#belladonna the reverie

[reesespieces-org]

|Belladonna angst/starter|

For my non-rp followers, have some angst of my OC and let me know how I did! :D

Fire shouldn't have been able to burn like that. Not here. It shouldn't have been able to spark that high, it shouldn't have been able to burn that hot, it shouldn't have been able to glow that brightly. She couldn't get the smell of burnt foliage out of her nose, couldn't get the sounds of creaking metal and shattering glass out of her ears. The collapse of her hard work—her years long worth of work—was devastating to the Eighth. Watching it all burn down, watching as her assistants sobbed into her chest, watching everything go up in flames just like that stoked an ember in her own mind that she never wanted to remember.

It felt as if she was a girl again; dragging her sister behind her as they ran through their burning village, screams of townsfolk filling their ears as they swerved through bodies of people. They only had just a bit further, just another few miles until they were out of the town, out of the wreckage, out of the carnage. But that damned Abyss Herald caught up to them, how foolish they were to think they could get away in time. She could still hear the way her sister begged for her to go, to get out. She could still feel the warm splash of blood on her body, she could still remember the way her throat went raw from screaming so loudly in despair.

It felt as if it was happening all over again. Felt as if she was Liliya Morozova all over again; a child. Belladonna didn't seem to register the tears streaming down her face, nor the call of her own name.

Who was that?

[reesespieces-org]

Belladonna took a breath. She found herself overreacting. Calm, she commanded herself, do not react so harshly. Talk, do not shout.

"My apologies, let me rephrase;" The florist mumbled, her tone now less confrontational. "I am growing tired of your dismissal towards my trust in Dottore. I am tired of the constant push and pull between us when it comes to him. Do you not have faith in me that I know what I'm doing?"

"When will you learn to trust me? Must you constantly argue and be dismissive of me?"

While her words were out of the blue, Belladonna had gotten fed up with Rowan's constant dismissal of her trust in The Doctor. Even if the eccentric mad scientist was dangerous, the Eighth had become quite good friends with him. While she understood the distrust, it irked her just a little when Rowan would wave away her reasonings.

She loved Rowan—she did, truly!—but it was getting a bit much for Belladonna now.

@reesespieces-org (Belladonna — Benevolence Behind Duality)

From her spot in the armchair across from Belladonna, Rowan’s eyes snapped to Bella’s as the words left their owner’s heart, into the air.

❝…Pardon, Bella? When…did this come on? What have I done? I’ll try to fix it any way I can.❞

Rowan’s eyes took on a rare pleading look, unable to stand the possibility that she had unknowingly carved a crack in this connection of theirs that was oh-so-deep and strong.

She had already lost her sister, her innocence, her Athea.

She couldn’t loose Belladonna, her purpose, her passion.

Her life.

[reveluving]

Random Graves/Price x shy!wife!reader thought (in Sims 2 AU) where...

You just KNOW they'd read Don Lothario and Daniel Pleasant to filth.

[chiliyue-archived]

Sitting on his lap

Includes; Dazai, Chūya, Nikolai, Jōno

Requested ! [Bsd M.List]

-

—DAZAI

" Belladonna, come sit on my lap~" Dazai had crooned to you, his cheeks tugging into a familiar expression of amusement. Before you could even protest, cotton hands and nimble fingers hooked around your waist, beckoning you close to his chest with just a couple of mere couple tugs.

" Osamu - you have work to do." You attempted, though you hardly resisted when you felt his chest press against your back, the tip of his nose nestling in your hair. And counterproductive to your words, habitually, you sunk into his embrace.

It didn't help that Dazai made quick work at finding purchase at your hips, running his index fingers over the clothed spot in a manner he knew would make you indulge to his needy touches. He chuckled as you exhaled deeply, surrendering to his actions.

" Hmm, don't underestimate me, love. Surely I can do both." He hummed nonchalantly, his grip unwavering as he opted to pepper kisses along your shoulder. You could feel him smirk as you failed to suppress a shudder, muscles stiffening beneath his saccharine affections.

" Besides, having a pretty you to keep me company? Why I call that motivation." He quickly interjected as you glanced over your shoulder, sending him a skeptical look comprised of pinched brows and pursed lips. Distractions would be a better term, you reckoned.

Dazai showed little signs of letting you go, arm encircled around your waist and all but enveloping you against him. His legs also hooked around your own, occasionally swaying your locked limbs back and forth.

Had it been up to him, you could foresee yourself always being within his clutches, smothered in sweet kisses that nudges did little to cease. In that reverie, it wasn't entirely unappealing - until you acknowledged his camaraderie.

" Good thing Kunikida isn't here. Otherwise, you'd really be in big trouble." You muttered, casting an uneasy glance toward the door. Even as the words hung in the air, you contradicted yourself, fully immersing against him and allowing the warmth of his chest to reverberate along your spine.

If anything, his grip tightened in response to your light quip, leaving you entrapped as he pressed a peck to the crown of your head. His voice took a complacent tone.

" Even if he did, 'Bella, don't think I'm ever gonna let you go."

-

—CHŪYA

" Hey Chū, can I sit on your lap?"

The question had caught your lover off gaurd, his grip on his pen stiffening to an unceremonious halt. Given his expression; a light rose expanding from his cheeks to the tip of his nose accompanied with the flutter of his eyelashes, you had almost assumed he was going to say no.

Very quickly, however, your concerns were met with swift reassurance as Chūya meekly nodded his head. It was followed by a terse answer of " Go ahead." Wordlessly, he accommodated himself on the elaborate cushioned chair, motioning you to join him with a shy flick of his hand.

His grip was tenuous at first, resting at your hip as his other continued to sway his pen. He let out a prolonged breath as you sunk into his embrace, arms draping over his shoulders and pressing your chest against his own. He wondered if you could hear his heartbeat spike as you squished your cheek against him.

" Comfortable?" He asked, his voice a little daunt with the proximity of the situation. He continued to shift a bit more until you replied with a satisfied hum.

With little results, he attempted to quell his thumping heartbeat, no doubt echoing through your ears as you nuzzled into him for the nth time. Yet against his own rationality, it hadn't even occurred to him that his own body arched forward, seeking to eliminate all spaces between you.

Flustered but undeterred, a soft sigh left him as his pen continued to work on the documents littering his desk - though his fingers moved rather aimlessly as his eyes kept glancing to your figure. You could feel his breath prickle your temples, lips just shy of the skin as he pondered for a moment.

Suddenly, he paused, favoring to instead tug the glove off from one of his hands before slipping that very limb beneath the hem of your shirt. Though shaky as first, tender motions traced out your spine, the pads of his finger slightly cold to your sensitive skin yet in a manner that was oddly soothing. He chuckled softly as you squirmed at his ministrations, his movement persisting at a tantalizingly slow tempo.

For the rest of the evening, Chūya made due with working with one hand whilst the other continued to rub at your back comfortingly. And of course - he took every opportunity he could to steal a glance, feeling a sense of pride - and a touch of hidden possessiveness- that you felt safe in his arms and that this was something he alone would share with you.

-

—NIKOLAI

You hardly managed to get a word out when you found yourself caged within the heat of Nikolai's arms, the limbs deftly circled firmly around your waist.

" Kolya-?!" You sputtered, the name muddled as one of his hands rested on the back of your neck, effectively pulling your cheek against his chest. In a couple of movements you found yourself situated on his lap, gloved fingers lazily rubbing at your sides.

" Don't fret too much, doll." He lightly chastised, an all too familiar grin coming to his lips. " Indulge me for a couple minutes, no? I believe you'll find yourself to enjoy this." He mused against your temples, voice reverberating along your skull.

You really could do nothing more than to slump your forehead against his chest as his fingers aimlessly ran along from the point of your shoulder down to your elbow. He watched with an increasingly growing gleam as you slowly succumbed to his pokes and brushes.

As you reclined your head against his shoulder, you could faintly make out a hum resonating from his throat, adams apple bobbing as he spoke; " See Dove, I kept my promise." A satisfied look etched on his features, taking note of your pliant state, muscles loose and relaxed.

The sound you made in response was muffled, cheek and hand settled over his sternum.

Your ears caught the sound of a light-hearted chuckle, gloved hands trailing to cup with your cheeks and puckering up your lips involuntarily. His gaze remained locked on yours, the intensity making you shift around with little avail - not with your body pressed against his own, both of your legs dangling off the edge.

With his hand remaning on your cheeks, he veered you in a for a kiss, gentle lips pressing on your own. He lingered there for a moment before withdrawing with a pronounced "Mwah!~" He watched with a broad grin as you sputtered over your words, lips still fully puckered with nothing but a playful glare that you can send him.

Nikolai let out an exasperated sigh, bringing you close to the clutches of his embrace once more and settling his chin to rest on the crown of your head. His mind drifts as he stirs other wondrous ideas for later use, gaze flickering down to your figure.

He observed with little words as you ultimately snuggled against his chest, arms slipping around his shoulder and eyes shutting close in serene verity.

He remained like that, having you sit on his lap as his fingers played with your strands of hair, coiling it with his pinky and watching it unwind.

Even as seconds and minutes melded together into a sloppy time frame, he relished having you in his presence for as long as that persisted.

-

—JŌNO

He can hear the pitter patter of your shoes as you approached him, the sound amplified in his sensitive ears. His head was already perking toward your direction before you could even have the opportunity to mumble a word. His brow quriked, curious to what you may want.

" Can I sit on your lap?" The question left your mouth, a sheepish undetone hidden. Well, he certainly wasn't expecting that.

Much to your disappointment, you were met with prolonged silence as Jōno took in your inquiry. You were fully prepared to be met with a hard cold denial until...

"... I suppose." The hunting dog replied, fixating on your habits; the light fidgeting on your fingers against his sleeve, the subtle thump of your heart or how you exhaled in relief when he didn't deny your request. How cute, he thought inwardly.

He pushed the chair back, wincing as the legs of the furniture grated on the floor. Though that keening ache hasitly vanished away as he felt your back press to his chest.

The raidence of your warmth was evident, proliferating from his sternum and to the tip of his fingers that set his nerves ablaze - yet not in a way he would click his tongue at in mild annoyance - instead he allowed for that warmth to accumulate, pricking the pads of his fingers.

His grip was tighter than usual, hands busied at kneadning your skin, letting out a nonchalant sound as his muscles loosened slightly by the passing second. It was almost a complete change in his demeanor, the ambiance coaxing a gentle smile to your lips as you reclined into his bulky form. He hadn't failed to notice how you slightly snuggled into him, a soft hum escaping you as you did.

" You are incredibly clingy sometimes." He added; however, his indicated nothing serious about his statement, even if it held merit to some extent. Yet contrary to his sentence, Jōno pulled you closer to him with small tug, thumb swiping over the pulse point on your wrist - a habit he had acquired in response to fuming emotions that only stirred whilst in your presence

" Right, I'm the touch starved one." Your playful retort was earned with a gentle pinch to your forearm. Before you could pout too much, however, you felt his lips brush against your forehead; the curve of a satisfied grin present, fully resigning to your snuggles and sugared endearments.

" I suppose we're both guilty of that allegation."

-

A/n; sorry for my absence, I didn't like the drafts I had for this originally and kept editing it. Still don't really like it but oh well 💀

[whoose-bad-idea-was-this]

Greetings. I’m Rowan Lawrence-Morozova—and yes, of the Mondstadt Lawrence clan. Nice to meet you, Brighella—if I knew your harbinger name I would use that out of propriety.

I find myself surprised we haven’t met, honestly, with the fact I’ve been here for a couple years now.

Anyway, you probably haven’t heard of me—I’m honored if up have—I share the late Signora’s spot with Belladonna Morozova as the Reverie.

Nice to meet you, and I hope you don’t mind me coming to say hello.

-@an-operetta-ablaze

// Hope you don’t mind me popping in with Rowan! Take your time replying or if you’d like to wait till another one of the current ones ends to post no worries!

Lovely to meet you too, Rowan. I assume you do not mind me using that name if you gave it to me? Or would you prefer I use your Harbinger name?

It's Aegis, like the shield in that Enkanomiyan myth. But Brighella is fine too, I care little for what names others may use.

I find myself quite surprised too, ofcourse it could just as easily be blamed on the fact that I tend to travel quite often.

I think The Knave or The Captain may have mentioned you once or twice. And no need for all that, we're both Harbingers here, no? I think we can drop part of the formalities.

Oh not at all, I'm always happy to meet new faces, I'm sure you and Belladonna will be an excellent change of pace here.

[djloveyou3000]

Belladonna

Chapter nineteen

Russell leaned back in his chair, taking another drag from his cigarette, his gaze fixed intently on Bell. That look… His thoughts spiraled into dangerous territory. You’re so perfect, so trusting. I could hold you like this forever, kiss you until you forget how to breathe. Or I could break you. Lock you away. Make you mine in every way possible until you’d never dare to look at anyone else. You’d beg me for mercy, but you’d know it wouldn’t come. You’d be mine entirely, wouldn’t you, Bell? My beautiful, helpless little thing.

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face as his dark thoughts deepened. He barely noticed Bell watching him closely, their worried expression breaking through the haze of his mind.

“Russ?” Bell’s voice was soft, hesitant. Their hand reached out, cupping his scarred cheek, and the warmth of their touch jolted him out of his reverie.

He blinked, meeting their gaze. “Are you okay? You seemed… distracted,” they asked, their concern evident.

For a moment, Russell said nothing, simply studying them. Then, with a faint smile, he caught their hand, pressing a lingering kiss to their palm. “I’m fine, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, though the storm inside him hadn’t settled.

Before Bell could question him further, he pulled them closer, cupping their face in his hands. His lips captured theirs in a deep, possessive kiss, one that left them breathless by the time he pulled away. His eyes searched theirs as he leaned back slightly, his expression softening, though the edge of darkness remained.

“So,” he began, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of something Bell couldn’t quite place, “what have you been remembering lately? Anything new?”

Bell hesitated, their gaze darting to the journal. “It’s mostly about Perseus,” they said cautiously, their voice trembling just enough to be noticeable. “I remember… he fed me, bathed me, put me to sleep when I was scared. He taught me things, protected me, and—”

Russell’s demeanor changed instantly. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as his body stiffened. Without a word, he reached over and snatched the journal from the table, flipping through it with a chilling precision.

Bell flinched, their stomach twisting into knots as they watched him. The silence was suffocating, every second stretching into an eternity. Finally, they couldn’t bear it any longer and began to rise from their seat, intending to give him space.

Before they could fully stand, Russell’s hand shot out, gripping their arm with a vice-like hold. “Sit,” he commanded, his voice low and cold.

“Russell, you’re hurting me,” Bell whispered, wincing as his grip tightened.

“I said sit,” he repeated, dragging them back down effortlessly. He didn’t even glance up from the journal as he flipped another page, his eyes scanning the words with an unsettling intensity.

The minutes ticked by in oppressive silence until, finally, Russell closed the journal and placed it on the table. He leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a cold, humorless smile.

“Perseus,” he drawled mockingly, his voice dripping with venom. “‘He fed me, bathed me, taught me, protected me.’” He repeated the words slowly, as if tasting each one. “You know, Bell, I think that might be the funniest joke I’ve ever heard.”

His laughter erupted suddenly, loud and sharp, but there was no humor in it. It was a dark, unhinged sound that made Bell’s skin crawl.

“Russell, please—” Bell began, their voice trembling with fear.

“Shut up,” he snapped, his laughter cutting off abruptly. His icy gaze locked onto them, and Bell froze, feeling as though they were caught in the sights of a predator.

Russell leaned forward grabbing them putting them on his lap , grabbing their cheeks roughly, forcing them to meet his eyes. “You answer me when I talk to you,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “Or do I need to train you to listen better? Is that what you want, Bell?”

Bell shook their head quickly, tears pooling in their eyes.

“That’s what I thought.” His grip tightened for a moment before he released them, his hand lingering on their face. He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down their spine. “What’s wrong, baby? We’re just talking.”

“I—I didn’t mean anything by it,” Bell stammered, their voice barely above a whisper.

Russell’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You need to get rid of all that nice Perseus bullshit in your pretty little head,” he said coldly, tapping a finger against their temple. “Do you understand me? Forget him. Forget everything he taught you. Because if you don’t…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You’ll wish you had.”

Bell nodded shakily, their breath hitching as tears slipped down their cheeks.

“Good,” Russell murmured, his voice soft but no less menacing. Without warning, he scooped them up into his arms and carried them to the bedroom.

“Russell, please—” Bell started, but he silenced them with a sharp look.

He laid them down on the bed, his body looming over theirs. His hands pinned them in place, and his gaze bore into them with an intensity that made their heart pound.

“So,” he said softly, his tone deceptively calm. “Do we agree?”

Bell hesitated, their voice trembling as they replied, “But Russell, it’s what I remembered. It’s not something I can just—”

Their words were cut off as his hand wrapped around their neck, squeezing just enough to make them gasp.

“Shh,” he whispered mockingly, his tone sweet yet deadly. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep those pretty lips shut. Unless, of course, you’d prefer I shut them for you.”

Bell’s breath hitched, their body trembling beneath him. They nodded frantically, tears streaming down their face.

“That’s my Bell,” Russell said softly, his grip loosening as he leaned down to kiss them roughly. His lips trailed to their neck, where he bit down hard enough to leave a mark.

He sat back slightly, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. Exhaling the smoke, he leaned down, blowing it directly into Bell’s mouth. They coughed violently, but he didn’t stop, his dark chuckle filling the room.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against their ear. “Every thought, every memory, every breath. You belong to me, Bell. Don’t you forget that.”

He watched them carefully, his gaze sharp and possessive, as though daring them to challenge him. Then he leaned down again, his lips brushing against their ear. “And if you ever do forget… I’ll remind you.”

Then he leaned down, biting and kissing their neck, leaving marks as a reminder of his words. You’ll never escape me, Bell. Not in this lifetime or the next.

[dust-n-roses]

My Favourite First Listens of 2024!

It's been a big year of discovery for me, continuing to delve into prog and metal and embarking on the extreme metal journey with my developing tolerance of harsh vocals. These albums, old and new (in chronological order of when I heard them) are the highlights of my first listens this year :)

#1: Misplaced Childhood (1985) – Marillion

I heard this either right at the end of last year or right at the beginning of this year, as my mum found her copy after Christmas when we got our record player. I only knew Kayleigh, which though a good track is very much an 80s ballad, so I was stunned to hear how proggy and conceptual the full album is and it quickly became a favourite. It has the quirkiness and quasi-symphonic sound of early 70s Genesis with the bombast of the 80s, and the flow of the album is wonderful – I'll never hear Kayleigh in the same way again now I know how Pseudo Silk Kimono leads into it!

Favourite tracks: Waterhole (Expresso Bongo), Blind Curve, Childhood's End?

#2: For All Kings (2016) – Anthrax

I finished the Big 4's discographies near the beginning of the year and was pleasantly surprised at how good latter-day Anthrax is. Their most recent album is full of great songs and has a well-constructed balance of heaviness and melodicism, with Joey Belladonna in great vocal shape.

Favourite tracks: Breathing Lightning, Suzerain, Blood Eagle Wings

#3: From Mars to Sirius (2005) – Gojira

I was skeptical at first at how a heavy album with plenty of harsh vocals could be a conceptual masterpiece as I'd heard, but after a couple of listens I started to get it. The music scratched an itch for something more intense and being a nature/animal lover I latched onto the concept and Gojira's overall philosophy quickly. The balance of groove-laden riffs, bludgeoning death metal and more ambient sections is just right for it to be intense all the way through without being exhausting to listen to, and it succeeds in taking you on its journey.

Favourite tracks: Backbone, From the Sky, The Heaviest Matter of the Universe, Flying Whales

#4: Orchid (1995) – Opeth

And so we come to Opeth, my biggest discovery this year. I'd heard of the band and was curious about their prog credentials but intimidated by the death metal side of things, however decided to give them a go having started dipping into heavier waters. Being their debut, Orchid was the first album I heard and it absolutely blew me away; I knew instantly that I'd deal with growled vocals if it meant I could listen to the music. Oh, the music – wonderful melodic lead guitars, folky acoustics, atmospheric and meandering song structures. It’s such a unique soundscape and an album that I only wring more joy from as I get further into the style.

Favourite tracks: In Mist She Was Standing, Under The Weeping Moon

#5: Ghost Reveries (2005) – Opeth

Fast forward a bunch of Opeth albums and we come to the first one that caught my attention after my initial deep dive. Ghost of Perdition was the first song I kept coming back to, and The Baying of the Hounds followed in its footsteps. The balance of clean/harsh vocals and soft/heavy music on this album is executed perfectly and the softer parts made it easier to get into as a newbie to the death metal aspects, but it keeps on giving now those parts are just as enjoyable. A well-sequenced album full of great, memorable songs.

Favourite tracks: Ghost of Perdition, The Baying of the Hounds, Beneath the Mire, Harlequin Forest

#6: Sorceress – Opeth (2016)

Ironically, since I came at them from an old-school prog background, I found the first couple of prog Opeth albums (Heritage and Pale Communion) harder to get into. Sorceress, though, I adored straight away and still do for its 70s hard rock style, a heavier take on the prog sound with abundant Hammond organ. I love the songs on it and the cohesive vibe throughout, plus Mikael’s gorgeous clean vocals really shine.

Favourite tracks: Sorceress, The Wilde Flowers, Will O The Wisp, Chrysalis, Era

#7: Foregone – In Flames (2023)

I was aware of In Flames’ Clayman album when I heard the newly-released bonus track from this, Become One, and fell in love. Listening to the whole thing cemented the thought that I needed to explore melodeath, as the Maiden-esque riffs coupled with death metal heaviness and a good balance of clean/screamed vocals was something I didn’t know I needed. Banger after banger, what else can I say?

Favourite tracks: Meet Your Maker, Pure Light of Mind, In The Dark, A Dialogue In B Flat Minor

#8: Hand. Cannot. Erase – Steven Wilson (2015)

I wasn’t convinced by the idea that Steven’s solo work could rival Porcupine Tree, just because I love PT so much. Boy, did albums like this prove me wrong! A prog-pop masterpiece imbued with the nostalgia that enamoured me with his songwriting in PT, Hand. Cannot. Erase has everything – instrumental prog weirdness, electronica, achingly melancholic soft sections, an evocative lyrical concept and even a poppy chorus in the awesome title track. It makes me feel so seen, musically and lyrically, and that’s what I love about him.

Favourite tracks: 3 Years Older, Hand Cannot Erase, Home Invasion, Happy Returns

#9: To The Bone – Steven Wilson (2017)

Another prog-pop masterpiece that emboldened my obsession with Steven, this is an eclectic yet well-curated bunch of songs that just connected with me immediately. It’s got beautiful ballads, perfect pop, experimental electronica and a couple of fantastic straight-ahead hard rock songs, with some of his best singing too. What more could I want?

Favourite tracks: Pariah, The Same Asylum As Before, Permanating, People Who Eat Darkness

#10: Hybrid Theory – Linkin Park (2000)

I finally got round to delving into Linkin Park’s discography this summer – good timing! This is the nu-metal album, and turned out to be my favourite LP record not only because of the great combination of heavy guitars and sometimes aggressive vocals with hip-hop elements, but because of the catchiness they incorporate.

Favourite tracks: One Step Closer, By Myself, In The End, Forgotten

#11: The Mantle – Agalloch (2002)

I saw this recommended in a thread discussing albums like Opeth’s Orchid, then heard In The Shadow of Our Pale Companion in a prog metal playlist and just thought, I need more of this. The sound of this album and band is so melancholic without being dull, a gorgeous musical marriage of folk, black metal and post-rock/metal that transcends them all. This album really does sound like you’re taking a walk in a snow-covered Scandanavian forest (even though these guys are American), contemplating existence with a healthy dose of pantheism. A masterpiece that I connected with straight away, and struggle to describe except to say: listen to it!

Favourite tracks: In The Shadow of Our Pale Companion, I Am The Wooden Doors, The Hawthorne Passage

#12: Blackfield II – Blackfield (2007)

Another entry for Steven Wilson, this time making art rock with Aviv Geffen. Of course, there’s a heavy dose of melancholia in Blackfield’s sound, but it’s got an accessible alt-rock feel and more straightforward song structures. That’s not an insult, though, as this is a great collection of songs with lovely vocals from both of them.

Favourite tracks: Christenings, Epidemic, Where Is My Love?, End of the World

#13: Luck and Strange – David Gilmour (2024)

This was the first album that I’d heard for the first time on vinyl, and from the first, so utterly Gilmour guitar notes, it had me in tears. Between the nostalgic lyrics, his singular guitar sound and voice, and the Pink Floyd references scattered through the music, my experience of this album was immediately emotional and to top it off, it led to an experience I never thought I’d get: seeing David Gilmour live. It still hasn’t sunk in, but between the magnitude of that event and the beauty of the music itself, this album had to be on the list.

Favourite tracks: Luck and Strange, Between Two Points, Dark and Velvet Nights

#14: Absolute Elsewhere – Blood Incantation (2024)

Amongst all the old bands still to discover, I don’t pay tons of attention to new releases, but discovering Opeth gave me an interest in anything labelled ‘progressive death metal’ and an album with space-electronica interludes was bound to intrigue me. Considering the disparity in styles between bludgeoning death metal and Berlin school progressive electronica, this album flows surprisingly well and feels cohesive in its ambitious fusion. It took a few spins to fully grasp the heavier sections, but this is an enjoyable listen and one that makes me glad I took the dive into more extreme metal.

Favourite tracks: The Stargate [Tablet I], The Message [Tablet II]

#15: Flowermouth – No-Man (1994)

No-Man is the next Steven Wilson project for me to explore, and despite my initial apprehension for something contemporary of the 90s, dance/hip-hop influence and all, their sound has been growing on me. This album has a spacey atmosphere amongst the dance beats, topped with gorgeous vocals from Tim Bowness, and has repeatedly drawn me back despite being a style I wouldn’t have expected to like much (that’s Steven’s songwriting, I guess, or just bias from my desire to like his whole catalogue). An intriguing soundscape and cool new vibe which I’ll continue to explore in the new year.

Favourite tracks: Angel Gets Caught In The Beauty Trap, You Grow More Beautiful, Things Change

#16: The Last Will and Testament – Opeth (2024)

Having gotten into Opeth at the beginning of the year, it was exciting that they were releasing a new album and even more so when it turned out to be a return to metal territory, fusing their recent symphonic prog leanings with their classic prog-death sound. To top it off, it’s a concept album! And it didn’t disappoint: there’s prog, there’s jazz, there’s death metal, there’s baritone vocals, there’s growls, there’s narration and even flute from Ian Anderson – all packed into seven unpredictable, immaculately composed ‘paragraphs’ and the beautiful dénouement of the ending track, A Story Never Told. Everyone’s playing shines, Mikael’s songwriting skills are as endlessly brilliant as always, and it flows as a full album like all the best prog records. Thoroughly enjoyable!

Favourite tracks: §3, §4, §6

[psalacanthea]

🍛

From this ask here!

Thank you so much for sending this! Also for entertaining my idiotic questions about what the hell that emoji is. (it is so teeny tiny to me and there's so many questions!)

🍛 CURRY AND RICE — what does your oc's typical dinner look like? do they usually eat dinner?

my Tav Zynatheri- Everyone else's dinner time is her breakfast, being both drow and a bard. Her actual dinner, her fourth meal of the day, is right before reverie (or sleeping if she has nothing better to do) around ten in the morning. It's usually either mild and unexciting like some bread and jerky, or if she's not traveling and someone else is cooking, she likes a pastry or stuffed bun of any type.

Something she can eat with one hand while scribbling away at music.

As for my Durge, Belladonna, probably plain bread, raw meat or lightly cooked fish, uncooked vegetables, and the occasional mealy apple to make sure things don't get too exciting. Food can't be for pleasure because pleasure is distracting. And when she gets distracted she easily loses control.

And then people start dying, which makes carrying out her plans a little...difficult.

A lot of her bullshit drives Gortash insane (which he deserves), but her eating habits make him Suffer. Except the part where she eats a small part of everyone she kills. That he finds endearing.

[kisslandeds]

I.

[̲̅T]here's a stillness in the atmosphere of the auditorium, and a heavy languor that pervades the circumambient air. It's a rather lethargic Tuesday morning, a rather laid-back day for Bella, who'd been somnolent since she'd woken up. Despite her indolence, it was necessary she tackle the day. She had several errands to run after rehearsal, and she was more than nervous for them. Regardless, Bella is an early bird, and like usual, she's at work before anyone else.

   Bella figured, as she ambulates across the stage of the regal opera house, that she might as well use this time to rehearse her lines again. She stands in the middle of the vast stage, in a field of light reflections. Being right in the heart of the auditorium helped her visualize an audience, perhaps serving as an incentive for her.

Before her were thousands of seats, vermillion in colour and sewn from the finest textiles. There were levels of seats, balconies of them, just waiting to be filled with people and ovation. Alabaster pillars and delicate marble pillars complete the architecture of the house, perhaps derived from works of the Renaissance era. The lambency from the balcony lights shoot diamonds from the gloss of the stage floor, it felt like a garden of crystals just right beneath her.

   With a deep breath, Bella closed her eyes. Opening them again, she is greeted with visions of thousands of people filling up the empty seats in front of her, an animated audience clapping and cheering. Such a sight would never grow old to Bella. This view, after all, paid her bills and gave her a motive to keep acting. She loved it, adored it. Despite being a job, she never got tired of entertainment, she never grew bored of being on stage.

   For a moment, the ambient was stentorian during Bella's reverie, palpable, even, before silence catches up with her once more and breaks the unreal utopia before her.

Just before Bella reached for her purse to retrieve her folded script, a bright light flashes in front of her, a luminaire so blinding she instinctively shuts her eyes and covers them with the palm of her hand. The main stage light moves across the stage, and the once still ambience of the auditorium was now completely gone.

    Before Bella has a chance to react to the rush of fright that moments before filled her stomach, she notices a figure among the cavernous seats, juxtaposed between them. Gradually, it gets larger, as if moving closer to her. Given the events that had been happening in her life, she had every reason to believe she was in danger. A rather disconcerting emotion overtakes Bella.

   "My Belladonna! I knew you'd be here, you're always here at 9:30 AM without fault!" A rather flamboyant masculine voice reverberates across the empty theatre. Just like that, the quiet atmosphere had been cut through with a knife.

   "Simon," Bella gets up from the stage, a sigh of relief escaping her glossed lips. "Good morning. You're in a good mood today, aren't you? Why are you in so early? You're not here until 10." She inquires, walking across the stage and watching as Simon, her agent, trots down the stairs at the side of the auditorium to get to the pit. She pretends as if moments before she was completely shaken by his entrance.

   "Oh dear," Simon's voice is high in several octaves, and his visage is rather grave. "Today has to be a busy day I tell you! We have to make sure you're on your A-game, baby!"

  "You're making me anxious, Simon."

   "You ought to be anxious," Simon finally reaches the pit before climbing up the stage as if to intensify what he was about to say. "Bella, those casting directors that watched your rehearsal yesterday were in awe at your work! They want to schedule lunch and talk business!"

"My Gods, Simon," Bella sighs. "You don't think a simple text could've sufficed? You know how much you make me nervous when you look so serious."

   Simon gives out a small chuckle, his dark skin wrinkles as he smiles. "I'm sorry, Bella," his eyes twinkle, the gold eyeliner on his eyelid shimmers in the light of the luminescence filling the house. "You know how much your success means to me."

   "Yeah, I'm sorry, Simon, I don't mean to get all serious," Belladonna apologizes for being so apprehensive. "Today's a big day for me. I'm finally going to see someone to talk about these weird things going on."

   "That's great!" Simon adjusts his scarf. "You let me know how that goes," he clears his throat, "anyway, I'd like you to get ready for rehearsal. Your costar will be here any minute now. Remember, your A-game today, ma'am!"

   Quick to brush it off, huh, Belladonna quips to herself. I guess I shouldn't share my business.

    With a forced smile, Bella saunters off to get ready for rehearsal.

II.

  "Beautiful, beautiful," Simon claps, he is as preppy as a schoolgirl. "Brava, bravissimo! I could shed a tear."

   After enduring painful hours of wearing a tight corset and having to act out intense emotions, Bella was to say the least, exhausted. Her visage was glossed with sweat, her stage makeup fading away with the hours of wear. From arriving at the auditorium at 9:30 AM, it was now 3 PM. Despite this, it didn't matter to her. Her role had to be perfect, it was imperative she mastered her character. If that meant staying overnight rereading the same lines over and over again, it was a condition she was willing to endure. Of course, Bella's most critical audience was herself.

  "I think I am moved," Simon wipes away doubtful tears from underneath his painted eyes. "Truly, I have never seen another Christine so remarkable!" Simon turns to Bella's male counterpart. "And you! You make a wonderful phantom!"

  The play that had demanded so much of Bella's time and energy was the classic, 'The Phantom of the Opera.' To be frank, it was a rather challenging role for Bella, having to act out all these intense emotions from the protagonist she plays in such tight clothing and dry conditions of the stage. Not to mention, she was required to sing, and to project your voice across the massive auditorium was no easy task.

   "Don't flatter me," Abel, Bella's male costar chimes. "If you're on stage with such a talented actress, naturally, the energy she exudes would motivate anyone to perfect this role." A big, teeth-y smile spreads across his profile.

   "Oh, please," Bella laughs. "Don't sensationalize me."

   "Don't be so modest!" Abel exclaims. "Although, that is what makes you so charming."

   "Mhm," Simon hums. "Bella, I have to get going to meet with some directors. Please, get some beauty sleep. I need you looking youthful and energetic! You seem gloomy today, and we can't have that," Simon is already at the curtain to the backstage, "Don't forget to rehearse your lines, dear. It's not too long 'till opening night." Just as quick as Simon made his ingress this morning, preceded his egress in the same fashion.

    As soon as Simon's presence had left the room, the air was much more desolate and did not seem so cheery. The preponderance of his aura now dissipated, and Abel and Bella are alone. It was already 3 PM and Bella had to get going to run her errands. The day was certainly not over here.

"I gotta get going, too," Bella gives in a breathy chuckle, she was starting to suffocate from how tight her corset was. "I'll see you tomorrow, Abel."

    Abel nods and elicits a small smile, giving a small wave goodbye as Bella wastes no time to start heading back to her dressing room. The sound of her antique heels reverberate across the theatre, and before it could be gone, Abel stops Bella from sneaking away behind the curtains with a gentle touch to her arm.

   "Hey, Bella," Abel says hesitantly, "before you go . . ."  he smiles nervously, as if telling himself to confess something, "would you fancy lunch today?"

   Bella turns around upon Abel's survey, observing a shy expression dominating his features. He runs his fingers through his quaffed hair, scratching his neck awaiting Bella's response.

  "I'm so sorry, Abel!" she commiserates. "I have something today that I just can't put off. Maybe some other day, though."

  "Of course." Abel chuckles nervously. "Have a nice afternoon, Bella." Finally, he waves her goodbye, to which she replicates, and that was that.

III.

   After rehearsal, Bella had changed into her evening attire and decided to refresh her makeup. After all, she needed to look as presentable as possible today. Her mascara had drooped after hours of wear, and her under-eyes had begun to crease due to her exhaustion. With an anxious exhale, Bella powders her face, cleaning up her makeup to look as awake and fresh as possible. She runs a nude colour liner under her waterline, opening up her eyes as much as she can.

Bella was no stranger to anxiety. As an actress, living alone, she had many things to worry about. However, besides what a person usually worries about nowadays, she had something weighing on her shoulders that she just couldn't handle anymore. She'd been fatigued the past few days with a melancholy feeling reducing the quality of her life, and now she was finally going to get help.

The World's Only Consulting Detective, huh, Bella thinks to herself as she reapplies a pink blush to the roundness of her cheeks. Will you disappoint me, too? Bella sighs, reminded of the contents of the article she'd read on The London Times, the tabloid in which she'd discovered the office of this detective.

❝ Proficiency with observation, deduction, forensic science, and logical reasoning.

At 221B Baker Street

Approved by the Scotland Yard ❞

  It was in Bella's best interest that this detective—Sherlock Holmes, would accept her case. She'd grown tired of rejection from local private investigators, brushing off the details as too 'trivial' or of lesser importance than their other cases. Bella would be referred to the Scotland Yard—and that was the last thing she wanted. She wanted to keep the details as private as possible.

   Belladonna takes a profound look at herself, subconsciously deep in thought of what could come of today. Her brown eyes glisten with the bright white light of her vanity bulbs, a lustre glazing her pupils. Absentmindedly, she stares at herself, her conscience lingering with nothing but thoughts of the future.

    A rhythmic knock catches Bella's unconscious thought. Bella, shaken up, reverts her glance to the door. That's weird, Bella gets up from her chair, I'm not expecting anyone. Could it be Abel again? Simon?

  

   "I'll be there in a second!" Bella grabs her phone from her purse that'd been hanging from a clothing rack. She checks the time, to which it read 3:55 PM. Damn, it's late.

   With a sigh, she places her fingers on the doorknob and cautiously opens the door. The door is barely open, but she can tell there is two strong, broad chests. Curiously, she widens the interstice that separates her and the two men.

   The men, standing right before her, were none whom she knew.

    The man, on the left, wore a white button-up and a black vest. His posture was relaxed, his hands inside the pockets of his dress pants. The man, on the right of Bella, wore a polished 3-piece. The fabric of his vest was deep navy in colour, his button-up was striped and pristine, and his tie was a refined silk, a deep red. Above it all, was a heavy, sculpted dress coat that hung over his robust shoulders. Peculiarly, an arm seemed to be hiding behind his back, as if concealing something.

    Although it was impolite, she was rather compelled by his clothing—she couldn't stop herself from staring, and she hadn't yet seen their faces. What piques Bella's interest specifically is his lapel. Near his navy lapel is a brooch, a brooch of a blue rose with an intense hue. It was a beautiful rose, a rose that seemed so fresh in spite of the dry auditorium air. To Bella's curiosity, both men complimented their habiliment with the same brooch as if to insinuate their affiliation.

    From first glance, without even a look at their face, it was very evident how well-dressed these men were. However, it wasn't just their vesture that made their appearance so captivating, but rather their very aura. Something palpable radiating off of them, something so tangible. Consider it a very emanation of their preponderant, puissant presence.

    Before Bella could open her mouth to speak, realizing how impertinent she'd exhibited herself, her words are adjourned.

    "Good afternoon, madam! How does the day find you?" The man, who she had been studying so intently, finally cuts through the silence. His voice is clear, as smooth as silk.

   Finally, Bella looks up. The man she'd scrutinized the longest of both looks at her with a cunning expression, a perfectly fitting frame for his chiseled physiognomy. His eyes resembled that of sapphires. The bright, extravagant luminescence from the dressing room emits precious gems from his eyes. Even with such an alluring pair of eyes, it does not undermine the sheer amount of education expressed in them. Unconsciously, and uncontrollably, Bella is gripped onto his physical.

    Though she wants to reply to his greeting, she can't seem to get the words out.

    "Have I startled you?" The man's eyes, as blue as the brooch he had clipped on his vest, sink into his apricot skin with a chuckle that leaves his pillowed, pink lips. The man's large palm runs through his perfectly styled hair, wrecking his pristine haircut, yet seamlessly rocking the effortless look. "Or, is it that you find my face captivating?"

   "I'm sorry. . ." Bella breaks her reticence. "I didn't mean to come off as rude."

"It's quite alright!" The stranger chuckles once more. "You're quite reserved, aren't you? It's rather charming."

    In response, Bella reluctantly laughs. Although this encounter was very strange, there was no unnerving feeling that permeates her. In fact, although she was nervous, she felt comfortable. In other words, she wasn't worried for her well-being.

   "In any event," he remarks, "I'm quite thrilled to meet you like this. You are much more beautiful in person, Ms. Demie."

    "Thank you." Bella replies.

    So they know my name, Bella thinks to herself. Although that would be a reason to be alarmed for someone, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary for Bella. After all, she was an actress. Although she wasn't by any means a superstar, she did star in small films that did well in the city, and she would often get recognized for them.

   "I cannot express how lovely you look today. I almost wish I could frame you and look at you everyday." Again, the man expresses his adulation.

   "Do you want her framed dead or alive? Whatever it is, I'll make it happen, James." The young man, who has not said a word until now, breaks his silence and makes a rather strange remark as his introduction.

   Bella reverts her gaze to the other stranger, and she notes how much younger he looks from his affiliate. His face is slightly fuller, more juvenile, and is framed by a full head of brunette locks. The young man's eyes are a deep brown, almost amber when the light reflects it. Underneath his eyes are heavy-sunken circles, although it fits his demeanour. Propped in between his thin lips is a toothpick. "What do you say, James?"

    "Oh, Sebastian," the man clicks his tongue. "You're going to scare away Ms. Demie. It was a metaphor. I meant that she's so pretty that I wish I could have her as a decoration. Like roses on a bedside table."

    Although nothing but oddities have been elicited from this conversation, Bella gets a feeling they mean no harm. "Pardon me if this sounds rude," Bella clears her throat, blinking nervously. "Who might you two be?"

   "Where are my manners? How rude of me, I apologize." The man on the right extends his unoccupied hand, seeing as though there is one hand behind his back. "My name is James Moriarty."

   The two exchange a handshake, and Bella becomes cognizant of his skin, flesh that was rather cold, but soft. His grip on her palm was gentle, contradicting his authoritative demeanour. Her fingers brush against several bulky rings that adorned his fingers, encrusted by what had felt like some rough stone.

   "I'm a maths professor. I teach at the University of London." James elaborates.

    Never heard of him. Bella blinks in acknowledgment, a wavy smile framing her face.

  "This is Sebastian," James refers to his cohort. "Go on, introduce yourself to the lady."

Sebastian clears his throat, picking the toothpick out of his mouth and holding it between his pale fingers before chucking it into his breast pocket. "Sebastian Moran," the man exchanges a rather firm handshake. "Former serviceman."

"I must say, you have excellent work, Ms. Demie," James exclaims, following Sebastian's brief introduction. "Your role of Irene Adler in 'Murder Mystery' was truly unprecedented. Marvellous indeed!"

"You mean that crime drama? I remember you forgot to record it once, and you were so mad that someone ended up dead!" Sebastian laughs in amusement.

Bella assumes what he just said is a joke.

"You were cunning, witty, graceful, and clever. You almost made Irene Adler seem like a knockoff when you, Ms. Demie, were on-screen." James has expressed nothing but reverence to Bella, although it's a kind of flattery that seems genuine, and not cheap or artificial.

"Thank you, Mr. Moriarty. I really enjoyed playing Irene. She was my debut character in TV," she states, "I'm really grateful I was able to play her."

"I can see how!" James exclaims. "As you can see, I'm quite the fan. I'd like to offer you something."

With that, James moves the hand that he had hidden away behind his back during the duration of this interaction, divulging a bouquet of an assortment of bright, blue roses, the same as the one he had on his brooch. They looked so fresh, with beads of dew still on them, as if they had just been picked from a vast field. The roses were the epitome of pulchritudinous, Bella had never seen such a thing even in nature. The colour, it seemed almost unearthly.

"Thank you," Bella accepts the flowers, sauntering deeper into her dressing room and placing them inside of a wide, empty vase on her vanity. "I have to ask. . ." she ponders, "how were you able to get in? The theatre is closed all day, unless you got in at the crack of dawn."

"Why, of course, we've been here since morning. Stayed until your rehearsal ended." James says matter-a-factly.

"That can't be. . ." Bella takes a long pause and recounts the events of her day; she woke up, got to the theatre, where there was not a single soul but herself. Bella could not surmise their claim. Before she can continue her statement, she is lulled.

    "You think we're lying?" Sebastian has a smug expression plastered onto his face.

    "No, I didn't say that," her gaze trails down to the floor, verifying a lingering thought she had in her head and gleaning to support her corroboration. "It's just that your shoes are wet."

    James gives out a chortle, a hearty laugh upon Bella's examination. "It was sunny all morning," he pauses with a smile on his face, "and it's almost like we got caught in the afternoon London rain." James cedes, putting both his hands up in defeat, as if to elucidate that he'd been caught.

"Aren't you observant?" Sebastian quips.

"Oh, I am truly taken by you," James avows, "you have a truly excellent display of observation. It seems you are just as smart as you are beautiful." There's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Truly. It makes me want to bite even more." Sebastian says this with a deep chuckle.

"You want to 'bite'? What?" Bella furrows her arched eyebrow, expressing a look of puzzlement upon acknowledging Sebastian's terse remark. Before Bella can further inquire Sebastian's obscene sense of humour, James adjusts his tie and clears his throat.

"Well, Ms. Demie, I must see you again," he takes a step back into the corridor. "Sooner, rather than later."

   The door to the dressing room slams shut in an instant, in such a swift manner that Bella cannot even begin to process what has just happened. The two men are gone, and the presence that emitted off of them left with them, too. The room seemed so much more empty and quiet.

Bella blinks several times in confusion, staring at the white wooden door in front of her. Her eyes squint in thought, her mouth agape. What on Earth just happened?

IV.

After the afternoon rain, a cold front infiltrates the humid air in London. With the cold front came a gentle breeze, a mellow wind that mollified the incongruous events that had transpired during Bella's day. She'd spent the last 20 minutes or so on a leisurely amble to her prioritized errand, and while doing so, mentally delineating the unusual details of her afternoon.

Bella's thoughts linger to her unprecedented interaction with the 2 strangers in her dressing room. She thinks about the beautiful, bright blue roses she had been gifted, and wished she had been able to take them home with her. With those men, specifically the professor, Mr. Moriarty, was an undeniably prepotent endowment.

A huff escapes Bella's glossed lips, her tresses flow through the air. She digs her hands deeper into her beige dress coat, an effort to insulate herself, in spite of her legs being exposed from her skirt. Still, her ribbed stockings provide her with a sense of snugness in the cold. Bella clutches onto her purse, opening it and rummaging through her belongings to verify the address she'd been looking for.

Bella stops in her tracks, remaining stationary and leaning against a railing that separates the walkway from a small lake. She huffs once more, looking down and retrieving a folded paper from her bag. The paper unfolded revealed a ripped piece of a tabloid, the edged rigid and coarse. From inside her bag, she takes a look at the article. She leans against the railing and rereads the contents of it, refreshing her memory. The address is highlighted in a light blue.

221B Baker Street

During Bella's perusing, her sense of smell is pervaded by a faint aroma of herbal tea. She looks up again. Ahead of her was a quaint café, it was rather busy, too. Several antiquated table set-ups lined against the building, having a perfect view of the main road and the lake behind the black railings. It was a quite cute setting to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea.

"Fancy a cup of tea, Ms. Demie?" A virile voice calls out, to Bella's surprise. The voice, as Bella follows it, leads to a table where 3 friendly, besuited young men are sat. It was the second time a stranger had referred to her by her surname.

"How ill-mannered of me," the man in the middle says. "I shouldn't have called you by your name like that." There's a friendly tone reminiscent in his voice. From first glance, it was very apparent how tall this man was, despite being seated. His hair was dark, and his skin pale. The man's companions on either side of him were both blonde with an admirable smile.

    "My name is Mycroft," he speaks again. "You're Belladonna Demie." Once more, Bella puts another name to a new face.

    "I'm flattered you recognize me, Mycroft."

    "How could he not?" The man on his right comments. "To not notice such an exceptional actress would be a crime, especially in broad daylight—where she's most radiant. My name is Arsène Lupin."

"It's nice to meet you, Ms. Demie. I'm Hercule Poirot," the man on the left extremity says with a charming smile and a small wave.

    Hercule Poirot. That Belgian detective? I've seen him on the paper before, Bella thinks to herself. If she didn't know about Sherlock Holmes, she probably would've reached out to him to consult about her case. "It's nice to meet you all." Bella exchanges. "Call me Bella. I'll never get used to Ms. Demie. It feels too formal."

"Very well then, Bella," Mycroft presses his lips, analyzing her very character. "Why don't you have a seat? Considering we've introduced ourselves and whatnot."

Considering the men were so welcoming, Bella didn't feel like an imposition. In fact, she felt rather comfortable, not suffocated by flattery. She knew they were good people. Still, she felt she shouldn't waste anymore time. "Oh, I don't know. . . I have to be somewhere soon."

"Oh, I do know you're in a rush," Mycroft says, a sympathetic expression on his visage. "But, I do have some thing for you that you may find useful in this very moment. Chat over cinnamon tea? You like cinnamon, don't you?" Mycroft calls out a waiter and asks for a cinnamon tea.

How utterly strange. How could someone possibly deduce that from first glance, with less than a few sentences exchanged? It was alluring, impressive, even. "Y-yes, I do."

"Take a seat, miss! Enjoy a cup of hot tea in this cold weather. I think your company would be a perfect addition to our afternoon," Hercule adds. "I think we may have some information for you in exchange."

Reluctantly, Bella takes a seat on an unoccupied chair. Just seconds after, her cinnamon tea is placed onto the clothed table, along with a small dish of biscuits and a spoon. Her question, of how on Earth that man could know she liked cinnamon tea still remained unanswered. It all felt like some sort of magic trick.

    "Your bag." Mycroft points at Bella's leather bag, which was still open from before. He takes a swig of his black coffee whilst doing so. "You have a pack of cinnamon gum inside. You were wondering how I knew you would like cinnamon tea, didn't you?"

"That's not the only thing we can tell from her bag." Hercule quips.

    "Hercule, spare the vagueness on this poor lady. We're eating up her valuable time, aren't we?" Mycroft chastises his friend. "She needs to pay a visit to 221B."

Once more, Mycroft makes a sharp deduction. His sense of perception was keen, exceptionally refined. Bella had only just met these men, yet they read her as if it was a facile task. She expresses the shock she felt when he pinpoints her errand. ". . . How did you know that?"

    "When you were in the corner, rummaging through your purse, you seemed to have been trying to figure out your way somewhere. You referred to a paper. Specifically, an article on the London Times. It's a rather peculiar thing for a young woman to be reading," Mycroft explains. "Which is why you didn't take out the paper, but rather, you read it through your bag."

But if I never took out the paper, how could he have known? Like a book, the man is able to read her, with finesse. Bella wondered if he was a dilettante for detective work.

"You're sure you didn't take the paper from your bag out," Mycroft adds. "So, how did I know? Your face tells me that's what you want to ask. Well, for that sliver of a moment you crouched down to sit down, I was able to see you ripped out a small section from the paper. There was a photo of a rather popular case that remained unsolved until recently, and from that I didn't need to look more than that to know you were going to 221B. Not even the address you highlighted."

My Gods. Bella is at a complete loss for words.

"Oh, yeah, I know what case you're talking about," Arsène says. "The french nobility's daughter was getting married, but the groom went missing for quite some time."

"Shirley really went out of his way to solve that one," Hercule sighs. "Quite the shock since nothing piques his interest."

"Bella, you're going to hire Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft ends his spiel.

"There's the end of that soliloquy." Arsène chuckles.

To say Bella was amazed would be diminishing the emotion she felt. For the second time today, she'd been rendered unresponsive. However, this time it was from the sheer shock she felt upon this man's extraordinary faculty for figures. It seemed like she'd been a slave to his search for detail.

"Amazing! You're a brilliant mind, aren't you?!" Bella takes a sip from her tea, expressing her impression.

"You're too kind to Mycroft." Arsène laughs a hearty laugh.

"You mentioned you had something I would find of value." Bella remarks, taking a sip of her tea.

"Oh, yes," Mycroft clears his throat and presses a napkin to his lips to wipe off excess coffee, "hand me your phone."

    "My phone?"

    "You've got the default maps app, don't you? I just want to show you the way there." Mycroft explains he has no ill intent but to help.

Bella's intuition leads her to believe this man means no harm, and she has no reason to believe he'd do anything with malice from just a look at her phone. If it were anybody else, she'd tread with more caution. She trusts him. Bella hands Mycroft her smartphone. In just a moment, after a few swipes, he hands it back to her.

"Your destination is here." Mycroft points at a blue dot on a digital rendering of the map of London.

"Thank you so much!"

"I suppose you should get going. We've had you here for about 5 minutes, not too much of your time." Mycroft wears a knowing expression, satisfied with himself and the outcome of the brief conversation.

"Shame you can't enjoy some freshly-baked scones!" Arsène refers to the dish of pastries a waiter has just placed onto the table. Though they looked divine, she couldn't possibly waste anymore time.

    "Mycroft's right, she doesn't have time to relax," Hercule supposes. "No time for afternoon tea."

"Yeah, it does seem I should get going now," Bella gets up from her chair and pushes it into the table. "It was fun talking to you all. I'm happy I got to know you."

"I hope you won't be disappointed in what you may find in there." Mycroft says this with a sigh, as if he knows something she doesn't.

    "Oh! Let me pay for my tea." Bella retrieves her wallet from her purse, before Arsène makes her refrain.

    "Let me be a gentleman and pay for it," he smiles, "perhaps a dinner with you too."

     "Until next time." Hercule gives a wave goodbye, with a closed-eye, wavy smile. His blonde hair glimmers under the sun, that had now started to set. Upon that observation, Bella realizes how late it had gotten.

     "Well, I'm off. Goodbye!" Bella dismisses herself, delighted with the help and conversation she'd gotten from the friendly trio. With that, she uses her phone to guide her to her destination.

V.

It's about a quarter after 5 PM. The sun was setting, and the clouds had become to reflect the light from the horizon. Light orange hues emitted from the sky, a beautiful luminosity as a consequence for the afternoon rain. Although the day may have been nigh to an end, Bella was not yet completed with herself, despite her atypical day having her busier than usual.

Bella, with the help of the digital map Mycroft had set up, was able to reach her destination without getting lost in the vast array of streets in London. However, she had found herself loitering in front of the London residence. She'd come so far that she wasn't going to stop herself from going in, but she was still trepidatious, the lingering feeling of her trip being in vain made her feel tense. Intrusive thoughts of rejection worried her.

Don't be disappointed. Anything can happen. Bella responds to the mental thought of her case being shunned.

Bella exhales, trying to muster up courage to knock while observing the building in front of her. It was three stories, with a flat right beneath it. The residence was connected to several others, however, the architecture suggesting everything directly up and straight belonged to the detective. Embellishing every window, stacked on every story, was a container of flowers, a small garden of green. On the floor above the flat, was a balcony, composed of an intricate black railing and more flowers. The domicile seemed sophisticated, dapper in appearance.

It's now or never, Bella. Composing herself, Bella saunters over to the ingress of the building. The door is black, a glossy paint, she can almost make out her distorted reflection. The frame is rectangular, rounded at the crown. Reluctantly, Bella reaches for the copper door-knocker, her attempt to refrain from being abient. Her warm fingers touch the cool surface of the door-knocker, but before she could knock, she hears an extrinsic speaker.

"Oh, no! Did Sherlock keep you waiting, dear?" A mature, coarse voice calls out from behind Bella.

Bella turns around in response, inquisitive in the source. It's an elderly woman, a convivial expression on her aged mien. "I don't know what I'm going to do with him," she sighs, "how long have you been waiting for, dear?"

"Oh, actually, I was just about to knock." Bella felt discomfit rushing in her, her cheeks going red when she realized the old dame had likely seen her dallying and assumed that she'd been forced to wait. "Do you live here?"

   "'Do I live here?' Aha! I'm the landlord, dear," the elderly woman explains, approaching the door with a ring of keys. "I live next door."

   "I see," Bella enunciates. "Well, I'm here to talk with Mr. Holmes. I'd like to hire him, you see. I'm hoping he's interested in my case."

  "In that case," the elderly woman smiles, her wrinkled skin does not cut her juvenile emotion short. "Welcome to 221B. The boys call me Mrs. Hudson."

  "The boys?"

   Mrs. Hudson has unlocked the door and pushed it open. "The boys. Sherlock and Watson, dear," she explains with a discreet tone. "Come in."

   Watson, Bella thinks to herself, I think I read about him in the paper. He's Mr. Holmes' assistant.

Warily and with circumspect, Bella steps into the ingress of the hearth. Posthaste the door slamming shut, the ambience that carried over Bella outside pendulates to a warmer one. The scent of the breadth is woody, redolent to that of cedar. The interior of the edifice presents itself with an antiquated yet pleasant style, the walnut mahogany walls daubed with an intricate, vermillion wallpaper. The vestibule was spacious, a welcoming entrance. Before the front door was a staircase, the corridor that fared the voices that were upstairs to the first floor.

   "Lestrade, you idiot! How could you possibly have this overlooked? My Gods, the Scotland Yard is useless! What do you even do?! Use up valuable taxpayer dollars?!"

   A commotion from upstairs penetrates through the observation that had kept Bella so absorbed. She looks up at the stairs, to which Mrs. Hudson gives a quiet laugh, and says, "I hope you won't be disappointed by what you find today." That was the second time she'd heard those exact words today.

   "Watson, tell Sherlock to calm down. 'Else I'll assign someone else on this case."

  "For the last time, Lestrade, I'm not Sherlock's mother, nor am I his father. Not even the Queen herself could strip him of the arrogance he has."

   "You wouldn't even think about having someone else on this case, George. The Scotland Yard couldn't be less oblivious to any crime networks going on in the cesspool of London. How could you even contemplate replacing me?! To have another idiot overlook such a crucial part of the autopsy?"

    Several voices reverberate in the domicile, voices Bella can't put a face to. Suddenly, an anxious emotion pervades Bella, and she turns to shoot Mrs. Hudson a glance. "It seems they're a little busy. I can come back another time."

   "Nonsense. You see, they're always chatting up a storm like this." Mrs. Hudson clicks her tongue, her voice is brimmed with unconcern. "Boys! Stop arguing! You've got a guest."

   Following Mrs. Hudson's yell, Bella can't help but feel like an imposition. She fidgets with the backings of her earrings, a futile attempt to control the desperation that fills her. With a deep breath, she relaxes herself. Mrs. Hudson motions her up the stairs, and Bella acquiesces.

In the loft, the entire atmosphere is switched. It was a complete juxtaposition from downstairs, instead of being warm and welcoming, was contemporaneous to chaos and disarray. The lounge room, or rather, the office, had several items strewn about the space, disorder defining the character. In the middle of the study was a hearth, a dark mahogany fireplace with a dimly lit fire. On either side of the fireplace, in the center, were two leather chairs. A window, barely covered by a curtain, released a stream of sunlight into the room and reflected onto the intricate red patterns of the wallpaper, hints of gold adorning it. The office was mounded with books, literary works on the shelves of the walls.

    Ambulating about the room were two men, whilst one sat at an escritoire. However, once Bella's presence had been acknowledged, their quarrel had came to a stop. Knowingly, and not wanting to exhibit herself as brusque, Bella takes the opportunity to introduce herself.

   "Hello," she waves a small wave. "My name is Belladonna Demie."

   Mrs. Hudson, not saying a word until now, dismisses herself. "I'll make you all some tea while you talk things out."

    The man on the right of Bella wastes no time to extend his hand. His face, is carved wonderfully and to perfection. His skin is pale but golden, and his hair is flaxen and with a fitting coiffure. He's suited in a dark brown suit, except without the coat. The man's air lingered with tranquility and cordiality. "It's nice to meet you, Belladonna," he smiles, his white dentition framing his visage, he looked leonine. "I'm John Watson. Feel free to call me John."

   Bella and John exchange a brief handshake, their eyes meeting and acknowledging the establishment of a standard familiarity. His eyes are amber, resembling that of a jasper. His physique is strong, bigger than the rest of the men in the room, however, it doesn't look vulgar, it looks fitting to his masculinity. It was impossible to deny his endowment in appearance.

   "It's a pleasure to meet you John. Just call me Bella, I much prefer it," she says, "I believe I read that you're the assistant, aren't you?"

   "The pleasure is all mine!" a small chuckles escapes his lips. "Well, I do suppose I've become an assistant. The papers write me out to be that way. I'm actually a doctor. I work as a physician at the local clinic."

  "I see. So you're a Dr. Watson."

"May I take your coat? It's quite warm here," John offers, immediately approaching from behind Bella. Her beige coat is slipped off her back, and she is suddenly reduced to her brown skirt and cream cardigan. Her modest jewelry is exposed, a breeze of warmth immediately grazing against her chest.

    Following John's statement, the man next to him takes a few steps forward, extending his hand to Bella. "George Lestrade."

George's appearance is more aged than that of John's. His jaw had a grey stubble, with an indentation in his chin. Grey hairs had already begun to sprout on his head of hair. He wore a navy trench coat with the buttons lazily put on. In the centre of his chest was a brown lanyard, which read George Lestrade with a photo of him.

   "He may not look like it," John says, "but he's an inspector at the Scotland Yard."

   "Could've left out the part where you said 'he may not look like it.'"

  "It's nice to meet you, Inspector." Bella makes out the man who had not said a word through this interaction, he sat on the escritoire with a brooding demeanour. He wore a white button-up with a black vest, his tie was a plaid navy blue. His visage is clouded with the darkness of the corner, exhibiting himself as arcane. Through the process of elimination, she supposed that was Sherlock Holmes.

  "By the way. . ." the inspector scratches the back of his head, "have we met before?"

   John, immediately bears a look of disapproval on his visage. ". . .It's only been 5 minutes, George. Anyone can see where you're trying to take this."

  "No, I mean it! It wasn't me trying to come on to her, I really have seen you somewhere, Bella!"

   Bella, about to mention the fact she's a rather common face on local London TV, is interrupted by John's realization that he had seen her somewhere, too. ". . .You're right. Now that you mention it, I've seen her somewhere, too."

    Before Bella could explain that she's an actress, the words are taken out of her mouth and thrown onto the ground.

    "You've come to hire me? I'm quite busy today, so if it's less than trivial, I'll send you off," the man on the escritoire whom had not said a word until this very moment breaks his reticence with a brusque remark. Suddenly, the welcoming environment is cut through with a knife, replaced with a tension that was palpable. He gets up, a quiet creak following, striding on over to Bella. "You must know, I value my time."

   Feeling reduced to an infant, Bella parts her lips to speak. Again, like clockwork, the words are taken out of her mouth and thrown onto the floor.

    "Let us review," the man paces around the room, his hands inside his vest pocket attempting to look for something. He produces a cigarette from the aperture, setting fire to the butt of it and placing it on his lips. "You're an actress. You've been acting since a very young age. You're preparing for a lead role at this moment, a role you're nervous for."

    "Maybe that's where I've seen her. . .!" Inspector Lestrade comes to a realization.

   Well, anyone who watches TV can know I'm an actress. Bella does not express any amusement to his observation.

"You're Turkish by birth. You came to London in pursuit of work," he takes a puff of his cigarette, "you have Egyptian roots. You're religious."

    Maybe that's a little harder for him to know, Bella thinks to herself. There was really no way to research her background, so it was more than a startle to Bella he'd been able to deduce such a thing. Before she thinks anything else, she listens attentively. Suddenly, she'd encountered an interest in someone recounting the mundane details of her life.

   "You just had cinnamon tea. Specifically from the Crescent Café a few blocks from here." Sherlock attests.

   "Wait, Sherlock, I think I know where I've seen her!" John exclaims, "She was in—"

   "You're with 3 strangers. You're used to being around strangers, yet you're nervous now. You're hiding it, yet the smile on your face looks natural and not timid," he continues, "you don't like exhibiting yourself as shy, or nervous."

   "You breathe from your abdomen. It's why your chest doesn't rise or fall, you were taught that since you were a child."

   "It's a surprise to see you here, Bella, looking for Sherlock of all people," John wears a smile on his face, realizing finally where he'd seen her. "You must know, Sherlock is a fan of 'Murd—"

"You're modest," he continues, interrupting John again. "You don't wear expensive clothing, for the most part, and your jewelry is from your family," he blows out another puff of grey smoke and the room is daubed with an effluvium of menthol. "The symbols on your necklace," he insinuates to the pendant that fell between Bella's bosom, "it's an Ankh—a customary Egyptian religious symbol. It's a rather peculiar pendant for a woman in London to be wearing. It's gold, like your other jewelry, not because of wealth, but because of culture."

    It seemed Sherlock was explaining the observations that led him to his deductions. With keen interest, Bella listens, making no interruptions. "Your other necklace has a blue eye as a pendant. That's the Nazar Boncuk, an amulet known to 'thwart' the bad energies from people by absorbing them. Although it doesn't come from Turkey, and it can be traced back to Ancient Italy and some parts of Asia, it is Turkey's most popular souvenir and tradition. It's not a big pendant, nor one that's very visible, but from the light reflecting it, I can notice the blue gemstones forming the pattern of a blue eye, despite the primarily gold component."

    So that's how he knew I was Turkish, instinctively, Bella places her fingers on her pendant and fondles it as she continues to hearken to Sherlock's immaculate faculties of observation.

"Your bag is half-open, and there's a script visible. It's wrinkled, worn out, probably because you've been reading it every opportunity you can because it's a big role and you're careful not to mess up on any lines. You're nervous about it, that's why so many pages have the ears folded throughout the distribution of the pages. On the spine of the script, is the title of the play. You're playing the heroine of 'The Phantom of the Opera.'"

The detective pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and chucks the decay and presses on it with his foot. He puts down the cigarette on an ashtray atop the fireplace. "You stopped by the Crescent Café and had cinnamon tea. The Crescent Café happens to be the only place in London to serve Ceylon cinnamon, a strain of cinnamon grown in the fields of Sri Lanka. You carried that aroma with you."

It became very clear, that despite the imperious and haughty that lingers in his voice, there was an unfettered extraordinary mental power he was endowed with. With just the power of sense, visual and olfactory, he is able to retell the characteristics of someone and their exact steps. It was magnificent, unprecedented.

    "I suppose I did make the right choice coming here." Bella says nothing more.

"You just now realized that?" Sherlock scoffs.

"What Sherlock meant to say is, 'I'm glad you think so.'" John corrects his companion, adding humanity to his statement.

    Mrs. Hudson comes into the room carefully holding a tray with an arrangement of dishes. In the center is a porcelain teacup, releasing a pleasant aroma of herbal tea. "Have a seat, Bella," she insists, setting the tray down on a coffee table in the middle of the two chairs. "Come here." Bella sits on one of the leather seats, following Mrs. Hudson.

    "You too, Sherlock," the woman says, "I made peppermint tea. Your favourite." The landlady talks to Sherlock with a low tone, displaying her respect and familiarity. It almost seemed kin-like, like a grandmother talking to her grandson. Shortly, she leaves the room.

With no protest, Sherlock seats himself onto the leather chair in front of Bella, on his side of his back faced the pouring sunlight. He reaches for a small teacup, treating himself to the peppermint contents inside the teapot. For a moment, he's silent, his eyes closed taking a sip of his tea. Not ambulating across the room anymore, finally stationary, Bella is able to get a better look at his appearance.

    Sherlock's shoulders are sinewy, his build robust and fitting to his tall frame. His physiognomy was chiseled, a masculinity that contrasts to the softness of his appearance. His cheekbones were carved, the highest point complimented with the light that met it. His eyes, were a light, iced cerulean. It was a timid blue, an iciness that characterized himself. His lips, now wet with tea, were a soft pink that were pillowed, a keyhole effect. His coiffure was black, a deep obsidian hue, combed untidily, yet he wore it nicely. He was an attractive man, his prepossessing figure was yet another endowment to his many brilliant gifts.

"I've shown you the extent of what I can do," he gloats, "I would rather not waste anymore time and would like you to discuss the matter of today's visit. What is the matter of today’s visit?”

"Of course," Bella clears her throat and reaches for her purse. She retrieves a plethora of white envelopes, passing them to the detective before her.

    Sherlock shuffles through the documents, before passing them back to John who'd been standing behind his chair. John studies the papers, a wary expression on his visage.

"'Give up the play or there will be the most dire consequences.'" John says, "'Give up the role, or you will regret it.' Christ, how have you been going to rehearsal with this? I'd be looking after my back. All the notes have the same handwriting, so naturally it's from the same person."

"They were always in my dressing room," she explains, "but that's not all."

"It's not?" John asks.

"A little while ago, one of my dear friends passed away," she continues, "it was ruled an accidental death by the autopsy. She'd died in a car accident. Her name was Flora."

   "I'm so sorry to hear that."

"It's quite alright," she says. "The point I'm getting to is that she was also performing a play sponsored by the same people this play is being sponsored by."

"And, you think those things may be related?" Sherlock inquires.

"To be honest," she sighs, "I have no idea. It's been a lingering thought of mine ever since I've gotten these notes. Not to mention, it doesn't help the fact that I have no idea who the main patron for this play is. Anyway, Flora was also playing a main role. She never mentioned any threatening notes to me, but I was thinking it might've been because she was scared to."

"These people funding this event, do they have a company?" John asks.

"They're anonymous. My agent, Simon, got me this role because they whoever funded this play looked for me specifically," she sighs, "frankly, Dr. Watson, I feel that my life has been overtaken by strange, intangible little details that could very well lead to nothing. But, I do know one thing, which is that I am being threatened over this role that I refuse to jeopardize."

    "I'm afraid I've got my hands full." Sherlock clears his throat.

    "Come on, Sherlock, you're so bored you've started to shoot bullets at the walls." John reclaims, glancing over at the wall behind him which had been slightly dilapidated with holes remnant of gunpowder. He closes his eyes and frowns. "Much to the dismay of Mrs. Hudson."

    Sherlock says nothing in response. He settles himself deeper into his chair, taking another sip of the peppermint tea that had now gotten lukewarm.

    Bella bites at the inside of her lip, accepting the defeat the end of the day had come to. It seemed the prescient conversation with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft had foreshadowed the events occurred. They mentioned Sherlock was critical of his cases, and almost nothing piqued his interest. Although Bella was disappointed, she was not surprised. Sherlock was implacable. That's that.

"Well, I'm disappointed you won't take my case," she explains, clutching at her purse, "but the reason I came here was because I'm not giving up this role no matter what, and I hoped I could get this issue resolved. But, even still, I'm not going to let these notes stop me. I will ensure this production is a success, and I refuse to put my role in jeopardy."

Sherlock sighs an exasperated sigh, his gaze finally meeting Bella's.

"In any event," Bella gets up, "I'll be on my way out."

"No, please sit," John protests. "Sherlock, are you sure about this?"

Sherlock says nothing.

"Bella, how about talking with the Scotland Yard about this?" Inspector Lestrade commiserates.

   ". . .I want to keep this as quiet as possible." Bella explains why she'd sought after private detectives rather than the police department.

   "You think someone on the inside may be responsible." John exclaims.

    ". . .Maybe. I also don't know who it is I'm dealing with. I also don't want to publicize my bestfriend's death, or sensationalize any of this." Bella explains.

   "That's more of a reason to talk to Scotland Yard."

   Sherlock, saying nothing more, gets up, retrieving his coat from the coat stand. "I'll need you to show me where you hold your rehearsals."

   "Congratulations, Bella," John exclaims. "You finally got to him."

    "We must start where the incident occurred," Sherlock says, "and looking for clues in the dressing room is indispensable."

   "My Gods, thank you so much, Mr. Holmes!" Bella exclaims, filled with alacrity. "Really, thank you!"

   "Don't misunderstand," he quips, "I haven't accepted your case yet."

   "I know," Bella says, with a smile. "I'm just really happy you agreed to take a look and offer me your time."

    Sherlock, almost fighting off a smile, wears an indiscernible expression on his visage. "Very well then. I'm sure the answer to this matter will take no longer than 1 hour to be uncovered."

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐍𝐃

//A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

i'm extremely glad i was able to wrap this first chapter up. this really is just the beginning, and a way for me to establish some of the main characters. yes i know i took off jack stillman but i just don’t like him😣 maybe i’ll put him back idk 🥹

if this is well received, i will be more than happy to continue my writing :) i just hope this reaches the small, niche audience i want it to reach.

anyways

thank you for reading!

blessed be.

[endijasella]

! WARNING: THIS PICTURE IS EDITED !

Press "L" for a better view.

~Body:

Hair: Stealthic - Makeout

Bangs: [Yomi] - Zyra Bangs 2

Makeup: REVERIE - Yuki Eyeshadow - #1

Ears: Swallow - XL Gauged

~Clothes&accessories:

Ribbon: {Rosier} - Batty Ribbon

Earrings: Insomnia Angel - Christmas Ornament Earrings [@TheWarehouse - December 2023]

Fishnet top: NANAO - Fishnet Shrug [@TheKinky - December 2023]

Bolero: TRIGGERED - Mait Fur Coat

Bra: AVEC TOI - Belladonna

Ribbon harness: Aloe. - Robin Harness [@SantaInc - December 2023]

Skirt: #error - Michelle

Fishnets: MIWAS - Waist #3

Baubles&Poses: Babyboo - Merry [@TheArcade - December 2023]

[ashitaka-unclouded]

The basic principle remained.

To Ashitaka, he wasn't sure if he agreed with that. If only because to him things like this would have only been imagined while he was alive. He had no idea how it had been created. Of course, there were massive feats of science, engineering, and architecture when he had been alive--but it had been five hundred years. There had been so many advances.

Cars. Phones. All these things that were so foreign to him. He wished he had his magic. That he could feel these things. Understand innately how they worked. Instead of feeling so...foreign.

The question brought him out of his reverie slightly and he turned to look at Jessie and smiled bemusedly.

"Confusing," Ashitaka said. "Loud. Strange. It is very different than the life I once lived. And yet--there is much that is the same. Families with their children. The wind rustling the treetops." He nodded out towards them. "I don't know. It feels like a dream."

@belladonna-wright

What's This? % [Jessitaka]

[reesespieces-org]

While Bella is in her garden, she spots a blur of blue running past. The blur of blue turns out to be @thetruescholar as a cat, somehow, happily chasing a butterfly. How did she even get in here?

The eighth stops, watching the cat scurry around. An amused smile creeps upon her lips, and she places down her garden shears and strips her hands of her gloves. She approaches where the cat has scurried off to, and crouches down onto the tile flooring.

Clicking her tongue, she rubs her fingers together to gain the cat's attention.

"Oh my, what do we have here? Experiment gone wrong, dear Natalia?" The woman teases, moving to tap her fingers gently on the floor. "Come on, come out of there! There are thorns back there, and rainbow roses are not cheap!"

[attollogame]

Language of Flowers List

I cannot focus on game writing so I made this instead; send a char and a flower for a prompt, based on the lovely Language of Flowers (and this as extra)

Aloe: Affliction; Grief.

Apple: Temptation.

Aspen Tree: Lamentation.

Belladonna: Silence.

Bramble: Envy; Remorse.

Catchfly: False love.

Cedar Leaf: I Live For Thee.

Columbine, Red: Anxiousness.

Coreopsis, Arkansa: Love At First Sight

Cornbottle: Delicacy.

Cowslip, American: You Are My Divinity.

Cypress: Death.

Dead Leaves: Sadness.

Dittany of Crete: Birth.

Dittany of Crete, White: Passion.

Elder: Zealousness.

Fennel: Praise.

Fleur-De-Lis: I Burn.

Flowering Fern: Reverie.

Frog Ophrys: Disgust.

Garden Anemone: Forsaken.

Geranium, Dark: Melancholy.

Geranium, Lemon: Unexpected Meeting.

Gooseberry: Anticipation.

Grass: Submission.

Guelder Rose: Winter.

Helenium: Tears.

Heliotrope: Devotion.

Henbane: Imperfection.

Horse Chestnut: Luxury.

Hortensia: You Are Cold.

Hydrangea: Heartless.

Imperial Montague: Power.

Jasmine, Spanish: Sensuality.

Jasmine, Yellow: Elegance.

Judas Tree: Betrayal.

Lantana: Rigour.

Larch: Audacity.

Laurel: Glory.

Laurel, Ground: Perseverance.

Lichen: Solitude.

Lilac, White: Youthful Innocence.

Live Oak: Liberty.

Licorice, Wild: I Declare Against You.

Lobelia: Malevolence.

Lotus Flower: Estranged Love.

Lucern: Life.

Mandrake: Horror.

Milfoil: War.

Mint: Virtue.

Moss: Maternal Love.

Mourning Bride: I Have Lost All.

Mugwort: Happiness.

Myrtle: Love.

Night Convolvulus: Night.

Nightshade: Sorcery; Dark Thoughts.

Nightshade, Bitter: Truth.

Oats: Music.

Olive Branch: Peace.

Osmunda: Dreams.

Palm: Victory.

Periwinkle: Pleasures Of A Memory.

Pine, Black: Pity.

Pine, Spruce: Farewell.

Pomegranate: Foolishness.

Poplar, White: Time.

Poppy: Pleasure.

Poppy, White: Sleep.

Raspberry: Remorse.

Rudbeckia: Justice.

Sardony: Irony.

Snowball Tree: Age.

Sycamore: Curiosity.

Thrift: Sympathy.

Tuberose: Dangerous Pleasures.

Tulip, Yellow: Hopeless Love.

Venus' Looking Glass: Flattery.

Violet, White: Innocence.

Whin: Anger.

Willow, Water: Freedom.

Willow, Weeping: Mourning.

Wormwood: Absence.

[bibliosophist]

Dinner for Two

Salute! *pokes head out of hole*

My life is still ten kinds of bonkers, but I was inspired enough by Lucifer’s Would You Like to Join Me? 2 chat that I wrote this little fluff piece. If you don’t want to completely spoil the chat for yourself, the long and short of it is that you’re late for dinner and Lucifer tells you that he’ll save both of your portions so that you can eat together when you get home. You tell him that he doesn’t have to do that, and he tells you to learn to take a hint. I hope you like it!

You rap your knuckles against the dark wood of the door once, twice, three times- short, staccato sounds that echo down the hallway. A twinge of paranoia makes you glance around. If any of the brothers caught you going into Lucifer’s room they’d come up with a million ways to interfere. You know your anxiety is unwarranted- Satan had elected to stay behind at the library, and the other brothers are still at dinner. In fact, it looked as if they weren’t terribly far into it, judging by the look you’d gotten when you’d poked your head into the dining room. It was funny, you thought, since Lucifer had made it sound like you were going to miss the meal entirely if he hadn’t set your portion aside. Still, though, your nerves prickle as you wait.

Lucifer appears after a moment, pulling the door open for you. “(Y/N), hello,” he says, motioning you inside. Something about that gesture, small as it is, sends a little ripple of warmth through your chest. He could have done it with magic, but he didn’t.

Two plates, illuminated by low candlelight, wait on a low table in the middle of his seating area. You aren’t sure what you were expecting. Folding trays in front of the TV? Truth be told, you were amazed that Lucifer allowed food in his room at all. 

Closing the door behind you, he crosses the room and sinks down on one side of the table, long legs crossed underneath him. You follow suit, taking the empty spot across from the demon.

“We’ll be having roasted Roc tonight. I hope that suits you,” he says, removing the cover from his dish.

“No complaints here,” you answer, the steam rising from your plate. “It smells fantastic.”

“Thank you,” he says, spearing a stalk of sauteed belladonna greens.

You’ve shared many meals with the demon since your arrival in the Devildom, but none have felt quite so intimate as this informal meal here in his private space. You watch him bring his fork to his mouth, and notice for the first time that he’s wearing neither gloves nor tie. It’s a rare sight indeed, you think, to see the Avatar of Pride so... casual. Have his fingers always been so fine boned? His throat so delicate? You watch him swallow, and as his Adam’s apple rises and falls with the motion, you know that you would do the exchange program all over again- the terror, the tears- if it meant it would lead to this moment. His low voice ripples through the room, pulling you from your reverie. 

“How was your day?”

“Wonderful,” you say, tucking in to your own dinner.

Lucifer does use magic when the two of you have finished. He makes a gesture with his hand and the remnants of your meal disappear. 

“Hey, I don’t do that!” you laugh, surprised by his teasing.

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t have minded cleaning up,” you say.

“If I was willing to wait until tomorrow to have it done, then I would have let you.” He says it without malice, a grin pulling up the side of his mouth.

“Alright, touche,” you concede, “but it’s really not my fault. I’m just so tired after all the studying I do, and the kitchen is so far away.”

“(Y/N),” he says, getting to his feet in one fluid motion, “I’ve seen your mug collection.”

Lucifer lets out a very undignified snort as he moves to the couch. “Ah, yes. I should have taken that into consideration. Perhaps when we redecorate we’ll set up a bed for you inside the kitchen, since the ten feet separating it from your room is such a challenge” He turns on Devilflix.

“I would be much obliged,” you say as you sink down on the other end of the couch.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the empty space between you, but he keeps his mouth closed.

Learn to take a hint, he’d said. You could do that.

You slide across the couch until you can feel the warmth radiating from his body- not quite close enough to be touching, but not far from it.

“What are you doing?”

“W-what?! I thought-” You jerk away from him, horror growing in your stomach- then you meet his gaze. His eyes sparkle with mischief, and his deep laugh soon follows. He wraps an arm around you and pulls you flush against his side.

“You’re a real bastard,” you mumble, burying your red face in his shoulder.

He just laughs again, and you could swear that you feel the gentlest press of lips against your hair. “What should we watch?”  

[prettypenaddict]

My fem baby name list

I’ve been up-keeping this list since I was like 14 even though I honestly don’t even know if I want to grow my own womb gremlins. There are so many, though, so I am just going to bold my favorites rather than list them at the bottom.

Farrah June

Nevaeh Dré

Johanna Winry

Willa Tree

Daisy Dove

Xia Marissa

Bailey Brynn (Bailey is super general nuetral in my opinion but still)

Jennivie Faye

Ivy Quinn

Amber Moon

Rose Ally

Briar Day

Emmera Mia

Freya Delia

Lavinia London

Dakota Isla

Santana Aliyah

Lakota Clarke

Aurora Dwyn

Violet Vianne

Bronwyn Elaine

Gwendolyn Kaye

Avery Aya

Zoey Brooke

Saorise Stasia

Willow Brooke

Ravenna Liv

Alaia Louise

Sage Elyse

Savana Fallon

Fallon Adlie

Sawyer Beau

Marlowe Mahoney

Areti Faye

Marin Etta

Zara Belle

Mircella Adya

Arya Amora

Yveta Bryn

Amaia Ryn

Amelia Elliotte

Andreia Livia

Maialen Madeaux

Lleu Luna

Tallulah Rue

Scarlett Star

September Elise

Poppy Addison

Jamie Jane

Navarra Elivia

Belladonna Bowie

Tully Thalia

Elisifetta Ever

Massey Maddox

Jamison Maccoy

Amorette Aliyah

Holly Adya

Odylyne Rune

Florence ZIna

Ariadne Naomi

Carys Camilla

Ashlynx Lexanne

Karlyn Antoinette

Laverne Rianne

Adlie Eden

Aspen Esme

Shae Haven

Liza Vanna

Miranda McKenna

Nymeria Ayda

Andromeda Amora

Artemis Antoinette

Calliope Clara

Calypso Kylie

Cassiopea Moira

Danae Juliette

Daphne Yvaine

Koré Hadley

Merle Yvaine

Delphine Phillipa

Minerva Marrie

Matilda McKenna

Meridan Moira

Ingrid Willow

Elaine Ari or Elayne Ari

Anneliese Carolanne

Jericho Joanne

Eilonwy Marri

Amity Emlyn

Blythe Bailey

Sheridan Joanne

Evelaine Eden

Darcy Dell

Lacey Lou

Airrion Elaine

Paislie Anna

Maeve Hiraeth

Hiraeth Elli

Emberlyn Lorena

Adria Lauren

Lovelyn Eden

Marnie Marrin

Mavis Arlene

Eloise Danae

Elodie Evelaine

Hayden Eden

Arianna Fallon

Ariane Deidre

Winona Lori

Eleven Jane

Huntress Adra

Elowen Aurora

Collins Elaine

Elizabella Emalyn

Reverie Lark

Seraphina Sage

Evangeline Yvaine

Farlee Layne

Kollyn Claye

Nellie Blake

Sadie Jane

Yvaine Carys

Marceline Moxie

Loveli Elise

Honey Layne

Aundria Quinn

Whitney Dwyn

Trillian Adya

Jovie Layne

Summer Beau

So many names . . .

[theyoutubedork]

𝕭𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖓𝖓𝖆 - 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦𝔦

Bucky Barnes x Hydra!enhanced!reader

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Word count: 3.4k

Chapter Summary: Adjusting to a life without Hydra has been difficult for Y/n, but Bucky is there to guide her.

Warnings: 18+, fluff, angst, and sexual themes. swearing, i think, and mentions of violence and abuse. (Hydra stuff) Also panic-attack like situations, sensory overload, mentions of torture.

Not my Gif, had not been proofread too much

A/N: I’m sorry for the wait, I got a job and stuff, but I tried to write it a little bit longer, but I still wanted to leave y’all with a little bit of a cliffhanger, just to keep ya interested. Please let me know what you think of the series. I was thinking of making a tag list for this series, so let me know if you are interested in that sort of thing. You can sign up for it here

“That’s my name?”

“Yes. That’s your name. Not Soldat. Not Belladonna. Just Y/n.”

Bucky looked into your eyes, and his stare almost suffocates you with how tender its was. You were confused. The Winter Soldier, the only person Hydra could truly love. A man that you had worked so hard to be his exact replica, the only difference acceptable was height. Hydra had curated you specifically to be his replacement, to carry on the mantle of death, destroying empires in your wake. You had been trained with the same ruthless dogma as him: no mercy, no witnesses, no mistakes. Those three principles were always on a dull repeat in the back of your subconscious

You envied him; his strength, his cunning, but secretly, his freedom. A part of you hated him, being reminded of how many times Hydra compared you to him. They were always saying words along the lines of, “You will always be weaker than him,” during their spiteful reveries.

But now here you were, face to face with that man, completely vulnerable before him, and you don’t know whether you like it or not.

You brush off his gaze, not willing to endure the strange feeling you get within the pit of your stomach whenever you meet his eyes. You look down at your forearms, and you reach up to your scalp, cringing at the feeling of your oily, frayed hair.

“I don’t know that last time I took a bath,” You groan, scratching at your roots, and you whimper when your jagged nails make contact with the dry skin there.

“Wouldn’t you prefer a shower?” Bucky babbled, slightly embarrassed by the image that popped in his head the second you mentioned a bath. He barely knew you, but the way you looked at him sent him reeling.

Your eyes still reeked of innocence and somehow knowing what you had done made your expression slightly unsettling. Usually one would use the stereotyped version of a person with PTSD or some sort of deep trauma, their eyes would appear empty and lifeless, but yours just looked like one of a young hopeful, who had their whole life ahead of them. Bucky could swear that he had never seen such beautiful eyes before. How could they look so sweet, when in actuality they are slightly terrifying.

“No,” you spoke suddenly yet firmly, startling Bucky slightly due to your pause in response.

“O-oh, okay,” Bucky stuttered, “Right this way then,” He stumbled quickly to his feet, nearly tripping over his mass array of blankets on the floor next to the bed.

You stalk behind him, following him slowly towards his bathroom. You wait at the doorway while Bucky scrambles to move a bunch of clutter off of the marble counter. He quickly turns the knobs of the bathtub, the water spurting out, as if it had been rarely used up to that point, building up the ever-so-slightest pressure. You begin to strip your clothes out of habit, and when Bucky finally turns to you, seeing you topless, and already unbuttoning your pants, Bucky scrambles to hold you wrists still.

“No! You don’t have to..do that..anymore,” He murmured, not very surprised how shameless you presented. Hydra treated their assets like new car at the car wash: almost power washing all the blood off them, and often leaving more wounds on their bodies then before they were bathed. Stripped like the first day you were born, they were washed of all the evidence of being a killing machine, but most importantly, being a human being

“Oh, ok,” You murmur, and you wait until Bucky left the room to finish stripping, and finally set yourself in the steaming water. You barely winced as you felt the water sting your open wounds, and it was sickeningly satisfying. Bucky had appeared to put in some sort of bubble bath stuff, and you felt slightly out of place in such a calming environment. You didn’t know what you were supposed to do, oh wait..

“Bucky?” You called out, slightly jumping at the almost immediate response, Bucky sliding his head rough a crack in the door. He was covering his eyes with his cybernetic palm,

“Yeah?” You see his eyebrows furrow and mouth curl into a small smile when he hears you let out a small laugh at his antics.

“Can you wash my hair? I-I don’t remember how.” You ask gingerly, and hear him let out a small sigh when he hears the tremble in your voice.

“Of course, did the bubbles work by the way? Wanna make sure I don’t see anything you don’t want me to see.”

“Yeah, its fine, there’s so many, you should be fine,” You murmur, and Bucky takes that as permission to open his eyes, entering the bathroom, gently closing the door behind him. He finally looks at you, and sees just the apex of your chest, and the delicate dips in your collarbones. You can see the familiar tinge of pink return to his cheeks and the very tips of his ears, yet you remain blissfully unaware of your effects on him. Bucky approached, grabbing a stool he kept in his storage closet, bringing it to the edge of the bathtub. He still towered over you, and he hesitantly grabbed his shampoo, opened his fleshed palm, and coated it with the soapy substance.

“I’m going to touch you now, ok?” He warned quietly, and you let out a small hum of encouragement. You turned, letting your back face Bucky. Bucky’s eyes couldn’t help but wander, and despite all the scars lettering your skin, he still thought it looked incredibly soft to the touch. He shook himself out of his thoughts, getting back to the task at hand. When his hand finally reaches your scalp, you flinch involuntarily. When Bucky starts to pull away, you grab his wrist tightly, making him yelp. You loosen immediately, a flash of embarrassment crossing your features.

“Sorry, I uh- I didn’t mean to flinch, I just- my body expects the worst. Keep going,” You murmured, and Bucky nods, starting to slowly massage your scalp, and immediately sigh in relief, finally letting your guard down enough to close your eyes. Your body finally seemed to understand that Bucky wasn’t here to hurt you, that this wasn’t just a dream, only to be woken back up into the monotonous hell you had been dealing with for what seemed like centuries.

You and Bucky fall into a steady rhythm, he would lather the soap into your hair several times, and you would bring up your knees, trying to cover yourself enough so that when Bucky used the detachable shower head to rinse it out, it would wash away all the bubbles. The warm water soothed your sore muscles, and you felt your cracked, withered skin replenish. You were basically half plant after all, so water was one of the only solaces you had when you were being kept by Hydra.

As Bucky continued to wash your hair, you began to think about what a life outside of Hydra could possibly mean for you.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“What did you do when you escaped Hydra?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean- what was like, the first thing you wanted to do when you first realized you were free?”

“Hmm, I think was actually washing my hair. It was always so dirty. Felt good to have it clean.”

“Yeah, but like, what sort of activity, something not out of necessity, but just because you wanted to?”

Bucky thought for a moment, pausing his ministrations,

“I’m not sure if I remember, cause I was kinda on the run for a while. I guess the only time I had a moment to myself was in Wakanda, and I got to tend to a small farm they gave me. I would just wake up every morning, look out on the lake for a while, and then go feed the goats. It was this nice routine I had, and it felt like I actually had some, calm, in Wakanda.”

“What’s Wakanda?”

“Oh right, it’s this country that only came on the map a few years ago, its like this hidden sanctuary in Africa. It’s hard to describe, so you’ll have to just see for yourself.”

You turned your head to the side, finally looking at him since he came into the bathroom. You nervously stared into his steady blues,

“Am I going to Wakanda?”

“Yes actually, you’re going to meet my friend Shuri, she’s going to help you.”

“When do I get to go?”

“I’m not sure. You might need to wait a bit,”

“Bucky?” You ask hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come with me? To Wakanda?” Bucky lets out a small laugh, rubbing your shoulder affectionately, trying to calm your nerves.

“Of course I’m coming with you, Y/n. You’re not going to do this alone, I’ll be with you 100% of the way.” You think for a moment, and you place a shaky hand onto Bucky’s where it rests on your shoulder.

“Thank you. I’m just really scared.”

“I know you are. I was the same way, so I’m going to try and make you feel a little less scared ok?” He looks at you with a small smile, and you finally let a small smirk show on your face, and Bucky’s grows even wider. You take a moment before finally asking him something that’s been on your mind.

“Can I go outside?”

It had been a week and a half until you finally got your answer. Bucky insisted on having you meet everyone in the place you were staying, so they wouldn’t freak out when the deadly plant lady finally got to touch some grass. He didn’t use those words specifically, but you had deduced it from all the worried glances the rest of the ‘Avengers’ would look at Bucky with trepidation before shaking your hand. You expected people to be scared of you, hell you were scared of yourself. You constantly had to check in with yourself, taking a deep breath just to remind yourself that being a killing machine isn’t supposed to be your identity anymore. Bucky assured you to be patient, and as soon as Steve agreed to the idea, he’d bring you out to the nicest natural setting outside the compound.

You had barely spoken to anyone, aside from Bucky, and occasionally Steve. He had been happy to help you with any questions you had regarding to going about your new life in a world with technologies you have yet to comprehend. You were willing to give a small grimace that resembled a smile to anyone else in passing, but it had been more difficult to keep quiet in the last couple days. The almost animalistic instinct you had to touch something natural and made of soil, instead of cold metal, was beginning to greatly decrease your patience. You were willing to be ‘reformed’, but if they were going to subject you to this form of unintended torture any longer, you were afraid you were going to snap. You tried to ignore it for as long as possible, afraid that if you touch any aspect of nature, you would turn into her.

It didn’t work, given the state you’re currently are in, seated at the marbled kitchen island, Bucky cooking you both breakfast. He had finally convinced you to not hide away whenever you ate. You reluctantly sat there, holding a simple black mug, filled with a new tea brew that Wanda had made for you before she went off to training this morning. You hadn’t sipped from it just yet, knowing the teabag hadn’t fully incorporated yet. You picked up the string, swirling the teabag around, trying to speed up the process.

Meanwhile Bucky was humming an unfamiliar tune, surprisingly chipper. He was making you pancakes like he had promised, and he had his gaze trained on the pan, holding a spatula in his fleshed hand, while holding the pan handle with his bionic one. After a few moments, you finally blew onto the hot liquid, and took a small sip. Flavor notes of chamomile filled your senses, and instead of bringing a sense of warm calm, everything metallic you touched began to burn, as if your skin was allergic. You let out an uncomfortable groan, dropping the mug, not even flinching when you felt the tea burn your forearms. Bucky whipped his head around, and when he saw your skin red and inflamed, he called out your name, switching off the stove, completely disregarding the pancakes he had been so focused on prior. You didn’t even register his calls for you, stumbling off the barstool, running towards the sunspot, that was coming through the glass wall in the kitchen. As soon as your skin hit the sunlight, you felt a slight relief, the burn marks on your skin not stinging nearly as much. After a moment, you feel a hand on your shoulder, and you instinctually grab the wrist attached, nearly snapping it if it wasn’t for Bucky’s quick maneuvers.

“Hey! Y/N! It’s just me? What’s wrong? You burned yourself!” He stumbled, his eyes flitting across your features with worry. You relax slightly into his touch, but you can still feel an uncomfortable buzz throughout your body.

“I’m fine, I just really need to go outside.” You say through clenched teeth, trying not to lash out. You could easily break the glass, and run towards the forest you see on the horizon. It’s as if there was a string attached to you, and the tree line, and instead of an annoying pull ever once in a while, it was as if the string hooked into your skin, dragging you towards it.

“Y/N, I can’t…I need to ask Steve.” Bucky explains, unsure. You rip away your grip from his, and you struggle to breathe properly in the highly controlled atmosphere.

“Bucky, I need to go. Now. It feels like my body’s on fire.” You growl, stepping back into the sunspot on the floor, trying to control yourself from losing control. You begin to feel her presence, and you’re very scared at the possibility of hurting someone if you don’t get some fresh air.

“Y/n..” Bucky starts, but you hush him with a loud yell,

“If I don’t go out right now, I won’t hesitate to break this goddamn glass.”

“I need to talk to Steve,” Bucky pleaded with you but you shake your head furiously. You finally make eye contact with him, and when he sees a dreadful shade of violet flash in your eyes, you see him tense.

“Bucky, I don’t want to hurt you, please, just let me out, I won’t become her if you let me out, I promise,” You beg him, your breathing beginning to pick up in rapid pace. Bucky thinks for a moment, and he finally speaks,

“Friday open the closet exit, and alert Steve that I’m taking Y/n for a walk,”

“Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers has not authorized…”

“Do it, or we’ll be in a lot of trouble..” Bucky interrupted her with a yell, and Friday seemed to sense his desperation, and when the glass wall slowly started to slide open, you immediately ran through, charging through the open field towards the forest.

“Y/N!” Bucky yelled after you, running after you. When he finally catches up to you, he finds you hunched over on all fours. Your hands were digging into the ground, digging through the layer of pine needles just to calm yourself down. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief when you finally meet his gaze. He finds no traces of the deadly Belladonna, just a calm, content look on your face. He kneels down next you, and when he finally has the courage to place a fleshed hand on your shoulder, you lean into his touch, finally relaxed. You take a deep, shuddered sigh, and you sit back on your heels, your fingernails detaching from the soil.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” You murmur, your actions finally catching up to you know that your body wasn’t having a complete meltdown.

“It’s ok, you just gotta tell me what happened, I was really worried about you for a minute there,” Bucky assured you, his thumb making small circles just below the dip in your shoulder, and you let out another sigh, letting Bucky relieving the tension trapped there.

Before you could speak, you hear heavy footsteps approaching, crushing the dead pine needles covering the forest floor. You both turn to see Steve, surprisingly out of breath. You see that he’s drenched in sweat, since at this time in the morning he’s leading training with the early birds of the compound. You feel regret seep into your veins when you see the frown on his face.

“Bucky what the hell happened?” Steve grumbled, running a hand through his sweaty locks. He towers over the both of you, and Bucky struggles to find an excuse, not understanding what happened himself.

“I’m sorry Steve, I just needed to go outside.” You sigh, finally standing up from your position, head bowed, ready to be reprimanded by the Captain.

“Couldn’t you have asked me first? You know that you can’t just leave until we know that…” Steve starts, but pauses before he says something he’ll regret, yet you hear him loud and clear. Anger boils in your system, and you cant help but meet his gaze with a cold stare.

“Look, I know that everyone’s afraid I’m gonna go out and kill somebody if I do something as much as touch a tree, but that’s not how it works. I’m basically half human half plant, I need to get some sunlight every once in a while,” You growl, angry that everything had to be blown out of proportion.

“Y/n..” Bucky starts but you interrupt him,

“I’m not done. You know how if you leave a houseplant out of the sun, that they start to wither? Same rules apply to me, except to my body. Hydra used to keep me out of sunlight, and only let me out whenever they needed me for a mission. They had me on the brink of death constantly, and when it got really bad, I’d break out of programming and kill a bunch of guards just so I could go outside, which in result lead to more torture. So unless you want to deal with Belladonna, I suggest you let me go outside when I need to.” You finish, and you only met with shocked stares from both super soldiers, Steve more so than Bucky.

“I’m sorry Y/n..I just..” Steve starts but you rest a feeble hand on his brows shoulder, looking at him with a reassuring gaze.

“It’s ok, I should’ve told you guys sooner. I was scared that I’d lose it if i went out outside, but after nearly losing it from not going outside, I might as well tell you guys the reason.” You say with a light laugh, trying to cover the anxiety boiling beneath your skin from just having to talk about details from your life from Hydra. You sigh before continuing, “I want to follow your guys’ rules, I really do, but I will lose my fucking mind if you make me stay in that building made entirely out of metal 24/7,”

“Okay, know that you explain it, I feel like a dick keeping you cooped up in there for nearly two weeks,” Steve laughs somberly, and you give him a slight smile. You turn to Bucky,

“That reminds me, when can I go to Wakanda? I don’t want to have this happen again. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore,” You practically beg him, reaching out to hold his hands. You feel bad for touching after a moment, forgetting you literally have dirt caked underneath your fingernails, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind with the small smile he gives you when you finally touch him willing for what felt like millennia. What you didn’t know was that Bucky secretly reveled in your touch, something about it made his nerves go haywire, and he’s not exactly sure where it comes from. All he knows that he doesn’t want to live in a world without it. After a moment, Bucky gives Steve a questioning glance, and Steve gives a small nod, a guilty look on his face. Bucky meets your desperate gaze, and gives you a smile that reveals his dimples, making you automatically smile in return.

“I’ll give Shuri a call,”