#and mourn knowing perhaps this is the last time i'll ever be home this long

[lordsardine]

.

[dragon-kazansky]

When the raven calls

Morpheus x Female Reader

You, his raven, die protecting Jessamy while rescuing the Dream Lord. When Morpheus returns to his realm, he mourns your loss, only to find a stranger waiting for him in his throne room. The stranger claims to be you, now in human form. He doesn't understand, but his raven will always watch over him.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Notes: Use of Y/N. Sorry.

Chapter Two - Broken wing

☆☆☆

The moment the seal was broken and Morpheus was able to escape, he took that chance. His time in that glass cage was over.

It had been decades since your death. He had never recovered from witnessing it.

You had been his loyal raven since the very beginning. Way back when he first created the Dreaming, he made you. The Sandman always had a raven. Jessamy came along eventually, but you had been his original raven companion.

Watching you die broke a part of him. You had taken a part of him with you forever. Morpheus knew he would never ever get over this loss.

He wakes up to the sound of a familiar voice calling out to him. Lucienne appears above him and reaches for his hand. He takes it and smiles. It had been too long.

"Lucienne." He whispers her name.

"You're home, my lord."

"I am."

Lucienne helps him to his feet. Morpheus looks around. They are just outside his kingdom. He sets his eyes on the gates and heads that way. Lucienne follows him.

As relived as she was fo see him, Lucienne had a lot she needed to talk to him about. "Forgive me, sir, but the realm, the palace, they are not as you left them."

The gate opens, and Morpheus is greeted by the sight of his fallen kingdom. Nothing is as he remembered it. The Dreaming was falling apart. His palace had deteriorated greatly, and there was not a soul in sight.

"What happened here?" He asks. "Who did this?"

"My lord, you are the Dreaming. The Dreaming is you." With you gone as long as you were, the realm began to decay and crumble." Lucienne explains.

"And the residents? The palace staff?"

"I'm afraid most have gone."

"Gone?" His voice is soft when he asks that.

"Some went looking for you," Lucienne says.

"And the others?"

"They thought, perhaps, you had grown weary of your duties, and..."

"What? Abandoned them? Had they such little faith in me? Had my own subjects not known me?" He looked wounded.

Lucienne could already see his heart had been hurt deeply already, and she knew why. Jessamy had explained everything to her when she returned all those years ago. When she had returned alone.

Except, something had happened. Something neither of them could explain. Now Lucienne needed to tell Lord Morpheus about it. She wasn't quite sure how he would take it.

Before she could even utter a word, Morpheus was already heading toward what remained of his palace. She caught up to him quietly.

"There is one other thing, my lord."

"What is it? What other news could you possibly have for me?" He sounded lost.

"Something happened. Something I can not explain." Lucienne wasn't even sure how she was going to tell him.

"What is it?"

"I... I'm not sure how to tell you, so I'll show you." She goes on ahead, leading the way. Morpheus watches her carefully and follows her path.

They reach the doors to the throne room. Morpheus freezes when he sees Jessamy perched nearby. She looks at him and them bows her head.

"My lord."

"Jessamy..."

He looks relieved to see her, but it also pains him. She sees the way his eyes glaze over. He is remembering that day. Jessamy can't help feeling like she's a painful reminder of what happened last time she saw him, but she hopes things will go well today.

He is home, and he will see that not all is as dire as it seems.

"I am glad to see you," he says.

"As am I, my lord." Jessamy looks at him proudly.

Lucienne places her hand on the grand door to the throne room. "Before we go inside, I want you to know that this is no trick. She came to us shortly after Jessamy returned."

"What are you talking about? Who came to you?" He asks.

Lucienne glanced at Jessamy, who nodded at her. The librarian opens the door. It creaks as it opens wider. Jessamy flies inside while Lucienne leads Dream into the room.

The throne room matches the rest of the palace. There is no longer a ceiling. The arches are broken in places. A lot of the walls have crumbled. It no longer looks as regal and beautiful as it once did.

As Lucienne takes him further into the room, his eyes are drawn to a strange woman he has never seen before. She sits on the steps of his throne, looking at him. As he gets closer, she stands. He would say she looked rather nervous.

"My lord."

"Who is this?" He asks Lucienne.

"Sir, it is important you know that I do not know how this has happened, but this is your raven. Y/N."

Morpheus turns his head to the woman slowly. His expression is intense. He stares at her in silence for several long seconds.

"No."

"Sir?" Lucienne looks at him confused.

"My raven died years ago. She was murdered by that horrible family."

"My lord, we are telling the truth. This woman is your raven. Shortly after Jessamy returned here, this woman appeared, unconscious, outside of the gates. I asked her who she was and where she had come from after she woke. She told me everything she remembered up until the moment she died." Lucienne tries to explain.

"That's not possible."

You look at him sadly. "It's me, sir. I really am here. I... I woke up, and I was no longer a raven. I was so confused and scared. I was worried about you. I remember dying..."

Morpheus looks like he is overwhelmed. His eyes glisten with unshed tears. You can tell just by looking at him that he's not taking all of this so well.

"It can't be..."

"It is. Its me. I'm here. I'm home." You plead with him.

Jessamy lands on your shoulder. "My lord, I promise to you as your loyal raven, this is her. She's human."

Morpheus looks at you for a good few seconds. "Prove it."

"You are Dream of the Endless. The Sandman. You created me back at the start of everything to be your loyal companion. I have gone everywhere with you.

"You met a man called Hob Gadling in 1389. I went with you, but had to stay outside because I was a mere bird. Death granted him immortality.

"I would spend a lot of my free time within Fiddler's Green, enjoying the breeze under my wings as I soured through the meadows. You always knew to find me there."

Morpheus states at you.

"It's me, sir. I don't know why I have returned to you like this, but it's me."

"It is you," he whispers. Only you would know things like that.

"I... I'm sorry I failed you."

"No. You did not fail me. You saved Jessamy, and that was very brave of you. Neither of you have ever failed me."

You and Jessamy look relieved at his words.

"So, you are human?" He asks.

"Well, I have a human form. I... I can transform onto a raven still, but I haven't learnt how to control it yet."

"Transform? You have the power to be a raven again?" He sounds curious.

"Yes, but like I said. I'm still learning."

"I see."

The room goes quiet. You understand that this is probably a lot to take in for him. He's only just returned, his kingdom has fallen, his people are mostly gone, and you're not dead. It's been a long day.

Morpheus turns and looks around his throne room. His mind is full of thoughts about everything.

"I kept a journal for a while," Lucienne says, hoping to distract him a little. "A chronicle of everything that happened in your absence. But slowly, the words began to fade. Sometime after you left, all the books in the library became bound volumes of blank paper. The next day, the whole library was gone."

Morpheus looks at her quietly.

"I never found it again."

"And yet you remained while others fled, the royal librarian of an abandoned kingdom."

"I never felt abandoned," she tells him. "I knew you would return."

"She looked after us," Jessamy says. "We stuck together."

Morpheus glances at you before turning away. He was still trying to comprehend you being alive. He looks down at his feet where a sharp of purple glass sits. He kneels down and picks it up. It's a piece of his beautiful stained glass windows. He holds it on his hand as he slowly raises his arms, trying to summon the power to rebuild his home.

He's too weak to do that.

The debris falls to the ground again, and Morpheus falls with them. He can't rebuild his home like this.

You want to reach out and comfort him, but you feel like that's a bad idea right now. You're not sure he's all that accepting of you being back just yet.

"You need rest, my Lord." Lucienne says. "And food and perhaps a bit more rest, and then you'll be back at full strength."

Morpheus slowly gets up from the floor, his breathing heavy and uneven. "No. Not without my tools."

"Your tools?"

"My sand, my helm, my ruby."

"What happened to them?" You ask.

"They were taken from me. By my captors. And then taken from them. I know not where. Nor what I am without them."

You feel your heart break. They really did strip him of everything he had. Even you.

He takes a seat on the stairs of his throne. You put some distance between you both. Once upon a time, you would be right there beside him, trying to comfort him, but now it feels wrong to do so. You feel like a stranger with him now. He won't look at you anymore.

"There is only one sure way for me to find my tools. I must summon the Three-In-One."

"Surely it hasn't come to that." Lucienne says.

"The Fates see past, present, and future, and they know all."

"Yes, but they speak in riddles. They never tell you what you want to know, only things you should never know," Lucienne explains. "Perhaps just this once you could ask one of your siblings for help. Destiny would certainly know where your tools are, or Desire..."

"My siblings have their own realms to attend to, I have mine. We do not interfere in each other's affairs." Dream states.

"You may not, but they've certainly been known to." Lucienne replies. "Perhaps just this once you could tell them what happened to you."

"I am quite sure tjeu know what happened to me. And not one of them came to my aid."

You drip your gaze to the ground. It hurts to think how abandoned he must have felt. He was trapped for so long.

"The only ones who came to help were my ravens, and even then, one of them was hurt doing so."

You lift your gaze to find Morpheus looking at you. You're unable to read the look on his face, but you know it sets your heart alight. You wondered what was going through his head in that moment.

"The Fates aren't cheap, you know." Lucienne reminds him. "They cost a bloody fortune."

"And at present, I cannot muster enough power to summon them, let alone lay that cost. Unless... Is there anything of mine that remains in the Dreaming? Something I created?"

"You created all of this," Lucienne says.

"No, something that remains intact." He clarifies. "That may retain some fragment of my power within it."

"You created me." You say, stepping forward.

He glances at you. "No."

"Something I can absorb."

You go to tell him you would happily sacrifice yourself for him to regain some power again, but the look he was giving you told you he would refuse.

"There is one thing," Lucienne says.

☆☆☆

Morpheus had left to go visit Cain and Abel. You stayed behind at the palace with Jessamy. He hadn't said a word to you as he was leaving.

"Are you okay?" Jessamy asks, looking up at you through her shiny eyes.

"He didn't seem too pleased to see me."

"Don't take it to heart. A lot has happened all at once. He believed you were dead. It would be quite a shock to see someone you thought had died standing before you, especially since you look human now."

"I know... I just... I just hoped he would be happy to know I'm okay." You look down at thr rubble by your feet.

"I'm sure he is happy. He just doesn't know how to express it."

You don't know what else to say to her. Jessamy senses your sadness and nudges her head against your leg.

"Please don't feel sad. All will come right, I promise."

You really want to believe her.

Lucienne returns to the throne room, and you spot a raven at her feet. She comes over and you stand.

"Lord Morpheus has gone to see the Fates. He shall return shortly. A new companion has joined us in the meantime. This is Matthew."

You look at the raven. Had you been replaced already?

"Lord Morpheus has yet to meet Matthew. Will you show him the ropes in the meantime?" Lucienne asks.

"Yes..."

She picks up on the fact that your response wasn't very enthusiastic. She sighs softly and places a hand on your shoulder.

"Do not feel sad. He will come around."

You nod and watch her go. Your eyes fall to Matthew. Jessamy lands on the ground in front of him and checks him out. "All right, Matthew. Welcome to Raven Class 101."

You chuckle softly.

At least you still had some friends in the Dreaming.

☆☆☆

@missdreamofendless - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @sitkafay - @snowsatsu - @ladyofketterdam - @thoughtsfromlayla -

[sunderwight]

When I am ten, they take me down to the records room, and show me the historical accounts.

Years and years of transgressions against the temple. But chief among them is the account of the last Sacred Gathering to happen before my birth. There, the old temple was burned, and the youngest acolytes seized. All children, all younger than ten. The royals had them put to the sword. To make a point, the priests told me. To warn them that the future of the temple depended on their lenience; that if they overstepped again, it would be for the last time.

Barbarism. Spilling the blood of children. Using them for revenge. Leaving only the most useful elders alive to mourn the loss, and try to rebuild.

"Do you understand?" the High Priest asks me.

"Yes," I say.

And I do. Better, perhaps, than they believed I would. In the depths of my mind lingers an awareness of grief, an impression of profound loss. The thought of bodies stolen from their homes and imprisoned in the dark. Of eggs stolen from their nests. My mouth feels like it is full of shards. There are no wounds, but it always tastes of blood.

There are old magics, difficult to understand. Even the priests don't know. Too many records have been burned. They have pieces of information, but rarely the whole picture.

I'm twelve the first time. It's an "accident" -- the blindfold is only an occasional thing, for sunset and sunrise, when the influence seems stronger. So far I've only killed a few small things. Bugs, mice, lizards. It requires sustained eye contact for quite a long while.

But that morning, one of the Senior Brothers is in a foul mood, and is making it everyone else's problem. Sunrise has past, but the sky is still grey. It's a little to take the blindfold off, to try and better see my feet and keep from doing anything clumsy, anything that might further upset things. Keep my head down, do my chores, and then...

It's like instinct, but not. It's a deep knowing. I could kill him. If he looks at me right now, and I look back, he will die.

I look.

Afterwards, I am expected to wear the blindfold at all times. The priests have trained me to walk blind already, days and weeks spent practicing, and if I am alone there is no one to stop me taking it off anyway. It's only a problem if they catch me. At first I hide the little mistakes I make in my rooms. Flies, mostly, hurried into the loam of the garden plots. A few unfortunate sparrows, buried behind the woodshed. But after a while, it stops happening when I don't want it to.

I experiment. Dead fish float to the top of the pond, so I start there, looking and looking. A few go belly-up. But most are fine.

I don't wish them ill. They're just fish. The feeling, the instinct, it isn't there.

But I keep that to myself.

The priests make plans. Fourteen is the youngest age where they could possibly appoint me to journeyman, and it would be suspect. They decide to wait. Sixteen is better. Then I can be given my mask without arousing suspicion, and sent to serve at the palace. An abundance of other skills are required in order to justify my role as a prodigy intended to serve the court. I am meant to play blind, but to write back letters reporting my progress. Ritual, music, magic, letters, math, all of it could be required, so all of it is learned. The Senior Brothers take turns tutoring me. None of them keep at the job for very long.

They find me disquieting. I can hear their disquiet, too. It's in the shuffle in their steps, in the rabbit leaps in their heartbeats. The slight hesitation before they speak, and instruct, and command.

The younger acolytes avoid me as well, but that's always been true. I'm not meant to be a real priest. Not even meant to be a real person. I'm a tool, and once I've served out my usefulness, I'll be disposed of.

I'm not supposed to know that. I'm supposed to think I'm one of them.

They keep the basilisks in the ruins of the old temple. No one has ever told me that either, but I know it anyway. At night I dream of hearing the footfalls of the priests who gather the eggs. I struggle and struggle, trying to get my blindfold off, but I have no hands that can reach it. The darkness persists. The thoughts whispering through my mind are not human, but neither are they the simple impression of beasts.

I wake up, and nearly cannot stomach putting the blindfold back on.

But I do.

I do it. For years.

The next time, it happens at my ascension ceremony. I am sixteen. The whole temple assembles. It's not about me -- I am the prospect of vengeance, the living avatar of retribution for the crimes listed in weathered records, and recounted in wavering voices. My ascension is the beginning of the end, so of course, they must witness it. They are not proud teachers congratulating their student. Nevertheless, they have taught me well.

They tell me to keep my eyes closed as the bravest Senior Brother removes my blindfold, and replaces it with my mask. I am surprised they hold to the tradition. But they probably intend for it to be a test. Unlike most, this mask has no eye holes. I have seen it before, in private, and know that the spaces for the eyes are dark and blank. The rest of it is muted off-white and very smooth.

I keep my eyes shut.

The mask feels cool against my face.

Once it is secured, the priests exhale almost in unison. The tension does not completely disappear, but it lessens considerably. The dire instant, the test, has passed. I turn towards the crowd, and the Senior Brother hurries down to finish the ceremony, to line up with the others and speak acknowledgement of my ascension. A moment that any young priest would be honored by.

But I'm not a priest.

When the vibration of the Senior Brother's steps have passed and I am sure he is looking towards me, I reach up, easy as anything, and take off the mask. Only simple ties hold it in place, after all.

It rolls over the assemblage like a wave. The terrified, shocked inhalation. Then the thud of bodies falling. I stare at them all, and they don't even have time to move. Even the High Priest, whose heart leaps and who nearly ducks, finishes his journey to the ground with his heart no longer beating.

The sun shines so brightly.

The audience chamber is beautiful, and so quiet. I've never seen the inside of it before.

The whisper of moving fabric, my robes shifting around my ankles, is the only sound that follows. Not even the birds sing outside. I step down from the dais, and tie the mask to my belt.

I don't leave any alive as I head for the ruins of the old temple.

Like I said: the priests taught me well, even if they didn't realize which lessons they were really teaching.

Text: From infancy, the priests have been crushing basilisk eggs into my meals. They celebrate when I start to need the blindfold, determined I will inherit their vendetta against the royal family.

[naivesilver]

And, finally, a free pass for any character + any ask game that you so desire! 💕💗💕 Have fun~

Last, but not least- something to make our dear Jojo happy too 💝(or mad. Honestly, both options are available dahajlfhsljahdf)

Comforting Sentence Starters

"I understand that what you’re going through must be painful."

To say that Archie is surprised to open the door to his office and find Eliana standing there would be an euphemism.

The girl hasn't willingly sought him out in- well, in a long while, all things considered. Since the wardrobe, like as not. She hasn't taken the events leading up to the curse very well, and understandably so, if Archie were to be honest with himself. It's an unexpected turn of events, that she would change her mind so abruptly.

Eliana must catch on his line of thought almost immediately, though, for her neutral expression turns into a scowl before his very eyes, and she starts rummaging through her bag, finally fishing out a thin hard-cover book. "August left this at my house," she says, flatly, all but slamming it in the doctor's hands. "He says he borrowed it from you. Don't worry, I know he's done it on purpose. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

Well, Archie thinks, repressing a sigh. There are two people who are getting along just as fine as they've ever done, at least. "It's...It's alright, Eliana. Thank you. Did you want to come in?"

"Depends. Is Pongo there?"

"Unless he has left on his own in the last two minutes, I dare say yes."

She nods brusquely and steps inside, brushing past him in her beeline for Archie's dog. Archie himself, for his part, watches her go as a something clenches at his chest and squeezes, threatening to cut his breath off entirely.

Pongo, bless him, doesn't seem to be aware of the tension that has flooded the room all of a sudden, and wags his tail fiercely as he raises from his cushion, padding closer to nose at Eliana's face and neck. She breaks into a soft smile, a rare enough occurrence for her, and that's perhaps why Archie ends up closing the door behind himself, instead of leaving it open and waiting for her to leave, and attempts to speak up again, after a long stretch of silence. "How's your father?"

Eliana stops mid-fur stroke, but she doesn't look up just yet. "I wouldn't know. How's yours?"

It's a venomous jab, tailored to hurt and fester in his skin, but the doctor refuses to let it linger more than half a second before waving it away, and makes an effort to keep his voice mild. "I understand that what you went through must have been painful, Eliana, but I really think that you should talk to him. This situation isn't doing any good to either of you."

"I very much doubt it."

"He hasn't changed as much as you think, even with the curse-"

"That's not what I meant." This time she does look up, and her eyes flash dangerously as she does so, her words coming out through gritted teeth. "What I meant is, I very much doubt you understand. At all."

The problem, Archie has occasionally caught himself thinking despite his best intentions, is that while each line on August's face is a reminder of how much they've all failed him, it also makes it easier to forget who he is, from time to time. He looks so different from the boy he was that if Archie focuses hard enough, he can almost pretend it's just a common patient he's talking to, just a man from town like any other.

Eliana, though, is all Marco from top to foot, even where her features betray who her mother is. The way she speaks, the way she juts her chin out defiantly - Archie can see her father in every detail, and what's worse, he can see her during easier times, too, sixteen and dancing a mad jig with Ruby during a country fair, six and coming home in a daze after being led away by the Dark One. It's like he's still arguing with that little girl who used to trust him implicitly, or with another child, decades and decades earlier, sad and mourning and raging.

It makes it all the harder for him to begrudge her even a smidge of her anger, even when she's acting like this, radiating fury from every pore.

"You're right," he says, picking his words carefully. "I don't understand everything. And you're allowed to resent us for what happened- I will never deny it, you know that. "

"I don't need your fucking permission to be mad," Eliana spits out, raising to her feet with the deliberate slowness of predator ready to strike. "I don't need your fucking permission to do anything, Jiminy. You're not my conscience anymore- if you ever were, that is. Have never been your top priority, now, have I?"

"That's not fair and you know it, but- I'll take it. I'd rather take all that anger instead of watching you pour it on your father. He was only trying to do what he thought was best."

"Best for who?" She snorts, shaking her head. "And I've got plenty of anger for all of you, don't trouble yourself with that. For you, for him, for my mother- Any of you could have stopped this. Emma could have had at least one parent. My baby brother could have been here! Safe! With me!"

"I know." Archie can't negate her words, much as it pains him. How could he? She's right. She's always had the right of it. "I regret it as much as you do. More, even. I couldn't stop your father, but I hoped you would, until the last minute."

"Believe me, if I'd been there, I would have."

"Why? Where were you?"

"Where do you think?" Eliana lets out a sharp laugh, bitter and resentful even from afar. "I was the closest thing they had to a damn midwife. Without me, our dear Savior would have been pulled out by dwarves alone. Can you imagine? They've never seen a gap that's not bearded."

"I...I didn't know." He's not lying. Not that he was before, but - this is genuine news to him, in a way her recriminations or her exaggerated crassness, made to offend and infuriate, could never be.

"It's not like they're going around advertising that. I made sure that Snow White wouldn't be having a breech birth, and now that cunt looks down at me like I'm a bad influence on her daughter, and goes asking for Rumpelstiltskin's help. Rumpelstiltskin! There's a laugh."

"I don't think that-"

"Meanwhile, I haven't heard a single apology from my father in thirty years, my mother is now a religious leader, my brother's in shambles, and you're saying you were expecting me to fix everything? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Eliana-"

"But of course, that's what's expected of me, right? Stay out of the story, Lia, help with the birth, Lia, hold back and sweep the floors while your Papa's out on a suicide mission, and don't even think about complaining, gods be good, because you're not the one that matters here-"

"Eliana, enough." Finally, Archie manages to wedge himself in her monologue, and grabs her tentatively by the shoulders, steadying her. "You're right. You and August have been wronged so many times I don't know where to begin fixing it. But you're only hurting yourself now. Breathe."

He half expects her to pull away, but to her great surprise, she doesn't. She merely looks up at him, hair wild and dishevelled, her chest heaving raggedly - he always forgets how small she seems, now that she can't swat him away with a single hand any longer, and rage has brought colour to her cheeks, making her appear oh-so-young, younger even than the age printed on her paperwork here in Storybrooke, which has never been accurate and likely never will be.

It strikes Archie that while August might have tricked her into coming to the office today, she could have left at any time, with his approval or not. She was never one to let herself be stopped by a mere locked door, Eliana. The doctor remembers more than one night spent pacing and fuming after she'd climbed out her bedroom window, torn between warning Geppetto and ensuring she didn't run into any trouble - coercing her into staying wouldn't have gone anywhere, then as well as now. There must be a part of her that needed these words to tumble out of her mouth, that wanted him to listen to them, no matter how small or how deeply hidden inside Eliana.

It's not nearly as comforting as one would be led to think, that realization. He thinks that if he could, he'd willingly trade this moment for any of those terrible days from her teenage years, when her rage would make the milk curdle all around the village and Archie would despair of her ever getting better.

"I needed you," she says simply, hollowly. Her voice has evened out now, calm and controlled, but he can tell it's a thin veneer, a lid being pressed onto a boiling pot. "August needed you both, but I did, too. I thought you could make Father see sense, and then the curse broke and we were right where we started. We thought you were dead, Jiminy. I had to stand at the back of the crowd and watch him give you an eulogy and my brother was still missing and it wasn't fair. You hear me? It wasn't. For any of us."

"I know. I'm sorry. I know apologizing will never be enough, but I am sorry, Eliana. Even for the things I couldn't control."

"I don't want apologies." To his great surprise, the shadow of a grin flashes on her face, fleeting but there all the same. "I want the Dark One's head on a spike, and my mother to piss off the face of Earth, and to smack August on the head for this stupid little game he played. Can you speed up any of those, Dr. Hopper?"

An entirely different brand of tiredness falls onto Archie's shoulders, a familiar one, sure, but heavy nonetheless. If there's one thing Eliana has in common with her brother, it's the fact that they have always had a knack for giving him white hair, even before he had any hair to speak of. "You know I can't approve of your plans. As a therapist, and as your friend."

"Yes, well, it would be better if you were actually my friend." Eliana releases a long, tremulous exhale, closing her eyes for a moment before glancing up at him again, as though steadying herself. "Tragically, you're family. It'd be easier to be angry at you and Father, if you weren't."

"What about your mother and brother?"

This time the smile lingers a bit longer on her lips, something approaching her customary fire in it. "That woman's no family of mine. She should have bitten the bullet and kept me around, if she'd wanted to be. They say wet nurses love fairy babies, but I think Nova would have done well, and she'd have been happy. And August..." She hesitates, pressing her lips together, then clears her throat, shaking her head stiffly. "I don't care what he's done in this world. That's for Emma to forgive, and she did. He's not to blame for any of the bad things that happened to us since he was born."

She fixes that burning purple gaze of hers on him, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her bag. "Can you say the same for yourself, Jiminy? Or for my father?"

For all his experience, Archie has no answer for that question. Eliana must know it as well as him, because after a long moment she nods to herself, then ducks her head and leaves, leaving the door ajar and Pongo whining with his tail tucked between his legs, calling after his playmate.

[uchihashisuii]

Now presenting a sadfic that literally no one asked for but I found inspiration to write anyway!

Nara family au. in which Akari's story comes to a close

-----

Akari had never been the same after Shin died.

The greatest failing of a parent, outliving your children. She was mourning, distant; sitting on the engawa with the first book they'd ever written, illustrations done in artful brushstrokes by Sai. Turning the pages slowly, and always returning to the first page, the dedication.

For our mother.

She would hold the worn book tight to her chest, gazing out with brown eyes bright from tears into the forest around her home. The deer would come and keep her company, able to sense the grief and regret enshrouding her; she would lift a hand to pet the smooth pelts of her families closest companions, but could not summon the smile she once held for them. None can hold a candle to a mother's broken heart.

She would be there for her remaining children, for her husband and their grandchildren. Putter about the house, ensuring all were warm and fed and happy. But gazing, far too often and for far too long, into the woods waiting just outside the door.

The earth and the trees and the shadows have been calling her home for far too long, now. She had ignored it, in favor of remaining with her family. Stubborn to a fault, the old Nara matriarch.

Perhaps if she'd listened, she wouldn't have had to watch her eldest child die.

Powerless to stop it, unable to ease their pain. She was only able to hold their hand, in the end; push the hair from their face and place a lingering kiss to their forehead. Whispering in a voice that wavered with tears that I'm here, little one. I'll always be here.

Her children are strong. Far stronger than her. She would know, she raised them that way. For nearly sixty years she's been the central pillar of support; a beacon calling them home, to let loose their burdens at her doorstep and enjoy a mother's hovering. As she grows older, as she loses Shin, it is her children who bear the weight of her anguish. She feels no small amount of guilt, that those she had taken care of all her life must now be the caretakers - but she appreciates it, more than she can say.

The forest calls her home. Akari wakes one morning and hears it echo, thrumming deep in her bones. Shisui braids her hair for her -his hands far more steady than hers, these days- and she kisses him as thanks, softer than a sigh. Not just for the pleat that falls heavy down her back, but for all the light and love he'd brought into her life. His dark eyes watch her with the cleverness of a man half his age from behind his glasses, and he wordlessly folds her to his chest. Her cane is dropped to the floor as her wizened hands grasp tight to his haori, face buried in his neck as she lets loose a shuddering breath. He knows. He knows.

He will never ask her to stay. He understands her, far better than any other. They both knew this was coming, and the only grief he has for it is the regret that he cannot follow her, not this time. She would never let him.

There are no goodbyes. No announcements. Instead Akari and Shisui walk together through the Nara lands, through the Uchiha and the Yamanaka and every other. It is slow going on their aged bodies, but well worth it. Their family smiles at the sight of them, hands tightly held as they wave and hug and keep going. Keep going. Moving ever onward, together.

The sun is setting as they approach the forest, just outside their home. Akari pulls her hand from her husband's elbow, turns to press a kiss to his mouth one last time. It taste of heartache, but not of goodbye. No matter how much time passes, no matter what happens or may tear them apart; they will always find each other again.

Shisui doesn't cry, though he comes very close. He swallows back every tear, every objection. His wife is stubborn, and she is ready even if he is not. He lays his forehead to hers, and whispers that she was always the greatest thing in his life.

With the lingering affections of her dearest love, with the fresh memories of a last day spent visiting family - Akari hands off her cane. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders, smooths back her hair and offers one final smile for Shisui. He holds her cane like a lifeline, watching with eyes that refuse to spin red as she turns and walks into the forest. He doesn't want to remember, not this; instead he will hold tight to every precious moment she had given him. Instead he will remember her laughter.

The trees embrace their wayward daughter. Shadows fall on her shoulders, and Akari disappears.

-----

The next morning, Sai pays a visit to his parents. He'd had a strange dream of foreboding, weighing heavy on his mind. A wildfire loose in a forest, birds shooting into the sky in waves of black to avoid the flames. He doesn't understand what it means -if it means anything at all- but all he knows is that he has an unyielding need to be near his parents.

A bird cries at him as he rounds the house, gravel crunching beneath his shoes in the early hour. He startles at the sound, and looks across the small yard to the line of thick trees. There is a sparrow, small and brown and nesting just inside the treeline. He thinks it might be watching him, might be watching the house. He thinks it odd; the birds never settle this close to the bustle of the family, no matter his parents affinity to all things winged.

When Shisui slides open the door and Sai is met with naked grief and pain in his father's eyes, Sai remembers the sparrow. And he knows, deep inside, that even if his mother is gone she will never be far.

[marcholasmoth]

OSRR: 2773

today was a day. i actually did work today. that was a nice change.

woke up and helped a kid with physics. it felt good to do stuff again.

but i was also up until like 5am contemplating the things i might've done wrong and how i must've screwed up two particular friendships within the last year, and thinking about all the things i've done wrong about them, and it was frustrating. i love a lot, and i love easily, and i'm happiest when i'm around people who are on the same wavelength as me.

one of these friends that i fucked up with i met in june last year, and for months he was so fun to be around, just joking with me and thinking the same things and generally liking being around me. but suddenly it all stopped. i haven't seen him and the only times i've spoken to him are when i've sent him messages on discord, but those are barely conversations. i have no idea what i could've done. and the worst part is that in my consideration and my blaming myself for it is that i've noticed that he will hang out with the group of friends that we share when i'm not present, but if i say i'll be there, he says he can't go. and in my desire to have friends, and my consistent presence within that group of friends, he isn't there much anymore, and i don't want to be the reason he becomes distanced from them, either directly or indirectly. so me being home for the last three weeks has been good for them - he went and hung out with them at least once in the last few weeks, so i'm glad he was able to do that.

also in all of my consideration, there are perhaps two reasons i could come up with why this would happen: either he dislikes me and was biding his time and making his decision and genuinely doesn't want to be around me, ever; or, he likes me and my consistent mentions of joel hurt and he doesn't want to deal with that reminder that i'm already taken, so he distanced himself from me to lessen that pain. i'm slightly leaning toward the second because he began distancing himself from me and the group after i first mentioned joel. and it fucking sucks, because i like him! he's a good guy! i want to be his friend! fuck, if they were up for it i'd ask joel if he would be up for going with me on a date with him, shit. he's such a sweetheart and i have never wanted to hurt him, ever. and it's awful. damn. i hate this.

and the other friend? riot. and my heart breaks thinking of them. i hope they're okay. i would really love for them to reach out, at some point, if they felt like it. fuck. and i don't know what i did there, either.

in both situations, i recognize everyone has the ability to make their own choices. but it still hurts. it's kind of miserable, yknow?

i'm so grateful i've got joel. he's been my rock when shit hits the fan. when i fall apart, he's always there. when i'm a mess, he's got my back. he'll pick through the pieces and put my heart back together just by holding me and telling me it'll be okay, that he's there with me. the times i've beaten myself up, the times i've mourned the loss of a friend, hell even the time i went over in tears because i was mad about my sad losing his job again, and even when i'm so stressed i cry for hours on end. he's always been there to dry my tears and to kiss it better again.

jesus christ it's been a long day. good news is my cognitive function is back. bad news so is my depression. sucks to suck, i guess.

[boneandfur]

Time After Time

Pairing: Ethan x MC // Rating: T for themes of war // notes: This was written as a secret Santa gift(yeahhh I know it's late). The next part will have a link to the NSFW part on ao3, should you so choose to read it. The fic can be read without it as well. // The poem on the mood board is Flanders Fields by John McCrae. The lyrics in the fic are from When This Lousy War Is Over, a World War 1 song. // Summary: It's New Year's Eve in 1915 and Nurse Helena Valentine is on leave for twelve hours. Will she be able to say what's in her heart when she runs into Dr Ethan Ramsay, her superior at the field hospital, or will they run out of time? Note: sorry folks the cut isn't working. Will be moving to ao3 sometime here

ONE

"Rookie." The rich Scottish brogue is rough as he catches Helena's arm in the darkness of a Flanders night. "What are you doing here?"

The snow is falling thickly, beyond the ring of torchlight from the town square. In the reflection of the inky water, Helena can see the twinkling of fairy lights in the dark sky, and she steels her spine, only a faint tremor in her hands betraying a hint of fatigue.

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Taking her grandfather's silver pocket watch out, she marks the time in her head:

(Twelve hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty four seconds.)

That's how much longer Helena has until she must walk back to the train station and meet the girls, and doesn't she have a warm room waiting for her, and a little fire, and some of that Flemish wine that Aurora was always going on and on about back at Smith? Yet here she is, on the very last day of the year in 1915, And I cannot seem to move an inch from it.

The strains of drunken soldiers singing makes her heart squeeze -- When this lousy war is over -- "I have official leave for the next twelve hours." I would give my eyeteeth for twelve hours of sleep, but I can't sleep. Time was, I would have given anything to sleep, back when I was studying to be a doctor, back in Boston.

When this war is over -- it feels like a lifetime before it began, just a little over a year ago.

I'll be back someday, when this war is over, Helena Valentine. And then I'll marry you, and we'll dance until Father Time forgets we are mortal.

(But he had never returned, and she went about with a band of black mourning ribbon on her upper arm, hidden under her sleeve: the bruise in her chest expanding until she felt nothing there any longer but silence, until she got on a ship bound for London Town...)

Helena feels the supple leather of Ramsey's gloves, butter soft, against her wet cheeks. She does not know if they are wet from tears, or from snow.

When this war is over/No more soldiering for me

There is a soft quality to Ethan Ramsey's blue eyes as he gazes down at her, brow troubled.

"You should be asleep behind the lines, Rookie." He ties the hood of her threadbare velvet cloak under her chin, as though Helena Valentine is still that pretty maid from Boston, the one who ran off to France to join her cousins in the war effort, three seasons past. "This isn't the place to spend your next twelve hours. You should be curled up in your cot with that book you always carry around in your apron pocket --"

"Sherlock Holmes." Helena lifts her chin a fraction of an inch, and pushes her spectacles to the bridge of her nose, meeting his gaze squarely. "He would have made a brilliant doctor, Dr Ramsey, sir."

"I am not disagreeing with you." Ramsey touches her elbow with his fingers, gesturing with his other hand towards the warmth and lights of the square. "But a bridge at nighttime, Rookie, even behind friendly lines, is not the wisest course of action."

(Twelve hours, seven minutes, and twenty-three seconds.)

The bridge begins to vibrate slightly, and Helena feels her whole body tense, a hot surge of liquid burning just behind her lashes. She sucks in a deep breath and turns her head, just -- the movement as jerky as a film reel at the pictures. His mouth moves, sound traveling as though they are underwater.

Rookie! Can you hear me, Rookie?

That's what Ramsey has always called her, ever since he found out she was a student of medicine, back in Boston. He brought her from the field hospital in Poperhinge with him, all the way to a makeshift hospital just behind the lines in Ypres. Brilliant surgeon Bryce Lahela had been there too, since gone at Loos, or perhaps not gone, but she has heard no more of him. Not even a whisper on the wind.

Helena tears her gaze from Ramsey's mouth, looking towards the eastern sky. The darkness evaporates, opening up in a brilliant reddish gold splendor of color, and Helena feels the warmth of Ramsey's grip on her shoulder all the way down to her frozen bones.

When this war is over,/No more soldiering for me./When I get my civvy clothes on,/Oh how happy I shall be.

Her debutante ball in Boston, the one her father had insisted upon, before the Titanic sank and took his life away with it -- there had been fireworks at that ball. The guests had oohed and ahhed and the bells had rung for the New Year of 1910, a lavish decade of glittering splendor laid out ahead of them -- and she had fought for her inheritance, so damnably hard -- Let me be a lady doctor, Mother, I beg you -- years upon years, gone in the blink of an eye, working with only the most wretched of immigrants in the squalid slums, and then back home to Beacon Hill, to play the debutante.

You must secure a good marriage, Helena, and put this silly dream aside...

The world rushes in with a thunderclap as the artillery barrage begins, and Ramsey pulls Helena to his chest, his hand against the back of her head, wound tightly into her dark curls. She can hear his heart beating in time to the band -- one two, one two, the steps to the waltz.

Eleven hours, fifty-eight minutes, thirteen seconds. The pocket watch ticks on. One two, one two. She pulls back from Ramsey's chest, embarrassed, and turns back to the direction of the Front.

It's hard to believe that only six hours ago I was in a field hospital just behind the front lines. She hasn't realized she's said it aloud until she feel his greatcoat settle over her shoulders. It smells like him, she realizes with a shuddering breath -- like him, without other men's gore staining him up to the elbows. Smoke, and peat, and whiskey.

Once, two months ago, she'd found herself alone in his office to fetch more morphine, and she'd taken the liberty of burying her nose in his extra uniform. She had lost track of how long she'd stood there, nose buried in wool, until a stretcher bearer had rapped on the door and startled her.

"Yes, and you're a dammed bloody fool of an American chit." Ramsey clears his throat. "The war won't be over any faster if you continue to stare at it like that, Rookie."

"Should just be another month." Helena tries, and fails, to sound chipper. "That's what Rafael says he heard from the Cordonians, who heard it from that fighter pilot, Jake Mackenzie, who heard it from the French Foreign Legion --"

And any minute now, out there in the distance, Rafael will come chugging up to Edenbrook Field Hospital in his rattletrap old ambulance, and out will swagger Captain Beaumont of the Cordonian Calvary, dog in his arms and patch over one eye, with a wink and a grin, as if to say, Well, I survived another match with the boys in gray -- as if they'd just had a football match in time for tea -- or it will be that Mexican mercenary from the French Foreign Legion, swearing a streak as blue as those tattoos on his skin, the indomitable Sargent Salazar, or, or --

"Come on, Rookie. Let's get you warmed up."

(Eleven hours, eleven minutes, eleven seconds.)

[missyslittlepet]

((Requested - It's readers birthday and Heartman surprises them with vines.

It's not very long but I really hope this is kinda what you were after????? Enjoy!!! 👍🏻💙))

Happy Birthday Raven! I Can't Swim.

"What do you fancy for breakfast?" You asked Heartman as you walked to the kitchen.

"Now that you've gained some strength back after your surgery you can have whatever you want. My treat."

You were so happy that he finally got a heart transplant meaning he didn't have to stick to his twenty one minute cycle anymore. You had been together for about a year when he agreed to it having fully moved on from the search for his family.

"Can I get a waffle?" He asked with a grin. He had been on strick healthy foods to help with the recovery so he was ready to get his teeth into something tasty.

"CAN I PLEASE GET A WAFFLE?!" Your brain had the words out before you even thought about it. The reaction was so natural considering how long it had been since you had watched that video.

Heartman jumped at your sudden outburst making his glasses go askew. You laughed again at his reaction, he was so cute sometimes.

"(F/n), you can't go making me jump, I still don't know just how much this new heart can take." Heartman joked.

"I know," You laughed. "I'm sorry Heartman. It was instinct, honestly. I used to love vines."

"Vines?" Heartman asked carefully adjusting his glasses before looking over them at you.

"Yeah, Vine." You grinned excitedly.

Heartman squinted in confusion and you felt your smile drop.

"Oh come on! Please tell me you know what vines are!"

"I can't say that I do (f/n), sorry. What are Vines?"

"Oh my God, how did you miss out on vines?! They were short videos on the internet before the Death Stranding. Just a few seconds long but they were so hilarious! Me and my friends used to communicate solely in vine references, it was great!"

Heartman smiled at your enthusiasm despite not having the faintest idea what you were talking about. He could tell that these 'Vines' meant a great deal to you.

"Ah well," You sighed fondly at the memory. "I'll get you those waffles!"

You beamed at him before returning to your task.

He watched from his chair as you pottered around the kitchen making him his food. The smell floated through the air and made his mouth water. He adored you and appreciated all that you had done for him over the past few years. You were his rock when he lost him family and when the Death Stranding finally ended he realised that you had become his world. You were always helping him in some way. Whether that be through his mourning or getting him waffles.

Heartman knew your birthday was tomorrow and he was yet to find a gift for you. Despite knowing you so well he still struggled with finding gifts for you. He had been searching for a way to show you how much you meant to him but nothing was as heartfelt as you deserved. He had considered proposing to you but he didn't want to be cliche and wanted to make it really special.

However, now that he had found out about your love of 'Vines' he thankfully had a few ideas. He decided he would wait until you went to your meeting with Die-hardman before getting started since he knew you would be trapped there for hours.

Heartman had missed his research and now he had something new to get his teeth into. Due to Sam successfully connecting the Chiral Network it meant that he now had access to archives from before the Death Stranding. He quickly typed in 'Vines' into the database and thousands of folders popped up. At first all he could find was information on plant samples but he was determined to find what he was looking for.

After an hour and a half of searching he finally found a folder containing videos and social media posts. From what you had described he thought he was in the right place. He browsed the video titles and found one called 'Iconic Vines That Cured My Depression And Watered My Houseplants' and decided it was a great place to start. He opened up the video and watched intently not sure what to expect.

"Two bros chilling in a hot tub. Five feet apart cuz they're not gay!" The video was of two men and lasted only a few seconds.

"What on earth?" Heartman said pushing his glasses up his nose. He leant in closer to the screen.

"Every time you yell at your kids put a quarter in your no yelling sock and pretty soon you'll have a weapon to bea-"

Heartman couldn't help chuckle at that one. The more he watched the more confused he became in the most wonderful way. The humor was ridiculous but he loved it and found himself laughing along with them. Before he knew it he had binged several compilation videos and had a whole set of notes to create some birthday surprises.

Your cuff flashed as you sat in yet another meeting signaling you had received a message. You were thankful that this was the last meeting of the week. They were getting more and more frequent as they were discussing plans for repairs to old delivery equipment. Of course this meeting just so happened to be on your birthday. Lucky you right?

You hadn't gotten the chance to speak to Heartman before you left. He still slept a lot despite his recovery almost being over meaning he was still fast asleep when you were getting ready. He looked so peaceful and you kissed his forehead and snuck out the door, careful not to wake him.

After half an hour more of listening to renovation plans the meeting finally came to an end allowing you to check your mail. You felt a smile tugging at your lips when you saw Heartman's name pop up. You always loved seeing what he wrote to you.

"Good afternoon love, I'm sorry I wasn't awake to see you off. I hope you're having a great birthday and I can't wait for you to come back home to me. Missing you always,

- H x "

You grinned at your cuff before making your way back home. You knew the drive would take forever.

Heartman stood back to admire his creations. Truth be told he was really proud of himself. He never considered himself good at gift giving but this time he was excited. He couldn't wait to see the look on your face when you saw what he had been planning. With a grin Heartman placed the last tray down on the table and waited for you to arrive home.

When the door finally slid open Heartman jumped up and ran towards it to greet you.

"Happy birthday (f/n)!" He said as he wrapped his arms around you tightly and gave you a kiss.

"Close your eyes." He said before you could come any further into the house.

You looked at him suspiciously before doing so anyways. Heartman took your hands in his and began leading you through the house and into the living room area.

"Okay (f/n), you can open them!" He said awaiting your reaction eagerly.

Slowly you opened your eyes and were met with trays of food on the table.

"Welcome to Chilies! I hope you're hungry!" Heartman's grin grew wider.

"What is all this?" You laughed looking at the strange choices of food.

"Could I interest you in some Freeshavoca-do?" Heartman asked pointing to some guacamole in a bowl.

You felt your smile widen.

"Or perhaps some hurricane tortillas?" Heartman could tell that his references were being recognised.

You were beaming at this point. You couldn't believe what he had done for you. Now all the foods made a little more sense to you.

Heartman gestured at a plate of chicken strips.

"Fuck ya chicken strips!" You both shouted in unison. Heartman's new heart melted at how happy you were.

"Oh Heartman!" You pulled him into a hug. "Thank you so much, this is the best present ever!"

He wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead.

"This is actually your present." He said taking a step towards the table and picking up the gift box from it. He handed it to you and waited.

You bit your bottom lip as you took the lid off. When your eyes fell upon the wrapped object you started to laugh knowing full well what was under the paper. You quickly ripped it open and put on your best child's voice.

"An avocado... thanks!" You giggled and placed the box back on the table.

"Actually," Heartman laughed. "This is your real present." He pulled a small box from his pocket and handed it to you.

You took the second box and opened it still laughing from the avocado. Inside was a USB stick. You looked up at him and raised your eyebrow.

"It contains thousands of vines so you will never have to miss them again!" Heartman looked so proud of himself. "Happy birthday (f/n)."

You brushed your finger over the USB stick and felt tears come to your eyes. To anyone else they were just stupid videos but they held so many memories for you. They transported you back to before everything went to shit, made you relive moments with those you had lost a long time ago. No one had ever given you a gift that thoughtful before.

"Heartman... I... Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me... How much you mean to me..." You smiled blinking away your tears. "I love you so much."

"And I love you too (f/n)." Heartman rested his palm against your cheek and you nuzzled into it. "We could make a night out of this and play them on the big screen if you'd like? I've grown quite fond of them."

"I'd love to!"

You quickly ran to set it all up while Heartman shut out the day light and set the lighting to pink and blue.

The whole night was amazing. You both cuddled up and feasted on the vine related food while laughing like a pair of hyenas. You were over the moon that he seemed to enjoy vine humor just as much as you did. When it started getting late and you started yawning Heartman stood and switched the screen off.

"Come on, you look tired." He smiled warmly, hold out his hand to you.

You took his outstretched hand gratefully with another yawn. You went to start grabbing the plates but he stopped you quickly.

"Don't you worry about those love, I'll tidy this up. It is your birthday after all." Heartman smiled grabbing the plates from the table. He hummed to himself as he made his way to the kitchen area.

"This bitch is indeed empty. Yeet." Heartman chuckled loudly throwing the plates in the dishwasher.

You shook your head and laughed at the butchered attempt of a vine quote and wondered how you ever got so lucky. This truly was the best birthday you could have ever asked for. Vines, food and Heartman. What's not to love?

[lizzybeth1986]

Nuestra Familia (RCD MC: Astrid)

Book: Red Carpet Diaries

Rating: G

Pairing: Astrid-centric, minor Seth x Astrid

Summary: Astrid realises she doesn't know her family as well she had thought. Minor crossover with The Freshman/The Sophomore/The Junior.

Author's Note: This is a bit late for MC Appreciation Week, but I figured I'd put it out there anyway. This is my origin story for Astrid Ortega, my second RCD MC, who is involved with Seth. There's a cameo of one character from TF/TS/TJ in the end and I have a feeling you folks have already figured out who it is 😅 I used (of course) the "crossover" prompt from this list for my fic. I'm tagging @choices-mc-rules, in case they would still like to reblog this.

Translations:

Nuestra familia - "our family" in Spanish.

Chanclas - slippers/flip-flops

Tres leches cake - Typically a very moist chiffon cake soaked in a mixture of evaporated milk, condensed milk and heavy cream. Tres leches literally means "three milks".

Abuela - one of the terms used for ‘grandmother’ in Spanish.

Ita - Short for Abuelita, also used for grandmothers. Astrid calls her grandmother the former, her mom Teresa calls her grandmother the latter.

Manda Huevos - Can mean a lot of things according to context, but generally used to express a range of emotions, such as annoyance, disappointment, contempt or disbelief. In this context, Teresa means “it's not fair”.

If I've gotten anything wrong in terms of references, please do tell me, and I'll definitely fix it in the fic.

“One more foot inside my kitchen and it'll be my chanclas for you later.”

Teresa Ortega said these words to her daughter Astrid, in the same tone one would use to offer a guest some tea.

It wasn't that her mom didn't allow her kids to help with the cooking. She did. Salome was too young to do much but set the table yet but Astrid (and her big sister Letitia, whenever she was home) often pitched in to help with the meal.

But heaven help anyone who tried to help Mom with her tres leches cake.

This recipe was from Mom's Ita’s faded little diary, passed down to her by her mother on the condition that she would learn its recipes off by heart. It was her pride and joy, Mom would often say. Her baby before her actual babies came along.

And today it was even more essential Mom get this cake right. Astrid's abuela was visiting, and ever since Astrid's mother insisted on naming her Astrid (“She’s already named my first and last - at least leave the middle one to me!”) she could do nothing right.

Perhaps it would've been easier to handle if Dad wasn't Abuela's only son, if Mom had someone she could jointly ignore Abuela with, if they had cousins they could play with while the adults sorted out their issues. Or perhaps not. Still, it would have been nice to know.

“Easy, mom, I'm not going to touch your precious cake,” Astrid said, grinning, “Lemme demolish it at lunch instead.”

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted, though. She could get the scent of baked cake wafting in all the way from her bedroom, and her mother was already starting to combine Carnation milk, condensed milk and 1/4th of a cup of heavy cream into a thin, but somewhat creamy, mixture.

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Why are you here, then?”

Astrid felt the muscles around her neck tense up, but schooled her face to a look of injured innocence. “What, can't I just want to talk to my mom once in a while?”

She craned her neck a little further behind Astrid, a tiny frown beginning to form between her brows. “What's that you're holding behind your back?”

Ding! The cake was ready now, just in time for soaking. Astrid let out a sigh of relief. She wanted Mom to see this wedding card, yes - it was why she came to the kitchen in the first place - but now was probably not the time for questions. Questions about family or about secrets. Not when she knew how important it was for her mother to get her weekend cakes right.

“Family” was always a big deal around the Ortega table. Dad was his mother's only child, and Mom’s parents passed on long before any of them were ever born. Her father was as annoyed by Abuela's antics as her mother was, but it never stopped him from having her visit every Sunday because “she's the only family we have left”.

It was as if he needed her to keep himself rooted, as if without her he would be floating aimlessly, no aim or identity, taking his wife and children down that path with him. Abuela knew this. By God, did she know this.

Or so I thought, Astrid said to herself, gripping the wedding card tightly and creating new creases where the word Ortega was written.

Mom was gritting her teeth now, carefully pouring the three-milk mixture over the cake and muttering to herself. “One more word about dry cake this time and I'll give her soggy toast, I swear I will.”

Astrid would have stood up last week and said something to Abuela, if only Mom would let her. It was probably a good thing Leticia wasn't around, she'd fire shots at Abuela for less. She was protective over all of them and often in the heat of the moment she'd forget she’d be landing them all in further trouble.

She was still muttering. “Wants chiffon cake. Screams bloody murder if I use box mix. What, Teresa, looking for shortcuts again?” Mom's voice was raised in an accurately nasal imitation of Abuela's voice. It was almost like she'd forgotten Astrid was there. “Then I make it from scratch like she wants. Then it's Oh Teresa this is so dry oh Teresa it tastes like sawdust. Why else do you think I use box mix, eh? You want it from scratch and you want moist. ¡Manda Huevos!”

The diatribe kept Mom occupied while she finished pouring, so Astrid kept silent. Mom needed this. This wasn't something she can say in front of Letitia (resulting in another Sunday screaming match) or Dad (what would he do?) or Salome (no way would the kid ever take Salome, language! seriously again). Mom needed someone to have her back, no matter how silently or secretly. And that someone had better be her.

“If only Linda had stayed…”

Astrid froze. “What did you say?”

Mom looked up, blinked twice, then stiffened. “Nothing. Nothing.”

Silently, Astrid handed over the card she'd been holding, all this time. She found it while searching for her dad's treasured García Lorca poetry collection, hidden between a page that exalted love and a page that mourned loss.

Mom took it from her, her eyes widening as she read the words.

LINDA ORTEGA

and

DOMINIC SANDOVAL

request the honour of your company at their wedding.

“Dad always told us he was all Abuela has, right,” Astrid said, “The only Ortega for miles around."

Mom answered by busying herself with more activity than ever. Keeping the soaked cake in the fridge. Pouring the remaining milk mixture into two glasses. Washing her hands. Washing the dishes.

“I'll do that for you,” Astrid took a plate from Mom's hands, “Just talk to me.” She grabbed a sponge and dish washing soap, cleaning vigorously. “All this time, Dad's been telling us Abuela's the only family he has, Mom. Like, he has no one else. Like, we have no sisters or brothers besides the three of us. Was he lying?”

“You're wrong,” Mom said, her voice suddenly sounding sharper, harder, “Abuela's the only family he has left. Your father didn't lie.”

“Just omitted the truth, yeah,” Astrid wished she knew how she felt about this. Right now there was so much she was feeling that she didn't exactly know where to begin. “There's no “together with our parents” above their names either. Not like yours’.”

Mom sighed, picked the card up, then held up two glasses of milk-mixture in front of her. “Take one and give the other to your sister. I have a lot of work to do.”

On any other day, Astrid would have grabbed that glass and relished its creaminess, wiping the milk-moustache off her mouth with a flourish. But today no amount of sweetness was going to take away that weird metallic taste in the roof of her mouth.

“I'm not done asking about this,” Astrid said, scowling, “to you or to Dad. If I have aunts and cousins out there, that's something I wanna know.”

Astrid did try in the weeks to come. But she never saw the wedding card again, and neither Mom or Dad ever responded when she raised the topic again. Still. It felt nice to dream.

Every time Abuela made a snide remark at lunch, she imagined her cousins there. A snarky younger girl who’d make smartass comments. A strong boy her age who’d shut Abuela up with just a glare. A nice aunt who’d take Mom's mind off all this nonsense. It didn't help much, but it felt nice.

It felt nice knowing she had company out there. Somewhere.

--

6 years later.

“Donuts, Iowa?” Seth’s eyes were gleaming at the prospect. He was more a bag-of-chips kinda guy most days, but he also liked having massive sugar rushes before a comedy gig.

“As long as the insides of six of those are practically spilling over with fruit jam, I'm game,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It felt exhilarating, freeing. She hadn't felt this normal in a while - normal enough to kiss her boyfriend without worrying about paparazzo jumping out from a bush. There was a guy in a leather jacket she didn't recognize - three blocks across - looking at her like he wanted to talk, but not in a way that made her feel unsafe.

That was the nice thing about Northbridge. People looked, sure, but they were less likely to make you feel like an exhibit from a zoo.

“Wait here, yeah?” Seth said, planting a kiss on the lips instead, “I'll be back before you can finish spelling “OHIO” with your arms.”

Astrid laughed. Seth said the most Ohio things sometimes. Neither of them had had this much fun since she was offered a lead role in Tender Nothings, which was why Seth always jumped at a chance to take up gigs in Northbridge, and why he always offered to take Astrid along when she was free.

The guy from before stepped forward a few minutes after Seth entered the donut shop. The summer heat must have been too much for him - his leather jacket was now slung over his shoulders. “Um, hello. Astrid Ortega?”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, mouth pursed into a thin line, a tiny curl slipping carelessly from his hair and resting on his forehead. She caught a peek at the tail end of a bird tattoo (Owl? The tail looked pointy) on his left arm.

“Yeah,” Astrid said, wondering whether it was her or Seth he wanted to talk to, “but I don't know what your name is.”

“ Zigmund. Zig for short,” he replied, looking behind him from time to time, “My sister Lucy’s a big fan. Asked me to help her get an autograph from you.”

“Is she here?”

“Yeah. But she doesn't want to come out. She's shy.”

Ah. So that was the cherry-red blur barely hidden by that building. She learned long ago that no matter how friendly you appeared, your image would precede you and intimidate people anyway. Autographs were great, but somehow she didn't want to stop at just that.

“Would she come out now if I asked?” she gave him her sunniest smile, “Tell her I won't bite.”

Zig hesitated, then nodded. Astrid watched him walk to the other building, move his hands expressively as he tried to convince his sister to join him (from that angle he almost looks like Letitia, Astrid thought), and return with a curly-haired, starry-eyed teenage girl.

“H-hey,” she said, then blushed, clearly embarrassed by her nervousness. Silently, she hands over her autograph book. She keeps her eyes studiously away from Astrid's face. “I, um, I like mystery films, and I really, really liked Tender Nothings.”

A girl after my own heart. “Maybe you'll like Sunset Boulevard, then,” she said, smiling.

Astrid could have just signed and left it at that, but there was something about these two. Something about the way they stood together, or exchanged glances, or something, that reminded her of home. Which was silly. But it didn’t change the fact that she wanted to leave a good impression on them.

“What would you like to be when you grow up, Lucy?”

Lucy didn't miss a beat. “Ballet dancer. Like my brother.”

Astrid smiled, particularly at the look the girl gave Zig. Yes, she could see on second glance that even though some people would say he didn't have the body of a dancer, he held himself with a certain grace, a certain lightness that belied a stronger core. Hit by a sudden rush of inspiration, she quickly scribbled a little note to go with her signature, and asked Lucy to read it.

To Lucy and Zig, future (hopefully!) best ballet dancing duo in America. Be sure to save me a seat when you folks get famous. Love Always, Astrid.

“Wowwww,” Lucy whispered. Zig suppressed his smile, trying not to let how he felt show, and failed. A corner of his mouth lifted upwards, revealing an almost-invisible dimple.

The two left before Seth brought his box of donuts,but they thanked her at least thrice as they walked away.

“Wait till I tell Mom about this,” Astrid overheard Lucy tell her brother as they left, “I told you she'd be really, really nice.”

“You did,” there was a note of indulgence in Zig's voice.

"Ortegas all around the world. Wherever we're from, we're nice.”

Had Seth come out a moment later, Astrid would have probably walked up to them and asked. Perhaps asked them where they were from and their parents’ names.

But Seth was here, with donuts, and there was never a moment she could take her eyes off either.

“Do you know those two?” Seth asked her, passing her a tres leches cake donut that was claimed to be one of their best, “They looked familiar.”

“”No,” Astrid replied, closing her eyes in bliss. Mmmm. The treat was taking her back to Des Moines, back to home, back to her mother's little kitchen. “But I wouldn't mind meeting them again.”

--

[deducingfangirlsofhell]

Lies

Pairing: MoriartyxReader

Warnings: Cheating, death

A/N: This is an AU. A god and goddess AU to be specific, so... I hope you like it. Also, this was done as a prompt request, so there’s some...odd. Terminology. (Chloroform is something gods have in this, and it isn’t like our chloroform so yeah)

Ps, I’m sorry I haven’t been updating, I got a new phone and I can’t get back onto this account so I can only use it when my old phone is charged. Which is never.

He slipped out of the bed, doing his best to keep quiet. Carefully, he picked up the vial, and a small square of cloth, a small pit growing in his stomach. He hated to do this, but it was the only way. His eyes snapped up to his sleeping bride as she awoke.

"James... what're you doing..?" Her eyes narrowed on the vial, causing her to sit up, "Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?" She snapped, eyes suddenly alight. She knew exactly why, and it made her burn.

"You aren't seriously going to see one of those flawed abhorable things—they're pathetic!" She snapped, suddenly deciding to get fully out of bed. His jaw locked, a searing anger coming to his chest.

"Go back to sleep, Kitty." He snapped. His position was the reason they'd been marred in the first place. They both knew she'd rather be over screwing Sherlock or his bride. Most of the Gods remained fairly loyal to their partners, even if they acutely despised them. James wasn't like the rest—he hated it. He didn't want to live a life, even an immortal one, like this. Now, perhaps a few years ago, he would've thought a lot different than that. He wouldn't have cared about who his partner was—he was king. Of the heavens and earth, he ruled all.

"Go back to bed." He ordered, not missing a beat before leaving. He tucked the vial into his robes, and slipped down to the mortal world, changing his appearance slightly. He shifted his deep brown eyes to a softer green, and lengthened his dark hair to match the common man among the streets, and slipped through unnoticed. He even went as far as to change his facial features, make them softer and less opposing. Less attractive, in most people's opinion, but his lover had never seemed to care that he was considered "average" when it came to looks, maybe a tad above. After all, this was love, and that's all they needed.

You were pacing, unable to still yourself from your pure excitement. You heard a soft tapping at your door. You grinned, immediately swinging it open, and throwing your arm's around Jim's neck. His arms fit tightly around you, holding you as close as he possibly could.

"I love you, Jim." You mumbled into his neck, letting yourself slip into the warmth of his arms.

"I love you, too, Darling." He whispered back, a natural smile slipping to his face. He glided you both into the room, shutting the door softly. You pulled him into a kiss, his hands falling to your waist, a thrum going through him. Slowly, you guided him towards the bed, letting him fall slightly on top of you, both of you giggling in between passionate kisses.

Unbeknownst to either of you, James wasn't the only who thought it best to pay a visit. It wasn't long into your little rendezvous that there was another knock, this one much firmer than Jim's had been. It was startling to James, considering he'd left your father unconscious in his own room.

"I know you're in there." Kitty's voice penetrated the door, striking fear into Jim with just a few simple words.

"Who's that?" You whispered, watching as panic spread across him. The door suddenly flew off its hinges, the goddess entering without another warning. Her eyes were ablaze, already, but the flames doubled as her eyes came to rest on you in her husband's arms. He suddenly shifted so you were behind him, a scowl adorning his features as he glared at her. She could see right through his disguise, through his utter and complete lies.

"You left me for a mortal?" She snapped, jaw clenching. This had been where he was every night? Seeing a woman that wouldn't last even a fraction of his vast memory?!

Your brow drew together, confusion adorning your features. The woman looked familiar, but you couldn't quite place it. No-you could! She looked like the statues outside the temple... Gisara. Queen of the Gods...?

"J-Jim... what's going on here, I-I'm confused..." You managed weakly out, fingers gripping tighter on his shoulder. Still, he said nothing.

"Go on, tell the mortal who you are. Pull the wool back from her clueless eyes." His eyes flicked back to you as you began to go numb. What was she talking about? Why was she saying these things-? Jim would never lie to you... right?

That's when he began shifting back into his regular form, eyes growing dark once more and hair slicking back. Another face you recognized, and one you'd recognize anywhere; Evmes. King of the Gods, and, fittingly, the God of Wisdom and Chaos. You could feel your knees growing weak, voice no longer seeming to work.

"Leave here, Kitty." He demanded. It snapped into focus for you—why a Goddess had come to your home. His wife... you were beginning to feel faint. Gisara scoffed, approaching him.

"You think she'll stand to want you after what you've done? Her life is forever ruined because of your betrayal. She'll be shunned." She said plainly, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice.

"You promised her a marriage, did you not? No one would mare a god and a girl. You've played her pathetic little heart." He'd been a fool to promise you such a thing, even he knew that, but he hadn't expected the question. And, at the time, it had seemed almost possible... almost.

"I said, 'GO!" He snapped suddenly, sending her flying out the door and out to the street. He allowed himself a few minutes to breathe, anger dissipating and growing concerned for you. He spun around, cupping your cheek in his hand. He'd do anything to change the way things were—if you wanted anything in the world, he'd give it to you without hesitation.

"Are you alright?" He asked worriedly, pressing his forehead to yours. Instead of answering, you staggered back, doing anything to get away from the God. He could feel his heart crack, sending an unwelcome feeling through him almost immediately.

"Y-Y/n..? L-Let's talk about this..." He began approaching you again, being met only with silence.

"Yell, scream, say something... a-anything." He almost begged, once again trying to come near you.

"Y-You're Evmes..." You said, stomach turning at the thought. He watched you, eyes saddening as you stepped away once more, just out of his reach.

"Yes.." He admitted shakily. If there was ever a moment in his entire life that he didn't want to be a God, It was now. He wanted to be with the woman he loved more than anything, even if that meant he'd die one day.

"You lied to me... about everything." Tears began rolling down your cheeks, causing his heart to break even more.

"You don't love me, I'm just some toy to pass the time." You whispered, staggering back once more, lost and heartbroken. The words echoed through his head, eyes growing suddenly wet. He didn't even have words.

"I'll never be marred... I'll be forever shunned." You said, gasping for breaths as realization swept over you, a sense of profound shame already brewing. If the people of your town were merciful, they'd simply kill you, but that was a tad hopeful.

"N-No, it doesn't have to be like that-!" He tried desperately, falling to his knees as you fell to the ground, "We can get married, no one has to know-" And just as quickly as he said it, you were racing to your father's room.

Kitty appeared behind him, hands on her hips, looking as dignified as ever.

"You've taken everything from her, isn't that enough? Leave her to the fate you've sealed for her." Growing angry, James spun around, staring her down furiously.

"I can fix this!" He insisted, solutions flooding into his head, already.

"How Long has it been since you put her father under, James, I'm curious." She said flatly, suddenly deciding her nails were much more interesting than the conversation. A sudden cry was heard down the hall as he realized his mistake, and he sprinted to the door, heart shattering as you held your father's lifeless body. All the excitement had caused him to lose track of the time... he'd killed your father..

"Y/-"

"Leave her to mourn. Haven't you done enough?"

This time, however, he had nothing to respond with. He took a few moments to watch your grief fill the room, tears and sobs joining the foul atmosphere. Irene had been right. She said he would ruin your life, and he had...

"...let's go home..." He whispered, tears beginning to roll down his own cheeks.

[scarletteflamerald]

Wow, this really hit home for me.

When I was a little kid, I wanted to be a professional soccer player. But people told me that it "wasn't a practical career path," and I listened. I sometimes wonder what my life would've been like if I hadn't--I got pretty good at soccer for a while despite treating it like a silly hobby, and I enjoyed it, and maybe if I had really worked at it I could've made it big, you know? Mostly, I'm glad I left soccer, because I didn't like the ugly edge that the competition started to have as I grew older, and because in leaving I found other things that I really enjoyed, like marching band, and yet every so often I can't help but think of the girl I was--and the woman I might've been--and feel a pensive sadness that's a little like mourning.

After that, I decided I wanted to be an author. I've loved stories for as long as I can remember, and I've always had lots of ideas for stories I'd like to write. In a way, that's actually the problem; there's so many stories bouncing around in my head that I can never settle on one long enough to actually write it. And so, as my notebooks and computer files became littered with the bones and beginning of stories I'll probably never finish, I began to doubt that writing was a path that could lead to anything but disappointment.

Around the time I entered high school, it occurred to me that perhaps my passion for language and storytelling could be put to another use, and I hit upon the idea of entering the publishing industry as not a writer, but an editor. This one got me quite excited, as it seemed to be the best of both worlds; I'd have a stable job doing something I really enjoyed, and if ever I should actually finish a novel and want to publish it, I'd already have my foot in the door. I even started looking into colleges, and for a few months I built a dream of perhaps attending Columbia, of living in New York and finding a job at a publishing house and so many wonderful things to come after.

Unfortunately, this was also around the time that I began to be aware of just how many terrible things are going on in the world, and soon I decided that I needed my career to be something that would directly address at least a few of these problems, and thus I came to engineering. I certainly possess a talent for math and science that would serve me well in that field, and I thought that, while perhaps not what I'd dreamed for myself, this could make me happy, and more importantly, it could allow me to have a positive impact on lives other than my own--and I could always pursue writing in my spare time. But, as helena so eloquently put it, "i only recently realized i didn't really enjoy it, i was just good at it and figured that was the same."

Now, like helena, I'm questioning and adrift. Most of the actual work I've had thus far has been as a tutor, and lately I've been enjoying that enough that I think I might like to be a teacher, but I've also started writing again, and now that I don't have a clear path in front of me, I feel pulled in a million different directions by all the possibilities of what I could do, who I could be. I do have a bit of an idea for how I might "put them all together," and that's to open a school of my own design, where I could teach classes on the things that I know and attend classes on all that I always wished to learn, where I could take in kids that our broken systems have let down and give them a home and an education that would be uplifting instead of traumatizing, where I could share my passion for learning and care for the bright and beautiful minds of the next generation, where I might at last find both happiness and meaning. But alas, I suspect that this dream will remain exactly that, if only for practical, financial reasons, and so I float aimlessly from one pursuit to the next, and at night I dream of beautiful worlds I'll never see.

What did you want to be when you were little?

first it was

a veterinarian—

as a child i had so much love

and a select few to give it to,

and a dog i grew up with

who gave it back to me.

then an author,

because the hundreds of stories

i consumed in a school year

were still not enough.

after that

i dreamed of animation

of disney and dreamworks

and special effects,

but i wasn’t cut out for it—

i was too impatient.

for years i held onto art

thought i could

prove my family wrong

subvert the starving artist trope.

i only recently realized

i didn’t really enjoy it,

i was just good at it

and figured that was the same.

now i couldn’t tell you

i think of bookstores

and kittens without homes

and little coffee shops

with paintings on the walls,

and i haven’t yet figured out

how to put them all together.