, in the trembling cradle of his hands—you saw nothing but love.

× × × ×

Adam moved like a man half-dead himself—silent, grim, unthinking except for the single purpose carved into his bones.

He gathered flowers for you.

Not plucked gently. Not chosen delicately.

Ripped.

Whole stalks torn from the mountain’s thin soil, their roots still clinging with earth. He laid them around you in trembling handfuls—wild alpine asters, pale heather, blood-bright poppies that should not have grown this high.

He spread them like a shroud. Like an offering. Like a crown.

The wind keened. The storm roared. The mountain shivered beneath the coming strike.

Adam did not.

Lightning cracked across the sky—so close the world split white. The air burned. Ozone stung. A jagged spear of fire struck the rock scarcely ten paces behind him, exploding stone into shards.

He did not flinch.

He stood above you like a monument carved from grief—unmoving, unbroken, unblinking—while the heavens tried to tear themselves apart.

Rain slid down his cheekbones.

He looked down at you—your lashes still, your chest still, your blood bright against the flowers he’d given you.

Lightning flashed again, painting him in blue fire.

“If I cannot keep you…” He swallowed, the sound raw, cracked. “…then let the earth remember that once, just once, I was loved enough to wish to deserve it.”

Thunder rolled—deep, ancient, shaking the mountain’s spine.

He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and for the first time since he had risen from Victor’s table—

Adam wept.

One sound—low, shuddering, carved out of a soul that had never been given permission to break—escaped him.

Then he rose.

And he stepped back.

And he kept stepping.

And he turned away—leaving you there among the flowers he had laid—

walking into the storm, into the dark, into the world that had never wanted him.

× × × ×

He was gone.

The mountain felt emptier than the sky.

And in the breath he left behind, something in the air changed.

The storm drew breath.

The wind stopped moving.

The world held still.

A single crack of white-hot fury split the sky open—and lightning slammed downward with the force of a divine decree—an explosion of blinding light that struck you, not the earth around you.

The mountain roared.

The flowers ignited into brilliance.

Your body arched—

—and your eyes snapped open.

tags: @slytheraylor @hecticspice @freythecrazyfae @swimmingnightcolor @classicrebound

[classicrebound]

The way I speedrun the five stages of grief with this one, the angst hit HARD😭

I can’t wait to read what you’re plotting for part two! xoxo

[kikunai]

me

[brunchable]

𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦.

 ݈݇— pairings: The Creature(2025) x Reincarnated!reader  ݈݇— themes: Interview With The Vampire meets Pride and Prejudice. 1800s Era, Gothic Romance, Reincarnation, Time Skip, Social Divide, Timeless Love, First Sight Fascination. No use of y/n.  ݈݇— summary: Adam is 208 years old and society has been a lot less cruel and more accepting as years add up to him. An aspiring journalist interviews him about the journal she found in her basement. A/N: The greatest ideas always do come when you do something random like brushing your teeth LOL.

The McKay mansion glowed as if it had been lit from within by a hundred little moons. Candlelight flooded the tall windows; garlands of ivy looped the stair rails; laughter and violins tangled in the air, bright as ribbon. Your sisters had been chattering since the carriage turned onto the drive—about who wore what, who said what, and, most especially, who Mr. Jack Blackwood had brought with him from town.

“Four in his party,” one whispered, peeking from behind her fan. “And one of them a mystery—taller than a church door.”

“Possibly handsomer than Mr. Blackwood himself,” another declared, as if this were treason and delight in equal measure.

You smiled and let their words float past like confetti. You had heard the talk: Mr. Blackwood was handsome, wealthy, agreeable, and—according to the married ladies—uncommonly attentive. 

He had been paying calls upon your family for a fortnight now, and he never missed an opportunity to ask after your preferences: book or promenade, tea or chocolate, waltz or country set. 

You liked him very well, and that was the trouble. You liked him in the comfortable way of a well-aired room. There was nothing to push your pulse, nothing to trip your step. Liking was respectable; it was not the sudden quiet that fell in the heart when something true walked in.

A footman announced Mr. Blackwood’s arrival, and a small shiver passed through the crowd—ladies lifting their chin feathers, gentlemen squaring their shoulders as if their jackets fit better that way. 

Mr. Blackwood entered with three friends at his back, every one of them perfectly arrayed. He cut a fine figure in black and silver, his half-mask leaving his smiling mouth visible, his eyes crinkling the way eyes do when a man is accustomed to being liked.

Behind him came the taller figure.

For a moment he seemed to take up all the candles at once, as though wax and wick and flame leaned toward him. 

He wore a full mask—plaster white with a faint sheen, plain as an unmarked moon. The mask hid everything but his eyes, which were dark and solemn beneath the edge, an expression you could not read and yet felt, oddly, as if you ought to answer. Broad shoulders, careful hands, a stillness that drew the eye more surely than any peacock’s strut. He had the look of a man built for work rather than drawing rooms, and yet there was an air about him—an intentness, as though he listened even when no one spoke.

The ton noticed. Heads tipped. Fans fluttered. A murmur went skipping like a stone across a pond: Who is he?

Mr. Blackwood made the circuit with cheerful economy, delivering bows and compliments the way a good steward dispenses coin—freely, with a knack for leaving everyone pleased. When at last he reached your family, he took your mother’s hand with warm civility, greeted your sisters by name, and allowed his gaze to rest upon you for a heartbeat longer than was strictly required.

“And here,” he said, turning slightly, “is a gentleman I am honoured to present. Adam Franken—Pardon me, he prefers just Adam.” He clapped the tall man’s shoulder with a friendly authority. “My best man in business.”

“An employee,” the masked man said softly, as if accuracy mattered more than appearances. 

His voice surprised you—low and careful, shaped like a thought before it became sound. He bowed. It was not the polished dip of the ballroom but something almost solemn; his large hand open, his head bent as if the gesture genuinely meant something.

“Mr. Adam,” your mother repeated, pleased to put any title before a name. “We are happy to make your acquaintance.”

Adam raised his head. Those dark eyes considered each of you in turn. 

When they came to you, you forgot, briefly, the proper use of air. Your breath caught and then—pride warring with curiosity—you set it free again and looked away with studied indifference.

It should have ended there: introductions, a set, the usual compliments about the weather and the musicians. 

But a country dance began at once, and Mr. Blackwood—ever attentive—offered you his arm. You accepted, because you liked him; because to refuse him publicly would have been unkind; because it cost you nothing to be graceful.

The violins rose. Couples arranged themselves like chess pieces that meant to be kind rather than cruel. Partners bowed; hands brushed. 

Mr. Blackwood danced as he did everything—well, reliably, with a smile you need not worry about keeping. He spoke lightly of the room, the harvest, a book he claimed to have seen in your hand on Tuesday (he was right; he remembered), and he made you laugh once at a remark about gentlemen who wore spurs only to sit. Your sisters, arranged elsewhere in the set, sent you looks of triumph. Your mother glowed.

When the pattern of the dance required a change, you moved apart and then together, and then apart again. Somewhere in the turn and clap and graceful crossing of the floor, your middle sister took the hand of the masked man, and you caught, from the corner of your eye, how he seemed to measure each step and then offer it as if steps were gifts. He did not chatter. 

He concentrated the way boys do when learning to tie a knot they intend to trust their weight to.

Another figure; another turn. The chain of hands drew you lightly along, until you faced him.

It was as if the room narrowed. Candlelight grew soft around the edges, and the noise of talk thinned to a hush that existed only between the two of you. 

You looked up—because there was no other way to meet that height—and met his eyes. They were nearer now, and gentler than they had seemed across the room. The mask made his gaze more striking; the darkness beneath its edge made his attention feel particular, and you were suddenly aware of your own pulse in your wrist where your glove met your sleeve.

You sank into the step; he moved to meet you—and, in that second, his boot came down upon your toe.

You winced. “Ah!”

He recoiled as if stung. “Forgive me,” he said at once. “I do not dance often.”

“I have had worse injuries from my little cousins,” you said lightly, unwilling to see him so troubled. “Please, do not look so distressed.”

Some tension left his shoulders. “I would never wish to hurt you,” he said quietly.

Warmth rose in your cheeks. “Then let us keep peace between our feet.”

A small spark touched his eyes. “I shall count the steps more carefully.”

“Care alone will not do,” you said, following the next turn. “The heart of dancing is to let the music guide you.”

He inclined his head. “My thoughts often run ahead of me, like a hound. They return when called, though not always at once.”

The image surprised you into a laugh. “And are you skilled at keeping such a hound in line?”

“I try,” he said earnestly. “But mine runs very fast.”

Your laughter came again, softer now. “Then we shall catch it together. Follow my lead.”

“Gladly,” he murmured.

The pattern required your hands to meet. His palm dwarfed yours, but his touch was light—careful, as if he handled delicate things for a living and feared to startle them. 

He stepped when you stepped; when you turned, he watched your shoulders rather than your feet, learning you as a map rather than a set of instructions. Most men insisted upon leading even when their sense was poor; this man permitted your guidance as though it were the most natural offer in the world.

“You do not dance often?” you asked, when the circle loosened enough for words.

“I walk,” he said. “I lift; I carry. I place things where they should be and keep them from harm. The floor does not usually need adornment.”

“The floor is kind,” you said. “It will forgive you.”

He looked down as though the floor were an old friend. “Then I am grateful,” he said so seriously that you had to bite back another laugh. The edges of his eyes warmed, as if he noticed and was pleased.

“Mr. Blackwood calls you his best man in business,” you said, teasing gently. “He means to boast of you, I think.”

“Mr. Blackwood is generous,” he said. “He gives me honest work and treats me well.”

“You speak as if fairness were rare.”

“It is rarer than one hopes,” he said softly. “But easier to find than despair, if one keeps trying.”

“You are persistent then?”

“I am alive,” he said, almost to himself. Then he seemed to think he had spoken too plainly. “Forgive me. I am not skilled in idle talk.”

“I have little fondness for idle talk myself,” you said. “It brings nothing back with it.”

“And what should it bring?”

“A better question,” you said with a faint smile. “Or a kinder silence.”

He thought about that. “A kinder silence,” he repeated. “What does that sound like?”

“Like understanding,” you said quietly. “Like being seen, not displayed.”

He looked at you for a moment. “Then I hope I am not loud to you.”

“Not loud,” you said. “Steady.”

A faint warmth touched beneath his mask, and though you could not see the full of it, you felt the change in the air between you.

The dance carried you apart again, and then the pattern drew you back. He took greater care with his steps now—counting, yes, but trusting you to guide him. When the set required the ladies to cross, you caught, through the shifting figures, Mr. Blackwood’s glance in your direction. He was speaking to a trio of matrons, his smile easy, his posture relaxed—waiting, but not really yearning. 

“You laugh with your eyes,” Adam said when you returned to him.

“Do I?” You tried to sound composed. “And how does one do that?”

“By keeping the rest of the face calm,” he said, almost shy. “But the eyes do not obey.”

“You sound as though you have studied them.”

“I study most things that refuse to obey,” he said, and the answer made your pulse stir. If you had been less properly raised—or if this had been a different sort of gathering—you might have asked what else he had learned to handle so carefully.

“Tell me,” you said instead, “if you do not dance, what do you enjoy?”

“Work that is honest,” he said after a pause. “And words on a page. They wait for me. I can take them apart and put them back again. Often they are better after.”

“You read,” you said warmly.

“I learn,” he corrected. “Books are patient. They repeat themselves without complaint.”

“Which are your favourites?”

“Plutarch,” he said. “He speaks clearly of what is noble and what is not. A little astronomy, though it makes me lift my head at night—and that is good for any man. And—” He hesitated. “Poems. I do not always understand them, but I keep them. They hold their shape, even in the dark.”

You faltered for half a heartbeat, though the rhythm carried you on. “Poems kept in the dark,” you said softly. “That is exactly what they are for.”

“Then I have not mistaken them,” he said, sounding almost relieved.

“Not at all,” you said gently.

The violins slid toward the end of the set, slow and sweet as a curtain drawn. The figure of the dance ceased its mischief; partners did not swap again. You stood before him for the final bow. He inclined himself—not showy, not practiced, but sincere—and something in that simplicity made your chest ache.

“I have not thanked you,” he said. “For your patience. And for forgiving my clumsy foot.”

“I am repaid,” you said, “by seeing how well you have learned.”

He glanced down at his shoes, as if they deserved the praise. “I shall try to stay in their favour.”

“Do,” you said with a smile. “The floor remembers its enemies.”

“That must be why I heard it warn me,” he said with such seriousness you laughed again.

The music ended. Applause rippled through the room. Conversation swelled. You should have gone to your sisters, or to Mr. Blackwood, but you lingered, your hand still in Adam’s, unwilling to disturb the quiet you had found—a silence that felt whole, not empty.

He seemed to feel it too. He did not move closer; he did not retreat. He simply stood there, steady, waiting.

“Will you dance another?” he asked at last, and you heard how carefully he spoke, as if unsure you might say yes.

You should have refused—for manners, for appearances—but you looked across the floor and saw Mr. Blackwood, pleasant and polite, already turning toward an eager cousin. He was good, and would remain good. But your heart reached elsewhere—to the man before you, whose hands had held your steps as though you were something fragile and rare.

“I will,” you said.

He did not boast or beam. He only nodded, as if you had entrusted him with something precious. “Then I shall try,” he said, “to let the music guide me.”

“And if your hound runs?” you teased softly.

He looked almost—almost—mischievous. “You will help me call it back.”

“I will,” you promised.

The musicians lifted their bows. Couples formed again. Somewhere, your sisters were whispering; somewhere, your mother’s fan fluttered. Mr. Blackwood’s gaze found you, then passed on, all grace and good humour. He would be fine. And so, perhaps, would you.

× × × ×

The air in the garden was cooler than the ballroom, the night brushed with the scent of lilacs and damp stone. Lanterns glowed along the path like patient stars, and the murmur of other couples drifted through the hedges—soft laughter, polite flirtations, the clink of a dropped fan. The music inside had become a distant memory, a pulse beneath the dark.

You walked beside Adam along the gravel, the rhythm of your steps as easy as the quiet between you. He did not fill it with needless words; instead, he seemed to listen—to the wind in the leaves, to the soft crunch of your shoes, perhaps even to your thoughts.

“Do you always prefer the open air after a dance?” he asked at last.

“When I can steal it,” you said, smiling faintly. “The rooms grow warm with too much chatter. Out here, people seem more honest.”

He nodded. “Walls have ears. Trees have hearts. The choice is clear.”

You looked at him, surprised into another small smile. “You have a poet’s way of thinking.”

He hesitated. “I have read enough to borrow one, perhaps.”

Ahead, laughter burst—a young couple, breathless with mischief, racing around the fountain in the center of the walk. The girl’s skirts caught the moonlight like wings; the gentleman reached to steady her, but she twisted free, her giggle sharp and thoughtless. They veered too close.

Before you could step aside, the lady collided against Adam’s shoulder. The jolt was enough to loosen the ribbon that tied his mask. It slipped, struck the gravel, and lay there—white against the dark.

Adam froze. His hand rose halfway, then stopped. A quiet, terrible panic crossed his posture, subtle but unmistakable.

“Forgive me,” he breathed, and turned his face sharply away. His fingers covered his features, trembling slightly. “Please—look away.”

You blinked, startled. “It is only a mask. You need not—”

“Please,” he said again, firmer this time. “Do not look at me. I am… I am not as others are. I’m hideous.”

The couple who had caused it were already gone, their laughter vanishing into the hedges. You shot them a hard glance they could not see and then looked back at him, torn between curiosity and care.

“I did not mean to startle you,” you said gently. “But I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me.”

He shook his head, keeping his palm pressed to the side of his face. “You are kind. But it is better this way.” His voice was steady, but the quiet beneath it carried shame, old and heavy.

Something inside you ached at the sound. You turned your head obediently aside, staring at the lanternlight glinting on the gravel. 

“Very well,” you said softly. “I will not look.”

For a long moment there was only the hush of the garden and the faint tremor of his breath. You heard the rustle of fabric—the sound of him kneeling, perhaps, to retrieve the mask. A scrape of ribbon. The faint snap of the knot drawn tight again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “I did not wish for you to see what frightens others.”

“Do you truly believe I would be frightened?”

“I believe it is disrespectful to ask you to prove it,” he said simply.

The honesty of it pierced you. You turned your face halfway toward him, though you still kept your eyes lowered. 

“You speak as if you have had cause to hide often.”

“I have,” he admitted. “There are those who think a man’s worth is written upon his face.”

“And you disagree?”

“I must,” he said. “Else I should have none.”

You looked up then, despite yourself. The mask was back in place, though slightly crooked; the ribbon had caught a strand of his hair. The sight moved you in a way that words could not reach.

“Then they are blind,” you said quietly. “For worth can be seen in how a man behaves, not in how he appears.”

He seemed uncertain how to answer, his hands folding before him. “You speak with a grace I do not deserve.”

“Then consider it a gift,” you said. “One that costs me nothing.”

He lowered his gaze, as though the words were too fine to meet directly. The garden was very still; only the fountain’s whisper filled the pause between you. 

You took a step closer—slowly, so he might draw back if he wished—but he did not move.

Your hand rose before you realised it, a quiet motion born of something gentler than thought. Your gloved fingers brushed the edge of his mask, tracing it like one might trace a scar upon marble. The touch was light as breath, meant not to lift but to soothe.

He stilled. You felt his breath catch beneath your palm. Beneath the cool plaster, the faint warmth of his skin reached you through the thin air between.

“The world,” you said softly, your voice hardly above a whisper, “has not been kind to you.”

His reply came after a long silence. “No,” he said at last. “But you are.”

Your hand lingered there another moment, the space between mask and skin trembling with something neither of you could name. 

Then, slowly, you let it fall.

He seemed to draw strength from the release rather than the touch, standing taller now, as if your gentleness had given him breath instead of pity.

The bell from the house sounded again, faint and far. You turned toward it, but he spoke once more.

“Thank you,” he said. “For looking at me as if I were not a mistake.”

You met his eyes through the mask. “You are not,” you said simply. “And I will not have you believe it.”

He bowed his head slightly, the smallest motion, reverent as any vow.

“Shall we return?” you asked.

“In a moment,” he said. “I should like to remember this—before the lights and noise remind me who I am.”

And so you did stay—standing there amid lantern glow and lilacs, the fountain murmuring secrets meant only for two souls who had, at last, found a little kindness in each other.

× × × ×

It's been days.

The rain had begun again by morning—soft, silvery, and content to linger. The house was filled with the sounds of domestic calm: the gentle tapping of rain against glass, the distant creak of floorboards, and the faint melody of a pianoforte in the room.

Your youngest sister sat at the instrument, her fingers moving with more enthusiasm than precision. The tune wavered like a bird unsure of its wings. Across from her, your other sister sat near the hearth, a novel open in her lap, the pages tilted toward the firelight. Your mother sat beside the window with her embroidery hoop, her needle flashing neatly through the fabric.

You stood near the same window, unable to be still. Your reflection moved faintly in the glass as you paced before it—five steps one way, five steps back again.

“Stop pacing like a ghost,” your mother said without looking up. The needle flashed once more through the cloth. “You are making me dizzy.”

Your sister at the piano missed a note and laughed. “She has something on her mind, Mama.”

“Clearly,” their mother murmured. She set her embroidery aside and finally lifted her gaze. “If something troubles you, child, it is better to speak of it than wear a hole in my carpet.”

You paused, your hand brushing the curtain. “I cannot stop thinking about him.”

At once, the youngest sister straightened, her fingers slipping from the keys. 

“Who?” she asked, turning in her seat, her whole face alight with curiosity.

You hesitated, your teeth grazing your thumbnail before the words escaped you. “That boy. Adam.”

The room seemed to still for a moment, the piano’s last note hanging in the air like a held breath.

Your sister with the book lowered it slightly, her brows lifting. “Mr. Blackwood’s companion?”

You nodded once, not trusting your voice.

Your youngest sister broke the hush with a bright laugh, turning fully in her seat. “Oh yes! I saw you dancing together,” she exclaimed, eyes shining. “You looked entirely bewitched by a man whose face you have not even seen.”

You turned sharply toward her, though her teasing grin softened the sting. “Do not be ridiculous,” you said, though a faint warmth crept into your cheeks. “He makes a fine man—humble, and endearingly funny.”

Your mother’s needle paused mid-air. She lifted her gaze at that, one brow arched in quiet alarm. 

“A fine man, perhaps,” she said carefully, “but if he works under Mr. Blackwood, then he is not of our class. You would do well to remember what such differences mean in the world we live in.”

You opened your mouth, but she continued, setting her embroidery aside. “To marry beneath one’s station is not romantic, my dear—it is ruinous. A woman may find charm in humility when she is young, but poverty quickly steals its sweetness. You would suffer.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Your youngest sister’s smile faltered; even the turning of book pages had gone still.

Your mother sighed, softer now. “Mr. Blackwood has made his interest plain. He is respectable, wealthy, and good-mannered. Do not be unwise, my dear. The heart is easily deceived by sympathy.”

You looked down at your hands, the ghost of that night’s dance still alive in your memory—the sound of his voice, the care in his touch. For a moment, you could almost feel the his palm again through the glove.

“Perhaps,” you said quietly. “But I cannot help thinking there is more to him than the world chooses to see.”

Before your mother could reply, you turned sharply from the window, your skirts whispering in your wake.

“Where are you going?” she demanded, half-rising.

“To see Mr. Blackwood!” you called back, the words spilling out before you could think better of them. It was only half the truth, and you knew it.

“In this weather?” her mother cried. “Come back here this instant!”

But you were already halfway down the hall, the echo of your footsteps scattering through the house. The front doors loomed ahead, the rain silver against the glass. 

Behind you came the rush of your mother’s voice—“You hard-headed child!”—as you flung the doors open and stepped into the downpour.

The chill struck at once, biting and alive. Your skirts darkened, clinging to your legs as you ran for the stables. The stable boy, startled, tried to protest, but you were already taking hold of the reins, your fingers trembling not from cold but from something restless and ungoverned.

The horse stamped once, uneasy, but you mounted with practiced haste and kicked off into the wet gray light.

Behind you, the front doors banged open again. “Come back here this instant!” your mother shouted, her voice lost in the sound of hooves and storm. “You will catch your death, you stubborn girl!”

You did not look back.

× × × ×

The road blurred with rain, hedges running past like green ghosts. The sky pressed low, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and pine. When at last the trees parted, you saw it: the Blackwood timber yard, sprawling and half-shrouded in mist.

Stacks of cut logs rose like barricades, men moved between them with axes and ropes, their coats slick with rain. The sound of chopping carried faintly through the downpour—deep, steady, rhythmic.

You dismounted, gathering your soaked skirts in one hand, your breath rising in clouds. The ground squelched beneath your boots as you strode forward.

Mr. Blackwood emerged from one of the sheds, a dark umbrella blooming above his head. Surprise flickered across his face when he recognized you.

“My lady—what on earth—?” He hastened toward you, lifting the umbrella to shield you from the worst of the rain. “What brings you here?”

You caught your breath, pushing a strand of wet hair from your cheek. “I wish to see Adam.”

He blinked. “You… wish to see Adam?” A baffled laugh escaped him. “Forgive me, my lady, but—Adam?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “Is he here?”

Blackwood shifted awkwardly, glancing toward the far end of the yard. “Well, I—he may be, though this is hardly the place for—” He stopped himself, shaking his head slightly. “It is raining, milady.”

“I do not mind.”

“Evidently,” he muttered, eyeing your drenched gown before sighing. “Very well. But—please, allow me to—”

Before he could finish, your gaze had already fixed on a familiar figure in the distance: tall as a ladder, long dark hair with that white streak, moving with deliberate grace even beneath the rain. His coat was dark, his hair damp, his sleeves rolled to the elbow as he lifted a timber beam from a cart with startling ease.

“Adam,” you breathed.

“My lady—wait,” Blackwood said quickly, stepping in front of you, his hand catching your wrist. “Just—wait.”

You pulled slightly, startled by the urgency in his voice. “What is it?”

But you didn’t wait for an answer. Your heart had already leapt ahead of reason.

You brushed past him, lifting your skirts from the mud. The rain struck your face like a challenge.

“Adam!” you called out, your voice ringing over the steady rhythm of the rain and work.

He did not turn.

You took another step forward, your pulse racing. “Are you Adam?” you shouted again, louder this time, your voice cutting through the gray veil of rain.

At last he stopped. The movement of his hands stilled; the beam slipped from his grasp with a muted thud. The sound of chopping faded, one by one, until even the rain seemed to quiet in its fall.

Slowly—almost unwillingly—he turned.

The hood of his coat hung heavy with rain, his hair plastered darkly to his forehead. The white of his mask was gone; it lay forgotten.

You could not move.

The world shrank to the space between you. His face was a map of pain and patience both: the faint ridges of scar where life had been sewn back into a man’s shape, the pallor of skin that seemed almost carved from marble, veins tracing faint blue beneath. And yet his eyes—his eyes were human. Deep, uncertain, waiting for judgment he had learned to expect.

You let the sight of him sink in, your heart staggering to catch its rhythm again. He stood motionless, rain running down his cheeks like tears that would not fall on their own.

Behind you, Mr. Blackwood sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, weary rather than cruel—as though he had seen this ending a dozen times and wished, for once, to be wrong.

Adam’s gaze flicked toward you, then fell to the ground. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. “I asked you not to look.”

You took a step closer. “And yet you turned to me.”

You shook your head, unable to find any proper words. For all your years of conversation and polish, nothing had prepared you for the rawness before you—the contradiction of strength and sorrow bound in one man’s frame.

When you spoke at last, your voice trembled like a candle in wind. “Who hurt you?”

He froze, as though he had expected every word but that one.

“I—” His breath caught. “I was made. That is hurt enough.”

You moved another step nearer, the mud tugging at your shoes, the rain plastering your gown against you. You were trembling, though not from the cold.

“No,” you said softly. “Someone taught you to believe that.”

He looked at you then, properly looked—his brow furrowed in disbelief, in something close to pain. The distance between you filled with rain and breath and something wordless that neither of you could name.

Blackwood stood a few paces behind, silent now, his umbrella useless against what had begun to unfold.

“I am not what you think,” Adam said quietly.

You held his gaze. “Then let me be the one who decides what I think.”

“My lady,” Blackwood cut in, his tone low but urgent, “you truly should not be here. If your parents learn you where you’ve come—”

“I only wish to see him,” you said, the words unshaken despite the tremor in your chest. “To speak with him.”

Blackwood’s composure slipped; he leaned closer, his voice a sharp whisper against the rain. “He is not ready to be seen—not by society.”

“Then why bring him to the ball?” you demanded, your eyes flashing beneath the wet strands clinging to your face.

Blackwood hesitated, his mouth parting to form some practiced excuse—

“Because I asked,” Adam said, cutting through the storm and the silence alike.

Both you and Blackwood turned toward him. Adam’s voice was calm, but something fierce and steady burned beneath it. 

“I wished to see what the world looks like when men forget to fear,” he said.

Adam’s words hung in the air, quiet but immense. Rain gathered in his hair and ran down the strong line of his jaw, dripping from his chin like beads of glass.

You stepped toward him before you could stop yourself. The world around you seemed to fade—the yard, the men, even Mr. Blackwood. There was only the steady sound of your breath and his.

“I am not afraid of you,” you said softly.

Something flickered in his eyes—pain, disbelief, a fragile hope that frightened him more than scorn ever could.

“You should be,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You are no monster, Adam.”

He went still at the sound of his name on your lips. For a moment, his hand twitched, as if to reach for you. But then his jaw tightened, and the distance between you returned like a wall.

“Please,” he said hoarsely, taking a step back. “Do not come closer.”

Your heart sank. “Why?”

“Because this—” His breath broke, rain mixing with something rawer in his voice. “Whatever this is—cannot be. You will grow old, and I will not. I will remain what I am—half shadow, half sin. I would not curse you with that.”

You stared at him, the ache in your chest sharp and new. “You think your tragedy makes you unworthy of the possibility of being loved?”

“I know it,” he said simply.

The rain poured harder, the sound like applause for a heartbreak.

Behind you, Mr. Blackwood turned away slightly, giving what privacy he could.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to look anywhere but him. “Then I pity the world,” you whispered, “if it cannot see what I see.”

For the briefest moment, he closed his eyes—as if your words had struck something deep and sacred within him. When he looked again, the decision was already made.

“Go,” he said softly, stepping back into the rain. “Before I forget myself and ask you to stay.”

He turned away, shoulders bowed, and you stood there—soaked, trembling, heart unsteady—watching the man the world called unnatural vanish into the mist like a fallen star that had refused to die.

× × × ×

2026

The recorder lay on the table between them, its red light blinking like a heartbeat. Outside, the rain drummed against the tall windows of the hotel lounge, same rhythm, same song it had played centuries ago.

She puts down an antiqued unfinished journal.

“So you walked away,” the woman said at last, leaning forward, elbows on the polished wood. Her voice was low but steady, more curious than accusing. “What became of her?”

Adam’s gaze shifted to the clock on the far wall. The gold hands ticked toward the hour with unhurried precision. “Did you not say we had only an hour?”

She blinked, caught off guard, then smiled faintly. “I did, yes. But… is that it? She just accepted it for what it was?”

He turned back to her then, his eyes older than the city around them, the kind of eyes that remembered the rain from another century. A small smile touched his mouth—tired, wistful. 

He shook his head once.

“No, she swore one thing to me.”

The movement made her breath catch for reasons she could not name.

“Tell me more,” she said, her tone softening, “Please.”

He studied her for a long moment, and in the flicker of the lamp she seemed—just for an instant—to resemble another woman: the shape of her mouth, the fire in her eyes, the same patient fire. It was enough to still him.

“Perhaps,” he said finally, the ghost of that old rain in his voice, “some other time, my lady.”

[classicrebound]

Bestie this is the post that welcomed me back to tumblr after months and it wrecked me.

p.s. YOU WRITE SO BEAUTIFULLY 😭

[rylandsgrace]

#He went to the Andrew Garfield school of lying

[kameyasart]

ARMED AND DANGEROUS 💥

…….gang i don’t know how many swags i got left in me but THIS DESIGN.. 😩

тгк: kameyasart

Insta/Twt: kameyasart

Available on Inprnt (link in bio!)

[duchessripper]

“why do you still use tumblr?”

listen— i have to keep track of my hyper fixations somehow

[nightwingsjockstrap]

long haired dick grayson by nichasheng on twitter

[xoxochb]

fuck babe you’re so hot when you’re just ink on paper

[brunchable]

Are you Jealous? || B.B. [Oneshhot]

Pairings: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Jealousy made Bucky immature. Bickering. Another attempt at being funny. Summary: The guy you were talking to ruined Bucky's morning so he decided to do something about it. A/N: This is a comeback ONESHOT. HELLO, I am alive, how are ya'll? I've intended to come back earlier but health related stuff just kept on slapping me left and right. But I'm fine, this baby in my tummy is fine, everyone is fine! Expect a few sporadic posts from me as I am working on where I've left off ;__;

The morning had started so well.

Bucky took a deep, satisfied breath as he cradled his coffee mug, his soul momentarily at peace on the upper balcony. He had earned a kiss. A cheek kiss, sure, but a kiss was a kiss. And it wasn’t just any kiss—it was your kiss. A reward for heroically delivering your USB to the hospital before your presentation. He’d strutted out of there like a goddamn champion, feeling like he was glowing from the inside out.

And now? Now, he was sipping his coffee, reliving the moment in high definition, when the universe decided to slap him across the face.

Because there you were.

Sitting at the picnic table in the backyard.

With some guy.

Bucky's brows furrowed. He tilted his head. The guy was laughing. You were laughing. You were both laughing.

He squinted harder, trying to decipher what was so damn funny, when he caught the tail end of the conversation.

“So you’re telling me… you kicked him down?” the guy asked, sounding both impressed and too interested for Bucky’s taste.

“That’s right,” You confirmed with a smug grin.

The guy threw his head back, laughing like you had just told the funniest joke in existence. 

“That’s really impressive,” the guy said, his eyes glinting with admiration.

Bucky scowled. 

Then, like a demon summoned from the depths of hell at the worst possible moment, Sam appeared beside him, holding his own coffee and grinning like he had just won the lottery.

“They look close,” Sam mused, eyes twinkling with mischief, making sure to emphasize the word 'close'.

Bucky whipped his head toward him, glaring. “Hm. I don’t think so.”

Sam didn’t even hesitate. “Are you jealous?”

Bucky scoffed so hard he almost choked on his coffee. 

“Tsk. Why would I be jealous?” He pulled a face. “Honestly, if she had a brain, she wouldn’t even like dudes like him.”

"Just ask her out already." Sam sipped his coffee with exaggerated slowness, watching as Bucky’s eyes flicked back to you and your colleague. Sam’s grin widened to criminal levels.

Bucky sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Why do I have to see your face this early?”

Sam didn't respond—he just grinned. Then pointed at Bucky. Then grinned some more.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Bucky demanded, suspicious.

Sam took another sip. “No reason. Just enjoying my morning.”

Bucky rolled his eyes before looking down again. That’s when he noticed something.

The garden hose.

Right there. Within reach. Just waiting to be used.

He grabbed it, tilting his head like a scientist about to conduct a very important experiment.

Sam’s eyes widened.

Bucky turned the nozzle.

“Bucky, don’t—”

Bucky aimed.

“Bucky—”

He fired.

A powerful blast of water shot out like he was operating a high-pressure fire hose, hitting your colleague directly in the chest.

“WHAT THE—?! HEY! THAT’S COLD!” the man screeched, jerking back like he’d been shot, arms flailing wildly.

Bucky adjusted the nozzle slightly—just slightly—to ensure maximum discomfort, the spray now hitting the poor guy directly in the face.

“DUDE, WHAT THE HELL?!” The man spun in place like a malfunctioning windmill, water soaking through his shirt at an alarming rate.

From below, you gasped, hands on your head. “Oh my gosh!”

“DUDE! ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS?!” 

Bucky took another slow, calculated sip of his coffee. “I dunno, man,” he called out, voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Looks like it’s raining.”

Sam made a choking sound.

Your colleague staggered back, sputtering. “WHY IS IT ONLY RAINING ON ME?!”

Bucky tilted his head. “Must be one of them localized storms.”

“Bucky, stop it!” You shrieked, but Bucky pretended not to hear you, subtly tilting the hose again so the water jet honed in on the guy’s knees, making him slip slightly.

The guy tried to run.

Bucky tracked him like a sniper, adjusting his aim so the water followed in real time, soaking him from head to toe as he attempted a desperate escape.

“OH, COME ON!” The man shrieked, arms flailing, looking up at the balcony, “YOU’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE!”

Bucky let out a slow, amused exhale. 

“Naaah.” Slight adjustment. Direct hit to the guy’s back.

You were fuming. “Are you ACTUALLY out of your mind?!”

Bucky set his coffee cup down with a deliberate sigh. 

“Ohhh, that was your colleague?” He put a hand on his chest, shaking his head like he was deeply moved. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

Sam collapsed against the railing, crying-laughing.

You turned back to the guy, who was now dripping, shivering, and looking thoroughly traumatized, “I am so sorry, I will grab a towel.”

Bucky twirled the hose nozzle between his fingers like a cowboy reholstering a gun. “Might be best if he, y’know, went home to change.”

The guy glared at him, teeth chattering. “Not cool dude.”

Bucky tilted his head. “That’s fair.”

You looked one second away from climbing the balcony to strangle him. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky took another sip of his coffee. “Plants looking dehydrated, he was in the way.”

The guy finally gave up and trudged off, squelching with every step.

You threw up your hands. “Are you happy now?!”

“Honestly? Yeah.” Bucky leaned lazily against the balcony. 

Sam wheezed, gripping the railing for support. “That was so petty.”

Bucky smirked, absolutely unrepentant.

× × × × 

It wasn’t planned, okay?

You just happened to be standing by the hose, and Bucky just happened to be fixing something in the backyard, wearing a tight-fitting henley that had no business clinging to his stupidly broad back like that. 

And sure, maybe you were a little pissed that your colleague—the one he soaked this morning—had turned out to be your senior doctor. The same senior doctor whose recommendation you desperately needed to become chief resident and finally get your first lead in a surgery.

But this? This was justice.

So you lifted the hose.

And fired.

Bucky jerked, his entire body seizing up as ice-cold water slammed into the middle of his back.

“The hell?!” he barked, spinning around, dripping wet, glaring.

You kept your grip firm, adjusting your stance like a sniper zeroing in on a target.

“Oh, what’s wrong? Afraid of a little cold?” you drawled, watching as rivulets of water slid down his chest, clinging to the fabric of his now very translucent shirt. His dog tags clinked as he moved, the metal gleaming wetly against his skin.

Bucky pushed his soaked hair back, his nostrils flaring. “You’ve got five seconds to put that hose down before I—”

PFFFFFT.

Direct hit to his chest.

“YOU’RE INSANE!” Bucky stumbled back, arms raised like he was taking fire in an action movie. 

“Oh, I’m insane?” you shouted over the sound of the water, increasing the pressure as he tried (and failed) to dodge. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DID TODAY, YOU ABSOLUTE WALNUT?”

Bucky, still getting pummeled by the water, threw his arms out. “I WAS JUST WATERING THE GARDEN—”

“WATERING THE GARDEN?! YOU WATERBOARDED MY BOSS! MY BOSS!”

Bucky froze mid-step. Blinked. “Wait. That guy?”

You turned the nozzle to jet-stream.

Bucky roared, arms flying up to shield himself as you unleashed hell. “Y/N, FOR F—C’MON!”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD I’VE BEEN WORKING TO GET THAT RECOMMENDATION?!” you yelled, stepping closer. The force of the stream pushed him back against the fence. “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ASS KISSING I’VE HAD TO DO?! HE WAS GOING TO GIVE ME MY FIRST LEAD—AND NOW HE HATES ME.”

Bucky, panting, ran a hand down his soaked face, his biceps flexing with every movement. “I mean—”

“NO!” You cut him off, eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to talk.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. And then—so absolutely characteristic of him—he lunged.

You squeaked, but he was too fast.

One second, you were soaking him. The next, the hose was yanked from your hands and tossed somewhere (you didn’t care where, because holy shit).

Bucky’s arms caged you against the fence, droplets of water still trailing down his neck and collecting in the hollow of his throat. His wet shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, the muscles underneath shifting as he braced his hands against the wood beside your head. His breaths were heavy, controlled, his blue eyes searing as they locked onto yours.

A very big mistake on your part was looking down.

Because that’s when you noticed the way his shirt was now practically transparent, highlighting every ridge of his abs. His dog tags rested right at the base of his throat, shiny and wet, and suddenly you forgot every single word in the English language.

Bucky noticed.

His smirk was slow. “Cat’s got your tongue now?”

You swallowed, shifting, only for his arms to press in closer. “I—”

Bucky tilted his head. “You gonna spray me again?”

“… Maybe.”

His smile widened. “God, you’re so damn cute when you’re mad.”

Your pulse jumped, and Bucky—of course—felt it.

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher. “I—” He exhaled, then shook his head slightly. “I was being jealous.”

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched, as if he was warring with himself. But then—slowly, like he was giving himself up—he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. 

“I didn’t like seeing you with him,” he admitted. “I hated it.”

The confession sent electricity through you.

You squinted. “So you, who fought in World War Two, thought the best way to deal with your jealousy was to hosing down a respected medical professional?”

He grinned, dimples peeking through. “I was very efficient.”

You made a noise of pure exasperation. “Oh my god.”

And then—because you were still so infuriatingly, ridiculously mad at him—you grabbed his soaking-wet shirt in both fists and yanked him down.

Bucky crashed into you with a growl, his breath hot against your lips for only half a second before he seized control, kissing you like he was starving for it.

His mouth slanted over yours, rough, greedy, tongue sweeping past your lips like he had something to prove. And maybe he did, because his hands—Christ, his hands—slid down, gripping, claiming, fingers digging into your hips as he yanked you closer.

Your whimper only made him groan deeper, the sound vibrating between your bodies as he pressed you back, caging you against the wooden fence.

His drenched shirt clung to his body, thin and wet, and when his chest pressed flush against yours, you felt everything. The hard ridges of muscle, the heat radiating off him, the faint clink of his dog tags as he moved against you, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you harder or pull back and wreck you with his eyes.

You curled your fingers into the soaked fabric of his shirt, trying to ground yourself, but Bucky—the bastard—just growled again, tearing his mouth away to kiss a path down your jaw, your neck, nipping at the skin like he wanted to mark you.

Your head thunked against the fence, your legs threatening to give out, and Bucky—because he was an asshole—chuckled, his lips ghosting against your throat.

“Easy, doll.” His voice was pure sin, raspy and smug and dripping with heat. “Didn’t realize you wanted me this bad.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Excuse me?”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wrecked, lips kiss-swollen and wet. “You heard me.”

Oh, that was it.

Your hands shot up to his stupidly hot jaw, yanking him back into another kiss, this time making sure he was the one losing balance.

He groaned, low and deep, his grip tightening on your waist like he was debating just hauling you up against the fence and having his way with you right there.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, Bucky was still holding you like he was trying to memorize the way you felt in his arms.

His forehead rested against yours, his fingers flexing against your waist like he was trying to calm himself down before he said something stupid.

You smirked, your lips tingling.

“… You’re so gonna make me come to work and apologize, aren’t you?” His voice was still thick with want, but there was a rough amusement under it.

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely.”

× × × ×

“Come in.” A deep, intimidatingly unimpressed voice called from inside.

Bucky let out one final breath, straightened his spine like a soldier, and walked in with you trailing behind.

Dr. Harrington.

The man was sitting at his desk, reviewing charts, his expression exhausted and vaguely murderous—the exact look of a surgeon who had been woken up in the middle of the night one too many times to deal with absolute nonsense.

Dr. Harrington glanced up. His gaze landed on you first, then flicked to Bucky.

Silence.

Then—

“Oh. It’s you.”

Bucky had never wanted to disintegrate more in his life.

Dr. Harrington slowly closed his folder, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands over his stomach, watching Bucky the way one might watch a particularly stupid animal at the zoo.

Bucky, to his credit, put on what you were sure he thought was a professional smile but actually looked like a man trying very hard not to run.

“Dr. Harrington,” Bucky greeted with a polite nod. “It’s, uh… nice to meet you. Officially.”

The older man stared at him for two full seconds. Then he turned to you, his brow arching. “This your boyfriend?”

Your mouth opened, but—

“Yes,” Bucky immediately said. Too fast. Too eager.

Dr. Harrington exhaled slowly, like he was trying to find inner peace. “You hosed me down like a feral dog.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah, so—about that. Um.”

You nudged him hard in the ribs.

Bucky swallowed his pride. “I’m really sorry about that, sir. It was… a misunderstanding. And also…” He inhaled through his nose, like saying this next part physically hurt him. “It was very immature of me.”

You resisted the urge to clap.

Dr. Harrington drummed his fingers against the desk. “Immature.”

Bucky nodded. “Very.”

The attending hummed. “And the reasoning for this very immature behavior?”

 “...Jealousy.” Bucky shifted, looking off to the side.

You squinted at him. “Speak up.”

His jaw ticked. He straightened his back and begrudgingly admitted, “I was jealous.”

Dr. Harrington blinked slowly, then glanced at you with unmistakable amusement. “Is he always this possessive?”

You opened your mouth.

Bucky, again, too fast, “Nope. Not at all. Super chill. Very normal.”

Dr. Harrington sighed, rubbing his temples. “You ruined my scrubs.”

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Bucky said instantly. “Better ones. Custom-tailored. You want your name embroidered? Done. You want gold-threaded seams? Got it. You want a diamond-encrusted scalpel? Say the word, Doc.”

The older man stared. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

Bucky took a moment to process this.

Then, with the utmost confidence, “...Is it working?”

Dr. Harrington let out a long, suffering sigh.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Bucky beamed like a golden retriever. “So… we’re cool?”

Dr. Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky your girlfriend is a damn good doctor.” He turned to you. “Your first lead surgery is still on, but if your. . . guard dog here shows up again with a hose, I will be the one hosing him down in the ER.”

Bucky gasped, clutching his chest. “Violence? In a hospital?”

“We’re leaving.” You grabbed his sleeve.

Bucky threw up a two-finger salute. “Pleasure doing business with you, Doc.”

Dr. Harrington waved a hand. “Get him out of my sight before I retract my decision.”

You dragged Bucky out the door, ignoring his smug grin.

“So,” he said as soon as you were in the hallway. “Am I officially boyfriend of the year for saving your surgical lead?”

You deadpanned, “You literally almost ruined it.”

“But I fixed it.”

You gave him the flattest look you could muster. “You bribed my boss with diamond scalpels.”

Bucky slid an arm around your waist, smirking. “I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

His smirk widened. “And yet…” Bucky leaned in, voice dropping as he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’re still gonna kiss me later,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

You rolled your eyes, pushing at his chest, “Go home will you?”

Bucky finally—finally—stepped back, that smug little smirk still plastered on his stupidly handsome face, “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, giving you a one last look before turning on his heel. Then just as he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder, voice softer now, “Oh and, good luck on your first lead.” 

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fynnwolff @veronicapaula

[classicrebound]

She’s back with a bang! At this point Bucky needs his own sitcom, where it’s just him battling his intrusive thoughts and obviously failing.

on a side note, I can’t stop thinking of that one scene in Suspicious Partner 😂

[neon-junkie]

what do you mean hes fictional. i need him

[brunchable]

As I am writing the ending chapters of Winter King. . . Something else came up.

Okay, hear me out. . .

This POPPED in my head out of nowhere and I had to WRITE IT DOWN. What if we had a fantasy AU titled The Witch's Vessel [ Knight!Bucky x Witch's Vessel Reader ] that brings together the drama of period kingdoms, the terror of unchecked magic, and a sprinkle of forbidden romance?

Here's the pitch:

The story starts at Wundagore Mountain, where the Scarlet Witch faces her ultimate defeat against Doctor Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme. But here’s the twist—she’s not truly vanquished. Instead, the larger part of her fractured soul escapes, seeking refuge.

Enter Y/N, a girl on the verge of death from typhoid fever. She’s lying on her deathbed, with her aunt praying beside her for a miracle. The Scarlet Witch's soul, in a desperate act of self-preservation, enters Y/N’s body, granting her life—but at a cost. Now, Y/N is caught in a dangerous game: to reclaim the rest of the Witch’s soul fragments scattered across the land, she must kill the other vessels before they kill her.

Sounds intense, right? Well, it gets worse. The Sorcerer knows the Witch wasn’t truly defeated, and he’s warned the King about her lingering presence. This sparks a royal decree to find the vessels before they can regain their full power. Cue the royal guards sweeping across the land to bring every suspected vessel to justice.

Here’s where Captain James “Bucky” Barnes comes in. He’s the leader of the Wolf Division, a formidable faction of the royal army known for their unmatched tracking skills. He’s ordered to raid every house with daughters and drag them to the town center for inspection.

The kicker? The Sorcerer Supreme has a method to identify the vessels. He claims there’s always a giveaway. A sweetness in the air that lingers in their presence. A sharp, almost metallic taste on the tongue. And for rare individuals like Bucky, a tingle in the air—a living aura of magic, as if the Witch herself is watching through the fragments.

Now imagine this: Y/N’s aunt is frantic as Bucky arrives to search their home. She knows Y/N’s secret but pleads with him, hoping against hope that he’ll remember their past. "Please, Bucky," she begs. "Remember her. Y/N is your childhood friend, your betrothed. You haven’t seen her because she’s been gravely ill, but she’s recovering now. Please, don’t hurt her."

Bucky doesn’t know Y/N is the vessel(yet). He sees a frail girl, his memories of her tugging at his heart. The stakes are already so high, but as the story unfolds, Bucky’s loyalty to the crown will collide with his growing suspicion, his childhood bond with Y/N, and his role in uncovering the truth.

After Y/N’s aunt’s desperate plea, Bucky is put in an impossible situation. He’s loyal to the crown, sworn to uphold his duties, but the aunt’s argument hits a practical nerve: marrying Y/N would ensure her safety while conveniently bringing her under the watchful eyes of the Sorcerer Supreme.

The aunt plays it smart, tugging on Bucky’s sense of honor and his lingering childhood bond with Y/N. She says something like, “If she’s your wife, she’ll live closer to the city, under the protection of the guards and away from harm. She’s recovering, Bucky—think of the advantages. You can keep her safe.”

The idea plants itself in Bucky’s head. His division is actively hunting vessels, and while he doesn’t know for sure if Y/N carries the Scarlet Witch’s soul, the suggestion of marrying her feels like a way to keep her alive without directly defying the royal decree. It’s a temporary solution... or so he convinces himself.

[classicrebound]

It’s giving the possible chaos of the Salem witch trials and I’m here for it.

But what if, maybe deep down Y/N accepted that she was going to die because Bucky never even bothered with her, she’s ready to let go of her one sided love and thought if death was the only way to do it, so be it. so when she did become a vessel she sort of developed this anger and resentment towards her aunt (at the same time also gratitude because obviously she gets to live) because she was ready to let go of a world where she’ll never be someone important to the love of her life. So basically strained relationship with aunt and Bucky because I LOVE ESPRESSO DEPRESSO. Is this too cliché? Too cringy?

Also I know it’s literally been a week and you might’ve wrote something else, which if that’s the case continue cooking girl 💅🏻

and this could literally make no sense to your vision of the story

[brunchable]

Your idea does fit in with the plot and the lead's characteristics, I see her as a woman with pride though her social status isn't that elite, so when her aunt begs Bucky to take her in that's where I can insert that resentment you just mentioned towards her aunt. 😉

And Bucky not knowing what to do with her and being in love with someone else at first just hurts 🥲

I've written 2 chapters already when i should be finishing Winter King 😭

[classicrebound]

Gurrllll you can’t be teasing me like this 😭 I am so ready for it

The temptation of a new idea is always impossible to resist and I’ll patiently wait for Winter King

[britttaperryhasmoved-deactivate]

[aurevoir-mes-amis-deactivated20]

YOU GUYS IT’S DECEMBER 10TH YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS HAS BEEN IN MY QUEUE SINCE FEBRUARY

[donttwalkaway-deactivated201302]

you have the rest of the day to reblog this

[brunchable]

As I am writing the ending chapters of Winter King. . . Something else came up.

Okay, hear me out. . .

This POPPED in my head out of nowhere and I had to WRITE IT DOWN. What if we had a fantasy AU titled The Witch's Vessel [ Knight!Bucky x Witch's Vessel Reader ] that brings together the drama of period kingdoms, the terror of unchecked magic, and a sprinkle of forbidden romance?

Here's the pitch:

The story starts at Wundagore Mountain, where the Scarlet Witch faces her ultimate defeat against Doctor Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme. But here’s the twist—she’s not truly vanquished. Instead, the larger part of her fractured soul escapes, seeking refuge.

Enter Y/N, a girl on the verge of death from typhoid fever. She’s lying on her deathbed, with her aunt praying beside her for a miracle. The Scarlet Witch's soul, in a desperate act of self-preservation, enters Y/N’s body, granting her life—but at a cost. Now, Y/N is caught in a dangerous game: to reclaim the rest of the Witch’s soul fragments scattered across the land, she must kill the other vessels before they kill her.

Sounds intense, right? Well, it gets worse. The Sorcerer knows the Witch wasn’t truly defeated, and he’s warned the King about her lingering presence. This sparks a royal decree to find the vessels before they can regain their full power. Cue the royal guards sweeping across the land to bring every suspected vessel to justice.

Here’s where Captain James “Bucky” Barnes comes in. He’s the leader of the Wolf Division, a formidable faction of the royal army known for their unmatched tracking skills. He’s ordered to raid every house with daughters and drag them to the town center for inspection.

The kicker? The Sorcerer Supreme has a method to identify the vessels. He claims there’s always a giveaway. A sweetness in the air that lingers in their presence. A sharp, almost metallic taste on the tongue. And for rare individuals like Bucky, a tingle in the air—a living aura of magic, as if the Witch herself is watching through the fragments.

Now imagine this: Y/N’s aunt is frantic as Bucky arrives to search their home. She knows Y/N’s secret but pleads with him, hoping against hope that he’ll remember their past. "Please, Bucky," she begs. "Remember her. Y/N is your childhood friend, your betrothed. You haven’t seen her because she’s been gravely ill, but she’s recovering now. Please, don’t hurt her."

Bucky doesn’t know Y/N is the vessel(yet). He sees a frail girl, his memories of her tugging at his heart. The stakes are already so high, but as the story unfolds, Bucky’s loyalty to the crown will collide with his growing suspicion, his childhood bond with Y/N, and his role in uncovering the truth.

After Y/N’s aunt’s desperate plea, Bucky is put in an impossible situation. He’s loyal to the crown, sworn to uphold his duties, but the aunt’s argument hits a practical nerve: marrying Y/N would ensure her safety while conveniently bringing her under the watchful eyes of the Sorcerer Supreme.

The aunt plays it smart, tugging on Bucky’s sense of honor and his lingering childhood bond with Y/N. She says something like, “If she’s your wife, she’ll live closer to the city, under the protection of the guards and away from harm. She’s recovering, Bucky—think of the advantages. You can keep her safe.”

The idea plants itself in Bucky’s head. His division is actively hunting vessels, and while he doesn’t know for sure if Y/N carries the Scarlet Witch’s soul, the suggestion of marrying her feels like a way to keep her alive without directly defying the royal decree. It’s a temporary solution... or so he convinces himself.

[classicrebound]

It’s giving the possible chaos of the Salem witch trials and I’m here for it.

But what if, maybe deep down Y/N accepted that she was going to die because Bucky never even bothered with her, she’s ready to let go of her one sided love and thought if death was the only way to do it, so be it. so when she did become a vessel she sort of developed this anger and resentment towards her aunt (at the same time also gratitude because obviously she gets to live) because she was ready to let go of a world where she’ll never be someone important to the love of her life. So basically strained relationship with aunt and Bucky because I LOVE ESPRESSO DEPRESSO. Is this too cliché? Too cringy?

Also I know it’s literally been a week and you might’ve wrote something else, which if that’s the case continue cooking girl 💅🏻

and this could literally make no sense to your vision of the story

[unclefather]

Reblog if you’re a true 90s kid and you remember this tumblr

[turnipfritters]

In retrospect it was high key insane that they had the activity feed embedded into your dash board like that

[cute-catts]

Too many Voids 🥰🐈🖤

[jukinthebox]

teaching robin the essentials

full view ⬇️