#Remembrance Bench

[classicmemorialbenches]

Techniques we use to depicting images on memorial bench designs

At Classic we have a number of techniques we use to depict images on our memorial bench designs and one of our favourite things to do is the colour resin inlay. There are several techniques that can be used. Here are,

✅Preparing the artwork

✅Carving the shapes into the wood

✅Pouring all of the colours

✅Skimming off the excess glue

✅clamped

[dontforgetukraine]

Residents of Kharkiv laid out flowers and toys on park benches in remembrance of the 14-year-old girl killed by a Russian glide bomb on August 30th. She was sitting on such a bench near a playground when the strike occurred. It decapitated her and tore her head apart. Ordinary russians on Telegram celebrate her spilled blood that stained the brick walkway and mock her corpse.

This girl had just begun to recover from the loss of her father, who had previously gone missing in the Donetsk area. Now, a mother has to grieve for her only child. Her body shakes as she struggles through the tears and shock. If the sound of her weeping in the video below doesn't spark some outrage and compassion in you after all this time, I don't know what will.

This is the price of escalation management. Ukraine being able to hit the airbases used to send these bombs could have reduced the possibility of this tragedy occurring.

Ukraine should send the autopsy reports of every citizen killed by Russia's missiles and bombs to every Western partner, especially the Biden administration.

Source: Suspilne Translation credit unknown.

[sorrowsofsilence]

echo of my shadow • ns

pairing: noah sebastian!ghost x fem!reader

words: 1.7k

warnings: implied death, not necessarily 18+ but implied smut (fem!masturbation w/ mention of orgasm), mention of afterlife / paranormal existence

summary: his soul was lost, bound to find yours again in this life…and in every lifetime to come.

authors note: one of my fav movies is Just Like Heaven, and this was kinda inspired by that- and by auroras song Echo of My Shadow. I’d have to say this is probably one of my most emotional pieces other than “desolate love”, and I’m so proud of how it turned out. The “cover” pic is inspired by @veronicaphoenix s layout! (I adore how you present your work!)

“If I stay here any longer, I will stay here forever And the echo of my world will fade Will the edge of my sorrow be gone in the morning?”

Seasons changed and the years moved on, yet he remained the same.

Noah never knew why he stayed. Perhaps it was heartbreak, the loss of his love that restrained him; years dedicated to the mourning of his first and only devotion.

And as he wandered the earth he never knew what he was meant to find, until he saw you, the oak bench you sat upon withered with age.

At that moment his world stilled as his feet stopped carrying him across the gravel, the air around him stagnant as though the clock finally stopped, after all this time.

The sun was warm against your skin as the pencil scribbled across the page of your notebook. The dream was always the same, and reality faded as thoughts floated to the scene that had bothered you for months.

You sat along the river, waiting, and once his eyes met your own, the smile he gifted you made everything disappear- everything except him.

You swore he was a stranger, someone you never met before; but with each subconscious greeting he felt familiar, like a blanket being wrapped around you as you basked by a window, enthralled with the nostalgia of a thunderstorm.

It was as if his memories were being woven into an intricate tapestry, placed in your mind for his narrative to shine, ready to entangle with your own.

His voice was the only whisper evident in your realm of sleep.

As time passed the memories began to consume you, blurring the lines between reality and fiction; the image of him surrounding you even when awake.

These dreams carried on for months, and everything felt like it led up to this moment as you finally sat in the place that beckoned your name.

If he wasn’t here, perhaps you lived in a world of delusion, fated to fall into an abyss of lost vitality.

How would one mourn the loss of a dream?

As your pencil took over you let yourself rewrite his stories, the presence of him stronger with each stroke.

Noah stood further ahead on the path, a slight breeze inviting him closer, causing his long brunette hair to sway as his heart raced, knowing that pieces of himself were amongst the words you wrote.

He tried not to smile as you jot down the remembrance of him from your subconscious, watching as your leg bounced in concentration, fingers rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

After all these years he thought you were gone. That his eyes would never find yours again.

With each step his soul yearned harder for yours, legs carrying him down the path.

He then stopped, mind rushing: what if you didn’t want him? What if you didn’t love him the way he had always loved you?

And as he stood there, vulnerable and afraid, you closed the notebook.

Shivers ran down your spine despite the sun that graced your skin, and your heart began to pound. His presence engulfed you as you pulled the book to your chest.

There was no one else in this world that could make you this nervous, it had to be him.

So, was he real?

Noah’s ears echoed as he watched you suck in a breath, leg bouncing faster as seconds passed.

Should he say something? Should he just walk away?

But then your head turned and your gaze met him, his October eyes staring into your spirit with longing.

He had been a soul with no home until he found you.

As he smiled with awe you couldn’t help but let one fall upon your lips in mimicry, the anxiety you once had leaving, replaced by the manifestation of him.

“If my life is just a moment and this world is ancient Then the light through my window will fade Young mountains, old rivers, I let them become me Right now”

Your skin grew cold as he stepped closer, and he hesitated to sit beside you for a moment before joining you on the bench.

Your eyes never left his, afraid he would disappear if you looked away.

He smiled again, and you melted, immersed in the world he had to offer.

Noah’s gaze was fixated as his eyes danced across your face, entranced, “You’re here.”

He knew you were in a different body, but you were the same soul that once encaptured his own; his very being devoted to you in every single life, until the day he perishes completely.

And although he was bound to this earth, the mere idea of you existing once again eased his racing mind, memories of the past leaving him something he hadn’t felt in a long time…hope.

“You’re not just a figment of my imagination,” You laughed quietly, almost reassuring yourself as it took everything in him to not reach for your hand, afraid to scare you away.

Noah shook his head and you studied his brunette locks, immersed in how they flowed and caressed the sides of his face. Your eyes trailed across his tattoos which had faded due to time, and somehow in the back of your mind, you remembered the stories of what each one meant.

You relaxed as he lingered next to you, his presence innately familiar and comforting. You recognized the way his hands rested on his thighs and the way his inked fingers brushed his hair away from his cheeks.

Your eyebrows narrowed in contemplation as if you’ve lived this moment before, not just in a dream. The Deja Vu made you feel like you’ve known this man for years- as if you’ve spent countless hours with him.

“Stay right here, stay in the light, my dear Until the love you crave falls in your arms, ooh I know your mind moves like a wave sometimes If you can't rise for us, do it for love”

You wanted nothing more than to wrap your arms around his torso, head pressed against his chest while he whispered delicate words into your ear.

It was the soul’s recognition of past connection.

“I’ve spent years searching for you,” Noah whispered, leaning toward you for a moment before pulling himself away, hesitating.

His words warmed your heart, the intimacy behind them a testimonial memoir to what once was.

“What makes me so special?” You asked, harboured by doubts at the stranger’s confession. How did he know you this whole time?

How have you not known him?

“You won’t remember,” He said thoughtfully, turning his gaze away from you for just a moment, staring at the water ahead, “Until I show you.”

The two of you watched the river carve through the sediment, years of memories washing along the path it created. Its song mirrored the echo of your love, entranced in the shadows your body created against the soil beneath you.

“I’ve dreamed of you,” the soft words left your lips as you pulled the notebook from your chest, resting its pages on your lap. Your thumb brushed along the suede cover, tempted to expose its secrets to the man next to you; but he already knew what was written.

“I know,” He replied, turning to watch you with admiration, “You called me here.”

Shaking your head you laughed, “But how? You were the one haunting my mind.”

“Your soul was finally ready.”

Noah was radiant, his skin almost glowing from the sun that shone above. He was here, and every other worry and thought left your mind, captivated by him.

You opened the notebook, showing him the pages of your words.

“You’re Noah,” You breathed, and he bit back a smile, beaming as his name fell off your tongue with an elegance no one but you could muster.

“And you’re Y/N,” he whispered, another cool breeze running down your neck as he breathed your name into the air.

⊹˚.

They were inseparable, as Noah got to know who she was in this life. He learned everything about her new being, who she became, and who she will continue to become.

But as the clock continued, the world was ready to let go of him.

He knew it would be time to go.

She stood in the mirror, her lover standing behind her. And when her soul begged for the stories of their past, he grew the courage to finally touch her, arms wrapping around in armoured protection.

Her body cooled, hands reaching up to hold his apparition as his touch passed the memories of them into her heart.

She loved him, then and now; always and forever.

How will she spend the rest of this lifetime without him?

“Promise me you won’t disappear,” She cried, staring at their reflection with the sorrows of silence embellishing her.

He leaned into her, caressing her earthly body as tears for him fell.

“If I stay here any longer, I will stay here forever Till the echo of my shadow is gone”

Noah promised her he would love her again. He would search for her in every world and every spec of existence he is to be in, just as he had finally done now.

As they laid upon her satin sheets she closed her eyes, his lips ghosting against hers in fated promises. His body sunk further into hers, possessing her being with his eulogy of confession.

Tenderness as sweet as honey, passion as strong as his dedication to her. Everything.

Her fingers danced down her skin, guided by his shadow as she pleasured herself. The breath of his touch against her desire made bumps adorn her skin, the chill from his distant lips gravitating their love.

Noah whispered to her that he would find her when this life came to an end.

“There are heroes within us, there are lovers around us They will be here forever, I know I know, I know”

She reached for him as her body clenched from intimacy, climax approaching as her chest heaved from his memory.

And as he began to fade away she smiled at him: a smile of pain and grief; of fortune and faith.

He would be there, waiting for her on the other side when the time came for them to live together once again.

Tags:

@spicywhenspeaking @calleyx13 @blackveilomens @thatchickwiththecamera @thefallennightmare

@xserenax-13 @xxkittenkissesxx @deathblacksmoke @somewhere-diamond @auratheopossumwitch

@blackveilomens @skulliecadaver-blog @reyadawn @silentglassbreak @lma1986

@darkmxgician @philomenie @amberrndall @sammyjoeee

@dsireland86 @whenthesummerdies

if you want to join my tag list you can join here, and if you would like off it pls just let me know :) some tags are reused from previous fics!

[alexa-fika]

Lasting Memories (Shanks x gn!child!reader)

A/N: Yall I am so sorry, I thought I had posted this earlier today but I just checked and I was like wait I din’t , oops. I think I COOKED, PLEASE TELL ME IF I COOKED OR NOT, read this post to see what it was inspired on, cause I don’t want to make you read it twice if ya already know

Dividers by @/Saradika

“Captain, there's a kid out there; they said they want to talk to you,” Yassop said, entering the bar

“Hmm? Hardly a place for a kid to be” he said glancing at the bar him and his crew were currently staying at

“I think you’re going to want to see this one,” he said, grinning

“Well, let’s have a look, can’t leave the kid hanging,” he said. The captain stretched his arm out. His eyes gleamed as he took one last gulp of his drink, walking behind his officer until they came outside of the bar where a small child sat at a bench swinging their legs until they spotted him coming out of the bar

They smile, jumping off the bench and facing the Captain, their bunny-like ponytails raising in happiness

“Are you Captain Shanks?”

“That’s me. And are you the one asking for me?” He says teasingly before he bends down, coming to their level.

“Yeah”

“And what’s your name?”

“Reader”

“Reader, and how old you are you, Reader?”

“Six”

“Six, young lass to be wandering around, what can I do for you?”

“Do…do you remember me?”

Shanks pauses; he tries to recall this child, this face.

“I’m afraid not, but you look somewhat familiar.”

They grin

“You were always Closer to sister; she was older; I was just two, so back then all I knew was that you meant home, safety.

Shanks furrows his eyebrows in thought

“Im sorry, Lass, but im not sure what you mean; who was your sister?”

“You must remember better her better, your former musician, Uta.”

Shanks's eyes widen as he is hit with the sudden realization. Of course, he’d never have forgotten about his daughter.

"You’re…."

“Hi, Dad, it’s been a while,” they said, tears pooling in their eyes

Shanks is utterly taken aback by this moment; his jaw completely drops in shock.

"Y-you're really...I always wondered what happened to you, and I never stopped looking, either. Look at you; you were but a tiny lass always glued to Uta’s arms last time i Saw you"

“Uta told me that sometimes she had trouble getting me out of your arms; she always talks about you, especially after the music guy took over her; she keeps saying how you saved her.”

Shanks's eyes light a loud laugh escaping him after hearing of Uta’s fond memories about him.

"I can't believe it, all of this time I spent searching. . I can't believe my little lass found me instead”

“After the bad guy, sister has been taking a well-deserved break from all the craziness, and well, I was wondering if maybe I can stay with you for a while until sister charges up?”

He grins, scooping the small child up and ignoring their surprised squeal as their feet left the ground, turning around to his crew, who had by now left the bar to see their captain’s reencounter with his child

“Lads, we got a crewmate back; this calls for a celebration!”

They look up at their father, a smile growing on their face as they continue staring at his features. It had been a long time, and they were small the last time they had seen him; the features had become blurred over the years, but now there was no hurry. They had no need to hold onto figments of past memories that needed to be puzzled together just to have a vague remembrance of what their father look as now they would have the chance to create new memories, to wake up and see the face in front of them rather than in their murky memories

“Hm? Do I have something on my face, lass?”

“No, im just happy I found you.”

Shanks gives a bright smile as he sees his kid’s happy expression.

“So are we just going to stand out here, you little rascal? Come on then,” Shanks says, carrying the small one on his hip back to his ship.

“You guys have better start being careful from now on; we’ve got ourselves a child on board,” he said, glancing back at his crew. The smile On his face, betraying any serious tone he was trying to portray

“But dad is the reckless one,” Reader piped in

“Hah? What are you trying to say, reader?! Ask Beck; I am the epitome of responsibility, right Beck?”

“No.”

“Hey! Reader, don’t listen to him; Uncle Beck is just being silly!” he fusses

“Be careful around that one; take your eyes off him, and you’ll end up on the sea.” Lucky Laughs

“OI”

Im sorry for starving you guys, I just started classes so I’ve been trying to get ahead as I always do but eventually when I get ahead I will be much laidback so I will be more consistent ( Hopefully)

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

Observations of Obsession

"Loving you wasn't enough, your supposed to love me back!"

♡《Sans/Au/Sanses Au [Yandere?] x Yandere Reader》♡

Au idea where the reader, or (Y/N), [PLAYERoR], loved Classic Sans. A unaware, nobody, in a true pacifist timeline. Meeting the pun-loving skeleton and created a whirlwind romance together.

But... RESET comes in play. The FIRST RESET.

Soon, it became, five, then eleven, twenty, O̷̧̡̢̢̨̢̢̨̼̹͕̙̬̫̯͉̳̠̳̮̤̹̻̥̝̪̠̰̰̦̫̠̳̺̜̱̞͉̣̜̮̰̹̘̾̍͆̆̑̃͌̅͜͝͠N̵̨̟̱̦̼͔͕̭̞̭̭̥͙̼̟̝̣͕̰͚̗̳̳̘̙̟͇͉̲͐̄͋́̇͌ͅͅE̸̢͇͕̗͗͒́̋̃̀͋̓̃̈͗̉̏̄̀̀͊̽͒͋̈́̈̊̈́̋̍̎͒̿̿̀̋̑̕͘̚̕͝͠ ̶̧̛̋̎̾̏̈́̅̀̐̋̿̾͋̊̀̉̅͒̃̅̅͂̽͊̊̉̆̓̄̇͗̉͐̎̓̽͐͒̿̉̎̇̾̂̈́̂͘̕͠͝H̶̛̘͖̺̠͇̲̏͊̌̏͐̃̂͗́͋̈́̂͛̆̽̍̄̏͒͐͗̐͘͝ͅÙ̸̧̨̫͔͔̝̘͉̫͙̗̥̙̞̗̭̣̖̫̲̼̤̙̠̭̙͔̣͎̣͇̘̰͍̞̖̺̣̽̃̊̊̀̑̽̾̄͐̾͆̋̀̀̀͑͊͑̑́̍́̾̿̈́̕̚̚͝͠͝ͅN̴̢͎̦̱̦̦͚͕̂̐͆̑͌́͘ͅD̷̨̨̡͔͖̯͚̮͔̝͚̳͎̭̞͖̥͓͚͔͕̹̣̳͍̱̥̜̙̤̠͇̼̘͕̱̖̳̺̤̫̗͙̤̗̫̈́̿̿̋̿̔͌̓͋̋̈́̃͋̈́̈́̈̄̉̀̇͌̈́̑́͒̉͗̇͂͊̃̿̐̇̽̽̍͒̇̀́͂͘͘͠͝͝ͅṚ̷̡̨̛͓̫͍̳̪̯̦̫̖̻̟̗̝̦̟̱̗̜̰̜̇̀̾̒͌̎̓̿̏̅̏͛̈̉̈́̀͐̆̑̃́̍̑̉̚͜͝ͅḚ̴̡̧̢̡̞̤͓̫̬̝͍̥̭͍̲̪͕͔̥̤̱̟̌̿̋͆̎͛D̵̢̢̧̢̡̡̡̗̮̗͍͉̘͕̲͚͈̺̟̝̠̠̟̺̰̟̤͈̳̫̻̬̱̻̭̭̗̼̦̗́̈̋̿̇͌͂̓̂̉̈́̆̂͒̈́͂̈́͛̓̍̽̆̈́͐͌̆́̔͐̏̎̓͒̕͘̚̕͜͝͠͠͝

Each RESET it becomes harder to meet, to enjoy one another's company, love each other.

But.. You don't give up. You don't want to give up. Ṡ̶̨̢̘̫̥͚̻̦̲̝̹͚̻̺̀̽̆͘̚͝a̴̛̜̫̱̝̼͔̘̠͈̪͖̘̗̖͗̾̔̾̃̓͋̀̓̒̓̋̋͝n̴͔̪̓̓͊̇̉̀̾̇͝ş̷̦͇͖̭̊͝ ̸̨̣͓̤̙̹̱̤̜̬̮͎̼̼̻́͌̋͛̈́̋́̈̆̊̌̕͝d̸̨̺̼̹͉̤̱͉͗̈́̋͌̏̽͛̅́̋͐͠͝i̶̡̢͇̠̼͕̮͗̇͆̓̊̐̈́͠d̴̢̠̞̉̂͑̉̃́ ̷̛̯̲̖͔̳̟̞͈̟̥̼̝̣̈́͊̀̀̈́̎̈̆͝t̶̖̭̼̜͙̋͌̀̃̽̈́̊͆́̊̅̉̒̕h̶̨̨͍̼͈̗͂͂̒̕͝o̴͓͐̂͊̀͊̄͌̍̕͘͘͠͝ư̶̧̢̲̗̭̺̽͒͌̈͗̚͝g̸̡̢̹̰͉͔̺̺͖̻̱̓̐̾͂̈͆̄h̸̢̨̤͖̜͓͔͍̰͈͛̀.̸͔̝̻͛͌̆̌̉̓̄

You put on a smile each time, happy to fall in love again.

It wasn't enough.

Filed with HEARTBREAK, you pray, beg, for the timeline to RESET. Wanting things to go back to "normal". To have the swest skele that shared you pain of Remembrance, in a world that would play on loop until it's unenviable END.

It's difficult. You could feel your sanity slipping away each time you see Sans and his everlasting grin.

To the point where you think it's mocking you each time he finds someone that interests him that isn't YOU.

This time. It's different. Please be different.

"That.. Can't be him? Is it?"

Watching closely, a skeleton, unlike the one you ADORED, sat happily on a park bench. Sketching out a picture on a small canvas. He hums a tune unfamiliar to you, completely absorbed in his art.

Occasionally looking up for reference for what caught his eye. Even muttering to a giant paint

Clutching your chest, you could feel your insides becoming cold.

'That. Is...'

N̷̨̨͙̰̜̜̥̣̖̠̭̦͕̬̙̹̹̝̿̈̾͊ơ̴̢̡̧̛̩̟̳̫͖̬͔̭͖̳̦̦̞̳͉̬͈̘͇͉̻̟̪̈̊͆͌́͒̑̈́̔̏̄̓̊̌̏͛͋̀̽̌́̓̂͛̉̑̋̃̒̎̚͘̕̚̚͠ͅͅt̴͓͔̤̰͇̙̒̓̈̊̂͋̍͗́̀̈̀̔̀͂́͘͘͘̕͝͝h̴̡̡̨̡̨̢̡͇͖͔͍̞̙͍͕̹̮̜̝͓̝̯̲̮̝̜̯͓̙̜̘̫̱͔͇̬̹̙̰̟̫̅̌̿͗͛̊̊́̿̀̂̄̆̌́̈́̉̚̚͜͜͝ͅi̶̢͍̗̲̞͂̀̃͑̎̈́̾̉̑̅̀̑̌m̴̢̨̡̦̠͚̥̺͈̩̮̟̬͕̫̤̜̃́̐̎n̵̛̛̬̩̰͓̬͓̎̐̓̈́͑̐̎̈́̀͌̈̃̓̀̿͋ơ̴̲̗͍͈̬͈͈̙̖̰̏̄̌̽͊͗͋̓̅̇̏̈́̐̍̾̇̿̒̄͛̂̓͐́̚͘͠t̴̨̨̛̻̻̝̮̃̊̀̄̔̎̃̀̈̓̿͋͌͐͌͂̄̅̂̈́͂̈́́̚͘͝h̸̢̛͙̘̰̤͓̬̦͎͕̖̫̥͉̰͈̲͇̮̓̑̐͌̈́̂̿̊̏̒̋̃͌̾̍̑̓́͋̒͐̄̓̔͘̕͘̚͝͠Y̶̧̧̡̧̡̭͔̥͕͖̜̺͙̪̞̰̱̙̰̞̗͎͚̭͍͙͉̗̗͈͚͍̩͚̱̜͖̞̝̳͓̙̩͕̌̋͋̍̾̒̾͋͌̉̄̄͛̊͊͂͊̈́̀͂̐̓̔͌̂̊́̏̑̎̿̈́̏̊̇̔̓̍̔̈́͌̈́̈́͌̾̊̚͜͝ͅỚ̸̢̡̛̱̮̬͚̭̘̖̠̤̟̳͚̲̖̯͇̜͔̮͎̲̬͈͔̂̐͂̏̃̈́̿̊̅̃̽͊̍̂̎̌͗͑̋̊̃̽̂̑̅̓͂͂̓͑͊̈̆̈̍͝ͅY̴̨̡̨̧̧̛͙̬͈̟̱͎̫̰̳̜̦̠̪͕͍͖̹̬̹̬̫̻̞͓̫͈̹̣̺͓̜̼̩͖͊͋́̑̈́̋͂͑̈́̍̆̆́̿̃͑̇͗̋̿͌̃͒͗̈̋͐̓̌͌̚͜͝ͅR̷̡̨̢̢̧̢̛̬̥̫̖̠̯͈̖̣͕̮̹̝̩̝̟̼̱͎̬̼̲̥̟͇̲̲̲͈̞̻̲̻͌̉̈́̇̆͗̀͗̒̓̾͂̽̍̽̇̐̋̾͘̚͝ͅN̸̬̓̿̀̉̎͂͒̆̽̉͐̄Ơ̷̛̮̗̯̗̗̬̰̱̍̓̏̈́́̆̔͆̍̍̌̾̄̉̿̈́́͘̕͘͘̕͝͝T̸̨̀̆̎̏̈͋̈́͐̈́̅͐͂͐̈́̈́͊̈́̌̋̈́͝͝͝͝H̵̢̡̧̧̨̢̨̧̤̺̘̟̫̳͈̦̖͎̼̖̻̯̩͖̲̗̙̯̜̮̯͕̙̣̝͈̮̩̙̺̥̝̠̬̼̼͓̙̼̖͂̈̔̐̀͗̀̒͒̅̒̓̇͑̓̽͂̀̿̄̊͋͠͝͝͝͝͠Į̷̧̧̡̧̱̲͍͕̰̘̤͎͓̳̜̪̗̰͇̲̰̬̰͖̯̠͕̫̰͈̥̞̮̣̲̠̝̳̭͛̌̈́̀͛́̆̈́̅̽́͗̉̽̑͒̎͆̀̉̑̅̅̀͒́͛̆̉̀̏̇̿͌̓̓̽̑̈́̑̈̌͑́͜͜͝͝͝M̶̧̲͇̼̱̗̞͉̺̦͙̬͓̲̆̑͊̇̽̊̎͂̉̏̈́͘̕

'Odd.'

I̶̧̨̨̢̛̟̯̱̬͉̭͖͙̻͔̝̯̘̬͈͕̙̭͕̬̩̞͖̖̻͙͓̬̱̰̩̳͚̮̻͚̽͒͆͐̉͆͌̃͐̅̊͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅT̶̡̢̢̻̬͈͈̹̜̳̝̫̪͉͔̩̲̙̱̞̤̭̬͎̣̭̱̗̻͚̙̰̤̤̘̈́̏̈͋̇̏̈́̋́̈̀͒͊͑̏̓͊̐̽͛͊̂̾̓͜͜͜ͅͅŜ̵̛̫̞͍̍̄͋̅̓̆͆̅̿̏̍͐̍́͆̿̓̂̅̑̏̈́͌̑͒̒̄̇͛̑̀̉̀̊̔̚̕̚͜͜͝͝͝Y̵̡̧̧̯̺͚̟̹̮̟͖̗̫̗͙̟͎̹͔͇̗̭̮̰͍̫͎̲̰̹̠̖͉̪̗̗̠̞̟̱͚̯̗͇̫̅͠Ơ̴̡̡̡̬͍̦̺̦̼̤̯̝̙͉͈̤͕͕̩̞͉̜̰̗̝̞͓͖͈̟̞͓̦̱̖͚͈̤̜̼̗͚̥̂̑̐̀͂̋̀͗̾̓̐̎̈̋̈̑͗̆̿͗̃̋̽̌͛̑͒̒͌͋̕͜͜͜͜͠ͅƯ̶̰̯̯̫̫̙͚̪̯̭͉̜̟͈̼̦͍̣͔̒̈́̓͂̒̽̅̊͑̌̇̆͗͊̏͌͐̀̈̈̋͛͂̇̿̆̾̊̄̃̇̋̄́̃̏̓͋̅́̚̕͘͝͝I̷̢̘̳̲͚͎̣͈̠̬͇̦̖̼̬̭̺͔͖̻̤̦̤̱̱̘̥̋̇̆̏͒͒͒̈̀̑͑͒́̀̈́̀́̓͗̏̕͠͝T̵̢̤̦͉̯͚̗̱̭̫̝̘͈͑̐̒̓̀̈́͊́̈́̂̾̔̽̓̒̽̊̚̚̚͜͜͠ͅŠ̵̢̧̛͕̪̝̤̜̣̩̠̩̗̭̘̲̯̠͚̗͖̹͖̠̜̯̳͚̳͕͓͔̟͕̬̫̯̮͕͍͍̤͓̞̻̻̰͗̾̾̈́͜R̴̡̧̢̪̬̟͚̜̣̹̼̮͔̟̪̭̗̰͙̦̟̮̙͍̲͓̦͎͇̜̳̣͙͉̭̥͎̪̝͓̒̏̌̆̽̌͊̎̾̾̀̈̾̅́̋̒̉͑̌̿͊̔̾̕̚͘̚͘͜͜͝ͅE̴̡̨̢̧̢̨̡̛̛̛͕̝͔̪̝͚̗͍͈̦͚̥͓͕̰̥̺̪͕̱͚̯̦͖̩̣̭͍̥͇͓̥̹͚̬̫̳̤͊̾̆̓̽̑͊́͂̽̽̇̍̔̃̇̅͛͛̋̽̈́͘̚͜͝ͅͅA̵̟̮̪̰͍̘̤̬̜̩̗̠͑̐̔͊̈̉́̈́̀́̆̐̈̄͆̓̑͑͜͠Ļ̵̢̢̛̛͉͍̫͉̬̮͎͇̠͙̤̣͕̮̻̈́̀̇͛̈́̊̀͒̉̋̍͆̑͆̓͗͌́̅͐̃̄̏̎̍̕̚͘͜͝ͅL̶̫̩̲̙̳̗̞͓͓̮̹̾Y̵̡͉̪̳̐Y̶̨̢̢̧̛͓̬̬̘̭̦̻͕͎̭̠̻̱͚̯̹͖͈̾̀̉͗̔̀̓̽͛͛̂̂́̀̑͐͊̉͂̑͌̀̀̂̒̎͒̋̈͛̀̈́̚͘͘̕̚͜͠Ơ̵̡̢̹͕̘͉̟̯͉̞̭͉͇̦͍̥̱̗̹̩̱͚̜͉̻̮̯̭̗̱̱̫͉̊̃̀͆̑͆͒̀̊̔͗͊̌̒̇̆̅͝Ư̷̡̢̬̱͚̜̬͖̣̰̞̫͍͇̹̲̻̻̠̙̟̗̳̠̱͈̟̇̿́̃̐̾̊͛̕̚͜ͅ

Creeping closer, you do your best to look approachable and casual. Face contorting into one of passiveness, trying to hold in your grin as the stranger looks up.

"Wow.."

He mumbles to himself.

Your steps become a bit slower, trying to listen in on his quiet conversation with his paint brush.

"Broomy, you think.. Yeah.. Impressions are needed!"

While your back was turn, he opens up a pink vial, then a yellow one, chugging them down quickly as he stands up from his spot Urgently packing his items and grabbing his Broomy, calling out to you loudly.

"Hey!"

You stop, turning around, ablit suprised that he was running after you and wanting your attention.

You couldn't let a chance like this slip.

"Hi! I'm Ink! What's your name, pal~!" He stated cheerily, eye-lights a shapped differently from the white ones you were used to seeing.

His right socket held a yellow question marked eye-light. The other was a heart, pink fading in yellow with a hint of red.

A smile, a big, giant smile is what you gave him.

"I'm-"

It's the start of something new. Something horrible.

Ink introduces you world's you couldn't even fathom.

You were... Happy. So happy.

You realized that, in some instances in other worlds. Sans, whether or not. Was unhappy.

It made you sick.

Something inside you clicked B̷̢̼̙͇͓̞̠̭̜͉̖̪͖̱̭̹̼͔̮̹͈͉̘̲̘̝̰͖͙̭̲̺̬̮̙̞̫̤̰̌̐́̏͊͒̐̈̍̈́̄̕͜͜͜͝ͅŗ̶̧̧̢̧̢̛͎͖̟͎͖͉͎̮̲͇̦̝̰̯͍̹͈̬̘͉͈̤̦̠̲̖̮̗̠̝͔̠͈̻̙͈͗̅̽̓̊̿͆́̓͋̎͌̾̾͌̑̔̐̋̆̉́̕͜͠ͅO̴̖͍͔̪͔͚̭̜̘͇͍̣͖̱̜̘͓̠̖̖̻͑̑́̏̈́̂̿̈́̾̔̄̑̓̀͆͋͌̄͑̃͆̎̂͛̾̀̎͐́͋͆͘̚͘͝ͅĶ̸̡̨̛͈͙͍̭̲͍̭̩̝̳̤̮̜͔͈̳̣͕̻̭͈͇̻̩͕͎̦̣̙͎̺̫̲̺́̓̓̀͛́͗̽̄́͋̎͂̅̆̾̀̚̕͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅȩ̵̨̨̡̨̧̛̮̞̻̼̯̰͈̮̳̼͉̭̮̗̥͓͇̠̻͕̻̭͓̝̜̤̳̼̪̣̞͉͍̺̼̘̤͎͖̮̒̍̃̎̀͗̊͆̎̄̒̄̍̓̈̉̊͌́̈́̏͋͌̐̓̑̈̌͂̚̚̕̚͜͜͠͝͠͝͝

You want love, you a whirlwind romance, you want SANS.

And you'll do anything for that feeling, ̢̨̢̨̪̟̤͎̲̪̫̱͉̪̯͚̤̜̳͚̘̗̖̯̠̦̖̥̭̱̼͓L̶̢̢̢̨̢̨̛͖̠̝̹̫̬̠̯͉̺͖̣͔̩̪̟̤͎̲̪̫̱͉̪̯͚̤̜̳͚̘̗̖̯̠̦̖̥̭̱̼͓̳̎̊̈̇͐̒̇͊̈́̆̆̈̎̇̑̋͛̇͆͌̐̀̑̓͌͋̈͒͘͠͠ͅoV̵̛͙̲͉̫̼̻̫̈̍̑̍͑̐̄̾̐̀͒̑̒̾̏͛̉̿̾͐̂͂̋̔͆̃́̓̈͒͗̿́́́͒̉̋̕̚̚͝͠͝e.

So willTHEY.

-

[I got bit by the Undertale bug, again, ]

[Whoo-boy, okay, this idea came to me when I was looking over my old au sans x reader one-shot book on wattpad. Then Underverse happend then.. Yeah. Asks for this Au are appreciated so much!]

[lilacmuse]

Morning Theft // 7.20.24

It's a beautiful morning in July- just three days before my birthday- and i wake up right around Fajr time. I slip out a bit before sunrise, and am delighted to find that the weather is blissfully, unseasonably beautiful. A soft, tranquil breeze gently stirs through the trees as the birds greet the morning, and wispy clouds cascade across the still-dark sky. It's so quiet out, i almost feel like i'm intruding on the universe, but it greets my shy soul with open arms and fills my heart with a warm sense of belonging.

As i enter the park, i come to rest on one of the beautiful stone benches situated on the outer edge. Something about them reminds me of the Acropolis, or some ancient place where philosophers might've gathered to have discussions. I lie down on the bench for a while, gazing dreamily at the sky as night slowly trades places with morning. When i was in Canada, i used to get excited every time the weather was nice, and i'd grieve about how i'd probably have to wait until October to experience that again. But as the first light of dawn creeps across the horizon, i realize that the wind has gotten cooler- almost cold enough to make me shiver. I smile as the swift breeze envelops me... i love being wrong. The cold, rough smoothness of the stone bench penetrates my shirt and kisses my skin, adding to my sensory bliss.

As subtle pinks and purples begin adorning the sky, i praise God and take in the beauty of one of my favorite sights in all of creation. The sky fills with soft, gentle streaks of light, and the armor around my heart rattles and melts away... i am entirely defenseless in the face of His beauty. The world buys my time and steals away my attention often, but this time is Ours- for not the first time, i feel completely alone with Him, and my shyness melts into a deep, quiet longing to be closer, ever closer.

As the world fills with noise and light, the daydream of my soul wakes up, as if a passing thought in a stranger's mind; perhaps a monk living in a monastery in the mountains, peering up as my beingness floods him for a moment. Perhaps he doesn't know why, but the sight of the sky he had never noticed before suddenly makes him want to explode with wonder. Sometimes, i wish i could reach through time and space and plant a soft kiss on the consciousness of every person who secretly looks at the world this way when they're alone. The thinkers complain that it hurts to become, but lovers exist to remind them what a bliss it is to be.

After witnessing the sun's slow qiyam, i gradually make my way home, stopping to say hello to my favorite tree and admire the way its branches look in the early morning light. I had never seen it at this hour before, but i'm always awestruck by its beauty.

On the street before mine, i notice a small garage sale being set up, and a striking white dress covered in vibrant flowers catches my eye. I don't normally shop in Muharram, but i greet my neighbor with a smile and browse her offerings. I pick out a stunning yellow dress that goes beautifully with the white one, and she gives me both for a steal. I sleepily try them on when i get home- i'll have to get the white one altered or it'll slip right off my body, but the yellow fits me like a glove and makes me feel like a goddess of summer. What a beautifully perfect morning :)

If you're reading this, i love you- may the remembrance of Hussain ibn Ali (as) plant seeds of Divine, eternal love in your heart ❤️

x r

[tsarisfanfiction]

Remembrance

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Kayla, Apollo, Michael Human memories fade, and details get forgotten. Godly memories don't, and Apollo will always help his children, if they ask. TOApril Day 30 - Fading Memories. Longest fic of the month to round this TOApril up! Once again it took me a while to work out what I wanted to do with this one, but I definitely need more Apollo&Kayla and also more Kayla&Michael content in my life, so that's where this ended up. There's also a few easter eggs in here for some of my other fics, for the observant/readers with good memories!

Kayla huffed, dragging the box out from underneath the bench.  Damn musicians, shoving all their stuff in the area that was supposed to be her nook, and especially damn the musicians that were also head counsellors that had enabled it.

Also Will, because Will hadn’t been a musician but he’d still let it happen (and Michael, but Kayla would always forgive Michael anything).  No more.  Kayla was head counsellor now, and even if it was only for her final year in camp, this nook at the back of the cabin was going to at least have space for her to stuff all the annoying things like chore schedules.

She wasn’t Austin, or Alice, or Will (or Michael).  She wasn’t having that stuff in her personal part of the cabin, stressing her out with duty­-based things in her safe, stress-free bunk.  Not a chance.  It could get banished to the back of the cabin like she knew other cabins did, for her to pick up when she had to and ignore when she didn’t.

Well, Kayla was realistic.  She wasn’t going to get all of the instruments out of there; there was an entire orchestra’s worth, at least, and several of them were large and heavy, or otherwise not easily moveable – she sent the harp and the full sized drum kits a half-hearted glare, knowing full well that she was never going to win a fight with those particular sisters over the placement of their main instruments.  Still, she could at least clear the flutes that hadn’t been used in years – Kayla didn’t think she’d ever seen any of them come out – off of the desk and find a different cranny to stow them in.

The same went for the crates worth of sheet music stowed under the desk, which was what she was currently trying to wrangle.  For being simple sheets of music, they got heavy when there was a lot of them, rather like a whole pile of target faces all at once, and it took more than a bit of pulling and shoving before she got them moved over enough that she could pull a chair up and sit in it without her legs being crammed against crates.

Well, almost.  She growled as her feet kicked against another one, and ducked back down under the desk to see if she could push that one further back, outside of accidental kicking range.

It refused to, so with another grumble she started to yank it forwards instead, not quite sure where she was going to move it to but determined that it wasn’t going to stay in too-close kicking reach.  Kayla wasn’t tall like Austin or Jerry but she also wasn’t short like Yan and needed some leg room while she was doing head counsellor things.

When it finally came out, it was covered in dust, enough to make her nose itch.  It also wasn’t sheet music, like she’d expected.  Nor was it spare archery targets, which she would’ve been delighted to find – they were forever running out of those.

It was full of photographs.

Curious, she picked one up, puffing until the dust shifted.  There were two boys in the photo – one young and gap-toothed, and the other… well, still young, but maybe at least a teenager.  He had a lot of beads for someone Kayla guessed might be thirteen or so, but the younger kid – and he was really young, definitely nowhere near double digits – didn’t have a camp necklace at all.  He had familiar blond waves and blue eyes, though, and Kayla realised it had to be Will, back when he’d been the baby of the cabin.  The older boy must have been one of their siblings, with his own blond hair and darker blue-green eyes, but Kayla didn’t recognise him.

She set that one down and picked up another, wiping the dust off against her sleeve.  This time, the faces were more familiar, more blond kids, but ones she knew she’d seen before.  Their names didn’t come to her, but she was pretty certain that if she read through the names on the first bead of her necklace, she’d make the connections again.  Unlike baby Will and the unnamed boy, these two were more rough and tumble, with the girl having the boy in a headlock while he clearly fought to get out of it.  Both of them were laughing, though, and the camera was held at an angle, as if the photographer had been laughing too hard to keep it steady, too.

The third photograph made her freeze when the dust came off.

It was her, from behind.  Her hair had been freshly dyed, with no sign of her natural colour at all, and Kayla had only dyed her hair like that for a short time before deciding she preferred to keep the crown of her head visibly ginger.  She was at the archery range, bow in one hand and  gesturing wildly with the other.  Next to her, also with their back to the camera, was someone with black hair in a short pony tail, more or less the same height as eleven year old Kayla – gods, this had been taken six years ago – and gesturing back at her.

She didn’t recognise them.  Not really.  She knew who it was – of course she did, it was Michael, and she was sure she’d always remember the way he kept his hair tied back like that – but what she recognised was his bow, the beautiful horn horse bow that now lived in the attic of the Big House.

Staring at the photograph, she was suddenly hit with the realisation that she didn’t remember his face.  She didn’t remember his voice, either.  She remembered him being her big brother, that he’d spent hours and hours with her at the range, better than any of the Olympic archers Da had coached but completely disinterested in competition shooting, but she couldn’t remember his face.

Kayla had no idea what colour his eyes had been.  If he’d had bangs or if his hair was all swept back into the ponytail.  Details that felt like they should never be forgotten, but she couldn’t remember them.

Logically, she knew she’d only known Michael for a few months, which was basically no time at all compared to the length of time she’d since spent at camp, but with how often his name still flittered through her thoughts, it felt like she ought to remember him better than that.

It hurt, to realise that she didn’t.

Kayla dived back into the box, trying to find more photographs of him.  There were a lot where there was a blur of black hair in the corner, or turning away, or with his back to the camera.  She even found one with a younger-looking Alice braiding his hair, but Michael hadn’t been looking at the camera then, either.  He’d been looking back at Alice as best he could without turning his head.

Still, it was the clearest one she’d found so far, and she cleared away more streaks of dust with her fingers until it was clean.

Seeing Michael with Alice reminded her that she was the only camper left in their cabin, now that Austin had left, that had met Michael.  Raphael and Emma had arrived the next summer, and everyone else was even later than that.  There was no-one else to show the photograph to and reminisce with, or try to remember with.

Okay, maybe she could go to Chiron, but as great as Chiron was, it didn’t feel right.  Chiron hadn’t been any closer to Michael than he was to any other camper, she didn’t think.  She didn’t know how he could have been.  It wasn’t like he was family, really, although she was pretty sure he and Apollo-

Apollo.  Dad.

Her dad, Michael’s dad.

She didn’t even finish thinking it through before she called him, startled when her voice sounded thick, like she’d been crying.  She didn’t think she’d been crying.

The instant appearance of her dad, and the way he immediately wiped tears from her face, told her that she had been.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, sitting cross-legged in the small patch of floor that wasn’t covered in photographs or musician things.  It put him right in her personal space, but Kayla never minded that with her dad.  Either of them, actually.

“I found these,” she said, waving photographs in his face.  One of them was the first one she’d found, with her and Michael.  Another was the one with Alice.  “And I don’t… I don’t remember him, Dad.”  A sob erupted from her throat.  “I’ve always said he was my favourite brother, but I don’t… I don’t remember him!”

Part of her waited for him to poke her in the chest and tell her that actually, she did remember him.  That he was in her heart, her favourite brother, and it didn’t matter if she couldn’t remember the exact shade of his eyes, or whether he usually had bangs.  That was the sort of sappy thing people usually said, after all.

But he didn’t.  He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against his side, tucked under his arm like she was younger than she was, like she wasn’t now the most senior Apollo kid in camp.

“Do you want me to talk about him?” he offered, and her head snapped to look at him.

“Yes,” she said, latching onto the offer like it was a lifeboat.  “Yes, Dad.”

He chuckled, quietly enough that it didn’t feel like he was laughing at her.  “Okay,” he said, and plucked the photo of her and Michael from her fingers.  She barely felt it go.  “Michael was a fighter.  And I don’t just mean because of the war, or his arguments with Clarisse – and he got into a lot of those with her.  He was a fighter because he had something to fight for.”  Kayla felt Apollo squeeze her shoulders.  “You.”

The noise that escaped her was both unladylike – not that she cared – and very startled.  “Me?”

Apollo gave a one shouldered shrug.  “Well, his siblings.  All of you,” he admitted.  “Michael was always one for loving deeply, when he let someone in.  He had a reputation for being harsh and prickly, especially with other campers, but beneath the thorns was a massive heart with so much love to give out, if they could make him believe they were worth it.”

“I don’t remember him being prickly,” Kayla admitted.  “Except for the arguments with Clarisse.”

Apollo gave another chuckle.  “He was always arguing with Clarisse,” he said, sounding fond.  “That started his first day at camp and never stopped.  Then again, I probably didn’t help matters,” he added, and that sounded sheepish.

Kayla twisted in his grip to look at him, astonished.  “What did you do?” she demanded.  Apollo’s smile definitely twisted into something sheepish.

“I claimed him,” he said, and Kayla frowned, because of course he did.

“How-?”

“I claimed him because he shot her in the thigh,” he clarified, and she felt her jaw drop.  “It was the first time they’d met, and both of them were very volatile back when they were that age, more so than by the time you got here.  They got into a fight, and well.  It was the first time Michael had ever held a bow, and it was a beautiful shot.  How could I not claim him for it?”

“You claimed him… because he shot Clarisse?” Kayla repeated slowly, trying to wrap her head around that.  In some ways, it made sense.  In other ways, it really didn’t.  Then she registered the other thing he’d said.  “Wait.  He’d never held a bow before camp?  Really?”

The one thing she definitely did remember was how amazing an archer Michael had been.  It was the sort of skill that came from being an archer from the moment he was old enough to hold a bow – Kayla should know, she had the same skill – not from being a preteen, or maybe even a teenager, before ever touching one.  Actually… “how old was he?”

“He was nine, at the time.”  There was a story there, Kayla could tell, but Apollo didn’t show any signs of expanding on it, and she decided it wasn’t worth asking.

Demigods didn’t turn up at camp that young without a reason, and the reason was never a good one.  Kayla didn’t need to know what Michael’s was.  She didn’t want to know.

“He was amazing at archery,” she said, instead, and Apollo smiled fondly.

“That he was,” he agreed.  “He could out shoot some of my sister’s Hunters.  They hated him for it.”  Kayla could imagine that – Thalia and Reyna were chill, but some of the Hunters were definitely snobbish over their perceived archer superiority.  It was one of the reasons Kayla kept rejecting their recruitment pitches; they didn’t like being challenged by an archer who didn’t wear Artemis’ silver colours.  She bet it was even worse with a boy.

“Serves them right,” she muttered, and leant back against her dad’s side again, reclaiming the photo of Michael and Alice.  “I remember him being an amazing archer,” she admitted.  “And his arguments with Clarisse.  I just…  I wish his face hadn’t faded.”  She tapped at the photograph with a chipped nail.  “The photographs aren’t clear enough.”

“I can make them clearer, if you want,” Apollo offered, and Kayla didn’t know how but she wasn’t going to turn down a chance to re-memorise Michael’s face.  Properly, this time.  She nodded.

Apollo held up a hand in front of them, palm up and loosely cupped, and hummed lightly.

Whatever Kayla had expected, it wasn’t for a ball of light to convalesce in front of them, swirling and shifting until Michael appeared in front of them, perching on the box full of dusty and abandoned photographs.

Kayla had forgotten how short he was.

She’d seen it in the photograph, how a sixteen year old Michael had been the same height as an eleven year old Kayla, but being seventeen herself now – gods, she was older than Michael when he’d died – and more or less fully grown it was stark, seeing him in front of her and realising that he really had been tiny.

He didn’t say anything, probably because he wasn’t real, just Apollo manipulating the light until it showed her her big brother again.  Still, there was life in the way he looked like he was sitting, one leg straight down and the other knee raised up, foot on the edge of the box he was perched on, with one elbow resting on the knee.  He wasn’t looking directly at them, but he was focused on something that only the apparition could see, and it was good enough for Kayla to finally, finally, remember the exact shade of brown his eyes had been.

He didn’t have bangs, either.  There were some loose hairs that didn’t quite reach back into his ponytail that stuck out a little, but no bangs.  He did have earrings, though, a single golden stud in the ear lobe.

Kayla had forgotten he’d had those.  She wasn’t sure if she’d ever noticed them when he was alive and she’d taken his presence for granted, unlike the way she was drinking every detail in now, because this felt like a last chance.

Mortals weren’t supposed to dwell in the past.

Something warm dripped onto her cheek and she glanced up on instinct to see silent tears rolling slowly down her father’s face as he looked at the apparition he’d created.  It was a comfort, to know that she wasn’t the only one affected by it.

Still, her eyes were drawn back to Michael, the ephemeral sight that wouldn’t last forever.  His mouth was twisted into a slight smirk, confidence pouring off of him from his expression to his pose, and even though he looked small and young in a way Kayla knew he hadn’t when he’d still been alive and she’d been five years younger than him, rather than a year older, it felt right.  Familiar.  She was sure she’d seen that expression on that face many times before.

Apollo gave a shuddering breath, and raised his hand towards Michael again.  His fingertips dipped into the illusion, and it rippled slightly.  Kayla knew what was coming, and refused to look away as, slowly, Michael faded from sight again.

“It’s good to remember,” Apollo said hoarsely as her brother disappeared.  Kayla wondered if she was supposed to feel worse, losing him again, but instead she thought it felt more like closure.  “But don’t get trapped in the past.  Keep looking forwards.”  He squeezed her arm.  “You’ve got a future ahead of you, and if he was still with us, Michael would be the first to tell you that you’ve got that Olympic gold in the bag next summer.”

Kayla remembered archery lessons with him, being pushed past anything Da had ever tried with her, because he’d known she could keep up, even back then.  “He would,” she agreed.  “I miss him, Dad.  I know I only knew him for a few months, but… I miss him.”

“I know,” Apollo said.  “So do I.”  He reached out and picked up some of the other photos, of familiar and semi-familiar and unfamiliar faces.  “I miss all of them.”

Kayla plucked another one from the floor – the one with the two blonds wrestling.  Both of them had died in Manhattan, she was more certain of that, now.  Siblings she’d known but not for long enough, although with her mind in reminiscing mode she found names finally climbing to the front of her memory.  Nathan and Robyn.  She didn’t think she’d ever seen one without the other.

Looking at them, with their semi-familiar faces, and the other photos still strewn around from her frantic hunt for pictures of Michael’s face, she found an idea forming in the back of her mind, and she barely let it finish before she spoke.

“Dad?”

He hummed, turning his head towards her.

“Help me put these up on the walls?”  She gestured to the box.  It wasn’t like it was doing anything except getting in her way under the desk, and photographs deserved to be looked at.  Her siblings deserved to be remembered, not stashed away and forgotten.

He stared at her for a moment, clearly not expecting the request, before his whole body softened.

“I’d love to.”

[bobalegsanji]

Liberosis sounds very interesting ! I’d love to hear more about it ✨

I'm going to be honest, I haven't written a lot yet and this is the first time I tried to write anything slightly NSFW related so figuring out what I can post of this was so hard😭 It's going to be an angsty one for sure. I need a bit more inspiration because I don't want to keep repeating the same kind of topics in my fics, but we'll get there:)

‘’I love you.’’

Sanji feels a pang of guilt at the remembrance of Zoro’s bittersweet words.

He never meant for the swordsman to catch feelings for someone like him.

***

The familiar sound of stomping on the ladder to the crowsnest brings a soft smile to Zoro’s face. He quickly wipes it away, resuming his workout to ignore the cook.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open with a loud noise. Sanji’s head enters the crowsnest first, accompanied by one hand holding a tray with various snacks and a string of curse words.

‘’It’s way too fucking hot in here,’’ Sanji complains. ‘’Go to sleep or something.’’

A grunt is the only form of recognition Zoro offers. He still needs 5 more reps to finish his workout, and not even a stupidly beautiful cook is going to distract him. 

The tray gets thrown on the table with a loud noise. Zoro looks over, distracted. ‘’Give me a second,’’ he says.

Sanji doesn’t respond, just drops himself on the unused bench in Zoro’s eye field and searches his pocket. ‘’Whatever,’’ he mutters, lighting a cigarette once he finally finds his lighter.

The smell of smoke fills the crowsnest that Zoro has come to think of as his. Besides nightly watches, no one enters the crowsnest without Zoro’s knowledge. Usually, he hates the clutter and smells some straw hats leave behind. Even though he loves Nami, the morning after her watch everything always smells too sweet, like tangerines and fruits. Robin’s flowery smell usually doesn’t linger, but Luffy’s always present food-and-sweat smell does. Everything out of the ordinary makes Zoro’s nose twitch and his heart annoyed, everything but that stupid tobacco smell he’s started to love.

It doesn’t take long for Zoro to finish. He stretches his arms in the air, enjoying the strain he feels on his muscles. It’s not so bad that he can’t fight may it be necessary, but it’s noticeable enough that he feels the burn of progress. He turns his back to Sanji in favour of checking what food the cook brought up today.

Before the swordsman can reach the table, Sanji’s hands are already on him.

[sonofthedunes]

may the fourth be with you, fellow travelers! this time last year i was still a few weeks off from properly getting back into Star Wars, so i’m thrilled i can properly celebrate with you this time! :3 this story is quite a bit different from the others i’ve written for this blog, but i hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless. no content warnings. check it out below the cut:

remembrance and reflection

Coruscant, 2000 ABY

For nearly a millennium, the trio of statues have overlooked this plaza. Most citizens hardly spare them a glance as they hurry by, their grandeur muted by time and distance. After all, the Galactic Empire and the Rebellion which had toppled it are ancient history, its players long dead and its monuments crumbling. The major anniversaries are mostly celebrated as welcome days free from work and school. Years of thrilling battles and legendary heroes have been reduced to dry, droning paragraphs in educational holos.

The civil war had permanently reshaped the galaxy, and the average citizen takes it for granted.

But there are those who remember.

A young child stands alone in front of the statues. Mother brought them here at their favorite time of day: the beginnings of sunset, when all is bathed in pale orange light and the crowds have thinned. She is sitting on a bench some feet away, the day’s shopping in bags at her feet. Oh, how the child had begged to come here instead of heading straight home! “Not today, darling, I’m tired,” Mother had objected…but one deployment of tooka eyes and sniffling later, she’d relented.

Every time the child sees these statues, they’re reminded of the story told over their cradle and at many a family gathering: that two thousand years ago, a distant ancestor had joined the Rebel Alliance. Their name won’t be found in any list of decorated war heroes. Depending on who was asked, they were a mechanic, or perhaps a communications officer—after so much time, details have muddled. But they were there regardless, witness to the struggle against the Empire’s might…

And maybe, just maybe, this ancestor encountered one of the rebellion’s legends.

It seems only proper to visit the princess first. When the child was very young, they sometimes bowed to her stone form, sensing the regality that had been present in the flesh. Her round face is kind, sincere, but the artist has realized a deeply contained fire too. She was a tiny woman, the Princess of Alderaan, though she had courage and intelligence enough for a dozen men. Captured by the Empire, forced to watch the destruction of her planet, she narrowly escaped death herself to lead the Rebellion…and later, the New Republic. The child would have liked to meet her very much. Her hands are sculpted outstretched in a gesture of peace; they are small and slender, but belie a certain strength too. She was a great chief councilor, the texts agree. And, the anecdotes proclaim, a great woman too.

By her side in stone, as he was for so long in life, stands her husband. The Corellian smuggler—the eventual general, if the child recalls their lessons correctly—rests a hand on his blaster, a subtle hint of what might happen should he be crossed. Yes, he was a quick shot and an elite pilot, with a brain for tactics and a knack for wriggling out of trouble. But if one studies that classically handsome face, they’ll detect the heart of gold under the cocky facade. for it was his sense of loyalty that brought him back to help win the Battle of Yavin, and his love for the princess that saved her from Hoth. Even a year spent in carbon freeze couldn’t vanquish his spirit! The child would have liked to meet him too.

And that leaves just one figure to contemplate—who might just be the most legendary of all. The child has never seen a Jedi in person…at least they don’t think they have. The old temple still stands deserted, a memorial to the tragedy of Order 66, and the reborn order has relocated somewhere far beyond Coruscant. But surely some of its number must walk the streets of the city-planet! They must simply be adept at concealing themselves, the child decides.

This man, though, the son of Skywalker…no disguise could hide his true identity, and not just because he so greatly resembles his father. Even in stone he exudes a power beyond most sentients’ understanding. The statue’s eyes are stern, but they are also gentle; he brandishes his ignited lightsaber, not to attack but to point the way forward. As prolific as the tapes of his combat prowess may be, just as numerous are the whispered stories of his kindness. A few of the child’s schoolmates claim their ancestors were given shelter at the temple on Ossus, or liberated from Imperial bondage by a bold young X-wing pilot and his squadron. That’s the version of him the child likes best—not the fearless warrior, but the compassionate embodiment of a Jedi Knight. The histories record that he was raised on a Tatooine moisture farm, plucked from obscurity to lead the Rebellion to victory. If that’s so, the child considers, perhaps they might one day achieve greatness too. Leave this galaxy a tiny bit better than it was.

They would have liked to meet him most of all.

“We can’t stay much longer, darling,” Mother’s voice suddenly reminds them; she and her shopping are standing just behind. “Auntie is coming for dinner and I’ve got to get home and start cooking.”

“All right, Mother,” the child murmurs, eyes trained on the statues. “…Mother?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think they were really as great as people say?”

She smiles and pats their shoulder. “I think that the galaxy would be very different if they weren’t.”

“Could I be a hero too someday?”

“Only the Force knows that, my love,” she replies. “Now come along.”

As Mother guides them out of the plaza, the child glances back once more at the three figures. Princess, general, Jedi, all gazing out on a small piece of the universe they helped defend. They almost seem to glow in the deepening sunset. Once they were like me, the child ponders. Now they are legends. Even if these sculptures someday topple and their names are never spoken again, their bravery echoes through the ages. Wherever beings of all species live in peace and prosperity, their actions bear fruit.

The dead rest, but their legacies remain.

[classicmemorialbenches]

Restoring and Renovating Memorial Benches

Certainly! I can provide information on restoring and renovating memorial benches. Restoring and renovating memorial benches can help preserve their historical value and extend their lifespan. Here are some steps to consider when undertaking such a project:

✅Assessment

✅Cleaning

✅Repair and Replacement

✅Sanding

✅Finishing

✅Maintenance

✅Preservation and Documentation

[unheardpartofme]

Someday come true someday

Amid so many hearts, I sat there alone in my little thought. I sat there on the bench which is left in memory of two hearts who once fell in love with a tree where two hands have carved their names in remembrance of their loving moment. A fountain with a fallen angel statue where two hands link and they close their eyes to make a wish that their love stays forever. I sat there alone on the bench beside the tree and in front of the fountains in between linked fingers, forever promises and marking memories. I sat on that bench hoping that the vacant place beside me would be filled someday. I glanced at the tree in thought that someday his barks would also have our remembrance. I dropped the coin in the fountain alone in a wish that someday my fingers would be linked with someone too. I hope that my someday comes true someday.

[cliowo]

In this essay, i will explain the reasons why sky children of the light has become an increasingly unwelcoming game to new players and veterans alike-

Yeah yeah i usually only share my words here but tumblr feels like a really comfy place for me to share unfiltered thoughts and i needed somewhere to vent ig (skip if you have no idea what I'm talking about)

When I first started playing in prophecy, sky was a really fun game. We didn't have the request for a guide function then and I'm actually really grateful for it because the joy was in exploring each of the different realms and season areas on my own and randomly stumbling across spirits whose stories were waiting for me to discover. Maybe it was because I was a dumb moth - i didn't even know how to access seasonal spirits trees - but the pressure to cr just wasn't as intense as it is for moths today. The back to back seasons and "days of" events seem to have sucked the fun of exploring the world of sky for moths because they're so focused on grinding for candles/hearts/event currency that they just dont slow to smell the in-game roses anymore. And the thing is I get it because there's just so many new cosmetics as well as older ones from past seasons and events to farm for.

I mean sure you don't have to collect every cosmetic but 1 cape costs like 70 candles on average, same for a pair of pants iirc, a prop/acessory at 40-70 candles (70 if its an instrument??) , and hair at around 40-50 candles; and the best part is you can only earn 20-21 candles max in 1 reset 🤡 Add all of that plus the need to look for event currency in fear of facing such prices in the event rerun and you get stressed out moths facing existential crises every 2 weeks when ts arrives😀 Sorry moths, the economy is bad irl and just as bad in sky.

And what of the veterans? Yeah, well, we get no friends as everyone starts to quit the game and those that stay live off copium revisiting the places we once visited with friends- Or maybe that's just me

New friends, you say? *cue flashback to moths begging for help with cr* we exchanged like maybe 5 sentences max at chat benches🥲 i have nothing against helping out but it does make it difficult to form a bond when they disappear right after and you fade into their constellation of ubers

And then we have the seasons.

... Honestly the only season that made an impression with me after aurora was the recently concluded season of the 9 coloured deer, which was also another collab season💀

I actually had to check the sky wiki for this:

Remembrance - ironically very forgettable. What was the story again? Was it the one with the group of spirits living in one specific hole in vault like why- vault is bigger than that sad hole- OH THE PLUSHIES okay maybe this one was passable... im trying okay

Passage - ??? Havent finished this season's quests so uh- so far it seems like... a cult..? In isle...?

Moments - if they wanted a camera in-game, they could have just added it to like the days of sunlight event (the camping one) or smtg. They did not have to force a season for a camera💀 imho the camera was the only thing worth mentioning abt this season and i don't even take pictures

Revival - i suppose aviary is pretty and it's nice that the spirits have somewhere to stay now. Not particularly impressed. Don't really remember the story in this one.

...i heard rumours of a furniture season after the 9 coloured deer. Looking forward to hearing what they'll name this one lmao

The quality of "days of" events is still acceptable to me. Just maybe ignore the numerous iaps and the fact that we have multiple umbrellas but only 1 is f2p (don't understand whats up w that btw)

And also the recurring bugs💀 I've been playing for at least 3 years and I've faced these bugs/problems multiple times:

1. Unable to light frends constellations because the screen just yeets itself into oblivion or some random environment feature where i cant press the button

2. Game crashes (after every update istg-)

3. Splitting servers

4. Sky discrimination and gate keeping, aka refusing to let me open the game

5. Being unable to collect currency/dailies (it's not my internet i checked)

The lack of compensation is another matter entirely

I don't know man I'm tired. The only reason why I still have it installed is because it's my only link to the people I used to have fun and relax with. Not everyone has discord or insta or some other social media.

If you made it this far thank you for coming to my ted talk. Feel free to leave your thoughts- just remember to be respectful

Tldr:

The sky economy is bad. For everyone. Moths (and maybe even vets) are stressed out and vets are losing friends. The seasons are increasingly dull and the long-lived bugs are frustrating.

[eilinelsghost]

In Memory Beside You

A little birthday ficlet for @actual-bill-potts.

You are an absolute treasure of a person - brilliant, incredibly hard working, a marvelous writer, a truly kind and caring friend. You bring so much laughter and joy to all of us and it has been a delight getting to know you this past year. I hope your day is filled with lovely and delicious celebrations!

Tossing this one on the pile 😊

Arafinwë knew the path without thought. He had long ceased numbering these pilgrimages to the silent groves and his feet could find the way of their own volition. Here the low hill, then round about and over stream’s passage, now the living arch of yew branches bound in their fast embrace. And as on every visit, he shuddered as he passed beneath the boughs. Their shadow touched him with the breath of the dead and with their snaking arms came the image of spirits reaching out, his sons’ hands extending toward him from their long rest.

He left the passage and drew a stifled breath. The yew grove itself was less unnerving than its entrance, but still the air hung close and the branches wove a low canopy, muting light and sound alike. Arafinwë found himself wondering once again whether this atmosphere mirrored the Halls themselves, placed thus to ease the spirit’s return by degrees, or whether the weight was an opposite, pressing fëa and hröa together as they wove back into one.

It had been oppressive in his first visits, the silence resting upon his chest, and each time he fought down panic as the hours of his vigil crawled by. But now he shrugged into it as though drawing on a blanket and its weight was a comfort, here beside the dead.

He slowed before a particularly ancient tree and brushed his hand along the bark in greeting. Its roots were twisted about the base, branches arching in various formations, and along one side they curved into a makeshift bench. Arafinwë settled himself upon this with a sigh and tried to quiet his thought.

One breath in. My father, taken in the night.

One breath out. My brothers, slain in the dark.

One breath in. My sons, gone before me.

One breath out. I sit in memory beside you.

He had begun these ritual visits soon after the return from Araman, drawn in his loneliness to seek that grief which he had found no license to mourn. For his father’s death was his brothers’ banner and Exile the lament it demanded. And amid that cacophony his own grief had been drowned, buried beyond his own hearing until the reckoning came. Until the breaking.

He had heard it then throughout the empty palace when he stumbled back from the Doom, reeling in fury and anguish. It echoed along the marble halls. Its dirge was in the silence of stilled fountains. It was his one companion as he lifted the shattered remnants of his people, and his shadow while he set about the atonement for the dead. 

At last he had followed its pull and ridden out from Tirion, passing like light over the starlit plains of Aman till he found the Halls and the yew grove’s grim, yawning arch twisting before him through the dark. He had come there only once before, long years ago when he was a curious youth trailing behind his brother’s sojourn. 

What is her body, shorn of its soul? Fëanor had sensed the boy behind him when Arafinwë followed him in secret to Mandos’ gates and his voice drifted back through the yew boughs. Here will I keep vigil, not in the gilded vales of Lórien, for here my spirit sits beside hers where all is remembered, and nothing forgot.

And here Arafinwë too kept vigil—his brother’s ritual of lament the only comfort to beckon amid his sorrow. He had ridden to the yew grove before the sun’s rising, and every year since, lingering in silent remembrance first for his father, then for the brother who gave him this rite, for the brother who had been his steadfast companion, his guide. For each son in turn, the last less than a year gone. Ai Valar, each beloved infant he held…there, just there beyond the crags and the clinging roots, gone now beyond his reach.

Others came too to this grove, more often now than in those first years when naught but silent accusation walked beneath these tress. But the trickle of the returned was ever growing as the wars in Beleriand drew on and often he would encounter those he knew, waiting too among the gnarled boughs—Olwë’s people summoned to meet sisters and brothers who abandoned the Great March, parents who had disappeared in the dark years. Now and then a pair of his own people, waiting with hesitant hope to greet a grandchild of whom they knew naught till the summons—life announced through death. He watched their hope with longing, witnessed each reunion’s joy with the sharp pang of bitterness upon his tongue. 

One breath in.

One breath out.

There was a rustle in the thicket behind him and he turned, expecting a similar break in the solitude. But instead, a tall stag strode past, black and sleek as obsidian, its movements rolling like wind through the grasslands. Arafinwë caught his breath with a gasp as it lifted its head and met his gaze. They were not unknown to him, the wardens of the fëantarwa, for they moved ever through the grove in ceaseless watch.[1] But only to the summoned would they raise their eyes in greeting, heralds too and not mere guardians.

His heart pounded as the creature’s gaze did not falter, but rested full upon him, purposeful, unblinking.

Then came another rustle in the wood, jarring amid the heavy silence—a twig snapping behind him, a sharp intaken breath. The stag sprang through the thicket with a crash of bracken and Arafinwë turned, anticipation pulsing through every fiber.

It was a mistake. This was no one of his knowing. 

The figure stood a stone’s throw from him, of middling height, his hair dark and roughly cropped above the shoulders. He was staring at Arafinwë in disbelief and he took a halting step forward as their eyes met, his every motion flooded with confusion. 

Where were his kin, the king wondered in indignation? They should be here to ease this passage. It was negligence to leave a soul staggering alone through its return—nay, it was cruelty rather. Death was unnatural; its remedy hardly less so.

The king’s face softened in pity. It was more likely, he realized, that there were none in Aman to greet him, yet one more of their Silvan kindred slain in the darkness and brought to life uprooted. A stranger in a land unknown and unchosen. There had been many such in recent years and Arafinwë struggled to discern whether life’s restoration was balm to them or injury.

“Arafinwë Ñoldóran?”

The king rose in surprise as the stranger’s voice broke through his thoughts. It was resonant, the syllables of his name warm and earthen within its touch, and a shiver ran down his spine at the other’s recognition. “I am he,” he managed at last. “How is it that you know me?”

“I do not.” The man faltered and shook his head, the dark eyes full of wonder. “Only you are so very like him…”

His speech was in Quenya, Arafinwë realized with a start—fluent, but tinged with an accent he could not place. None of the Silvan folk had known the tongue, nor the Sindar who too had joined the ranks of returned. An uneasy prickle rose at the base of his neck. “Who are you?”

“I am called Bëor.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with care as his tongue too relearned its steps. “But my name is Balan Beldarion. I was…in Beleriand I wedded your son.”

1. fëantarwa: garden of the spirits (lit: spirit-garden)

———

Sorry it’s just a teaser. The full au will materialize eventually, but I couldn’t help trying out a smidge of it for the occasion. 😊 Happy birthday friend, have an immortal Balan. As a treat.

[not-a-coral-snake]

for the @lamenweek Day 2 prompt: A rooftop/balcony kiss

It all tangles together in Damen’s head, after. Something about the adrenaline, the exhilaration, the exhaustion of a nearly-sleepless night. The memories of Laurent’s inescapable proximity, behind shutters on a balcony, in warm firelight on a bench, silent laughter and swaying sapphires. 

It all tangles together in Damen’s head, such that as they race across rooftops, weave around railings, fling themselves over alleys, Damen finds himself thinking of Laurent’s cheekbones, Laurent’s long, graceful fingers, Laurent’s lips. Finds himself distracted, in moments snatched away from the need to scan roofs for obstacles and judge gaps for distance. Finds himself imagining grabbing Laurent’s arm--finds himself imagining Laurent grabbing his arm--and crowding Laurent against the wall of some attic and kissing him softly. Kissing him soundly.

Above them, the cold summer stars. Below them, the twinkling lights of the town, the clattering feet and periodic shouts of their pursuers. One more street, one more doubling-back or sudden turning, and they could lose them, Damen thinks. Lose their pursuers, and find some place quiet, and shadowed, and--

It is the adrenaline. The sleep deprivation. The confusion of the memory of Laurent, who earlier this evening had almost been in his lap, the memory of the woman from the brothel who even earlier this evening actually had been. Damen does not really want to kiss the prince of Vere.  The prince of Vere certainly has no interest in kissing him. He needs to give his attention to the rooftops, the chase.

They evade their pursuers. They survive the chasms and the leaps. And Damen knows, looking back on it later, that their first kiss was not then, but another night, weeks later and on another roof under other stars. 

But the memories and desires remain tangled in Damen’s mind ever after, the breathless chase over rooftops, sapphires under firelight, and the imagined remembrance of Laurent’s lips against his.  

[ahollowgrave]

Portentous (adjective): eliciting amazement or wonder. // the work is never done.

(I am unsure what to tag directly but please know this writing contains horror elements.)

This place is holy.

Was?

No -- is, you decide. It is no longer used but what does that mean to the hands that blessed it so long ago?

You gingerly sidestep a cobweb older than you.

Your nose itches, threatening a sneeze.

Ahead of you, the wailing continues.

Behind you, None waits. You had them stay outside, nearly apologetic, dismissing it as a whim.

None had stared up at you -- how novel for you! -- with their serious dark eyes and their serious frown and in their serious voice they had said: “I trust you. You trust you.” And then they had sat on a rock and jerked their chin at you in a clear gesture: get going.

You got going.

This place had been abandoned quickly. There are rotten baskets with their contents scattered across the floor. Abandoned chests tower in corners and near doorways. Forgotten toys and tools dot the hallways. It is all covered in a choking layer of dust.

Your footsteps are light, silent, as you press onward. With each threshold, you feel it get colder. At certain points you stop and still yourself, unfocusing your mind. A current, invisible but insistent, pulls at your skirt. A river diverged from the source. You follow it and as you do, the wailing grows louder.

You and None have heard it for three nights now. An unnatural screaming cry that freezes the forest with fear. Finally, you have found the source of it.

When you come upon her it is a surprise to both of you.

The corridor you had been following ends suddenly and opens into a big, central space. The upper portion disappears into the darkness but you can see the dying light of the day. Rays fall into the cavern, illuminating the carpet of animal bones that surround a long-dark cooking pit.

Your ears ring with the remembrance of laughter and music and life.

Surrounding the cooking fire are the rotten remains of several benches and seats. A shrouded sits -- perches -- on one of them. And it cries.

Great big gut-wrenching, shoulder-shaking, teeth-clacking sobs. Occasionally one of them reaches a high enough note to make your head spin, to make you feel sick to your stomach.

It hasn’t noticed you.

“… Hello?” You call out. You absolute idiot.

Abruptly, the crying stops and you are all too aware of being studied. The figure before you hasn’t moved but you feel the unmistakable weight of a stare.

Your sluggish heart skips a beat, a difficult thing for the old goat to do.

“… Sorry.” Why. Why would you speak again?

You are not allowed to scold yourself for long.

A face - a duskwight woman - is suddenly in front of you. She is too thin, her bones poke through her skin like a needle just before it punctures fabric. Her hair is a tangled, wild mess. She is nude. She is horrifying. She is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. There is a large puncture wound between her breasts, weeping a tar-like substance. Her eyes are liquid black. Tears stain her cheeks. She has been crying for years.

Her eyes are so big.

You are falling into them.

“Hi.” Why.

She screams in your face.

You think this is what being skinned feels like.

She is reaching for you and her hands are claws, perfect for scooping out soft insides.

You reach back for her. Your cane clatters to the stone floor but the gem wrapped in its living branches continues to glow. You take a clumsy step forward - you have never embraced a woman before - and you wrap your arms around her.

You trust yourself.

You palm the back of her head and feel what remains of her hair detach beneath the pressure. Your other palm flattens between the sharp point of her shoulder blades. You press her to you, guiding her head to the crook of your neck.

You wait for the feeling of claws in your gut.

They do not come.

You are both terribly still.

You cry so much that it does not surprise you when you start to cry, now. Your face buries itself in her shoulder -- distantly, you’re aware of goo on your skin -- and you cling to her like you have wanted to cling to so many others. You feel hands at your back and then you are pulled tighter against the spectre.

When she starts to cry it is different. It does not set your teeth on edge and does not pierce into the center of your brain. It is simply the cry of a scared and wounded girl.

She has cried for so long. Alone.

“I am so sorry,” your voice is the sound of falling snow, “You can leave it with me.”

By the time your tears dry it is the Lover’s light that filters through the holes in the roof of the cavern. A moth of shiny black clings to the front of your robe. There is, indeed, goo on your skin and clothing.

None is waiting for you, patient as the river.

[shi-daisy]

Family Ties

Day 5 for our cutie! Today on the agenda we have some slight sadness with brotherly stuff, cuz if Dorevan got his time with Tammy so is Ciaran these three are my babies! Can fall into both Threads & Daisies continuity or as part 1 of a twoshot with tomorrow's entry. I hope you like!

@tamlinweek

Tamlin Week 2024- Day 5- Shapeshifter

Family Ties

"Well, you're fluffy." Ciaran said as he studied his baby brother's form.

Tamlin was dizzily woobling around as he realized he now had paws, fur, and antlers. His unique shifter form was widely diffrent from Ciaran's who was an atropomorphic bird.

"What am I?"

"You look like a bear with antlers, your face is wolflike and so is your tail. I guess you could be counted as a chimera.

Nevermind that. You shifted perfectly on your first try, it's a sign of power."

"Oh thanks!"

He didn't mean it as a compliment. But the second Evergreen brother was too tired to argue with the wobbling little beast. He shifted back to his normal self, and sat on a bench.

As if it wasn't bad enough to compete with Dorevan's strength, now the little one had loads of power too. Well, at least if he didn't get the court he could fuck off to Summer and...No, not until their monster of a father was dead. He wouldn't put his mate at risk like that.

Ciaran took out his pipe and smoked, only then did he see Tamlin, slowly shifting back to normal and walking towards him. "Mama says you shouldn't smoke."

"Mama's not here."

His hazel eyes fell on Tamlin. It was unusual for such a young child to show such power, he prayed their father didn't break him too early. He and Dorevan were already loss causes.

'I need something stronger to wash this away.'

"Cece!"

He raised an eyebrow at the nickname. "What is it?"

"How come no one else can shift like us?"

Ciaran picked him up and placed him in his lap. "It's the Evergreen family's power. Since the beginning of this family line we've all been able to shift into creatures of our choosing, along of course with a form unique to us. The trade off...It's unstable magic. You gotta be careful, little one. We...We are all struggling with it."

"Oh...Are you well?"

"Fuck no kid. Never."

Tamlin leaned into his brother's hold. "Can I help?"

"Doubt it...Just be good to mom. Be a good person. Be better than me."

Tamlin looked up at him, hazel on emerald green. He smiled at that little face. "You're good! Being better would be hard."

Ciaran exhaled the smoke upwards as if not to hurt Tamlin. "You're still so fucking naive, kiddie...If Dorevan gets the court, I'll have to take with me to Summer. Roxxanne will spoil you rotten."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind, just know I'll get you out of here when we're able."

"Okay! Thanks Cece!" Tamlin said as he yawned and fell asleep on his brother's lap.

Ciaran was hoping his younger brother forgot this conversation as he grew older. He'd likely never live it down. Still he'd keep his promise regardless of remembrance.

***

In the end, he couldn't keep the promise. He died before Tamlin, he died the same day as their sorry excuse for a father did. So the little one took the crown.

Soon after, his beloved followed and he reincarnated with her. In every lifetime they were together, and the memories of the once Ciaran Evergreen were gone, still a pull brought this now gold songbird to fly to Spring.

His dear Roxy would guard their Summer nest, all while he visited the desolate court and the creature that seemed hold a connection to. Many whispered in Summer of the fallen Lord of Spring, but this didn't look like a lord. He was a golden furry beast, always shifted and alone.

Ciaran jumped until he was face to face with the creature sleeping in the floor, emerald eyes opened for a moment to look at him. He was puzzled and tired, but still smiled.

"Heh, you look like my brother..." He muttered before falling asleep again.

Ciaran tilted his head, they couldn't be related, the High Lord was probably confused. Still, he decided to take a rest.

He jumped over the man's head, it was fluffy. Ciaran got into position and decided to take a small nap.

They both felt somewhat safer in that slumber.