Henlo, I'm an enby named James or Hermit and this is my main page π« β β β ββ β β ββ β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β¨οΈpfp done by Spectrum Macabreβ¨οΈ
Finally decided to renew my 365-day subscription. Hermit 23.0 is now running! (With a few more bugs and a whole lot less of hotfixes.)
I've only had a couple of days where I looked forward to my day of birth. It was hard to celebrate something even my parents thought of as a chore.
Though my friends would always make it better. This time, I'll be surrounded by those three friends playing a silly fun game and eating the best Udon I've EVER tasted with someone very special to me.
Maybe one day I could see the world for my birthday with a camera in hand to capture the world with a press of a button, but that will remain my dream as I am content with the small victory today.
John let out a small grunt and then groaned once he picked himself off the sidewalk, once he was done messing about with his shoes.
He rummaged in his pocket to pull the coin out into his hand. A single shilling in mint condition, a routine that John cleaned his coins that bordered on near compulsion. His thumb lightly passed over the engraving of the crown that sat upon the mature bust of Queen Victoria.
His eyes caught the horses that moved swiftly along, despite the people inside the cart; they moved expertly through the bustling streets of London with ease. His leg seemed to ache, and his left shoulder twinged at the prospect of a ride, yet this was precisely why John kept only a shilling on him.
Other than the muggings, he only armed himself with a shilling one days he wasn't out for errands. It kept his spending low and the target off his back for any nimble fingers.
He put the coin back into his pocket and adjusted the bag on his shoulder. The moment he started to walk, the aches and twinges began to fade with each step down Baker Street.
John remembered complaining to Sherlock, when he was sure the man wasn't paying attention, about the aches and pains he was experiencing during his walks. In his thirty minutes of ranting, he was suddenly cut off with a sharp, "Then don't." By Sherlock, who hadn't lifted his eyes off the paper he was reading.
"You aren't even listening to me! Why give such advice as that if you aren't truly following?" John knew these were fighting words; a challenge wrapped up in a little bow that was cut by Sherlock's lifted stare.
"I would follow more if it was not the same problem repeated in different flourishes of the word." He lifted the paper back up, but his eyes didn't leave Watson, "Do what I do. Imagine the world with one ear and listen with the other. Do that, and pain will go away." His eyes slowly moved back to the page, but seemed ready to look up again, as if he was prepared for another challenge from the doctor.
John had scoffed at that, crossing his arms, "How'd you come up with that, Holmes?" John swore he saw the twingest of twinges on Sherlock's lips when he said, "It stopped your whining, did it not?"
The John then had to leave to avoid his emotions spilling over, but the John now chuckled at the memory and shook his head with a smile that didn't falter in the slightest.
Sherlock was right, typically; with John's mind rather fueled by the imagery he was taking in, the aches and pains all seemed to disappear. Especially when he passed major landmarks such as the Marble Arch.
John couldn't help but visualize Sherlock at one of the walls, studying the sculptures and ornate detailing. Rambling on about different qualities of marble and the irony of the drab monument that was once tied to the wealthy.
John blinked, and the little Sherlock in his mind was gone, skittering into the back of his mind like an alley cat that had tasted food and warmth. His ramblings made him remember a fresh conversation that wormed its way into John's mind.
Sherlock mentioned a shift in John so matter-of-factly one day when he was shuffling through the messy documents on his desk. When John asked him why he was constantly gazing at him, Sherlock did what Sherlock does best.
"I would apologize for my stare, but you have worn your right boot on your left foot for the better part of the morning." He pointed down at John's very odd fashion statement to further rub in his point, "and have, on two separate occasions, poured the sugar into your tea and then proceeded to add a further three cubes." Sherlock's eyes flicked from the tea and then back to John, with, well, one might say, a judging look, but that was rather the norm for the detective.
"Unless you have suddenly decided to develop a sweet tooth and join a circus, it might suggest that your mind is, shall we say, otherwise engaged." Sherlock elongated the word with a raised brow. But then he did something quite shocking to John.
"Mind sharing who has gotten you all fashion-forward?" Sherlock queried into his fumbling mind. Hell, what must've shocked Holmes was that the Dr. Watson was fumbling.
John wasn't too happy with his response. Yet, he still isn't. As that was this morning and of all the words in his mind palace to conjure up a well-thought-out pronouncement, all he managed was a, "Biscuits!" before swiftly swiping the bag on the table and rushing out the door, tripping on his shoes down the stairs as he scrambled away.
He could feel the embarrassment burning at the tip of his ears when he remembered, which is precisely why he tried to swiftly forget. It didn't take much effort when two children raced past him, a mother calling out to them to stay close by.
He had made it to Green Park and could see the McGilfree brothers fishing in the St. James's Park pond from a distance. John wondered if the officers would push them in at this point instead of arresting them. John admitted to wanting to see the scene play out, but thankfully, it was only to himself.
He was about to continue his walk when something in one of the glass store windows caught his eye. The craft of a briar pipe did not escape the critical eye of Dr. John Watson, nor did the amber fittings that sparkled against the glass when the sun was just right. Though John Watson was not a man who was above a little bit of window shopping. He has experienced such stunning times many times and hasn't batted an eye, but that was because to catch the eye of man named Dr. John Watson, you must be interesting; and the pipe, only being a shilling, was just that.
John moved towards the shop with haste, which he had only used in Afghanistan. The door opened with a delicate little chime. Upon the shelves, the knick-knacks looked like those one might find in a household, filling space with a sentimental memory.
John gravitated towards the pipe and gently took it in his hands. His fingers feel the grooves and smoothness of it all. When John turned to the front, a woman peeked around the corner with a smile.
"Hello there." She said with a chipper voice as she noticed the pipe in Watson's hand. "Oh, I just knew that piece would sell!"
John cleared his throat as his heart seemed to pull. He felt a bit... wrong holding something so precious when all that was requested was a mere drop in its value. "Miss," he hesitantly said.
"I wasn't born yesterday, mister." She said it so confidently, John was a tad baffled. "I beg your pardon?" John asked, causing the woman to giggle, "You can't just beg for it, you have to earn it!" She laughed at John's increasingly confused and surprised look, waved her hand, her eyes playful and teasing.
"That thing there," she pointed down at the pipe in John's hand, "was owned by a bastard of a man." She chuckled, "He was the devil or at least related, I'm sure."
John looked down at the pipe, his fingers moving along the grooves. "Such a shame," he began with deep sincerity, causing the woman to pause and look at him with a quizzical nature. "For such a stunning object to be so tainted by the likes of a cad."
The woman smiled, "Tainted indeed, but thoroughly cleaned." She grabbed a box that looked lavish, setting it on the counter, "Perhaps it just needs a new set of lips to purify it." She said with a small chortle, causing John to smile, mumbling. "Or to taint it even further."
The woman smirked, "You like your women as dirty as your tea, I presume?" Her eyes raised at John before he cleared his throat and handed her the shilling.
She closed her fingers around it with a smile and pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business, my good sir." John nodded quickly, turned, but just as he fully exited the store, he sheepishly asked, "Could... you do something for me?"
"Goodness Watson!" Lestrade exclaimed when John came in. "You walked all the way here? In your condition?" He asked. His eyes were scanning. John was no fool; he knew those eyes weren't just looking for him, but for Sherlock.
"On such a pleasant day? I wouldn't dare sully a day like this with a ride." John stepped to the side before adding, "My apologies, Inspector, the detective is not with me today. Only in spirit." John handed the bag over to Lestrade, who opened it, peered inside, and then made a small, "huh," and then looked at Watson. "Biscuits?"
"Yes, inspector." John clarified with a nod.
Lestrade hummed again and then asked, "Holmes made these?"
John, this time, nodded slowly, "Of course, Inspector."
Lestrade glanced at John, broke off a small piece of a biscuit, bringing it to his lips as a crunch made the silence between them feel elongated.
"Dr. Watson?"
"Yes, Inspector?"
"Tell Holmes to keep his day job."
John chuckled, "I will not." with a smile, causing Lestrade to do the same.
"You are a smarter man than I." He took the bag and brought it over to a community table, and already, a few uniforms flocked over to take some biscuits.
"I have never been much a fan of Huntley's, more of a Peek Frean myself, but I do like the tin," Lestrade said, chuckling at John's slight surprise and quickly checking in the bag. Sure enough, the biscuits were still in their purchased tin.
"I should've known not to pull a fast one on you, Inspector," John admitted, rubbing his neck in the hopes of hiding his burning ears. "No feelings have been hurt, Doctor," Lestrade reassured as he walked to his desk, gesturing Watson to follow.
"It is a rather welcoming change of pace with your influence." Lestrade causally commented. John's interest was piqued. "Would you be so kind as to repeat that?"
Lestrade's lips parted as a small 'heh' escaped before waving his hand dismissively, "Oh, forever polite you are. If only Holmes could learn some tricks from you, he might make decent company."
John found himself leaning against the wall in front of Lestrade's desk. "You don't live with him." Lestrade nodded, putting his hands together as he looked to John with much sincerity, "Thank you for your service."
John chortled, tipping his hat, "I must be on my way if I wish to make it before nightfall."
Lestrade stood, "Nonsense, one of my men can escort you home." John smiled and shook his head, "Oh, I don't wish to be a burden, Inspector."
"Nonsense! I'm sure one of those bobbies has been sleeping in the archives since noon. It will give them a sense of purpose." Lestrade insisted, and before John could turn it down, he was gone and off towards the archives.
John was left to his thoughts once more as this thumb gently rubbed over a groove on the pipe, yet this was one fresh, new, and small. He could feel his nerves tingle and his heart quicken slightly. This made no sense. It was just a gift. That was all that it was.
So why did it feel like it was something that felt like much more than a gesture between good friends?
John thanked the Constable when he stepped off the wagon. The officer, still with crust around his eyes, gave John a small salute before he took off. Just as John was about to turn around and open the door, Sherlock was suddenly in front of him.
"Good heavens, Holmes!" He yelped, taking a few breaths. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, "What's gotten you jumpy? You know I live here, Watson."
John had his hands on his knees, "Since when did you become a doorman? Was Ms. Hudson hiring?" Sherlock let out a small 'bah' as he waved his hand, turning back into the building to walk up the stairs to their apartment.
John followed close by, with each step the question grew larger and larger like a bubble before it suddenlyβ"Why were you at the door, Holmes?"βpopped.
Sherlock paused at the stairs for a moment. The seconds ticked by before he simply said, "Bored." before finishing his ascent up the stairs and unlocking the door to their apartment.
"Oh, truly shocked, Holmes," John said in his sarcastically deadpanned nature. He noticed Sherlock's eyes on him when he entered the apartment as the door closed behind them with a secure click of the lock.
"Go on, spit it out," John said with a slight groan, "How did Lestrade take the biscuits?" Sherlock asked as he walked over to his armchair, that still had his coat drapped over the back of it, and sat down. John smiled, "He enjoyed them, the tin mostly. Peek Frean was his first choice, however."
Sherlock nodded slowly before he asked, "How was the mall? Anything fancy caught your eye?"
Now, that surprised John. "How did you-", "Simple, you are fidgeting with something new in your pocket and were surprised when I mentioned the mall." Sherlock relaxed a bit as he continued, "You rarely get yourself anything unless you need it. You're surprise was that I knew because it was a surprise in your mind." His eyes furrowed slightly as he wondered out loud, "I hadn't a clue of who it is for just yet..." His eyes lifted up to meet Watson's, whose eyes was constantly full of awe, but this time.. there was a shift of nervousness in the way he carried himself.
"Watson?" Sherlock called his name, causing John to snap from his astonished state. "Yes, right, the thing is..." John pulled the box from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.
"..it's for you."
Sherlock took the lavish box, his eyes lifted ever so slightly in the rare moment of surprise. "A gift, Watson?" Sherlock asked, looking somewhat confused. "For what particular occasion?" Watson swallowed, finding this much awkward than it should've been. "Must one need such an occasion to gift a friend?"
Sherlock raised his brow at Watson's statement before opening the box to see the smoking pipe. His eyes taking in every detail in rapid succession: the briar wood, the amber fittings, and finally.. "A new pipe.." His fingers moved over a minor groove where 'S.H' was carved with a careful and elegant flourish, "..engraved with my initials."
Sherlock took the pipe in his hands, his voice soft, speaking as if he were the only one in the room, "You must have noted my old clay pipe is now quite beyond repair, despite my constant care." He rotated the pipe, seeing the upgrades this pipe provided, and couldn't stop himself from commenting, "The new tobacco blend I have been experimenting with required a different chamber size... and this incorporates it..."
Sherlock looked at the pipe and, then with the aloofness that gave him his signature charm, set it down on the side table beside him, "Things are of little consequence, Watson." He said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "They are but distractions from the real work of the mind." His eyes finally looked up from the pipe and to Watson. He paused when he saw how... nervous Watson was. The way he feverishly picked at the skin of his nails and bit the inside of his cheek. Usually, this sight didn't bother Sherlock, but it felt different with Watson. Watson always had a way to melt away the frost that accumulated around his heart. Sherlock cleared his throat and quickly stated, "I suppose this is a distraction I wouldn't mind. Your gift is very... practical."
John could feel the relief wash over him. That was close to a 'thank you' he was ever going to get. "I'm glad you enjoy it." John cleared his throat to shake the embarrassment of this encounter from his voice while he hung up his coat on the rack, which seemed to be that only he used. "I believe it's time that I turn in. Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes were on Watson, "Goodnight." He answered as the door was closing to the doctor's room. Sherlock felt the strange shift in the air, hell, even in Watson. He was confused by it all, and for once, it seemed like there was a book missing from it's self in his mind that could illuminate this odd change.
Perhaps he had thrown out that space long ago, and yet it felt like something was missing, not lost. Not knowledge that alluded him, no. Something much worse to Holmes. It was something that he couldn't understand.
His fingers moved to pick up the pipe as the lamplight softly lay on the engraving that was so delicately detailed. How could such a small number of uniformed scratches on an item make him feel so... warm.
He hadn't realized that he had been sitting in the chair looking at this pipe for the better part of an hour, and just as the hand ticked over to midnight, a piece of the blank jigsaw seemed to slot into place.
He has seen this before with cases involving broken families, the cases that truly struck Watson deep into his being. Was it because it hit too close to the heart?
Sherlock stood up suddenly as the adrenaline coursed through his legs and forced him to pace. Watson is a brilliant doctor; he would know his own mortality. Was Watson...βhis pace abruptly stopped as he looked down at the pipe that suddenly felt small and fragile as a terrifying thought crossed his mindβ...was his friend dying?
His fingers tightened ever so slightly as his feet began again across the floor. It would make the most sense; this pipe was a memento from the closest and only person he could truly call his friend. Was Watson preparing him for his timely death? With gifts and comforting words to ease the blow of the devastating news.
That word caused him to stop again, and this time, he had to sit down. Devastating. Yes, for once, that word truly meant its gravity in his life. His hands shook; this wasn't a problem, nor a case he could fix, and that truly scared the man of Sherlock Holmes.
Just to make this really clear this is during the 1890s in London. This isn't related to BBC Sherlock in any way.
A super big thanks to @doctorsoul29 for the illustrations that will portray what these characters look like; the first obviously had to be Sherlock and John π₯°
Are you a fan of the book series Warriors by Erin Hunter? Do you just enjoy reading stories about whimsical cats? Well, if those are a yes, check out Talis's take on 'Into the Wild'; read it or not, you'll find that not everything is the same.
The prologue up to chapter 2 is out now!
..but what if it wasn't Tigerclaw?
Prologue
Cold and hungry, a desperate mew drowned by a yapping dog was deafened by the rumbles that cou
Oops. I got sick. Does my workplace care? No, I'm still working. Is it on the last week when finals are due? Yes, I got a test and a final essay project. Recovery is slow, and I'll be busy, BUT chapter 2 will be out before the next year
So this **was** going to be the case until I broke my thumb nail *that half cracked into my actual skin*. Any kind of pressure on it hurts, and my typing balance is off. Soo :') Sorry, guyss
Oops. I got sick. Does my workplace care? No, I'm still working. Is it on the last week when finals are due? Yes, I got a test and a final essay project. Recovery is slow, and I'll be busy, BUT chapter 2 will be out before the next year
Writing will return for Forging Belief over on @poison-with-your-coffee , I have Act 1 done for Chapter 2, but I have an augmentive research paper due and a math test to finish before Tuesday π«
To save on money, you accepted the offer to stay in your old childhood room with your parents and find yourself reminiscing only to be pulled back into reality.
You felt your stomach doing flips once you started to recognize where you were. Instinctively ducking your head away from the windows in case someone spotted you earlier than intended. When the car stopped, you peeked out and saw your old childhood home. Instead of the deep green with black trimming, it was painted light purple and white trimmings with hanging flowerbeds that sprouted lavender with lilacs leading up to the door.
You sighed. Guess Ma got her wish after all. "Thanks." You glanced at the driver and handed him the last dollar in your creased wallet, a crispy twenty-dollar bill you managed to snag from a malfunctioning vending machine. You hear the greedy voice hiss in the back of your mind of how foolish you are to rid yourself of the very thing that made this world go round so easily.
The man shook his head with a smile, "You already paid," he grinned, tapping his temple, "I wouldn't trade it for anything." He huffed, waving his hand to gently knock yours back away from him, "Now, best be on your way. I want to take my sister out for brunch while it's acceptable brunch hours. You understand." You smile softly, "Thanks, it means a lot." You placed the twenty back into your wallet as your smile shoved the greedy voice in the back of your mind. You waved to the old man, who grunted as you climbed out and pulled your bag from the car trunk.
You slung the bag over your shoulder, leaving one strap hanging without an arm accompanying it. You waved once again as the man drove away, leaving you alone at the end of your childhood driveway with your entire life upon your shoulders. Your melancholic thoughts only deepened when the door opened to see the shocked face upon your Ma. You didn't tell her you were coming, and part of that reason was to catch the slight disappointment on her face before it was covered up by the mask of happiness.
"Eel? Is that really you!?" Her voice rose into a pitch that sounded painful to maintain. Her heels clicked as she hurried towards you down the driveway, her sundress flowing perfectly in the soft breeze.
You felt your heart clench and fall into the dark pit that appeared in your stomach. "What the fuck did you call me!?" was what you wanted to yell at her, but all you could manage was a meek, "What.. did you call me?" You muttered, lifting your head to look at her just when she cupped your face.
"Sorry, sweetie, old habits." She smiled, her thumb gently pressing on your cheek to wipe away a few eye boogers you'd missed. That made you swat her hand away from embarrassment. "Good to see you too, Ma." You adjusted the bag and looked at the house. "Looks like you got busy. Dad wouldn't be too pleased about it." You trailed off when you noticed she was scratching her neck. "Wow. So you were serious."
That made her narrow her eyes at you, and her voice raised. "What is it with you and your father thinking I'm messing around all the time?" She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "So, you actually did, you got divorced." You couldn't help yourself.
You noticed a band of skin much lighter than her tanned skin, an imperfection she took rather easily. "So, who's the new guy?" Your Ma turned around. If looks could kill, you'd be dead twice over. "Why are you here?"
Her words cut through you like ice. "Because... you offered it to me?" She laughed exaggeratedly, yelling, "Five years ago! And you ignored me!" She scoffed, "I half expected that my letter was tossed in the shredder." She started towards her car and turned it on but didn't step in. You were about to walk over to her before she put her hand up that moved to pinch the bridge of her nose.
"I don't have time for this." Your Ma stated, crossing her arms as her lips pulled into a frown. You felt your blood boil, the words slipping from your lips, "That's cool," you shrugged, hoping your nonchalant display was masking your feelings, "you never did anyways." You regret the words the moment you saw the pain in your Ma's eyes the moment she registered them. She clenched her fists but crossed them over her arms, her fingers digging into her skin.
"You didn't even give me time!" Her crossed arms unfolded at her hips. "You want me to make time for you?" She threw the keys at you, making you stumble to catch them, "Make an effort." She opened the car door and got into the seat. You stared at her as she rolled down her window, "Meatloaf is in the fridge. Don't want that; there's soup you can heat up. You know where your room is."
She didn't let you speak as she began to reverse down the driveway; her window pulled up simultaneously. You watched her drive until she disappeared around a bend before you looked down at the keys with a heavy groan.
"Good going, Eel." You muttered bitterly to yourself before you turned and entered your childhood home.
The smells of fresh linen brought back childhood memories. You swear you could smell the gingerbread houses you'd make with your Ma, your tastebuds yearning for the taste of cinnamon after you devoured your hours of craft in seconds.
Your feet wandered to the kitchen, the memory of gingerbread guiding you. The fridge was decorated with various childlike drawings of stick figures in triangle or rectangle clothing and spiky green grass drawn by your once tiny hand. A smile appeared as you began to look at a few that your Ma made notes on. One of you making gingerbread houses with your Ma, one of what looked to be you teaching a class with your Ma's note; "best parent day."
Your smile faltered when you noticed that one of your drawings was much... smaller than normal. You gently pulled it free from the heart magnet and noticed it was folded to the back. The smile fell into a frown when you saw the entire picture.
The crease was at your hand holding your dad's, who held a long sword over his shoulder. You put the picture back before your fingers could tear it into shreds. The childhood nostalgia was gone, replaced by bitterness and resentment.
'Of course, he's gone!' That voice squawked in the back of your mind. You shook your head and knocked your hand against your temple to silence it. You looked upon the walls around the kitchen, dining room, and, hell, even the bathroom had pictures of you and your parents. That childlike wonder was captured in every moment and made still. You knew it was you with the big toothy smile and always waving at the cameraman, and yet, it felt as if the kid in those pictures had long since died, and that wave was less of a hello but a goodbye. So, you raised your hand to wave at the trapped boy in the photos and walked to your room.
Walking up the stairs, you noticed your mom left pictures of your first days on the wall. Starting from the first day you were born, the first day you had your tooth fall out, your first birthday with cake smudged onto your cheek and nose. Then your first days became school pictures with your Ma and father. From pre-school, you wore a broad smile, sitting upon your father's shoulders with your Ma resting up against his side, her hand on one of your ankles. Your eyes lingered on your sixth-grade picture.
Instead of clinging to your father, you stood next to your Ma with your father no longer in sight. The wonder in your eyes was gone, and the smile so effortlessly pulled for a picture looked like it took everything. The look grew more fake with each photo until you reached the second floor.
You furrowed your brow, pausing when you noticed boxes outside one door. Some even stacked on top of one another. You felt your feet move before your mind could process what was happening. As the door slowly opened, a single thought managed to slip out, 'Hey... isn't this my room?'
What should've been a nostalgic trip of seeing the walls of colorful graffiti, making your bedroom look like a mural. In specific spots with your favorite movie and TV show posters, the bookshelves filled to their max capacity with fiction, comic books, and manga: a few were not even removed from their sleeves. Your hand-made action figures of many fandoms are proudly displayed in your curio cabinet next to your life-sized plushie of a Sleeplax.
Yet, it was all gone. The walls looked to have repaired the small holes in the pushpins from the posters. Your walls, once unique and artistic in design, were replaced with a solid peach color. In place of your bookshelf, a desk with stacking letter trays held colorful paper, organized from paper shade to size to even strength. A book titled "A Dummies Guide to Origami" was perfectly centered on the desk.
Instead of your curio cabinet and Sleeplax stood a mannequin. You didn't break eye contact with it as you slowly opened the closet behind you and shoved it inside in one swift motion. You shuddered before feeling your tense shoulders droop before walking over to the bed pressed up against the wall. You pushed the boxes on the bed onto the floor before falling onto it with your eyes closed.
Your confusion turned into accusations and anger. Why would she get rid of all traces of you!? Did she really not want you here? Where did she put all your old things? Were they hurting her? Why? Why?! Why?!
You took a sharp breath before opening your eyes and felt the gasp that involuntarily ripped itself from your vocals.
Stars.
"Careful, boy." Your Ma's sweet voice came from below as you stuck out your tongue, concentrating on putting the star in the perfect spot, "I want you to see these stars, not any concussion stars!" She finished her warning before you slowly climbed down.
You clapped your tiny hands together before letting out an "It's done!" in a pitch a bit too high. Your Ma chuckled and patted the space next to her on the bed. "Come here, I wanna show you something."
You nodded, walking over and climbing up onto the bed. After a moment of struggling and an assist from your Ma, you lay next to her, both eyes looking up at the ceiling.
The moment the lights turned off, you couldn't help but feel the childlike wonder light up just like the stars upon your ceiling. "They're glowing mama! They're actually glowing!" You squealed out your excitement, pointing to a constellation, "The Little Dipper looks perfect!"
Your Ma chuckled and pointed to another constellation that you put together: "I like that one. It looks really pretty! Like a bear." She smirked at you, which caused you to gape at her: "That is not a bear; that's Leo! That is a lion, silly!"
Your Ma chuckled, pulling you close to her chest. You could feel and hear her heart beat in its steady rhythm, and it made you feel safe being so close.
"You know why I love stars?" the question made you look up. " Because they're pretty?" you asked. She chuckled, "Oh, that they are." Her voice sounded distant, and her eyes lived in a dream of whimsy.
"It's because they're safe, " she responded. You couldn't help but giggle: "Nuh-uh! They explode, Mama. Like boom!" You put your hands together and threw them out, landing on your back onto the bed. She couldn't help but chuckle: "Oh, you're very clever," she chuckled, ruffling your hair.
"You're right, but sometimes they disappear, even after they've been with you for so long." She looked away from the stars and out of the window, "and even though they traveled so far away... I can still see them burning bright without me."
You frowned, sitting up and tilting your head. "Are we still talking about stars, Mama?" you asked, making her turn to look at you. The glow of the moon lit up her face, and for the first time, you recognized that look as one of weary.
"Yes, my darling child," she smiled, pulling you close to her chest and resting her head on top of yours.
"I love the stars."
You felt a tear roll down your temple and into your ear as you recalled every constellation you and your Ma had created together, preserved and carefully protected under the renovations.
Did she still look at the stars in your absence? Another tear rolled down your temple and landed on your pillow. Does she still love the stars?
Pings: @sweetstephstuff, @deldemon84
and hello to you: Fay, Mango, and Ian ππ
If you want to be pinged for the next installment, please ask! π€
Star Border created by @saradika / @saradika-graphics. Morpheus's eye border is created by me
The air was musty, cloying. It always was, perhaps always will be. Except in the dining hall and boudoir of course, where the master of the house liked to relax. Those rooms were rewards and lures to those who did well and pleased him.
Itβs where Gwen resided, her eyes hollow and her hands busy. Often she cleaned the giant table in the dining hall, replacing the rotting food and shooing away the flies. The boudoir, once a room of rest and respite in hedonistic fashion, became a bedroom/trophy case. Itβs where Rapheal refitted the room with a frieze looking above the room of Gwenβs former self: Happy, vibrant, free. Just to remind her what she lost. Large, golden bookshelves overflowed with books, once he knew she pretended to read. She was never taught the written word, and would pour over the pages, inventing her own stories to occupy her time when cleaning was done. Heroes, villains, love, loss.
It was a private joke to himself, one he never got tired of. Those pages sheβd pour over were ones he picked specifically. They housed either pornographic tales of dwarven women like her, or they were gruesomely explicit accounts of torture documented over centuries.
Gwen was so close to becoming his Despair. His method of torture. His beloved pet. His toy. His. His. All His.
The constant killing and reviving her was starting to become almost boring. A few games of hide-and-seek where heβd kill her when she was found. A childrenβs game in a pool where he held her underwater until her body stopped struggling. Once he invited her to a romantic dance, and out of curiosity, bit into her neck. That night he learned seeing your own sinew in the mouth of someone else creates shock, which dulls pain. She didnβt even scream for him until a few hours later, as she was locked in a cold box for storage. It took 3 days to finish his meal.
She was terrified of him, which only pleased him more. Her nose twitched when she was scared, leading to his nickname of her. βLittle Rabbit.β
But, at this moment, he needed her cooperation. The lovely mind games of fear and breaking her down until she saw him for the God he saw himself to be would have to wait. It was time to smooth out his silver tongue and pull out the charm.
One day, you opened your mailbox after an exhausting day at work. You retrieved an envelope that smelt of a familiar acquaintance back from your youth. In careful, flowery calligraphy was an invitation back to your sleepy hometown.
A high-school reunion.
You looked down at the envelope in your hand, your lips creasing into a frown. You couldn't help but breathe in the scented letter another time.
The iris's sweetness complimented the cherry blossoms' subtlety and the florality of the heliotrope. To tie it all in a package bow was the cleanliness of the aldehydes that prevented the perfect scent from being too powerful or too bland: a true goldilocks.
The person behind the scent was someone you were not excited to see. However, it did make sense that a diva would find a scent that matched her quintessential flawless life.
"Well, that's a loaded story in your hands." The taxi driver's eyes were peering at you in the rear-view mirror with a searching look. You couldn't help but shield the invitation like a young boy caught looking through a Playboy magazine. "What's it to you?"
The driver gave a low, gruff chuckle, "Pardon me for the size of my nose," he turned on his blinker to enter the highway while making a final adjustment to his rear-view mirror, "In my line of work, I have come to value the green paper less and less." You noticed he was looking at the invitation with a gleam, "Stories are priceless entertainment, and I prefer those over some lousy tips anyway."
You couldn't help but smile, "A fellow bargainer?" He let out a raspy chuckle that only years of smoking could achieve. "The kids love a good story, especially about those Scabbards!"
"You like the Scabs?" You asked the man, who raised an eyebrow. "I only answer loaded questions when I get context." He wasn't very subtle, eyeing the envelope like a kid on Christmas.
"I don't know... it's personal.." You muttered awkwardly, looking out the window to see the various cars fly by. The driver let the silence drag on for a few minutes before clearing his throat. "If you tell me your story, this ride is on me."
You looked at him, sure that your mouth was on the floor. "But Sir!" you exclaimed, "It's already been two hours and still two to go! You know how much money you'd be losing with an offer like that?"
The man chuckled simply, "I told you before that stories are priceless. They are the fuel to keep me going."
"But what about gas?" You questioned.
He simply shrugged, "This chunker is vegan anyway; it needs that special charge treatment rather than ol' reliable." He looked back at you in the mirror and gave a bushy eyebrowed wink, "A bargainer recognizes its own."
You felt your back fall back into the seat, a little overwhelmed, but the creases on your lips lifted, and you couldn't help but smile.
"It's a high-school reunion." You started, causing the man to let out a "ho-ho!" of laughter. He didn't interrupt, even turning down the radio to let you explain.
"I graduated from Mountain Ridge Academy about..." You blinked and muttered, "God... has it already been ten years?"
The man chuckled, "Time really sneaks up on you. Mountain Ridge, you say?" He grabbed a piece of gum and stuffed it into his mouth. You didn't ask to bum a piece since you recognize it to be Nicorette gum. "Say, isn't that where most of them Scabbards graduated a few years back?"
You nodded, "About ninety percent were Scabs; I wasn't one of them. I wasn't cursed to be one."
He let out a mixture of a scoff-laugh. "Cursed? Now that answers your side of the loaded question." You couldn't help but feel offended, "I don't hate them! Besides, to be a Scab means to be cursed! I enjoy being completely human."
The old man chewed on the right side of his mouth while he listened to you vent your frustration. "I never said you did, friend."
You couldn't help but scoff, "I guess you were a shrink in your day, too, then?" He smirked, proudly tapping his chest, "I'm a taxi driver, right?" His easygoing demeanor melted your anger away.
You sighed, "It's just.. they are so.." You frowned. "Passionate? Motivated?" The man asked. You let the words bounce around before letting them mull over.
"I.. I guess so." You looked down at the envelope, "They all seemed to have an intense drive, ready to make the world theirs." You frowned, "Guess it was easy to feel superior to us."
The man hummed, "I believe you have a lot to look at yourself." You crossed your arms, "What does that even mean?" He didn't answer that question, but he did answer another.
"I believe what you call Scabs are not as privileged as what you may have believed then and possibly do now." He smiled, looking at the envelope once more before fixing his eyes on the road, "Maybe this reunion is exactly what you need."
He turned up the radio and shut off his taxi meter.
---
Note from Morph;
This story is heavily inspired by the game, "Boyfriend Dungeons" with my own twist, characters, and even different lore regarding the "Scab[bard]s".
This story is my take on a genderless y/n structure and a romance that will explore various different types of relationships. The person behind this account is three gay rats in a trenchcoat, so read at your own caution.
No smut. Only angst.
If you wish to keep up with the story, please ask for an @ in comments. Thank.
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