#all things yearn to converge something like that

[shibaraki]

THE VANISHING MOON ┊ TSUKISHIMA KEI

tags: GN reader, post timeskip, exes to lovers, fluff, emotional hurt + comfort, reader is a writer, alcohol consumption, mutual pining, getting back together, kisses, weddings, previous ‘mutual’ breakup, happy ending

wc: 4.2K

For as long as you can remember, you’ve loved love stories.

The first time you picked up a pen with the intention to write you’d been looking for a specific someone. To pour love into and be loved by. Conjured from the recesses of your mind, a soft smile from the boy you liked, one prepared to whisk you away from the converging angst that came with your adolescence.

In later years you looked inward, searching for yourself. To satiate your loneliness through self introspection. Ink blotted fingers working arduously at the knots that make up the soul. Knots that were once straight rope, simple and without weak points. And when you failed to love yourself you turned outward, exploring the web that made up the world.

You saw that other people loved stories, too. That there would always be at least one which speaks to them in some way and stays with them. You coveted that reality; to be something another person could love, and look back on with fondness. For your words to strike such a chord that they’d become part of another’s tapestry. To live on. Never again be forgotten, even if it means being an echo of something.

That yearning accompanies you up the cobbled footpath. The crisp air pinching the tips of your ears. Soft, muted chirps rippled throughout the treeline. “Wow,” you murmur, breathless. Arms sticky with perspiration, leg muscles tingling in exertion after walking the steep hill.

The reception venue sits on the end of a private road, concealed by threadbare canopy. Under an open sky there lay every shade and stroke of colour. Dappled sunlight casts shadows across the grass and your eyes are drawn to them.

“Wow is right. They’ve done an incredible job,” Sugawara airs his appreciation as he walks at your side. His voice is awed, and his cheeks are red. “I can’t believe they managed it. Karumai Gardens are notoriously stingy for booking events”.

The wedding invitation shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Remaining some of your closest friends, Kiyoko and Tanaka had already confirmed your attendance long before the formal invites were sent out. You even found yourself on the end of multiple phone calls over the months assisting a panicked Tanaka with writing and rewriting his vows.

Despite that, your stomach roiled at the invitation on your kitchen counter, and your heart crawled up into your throat. Because suddenly it was too real.

Everybody would be there.

Tsukishima would be there.

You’ve been a high strung for most of the day, hyper vigilant to the point of fraying. The ceremony was beautiful. Kiyoko looked ethereal draped in her white lace gown, a delicate veil cascading down her back and rippling down the aisle as she walked. Tanaka was striking in his dark blue suit and embroidered waistcoat. Sitting at the forefront, you remained steadfast in your ignorance of Tsukishima’s scrunity and dabbed at your face as you cried.

You missed having his attention. Missed the subtle stroke of his sharp gold eyes across every part of you as though it were Tsukishima’s hands themselves. A scant, cowardly part of you considered not attending the reception, grateful that he hadn’t approached you yet. If he would at all. Kei could be unbearably prideful about these things. But what do you know?

Nothing. After all this time you probably know nothing at all.

“I think he wants to talk to you,” Sugawara says, drawing your focus to the present. “It’s obvious he’s missed you”.

You edge past the increasingly dense foliage with intent, your fingertips outstretched to brush the near-blooming plants. “Who?” you ask. Sugawara’s grin turns wry and he threads his arm through yours.

“So petty,” he murmurs, patting your bicep. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But he’s single, and has been staring at you all day. I thought I should mention it”.

“Well you’ve mentioned it,” you return without true malice, squeezing him back. Sugawara’s lips parted in a sigh, and for a brief second, you saw a wistful expression beneath the lighthearted veneer. It stirs unease in your chest and you add, “I just don’t want to make a scene”.

“You really think that’s what it’ll come to?”

Memories unearthed from the deep recesses of your mind. Packed away into tight spaces and left to collect dust where they can’t hurt you. They awaken easily, triggered by a simple question, and with such clarity that you wonder if you ever forgot them at all.

Soft, deliberate touches. Long, warm embraces, swallowed up by his large frame. Graceless laughter—the ugly kind that makes your stomach hurt. Languorous kisses, biting kisses, chaste kisses, clumsy kisses. Good morning and good night kisses. Bickering over breakfast. Bickering over dinner. Wandering, calloused hands. Pressure behind two fingers, splitting you like soft fruit. A sharp tongue and sharper words. Holding hands in bed, anchoring yourself to him like you were afraid he might float away in the night.

Life became busier than either of you expected. Kei landed an opportunity to play for a division two team in the V league alongside his work at the Sendai city museum. Your publisher's demands increased. Kei’s priorities shifted. Resentment crept in. He started to forget things. Small promises and favours, like getting the grocery’s or making it home for date night. They felt so significant at the time—things you deemed indicative of his commitment to you, without communicating as such.

Fractures formed in your relationship. You ignored them in favour of keeping the peace, hoping to address them when the timing was better. Only with hindsight can you say that was the wrong choice. The fractures contracted, expanded until it grew into a yawning cavity with one of you standing either side of it. A slow decay.

“No. No, it wouldn’t,” you tell Sugawara. Tsukishima has never been a shining paragon of virtue but he wouldn't do anything to disrupt Tanaka’s wedding. “I’m just nervous. I haven’t seen him since…”

Sugawara hums his acknowledgment. You’re adrift as he guides you into the venue holding the wedding reception, welcomed into a kaleidoscope of colour. Carefully crafted floral arrangements line the hall. Half of the building is a greenhouse conversion, and natural light filters in through the high, arching ceilings, illuminating the dance floor. You take in the surroundings as your senses are enveloped by the pleasant din.

“Look, there’s Yachi and Nishinoya,” Sugawara tugs on your arm and calls out, “Yachi! Noya!”

Nishinoya crowed, leaping forward to gather you and Sugawara into a blistering hug. Barely two extra inches on him yet larger than you remember, skin kissed by the sun and his hair handsomely coiffed. His waistcoat creases awkwardly with the stretch of his body while you sink into his warmth and feel your cheeks ache.

“Man, I feel like I could scale a mountain! It’s so good to see you guys again,” Nishinoya reclines to get a look at you both and firmly takes you by the shoulders. “You have a lot to answer for,” he says with mock seriousness.

“I do?” you laugh, skull knocking side to side as he shakes you.

“I read your book on the plane”.

Your laughter putters out. You grimace and clear your throat, “Oh—really?”

“Most of us have. We wanted to support you properly,” Yachi admits as she steps forward to hug you. She’s smiling when she pulls away, faint laughter lines deepening.

Sugawara nods and pokes at your waist, “Don’t look so embarrassed. It was amazing”.

“It made me cry!” Nishinoya effuses. He sniffs, and to your mortification he looks like he might burst into tears again. “There was this one line—gah, no! I can’t talk about it. Get over here, I need to hug you again”.

“Thank you, Noya-san,” you wheeze at the arms constricting around your midsection, eyes clenched shut to repress the impending sting. You turn your head, nose knocking against his temple as you peer at the others. “Thank you all. I mean it”.

Yachi squirms, her smile quivering. “I’m really happy you made it today,” she says once you’ve been released. The unyielding pressure of Nishinoya’s embrace lingers like two phantom limbs. “You too, Nishinoya-san”.

“It’s amazing you’re upright. I thought for sure the jet lag would get to you,” Sugawara laughs. He utters a quick apology to the server passing with a tray of drinks. “Didn’t you fly in from Barcelona?”

“Yeah. Should’a been heading to Andorra but I wouldn’t miss my bro’s wedding for the world,” Nishinoya’s voice drifts as his eyes follow the alcohol. He plucks a glass in one swift motion and holds it high, “Salut I força al canut!”

Yachi watches him throw back the drink with poorly veiled anxiety. “Ah, speaking of, we should find our seats. It looks like the cake cutting is starting soon”.

“Good call. We’re getting in the way of the preparations. And I think you’ve left Asahi alone for too long,” Sugawara claps Nishinoya on the shoulder. “Looks like he’s been accosted by Saeko-san”.

Nishinoya pivots on his heel, whip-like and buzzing. You’re not sure which name he reacted to more. Asahi or Saeko. “Where?” his gaze locks in on the pair across the room. “I’ll talk to you guys in a bit!”

Gone in a blink. “He never slows down,” Sugawara sighs, shaking his head fondly. “Guess that’s my cue,” he says before parting ways. Yachi waves after them.

An idea strikes you then. “Say, Yacchan. You’re next to me, right?” you glance toward the long tables set up around the dance floor and meet her gaze with a suggestive smile. “Would you want to sit next to Yamaguchi instead? I don’t mind swapping”.

Their relationship had blossomed over the past few months. A long, slow burn finally come to fruition, new enough that mention of it usually makes her turn pink. But the light in her eyes dims at your suggestion, and rather than flustered, Yachi looks uncertain.

Her fingers form a loose clasp around your forearm. “Tadashi is seated next to Tsukishima,” she explains gingerly. You feel yourself freeze and the kind motion of her thumb strokes circles along the inside of your wrist.

You let out a shaky exhale. “That’s okay. I don’t mind,” you tell her before the consequences of what you’re offering can really be cemented. Yachi’s eyes widen, her grip tighter on your hand as you squeeze back in an attempt at reassurance, knowing your smile looks brittle. “It’s probably for the best. We haven’t… talked yet”.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure”.

“Are you sure you’re sure?”

“Hitoka,” you laugh, bumping your shoulders together. “I promise I’ll survive”.

You regret it not two minutes later.

Anticipation fizzes under your skin as you spot him. On approach you give him a cursory look over, the harsh beat of your heart ricocheting in your chest. Tsukishima looks good—he always does, but today, dressed in his dark, double breasted suit, with the golden hour light carding fingers through his neatly styled hair, you think he’s never looked better.

It is disconcerting to see him again and realise that your feelings haven’t changed much in the slightest.

You sit in the chair beside him. You see his spine draw taut in the corner of your eye and feel an oscillating loneliness; so alike those final few weeks together that cold dread seeps between the spaces in your ribs and steals your breath.

“Tsukishima,” you incline your head, impersonal and cautious, hating how foreign his surname is on your tongue.

A beat passes before he repeats your name in greeting, soft as a psalm despite the dour expression on his face. You’re overcome with the urge to poke the uncomfortable crease in his brow. To smooth it out and kiss the skin there, the way you used to do.

You shift in your seat. The arms curve around your midsection and knock against your elbows as you fiddle with the table cloth, “I told Yacchan that Yamaguchi could have my seat so they can sit together. I hope that’s alright”.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” and you know the clipped answer is reflexive by the way his jaw locks in frustration at himself. Bracing for what you’ll say next.

Only, your mouth curls up a little, and you exhale a short laugh through your nose. You haven’t seen him this skittish since your first year of highschool. You consider that maybe you aren’t the only one who’s scared. That things are the same and they are not the same. The thought is bittersweet, but it’s nice, the way his trepidation gives way to muted awe, how he sends you sidelong glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

The music picks up in a grand crescendo as the newlyweds enter the hall and the reception begins with a raucous applause. A rich aroma unfurls as the food is served, the depth of the flavour layering over the already present notes of wildflower and honey. Drinks are handed to the guests. Generously. You swirl the liquid gold around the rim of your glass, luxuriating in the syrupy inebriation of a gently oaked chardonnay.

“So, uh. How’ve you been?”

Tsukishima, to his credit, does not startle at the question. “Fine,” he says, and you think he might leave it at that when he adds, “The museum received another new Crinoid collection last month, so I’ve been preoccupied”.

You grasp at the conversational thread, not wanting him to stop, “Crinoids?”

“Marine animals. They still exist today, though not as common. You might’ve heard of sea lilies and feather stars,” he shrugs halfheartedly, not daring to look away from his deep fried tofu, though it’s clear he can’t help talking about his work with pride. “Ours are from the Triassic period”.

“Just like the, uh—” you click your fingers to conjure the name from thin air “—Gojirasaurus! Your favourite, right?”

Tsukishima pauses. It’s a fleeting thing, but you notice. The corner of his lips curves into a barely-there smile. He seems pleased that you remembered. You busy your hands with repositioning the cutlery a fourth time so maybe, hopefully, you can distract yourself enough not to say something stupid like: “If I visit, will you show it to me?” or “Do you miss me, like I miss you?”

You clear your throat. “I hear the Sendai Frogs have been doing well, too. Congratulations on moving up to division one”.

Those aureate eyes are sliding to you again, bright and searching. Tsukishima arches his brow in a delicate mocking gesture that was unbearable when he was sixteen and even more so now. “Keeping tabs on me, are you?”

There’s mirth trickling into his voice, giving it a familiar smarmy lilt. A wave of emotion washes over you. Embarrassment and heart-twisting-happiness. You shove some rice into your mouth and chew it down to fine paste, vying for time to formulate a coherent sentence. “No. I read about it in the latest Volleyworld issue,” you reply unconvincingly.

“You don’t read Volleyworld”.

“How would you know that?”

Tsukishima takes a shallow breath and nods. The warm gloam of late afternoon mellows his taut features. “I’ve been reading too,” he says after another sip of wine. “I saw you finally published your book”.

Dread seized the inner workings of your mind and the apology on the tip of your tongue curdles. Time ticks by, one sickening second after another. Your eyes dip low to avoid his gaze—which for some reason, he refused to direct anywhere else.

Your recollection of the break up itself was hazy at best. There had been no raised voices, no desperate movie-esque kiss, no slammed doors. Only grief filling your body like lead, and jumbled, half-hysterical thoughts of ‘Is this it? Are we giving everything up, just like that?’

You remember everything that followed, though. The inability to accept reality. It is said if a writer falls in love, that love can never die. And so you kept writing, and writing, and writing; perceiving love through different lenses, creating different endings; relying on metaphors of natural forces and disasters, of cannibalism and gluttony, of journeys and patience to make sense of it all. Six months after everything fell apart you completed the final draft of ‘The Vanishing Moon’, dedicating a final testimony to him in small print on the first page.

Given the choice, I would’ve rather had you at my side than any one of these words.

Has he seen it? Is that what he’s getting at? Did he read through all eighteen chapters and meticulously pick out the remnants of him you pressed between the pages?

“Noya said it made him cry,” you eventually reply.

Tsukishima signals for another drink. He takes two flutes from the server, handing one to you. You accept it with a soft ‘thanks’, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in your fingers. “Nishinoya-san cried when he found out swans can be gay,” he points out.

“You cried at The Land Before Time”.

“What kind of cold hearted bastard doesn’t cry at The Land Before Time?”

Laughter bubbles up in your chest as the initial dread ebbs away and the tension seeps from your shoulders. Tsukishima dips his chin, a small smile as he mutters, “That’s better”.

In the centre of the hall Tanaka cradles Kiyoko in his arms, now surrounded by clusters of their loved ones whirling with their own partners, a hurricane of colour and laughter and love. Tsukishima observes them with a solemn gleam in his eye. That could’ve been us, his heart says in chorus with your own.

“Do you remember that time we danced together in third year, at the summer festival? I tried to kiss you and gave you a nosebleed”.

“I remember”.

Your gaze drops to the bottom of your glass. At the time you had been mortified. Now it’s a story you would share at your own wedding table. The thought cleaves your heart in half.

“Do you remember the song that was playing?”

“Why are you bringing this up?” Tsukishima snaps. “Yes, I remember everything. I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to. Happy?”

There’s a surge of something devastating in your chest, like love and heartbreak all at once, strong enough that you feel as if your ribs might splinter just to make room for it. But they don’t—and you don’t, because you’ve felt this before, and your body remembers.

You remember.

Suddenly the room is too hot, and the music is too loud. “Sorry. I’ll be back in a minute,” you murmur, pushing your chair back and getting to your feet.

“Wait,” in one short breath there are long, calloused fingers circling your wrist. You do wait. Tsukishima hesitates, the pressure elevates, and as you lean away your palm slips into his, skin kissing skin. Then he’s standing, towering over you. “I’ll come with you. I know a place that’s quiet”.

Tsukishima does not let go of your hand, and you don’t let go of his. He walks a few steps ahead guiding you through the throngs of people. Some familiar heads turn, their attention drawn immediately to the place where your bodies meet, and shooting you various looks of encouragement or confusion. Yamaguchi sees you pass and his mouth splits into a grin so wide that his eyes crinkle.

You’re not sure where it is he’s taking you, only that his promise of finding quiet is true. The cacophony simmers and soon enough the festivities are muffled entirely. Just when you think you’ve wound up at the end of a corridor it curves, leading to a pair of french doors. “Come on,” Tsukishima ushers you out onto a balcony.

What you’re greeted by makes your breath catch. The world as it is around you comes to a standstill, the fabric of reality peeling away. An orange yolk dips below the horizon and the sunset hour drapes across the ostensibly endless meadow hidden behind the Karumai Gardens. Rolls of grass sway in the wind, peppered with wildflowers of every shade.

You move to stand at the balcony’s edge. Tsukishima drops his hand, and your fingers curl into your palm. The shadows grow longer, the air cooler. The evening insects begin to sing. You’re warmed still by the wine thrumming in your bloodstream.

“Hey, Tsukki?”

He comes to stand beside you, folding his arms atop the wall. “Don’t call me that”.

“Oh,” you swallow against the swell in your throat. “Sorry, Tsukishima”.

Tsukishima’s expression twists into a scowl. There’s a blush creeping toward his ears. “I didn’t mean that,” he says. You blink and wait for him to elaborate, which only flusters him further. He stares stubbornly at the border. “Just—call me as you normally would. Anything else sounds wrong in your mouth”.

The name leaves you in an instant. Hushed—not whispered, “…Kei”.

He makes an inquisitive noise, strangled as it is.

“You didn’t say what you thought of it,” you continued. “My book”.

You feel a rush of adrenaline when Kei doesn't answer immediately, unable to read his expression. “Good,” he says, veiled indifference belied by the restless twisting of a cufflink between his forefinger and thumb. “It was good”.

“Well, that’s practically a Pulitzer recommendation coming from you”.

“Shut up,” he huffed, gaze flitting across your face and dropping to your tentative, uncertain beginning of a smile. He wets his lips and glances away. Heartened, both by the alcohol and his reciprocation, you press closer in small increments, and Kei flowers under your gentle persuasion, like he always used to.

“This okay?”

In lieu of a reply you are ensconced by a warm, firm chest and two strong arms around your back that show no sign of withdrawing. The low timbre of his voice vibrates under your cheek, “Who was it for?”

“Hm?”

“The book. You dedicated it to someone”.

You exhale, squeezing your eyes shut. You’re glad, in part, that he can’t see the emotion written plainly on your face. “Nobody,” you answer lightly, angling to position your ear right over his beating heart. “Just an ex. You don’t know him”.

“Right,” Kei says, drawing out the ‘l’ the way he does when conceding a point he knows he’s correct about. It sounds so fond that you want to curl up where you’re resting, like some benevolent cat. “Guy must’ve been a dick”.

“I was too. We made a lot of mistakes, I think,” you say. If nothing came of this you would at least be able to revisit it; to pick at the scab and stop the wound from closing over too soon. There’s comfort in that. You crane your head and meet his gaze, nervous but unwavering. “But even if he was kind of a dick, I miss him a lot”.

“Yeah?” his eyes soften, half lidded and dark. “He misses you too”.

“He told you that, did he?” your mouth trembles. Kei dips to bring your foreheads together, and the hard frame of his glasses bumps your eyebrow. You share a shaky exhale of laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, brow pinched with regret. Again, “I’m sorry. I know I fucked up”.

You feel your jaw quiver. The familiar burn behind your eyes. Tears so close you can taste them. “We both did. Don’t shoulder the blame on your own”.

“But I made you feel lonely,” he says.

You tuck your chin and whisper, “Yes”.

His fingers splayed across your cheek, pinky tucked beneath your jaw as he cradled your face in his hand, tilting until you’re staring back at the reflection in his pupils. Puffy and damp, eyelashes clumped with tears. What a sight.

Kei strokes his thumb in an arc beneath your eye. A tear beads on his nail, slipping into the crook of his hand. The inexpressible tenderness is overwhelming yet you are underwhelmed by the inaction. You can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed by the whine in your voice as you ask, “Are you going to kiss me?”

“Demanding as ever. What happened to ‘please’?” he murmurs. And then he kisses you.

It is slow at first, hesitant, leaving room for you to pull away. But with every languid movement of Kei’s lips came a sweet affirmation, that which you took and took until you no longer felt unworthy of receiving it. His hand flutters at your waist. You take a shuddered breath, pressing closer into his embrace and deepening the kiss. In his distraction you take him by the wrist, encouraging him to touch. There’s an immediate, reverent grip at your hip, kneading over your clothes.

This is what you’d been longing for. The feeling you couldn’t transpose; that which people have long tried to capture. The esoteric, giddy anticipation and joy that bubbled between two people on the precipice of something bigger than themselves. Even with an affinity for stringing words together you are scarcely able to describe it. Immense and overwhelming, light and dark, tender and everything in between.

Kei pulls away for breath with a low, vibrating hum, wearing a smile that you thought you’d never see outside of your memories. Almost boyish when he looks at you. The distance is an inch too many but it is just that—an inch. “Eager,” he teases, only to kiss you again, twice as eager.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve loved love stories.

But love doesn’t only exist in stories.

You remember that, now.

[hxxsxxng]

SUNGHOON 박성훈 - SOULS BONDED

Word Count : 2k

Genre : Angst

Content : mentions of death, mentions of being orphaned, unrequited romantic feelings, childhood trauma reguarding lack of parental figure and poverty

Preview : When you are hanging out with your best friend, you realize you crave something you could never have

Authors note : I feel like I am becoming a dictionary because I am trying to produce higher quality work. lol enjoy!

SUPPORT BY REBLOGGING if you want

You glance over at Sunghoon sitting across from you at the dingy café table. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he sips his cup of coffee. You know that crease in his forehead all too well - it means his mind is drowning in the turbulent waters of the past again.

Sunghoon had confided in you about his childhood not long after your own paths converged. The two of you were kindred spirits, orphans with none but each other to cling to. While you lost your father at a tender age, Sunghoon never knew his parents at all, thrown from one fostering situation to another until finally aging out of the system.

In those fragile early days, you marveled at how Sunghoon's eyes would become inscrutable pools when he spoke of his upbringing. Never dwelling on specifics, but the hurt and confusion were palpable underneath his steely exterior. You recognized that look because it was the same one you saw in the mirror after your dad passed - the look of someone who had the ground torn violently out from beneath them too soon.

That shared brokenness was the tether that bound your souls. An unspoken language of deprivation and loneliness that became the basis for your bond. No matter how dire your circumstances became, you vowed to always be there for Sunghoon and not let him freefall back into that void of isolation.

But over time, that vow mutated into something more complicated. Something that kept you awake at night, tossing and turning with tangled sheets and an aching emptiness. The more you learned about Sunghoon's quiet strength, his dry humor, his latent brilliance left to wither on the vine...the more your feelings started drifting into uncharted waters.

You trace the sharp lines of Sunghoon's profile with hungry eyes. The elegant slope of his nose, the strands of night-black hair falling across his eyes, the sculptural cut of his jawline that could have been chiseled from marble. Naturally, your gaze drops to the full pout of his lips, and you feel a lush, insistent ache deep in your belly. The painful throb of yearning for something - someone - so achingly close yet impossibly out of reach.

Get a grip, you growl at yourself, shaking your head minutely. Sunghoon is your friend. He's already been through so much in this life. The last thing he needs is the weight of your burgeoning feelings muddying up what little hope he's found.

But you can't help replaying all of the late nights you've spent side-by-side, putting the shattered pieces of your lives back together through hushed conversations and shared laughter over future dreams. How his obsidian eyes would glitter at your jokes as your shoulders brushed, sending tingles racing across your skin. The way his calloused hand would linger over yours during rare instances of contact, raising goosebumps along the surface like an electric brand.

You've tried so hard to rationalize your feelings away as temporary insanity. As the inevitable yearning to find intimacy in the one person who truly sees you for who you are - the lost girl grasping just as desperately for belonging, already torn to shreds by the all-consuming need blazing through your veins.

Sunghoon's lashes sweep upwards, his penetrating gaze catching your fixated stare. You startle slightly, blood rushing quickly to your cheeks at being so transparently caught in your staring. He arches an inquisitive eyebrow and you hastily shake your head, worrying your bottom lip in an attempt to regain composure.

"Sorry, I was just...lost in thought," you mumble with an unconvincing laugh, trying in vain to ignore the thump of your pulse drumming in your ears.

Sunghoon holds your gaze for a heavy moment, his stare stripping away every flimsy barrier you've tried to build. The ghost of a smirk plays at the corners of those tantalizing lips. "I could tell. You get this look...like the whole cosmos is swirling around behind your eyes."

You snort softly at his turn of phrase, finally allowing your features to relax into a crooked smile. An attempt to retake control and deflect from the storm ravaging you from the inside out. "Pretty sure it's just the usual jumbled mess bouncing around my skull."

"Well, whatever it is..." Sunghoon murmurs, leaning forward slightly with uncharacteristic earnestness. His eyes search yours with an arresting intensity that has your breath catching in your throat. "I hope you know you can talk to me about anything. Anytime. You're..." He pauses, adam's apple bobbing, "You're the only real family I've got."

Your throat constricts at his simple yet loaded admission. For all of Sunghoon's projected nonchalance, his vulnerability was one of his most disarming qualities. He didn't let just anyone see beneath the armor.

The urge to reach across the table and pull him into a hug is overwhelming. To pour every ounce of your heart's desires into the union of your bodies and souls. But you swallow that reckless impulse, nodding mutely.

"I know," you rasp, fingers straying unconsciously across the tabletop until they're covering his hand. Ignoring the lump in your chest at the searing brand of flesh on flesh. "And you're mine too, Sunghoon. Wherever this crazy life takes us...I'll always be on your side. I'm not going anywhere."

A kaleidoscope of emotions flicker across Sunghoon's features - gratitude and something deeper, more visceral that you dare not put a name to for fear of shattering the delicate tension covering you both. He turns his hand over, intertwining his fingers with yours in a way that has your breath hitching.

In that single gesture, your vision blurs with a maelstrom of feeling. You realize with a bone-deep ache that even if Sunghoon doesn't reciprocate this all-consuming need scorching through your veins...this bond alone is more meaningful than anything you could have ever dared dream for yourself. Two souls who found sanctuary in each other's light, refusing to let it be extinguished by the gales of the past.

And maybe...just maybe...there's still a flicker of that same fire reflected in Sunghoon's gaze. A spark flickering tantalizingly behind his eyes that could one day ignite into a cataclysmic firestorm if you let the air rush in. But for now, you'll embrace this steady glow of affinity and belonging, letting it envelop you like the first warm rays of dawn after an endless night of darkness.

No matter what the future may bring, you'll bear this burden, letting it burn through your very marrow as proof of life's persisting beauty in the ashes. Both of you have wandered in shadow for far too long. It's time to let this bond guide you, however fraught with longing, into the searing light of grace.

You give Sunghoon's hand a firm, resolute squeeze. Steadying yourself against the current of want threatening to sweep you away into uncharted depths. With a smile, you hold his stare.

"I'm never letting you go, Sunghoon. We've got each other. That's what matters most."

[miquella-everywhere]

What if the whole Miquella/St. Trina dichotomy is actually about childhood and adulthood????

It's interesting how the Torch St. Trina specifically calls Trina's adult form "unnerving" almost like Miquella being an adult in any form goes against his curse/nature? 🤔

Perhaps St. Trina was one of Miquella's attempts at breaking his curse/becoming an adult? But now there's potentially a separate self of Miquella wandering around doing who knows what, and apparently there is something fundamentally wrong with that.

Maybe its the process of how he separated himself that was wrong? Or maybe it's now that this other self is their/her/his own person, and in the DLC we'll have to deal with Trina acting separately from Miquella's will.

Antagonist St. Trina maybe???? 🤔🤔🤔🤔

Edit:

What if Miquella saw the whole Marigon situation and attempted to do the same thing, to split himself thinking that it could break his curse, and Trina was born from that attempt.

And since one of the main points of Fundamentalism is that "All Things Yearn to Converge" what if one of our main goals is to reunite Miquella with Trina?

[driften-sea-snake]

there was only one strike

marika’s shattering of the elden ring and radagon’s attempt to repair it were not two separate events. it was the same hammer strike, done for two different reasons by two different people. though they shared one body, they did not share the same individuality. it’s the perfect culmination of marika and radagon’s story.

radagon is something like a fragment, clone, or bud separated from marika. however, the nature of subjective consciousness meant his journey turned him into a distinct person with his own experiences, desires and character. when he returned and rejoined marika’s body it was not the reunion of two halves of the same person. in this way it's an example of elden ring’s exploration of consciousness and individuality. regression is the pull of meaning, and all things share a yearning to converge. yet, just as life cannot return to the shared unity of the crucible, marika and radagon could not simply merge again. their different memories, emotions and relationships combined with the passage of time to create distinct individuality. when they reunited they did not find the comfort of one’s self, but all the intimacy and horror that goes along with the mortifying ordeal of being known.

marika’s story is defined in large part by a key contradiction. she wished to free herself of the golden order, disillusioned with the elden beast as its promises of eternity and a larger plan in the universe were called into greater and greater doubt. however, the golden order was also the source of her godhood. even if she was only a figurehead to exploit, the people of the lands between worshipped her because of it. to separate herself from the golden order and the power of the erdtree controlled by the elden beast would mean losing this status. based on their different personalities and histories, marika and radagon came to reflect the opposite sides of this contradiction. marika represented the possibility of rebirth, that destroying the elden beast and/or usurping its power would allow her to be an eternal god in truth. radagon embodied the ostensible safety of stagnation, which would mean coming to terms with the golden order and trying to save it. to do so would mean continuing to be trapped within those confines, but it would preserve her place as revered god. there is a comfort in misery, especially one that is known for a long time; the unknown can offer the hope of change and rebirth, but also uncertainty and the possibility of something worse.

this all ultimately led marika and radagon to bring their hammer down on the elden ring, but contained within that strike were the contradictions of two people and two goals. for marika, becoming a god in truth by usurping or destroying the elden beast, for radagon strengthening or reforming the elden ring in an attempt to allow the golden order to persist. marika yearned out of hope and ambition that she might become a god in truth while radagon trembled at the thought of losing the power and stability of her current position. it was an attempted resolution of their contradictions, both within themselves as distinct individuals and the golden order that empowered and trapped them.

[dragon-communion]

I don't fully understand the dynamic between Radagon and Marika, not that I think anyone does, but Miquella and Trina have me FERAL with ideas.

The whole core of Golden Order Fundamentalism being causality and regression puts me very much in mind of DID, and I'm not sure how many fans know what that is, so I'm going to give a fast and dirty rundown as someone with the disorder.

The current prevailing medical theory for how this works, to the best of my knowledge, is something called the theory of structural dissociation. Basically once upon a time, a child was put through traumatic experiences repeatedly, and in an effort to cope they compartmentalized those memories away. But a person is, fundamentally, a collection of memories, and that's where the fun begins.

The ability to access those memories, as well as the relevant skills and emotions attached to those memories, depends on the flavor of dissociative disorder honestly. I'm not here to give a university lecture on it, but what I AM here to say is that as someone with alters, the development of the Empyreans is something I'm incredibly fascinated by. I realize the writers were borrowing more from alchemy than psychology, most likely, but the end result is incredibly familiar.

On the topic of GO Fundamentalism and "all things yearning to converge"- the first question I was ever asked by a professional was whether or not I wanted to reintegrate/fuse with my alters. Hard pass actually, but some people do choose to do that in an effort to become one person again. It's not foolproof- once you've laid down the wiring for alters splitting, that's not a mechanism you can undo, but it is possible for "all things to conjoin."

I have a feeling Marika was attempting to do that with Radagon, or the other way around, to mixed results. Considering what I've heard about her being intensely traumatized, I have to start wondering when the seed for Radagon started branching off- I think Trina and Miquella were functionally one person for a very long time before they ever fully split apart in the flesh. It's possible Radagon existed in Marika's head, or as a spirit like Trina, for a period of time before the Liurnian Wars. Maybe his physical presentation took inspiration from the Giant War she just polished off.

In the exact opposite of Marika's attempt to conjoin with Radagon, Miquella rejects Trina so hard that this may be her first time having real flesh of her own in the Land of Shadow. She existed as an independent entity, yes, but every description of her I've seen in an item seems to imply that her followers looked for her in dreams. A nonphysical plane. And in the cut content, Miquella's body and hers are one in the same.

I think Malenia outright fragmented in Caelid, and the remaining pieces were such small portions of the whole that they were barely independent identities. If we consider the Malenia we fight in the Haligtree the "host", she's got about one motivation to her name and nothing else. The original Malenia was split up piecemeal between her buds/offshoots and the original body, and she's never had an opportunity to try to heal or learn how to function in this new state.

I really like the description of the others as "offshoots". Not quite siblings, not quite daughters, something sideways and very similar to being a system.

Focusing back on Radagon though- he seems to have a bit of a complex about being related to the giants? He hates resembling the giants to such an extent that we get that knowledge off of a literal fire giant's braid, where Radagon's name has no business being. An interesting combination of xenophobia AND self-hatred. But if Radagon is Marika, he can't actually be a giant or giant-blooded, right?

Radagon is characterized most intensely by loyalty to the Golden Order, to the extent that he seems to have usurped Marika in the later years of the empire, and I think that's where we find our clue about where the strange self-hatred comes from. Marika's self-hatred and self-destruction, resulting in an alter that manifests as the greatest threat to the Erdtree. The first threat Marika had to neutralize was giantsflame. The giants were the greatest threat to her rule. But in the end, the greatest threat to her rule was Marika herself. Marika, for all intents and purposes, demands we as Tarnished burn her empire down.

I think Radagon, loyalty embodied, the empire embodied, really really hates himself because Marika hates herself. And that's why they never fully conjoined, not successfully- Radagon managed to control and restrain and suppress Marika, but that's about it. I don't think she wanted to live anymore, by the end of it, and Radagon was too loyal to their god to let her end it all.

So that leaves us with Miquella and Trina. And if Trina is love, hope, the things that made him doubt and fear and feel misery in the time leading up to his apotheosis, then I do think that to a certain extent Miquella might have hated himself too. He got rid of the self-love that told him to turn back. What was left, after that? Maybe nothing at all, maybe just the driving urge to bloom as a god. A disturbing mirror to Malenia, hollowed-out except for the urge to win, in the roots of the Haligtree.

[jimmyjims]

Day 1: Yearning

Zelink Week 2023 ~ @zelinkcommunity

Despite his inability to speak, Leon still found it a bit difficult to translate words onto paper. He sat at his desk and tapped the pen on his chin methodically. He was writing about how his day went, but so much had happened that he was not sure how to limit how much he wrote in order to focus on the good parts of his day. Today, too many good things happened. How could he fit it all on this small sheet of paper? Should he just draw instead? He usually added small sketches under his journal entries but Leon decided that there were truly no words to describe how his day went. So, he began to sketch whatever came to mind first.

A small line here, a curved line there. Was that a smile? Maybe. Keep going. Round eyes full of wonder and light. He wonders who they belong to. Curls that caressed round cheeks. Everything about this was round, he realized. What else should he make round? Maybe he should extend the drawing a bit to explore more of this character he was unconsciously creating. Taking a moment to take it in before he continued, Leon gasped in realization. He dropped his pen and covered his mouth with his hand. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was a few more moments before he finally looked down again.

There she was. The Princess looked up at him sweetly, her round eyes sparkling at him. Her gorgeous head was floating on the paper, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish. Leon’s cheeks flushed as he tried shaking away the feeling that gnawed at his heart, but he only gained a stronger will to finish the drawing. He decided to give her a flower to hold, the flower whose seeds they had planted this morning. Each stroke was gentle as he finalized the details he had memorized of the Princess: her freckles that scattered across the sky of her face, the dress she wore today that gently hugged the curvature of her body, and the beautiful gold jewelry that highlighted her ears, fingers and wrist.

Once he was satisfied, Leon tapped his pen on his desk and smiled tenderly. He had ignored her beauty since he met her, but now, he embraced her perfect appearance. But…there was something he could not ignore. Leon sighed as he glanced at the folded letters that sat at the top right corner of his desk. He took a peek inside of one of them and felt a guilty stab in his heart. Leaning back, he tilted his face towards the ceiling. He knew it was wrong to yearn for the Princess; his heart belonged to someone else, despite being so far away from home. He knew this and yet, he couldn’t shake away the tingling sensation from his hands as he remembered the accidental touch he shared with her this morning.

Leon forced himself to try to imagine Mathilde, to remember her. She felt too far away to be palpable, making it a bit more difficult to capture her true magnificence. What was her touch like? Leon ran his thumb across the tips of his fingers. Like a shock, perhaps? Her eccentric nature might have energized her touch. What had she looked like? Leon tried to draw her in his mind, only for him to realize that it took too long for him to distinguish the details he had memorized in his time with her. The day he left. Her somber expression. Her last touch. It had left him feeling lonely after they let each other go. Their last embrace was bittersweet and felt like little more than a brief convergence. A convergence that left a sharp and painful feeling in his chest. If he touched her again, would she feel like a knife?

His little fairy companion was amused by Leon’s inspection of his hand, noticing that his face showed pain. She had noted the lack of a journal entry, which was rather odd considering he was having a grand time with the Princess the entire morning. Why was the young hero rubbing his fingers all of a sudden?

“Did gardening make your hands numb?” Tradi asked, pulling Leon away from his thoughts. He jumped at her tiny voice and turned to find her resting on his left shoulder. With a furrowed brow, Leon shook his head and looked back at his hand. Knowing she wouldn’t get a real answer, Tradi flew in front of him to annoy him. Leon grimaced and joined her in her game, only for him to give up after multiple turns of his head. He finally pointed at the drawing he had made and crossed his arms. Tradi laughed in her triumph and hovered over the paper. Leon glared at the teasing fairy while she analyzed the drawing that caused so much guilt within him.

“Wow! Lovely work, Leon!” Tradi giggled. Leon stuck out his lower lip and let out a huff.

“Aw, come on! I’m being honest!” she insisted. “I think you should show this to her!”

Leon quickly shook his head and criss-crossed his arms across his chest. He was already angry with himself for drawing her for today’s journal entry; showing it to Zelda would only make matters worse. Tradi sighed and rested on his shoulder once again.

“Has Mathilde sent you another letter?” she asked, her tone sharing his concern all of a sudden. Leon lowered his eyes and nodded, gesturing at the pile of letters he was collecting. Tradi wavered around the papers and lifted a corner of the paper at the top of the stack.

“Something feels wrong,” she noted as she read a bit of what was written. A twitch from Leon’s lower lip only worsened Tradi’s fears. Knowing that feeding Leon’s concern would not end too well, Tradi knew she had to give him at least a sliver of hope. “Don’t worry too much about it, Leon. Maybe she’s getting busy, like you are!”

Leon’s eyebrows creased his forehead with worry. Is that all this was? Maybe he had been overthinking it. He wanted to believe Tradi, but he still couldn’t ignore the feelings that had surged within him. He started to suspect that this was a test of his love for Mathilde— and he was failing. Leon stood from his chair and went out to pace around the balcony adjoining the room. Tradi watched as he thought to himself, his face contorting at each new one that emerged. She felt helpless watching him become more and more unsure of himself.

They both turned quickly at the sound of the window doors opening. Princess Zelda walked out and took in a deep breath of the fresh air. Too startled to move, Leon found himself staring at the Princess with wide eyes. It took a few more moments before she finally met his eyes, her own widening in response.

“L-Leon! What are you doing out here?” she chuckled nervously. He glanced away and shrugged, still too taken aback to properly react. The Princess gave him a sweet laugh and walked towards him until a few steps of distance were between them. She hid her hands behind her back and shifted a bit shyly.

“I never thanked you properly for helping me this morning,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Leon bit his lip,  staring at his feet. A smile from the Princess was attempted, but she still couldn’t get anything out of him. She started to give up before Tradi reappeared and laughed.

“Sorry, Princess! He’s a bit tired from today. I think he will be able to chat after his nap,” she suggested. Princess Zelda laughed and nodded.

“Yes, he probably is tired after hearing me talk to him all morning,” she teased. Leon finally looked at her and shook his head.

“Oh?” Princess Zelda questioned. She watched as Leon’s hands possibly moved a bit too rapidly for her to interpret. Thankfully, the little fairy was an expert interpreter.

“I had a nice time with you today, Princess. I was just thinking about what Mathilde has told me recently,” Tradi said. Zelda frowned slightly and held her hands in front of her chest.

“But you look a bit upset,” she noted, tilting her head. “Is everything alright with her?”

Leon thought for a moment while he started to rebuild the wall between them. His feelings for Mathilde had to prevail; he had loved her for so long. So why did he feel like he was making a mistake?

“Leon,” the Princess whispered, her hand resting on his arm. The shock he felt was unlike what he remembered Mathilde’s to be. It was a more soft and comforting feeling that only made him long for more. A more roundness to her touch made his heart ache with desire. His breath got caught in his throat, and he started to feel uneasy by her magical touch. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. He loved Mathilde, he did. He had to return to her or else the Princess would replace her in his heart. He did not want that. Or did he?

“Let’s get you inside,” the Princess insisted. Leon clenched his trembling fists and nodded, following her inside. Maybe he really did need a nap. Yes, he was too tired to discern his feelings, much less the longing he felt for the Princess to touch him again. His thoughts lingered on how the roundness of her fingertips sent him into a quiet frenzy with the touch they had shared in the morning. No, he could not let that happen again. He decided her touch was to be avoided at all costs— maybe he should avoid her as much as he could. His duty as her knight would make it difficult, but he had to do it. For Mathilde. For his own sake.

[slavonicrhapsody]

I saw a video that mentioned how Radagon's name starts with R, fitting in with the also R-starting names of the Carian royals. And they wondered if it was possible that, since the Liurnian Wars were the first and only battles Radagon fought in before marrying Rennala, instantly solving those wars, that he might have been actually been 'made' with the very purpose of marrying her from the beginning. When I recall how under the Golden Order, Carian astrology 'withered on the vine' and how initially loyal all the Carian demigods were to Leyndell, I feel like it's really plausible. It's a wickedly tragic image, if that *was* the reason Radagon was created. Him being made like a key to the lock that was Liurnia.

INTERESTING…. never really thought about this theory, but I think it really fits with some thoughts I already have about Radagon and the Carians.

Radagon founded Golden Order fundamentalism after studying sorcery as Rennala’s husband, and as such, fundamentalist incantations are based on both faith AND intelligence. I swear this is relevant!! The Radagon Icon item description says this:

“As the husband of Rennala of Caria, the red-haired Radagon studied sorcery, and as the husband of Queen Marika, he studied incantations. Thus did the hero aspire to be complete.”

Completion, the way Radagon sees it, is this joining between faith and intelligence.

We also learn from Rogier about how glintstone sorcery was brought into the Golden Order:

“They were conceived at the great Academy of Raya Lucaria, to the north of this castle. In the past, they obeyed laws which contravened the Golden Order, or so I'm told. Fascinating, isn't it? That the Golden Order was pliable enough to absorb practices that contradicted itself in the past.”

So fundamentalism is an extension of a Golden Order that now encompasses glintstone sorcery. This also reflects the Golden Order’s Law of Regression, “all things yearn eternally to converge.”

Furthermore, just as Radagon’s fundamentalism is based on a joining of the Erdtree and the moon, so are his children with Rennala! I think this may have been why Ranni was an empyrean, chosen by the Two Fingers, since she stands to inherit BOTH lineages… as the god of the new age, she would ensure the moon would forever exist under the Erdtree. Of course, she ended up completely destroying the part of her that was connected to the Erdtree, so this didn’t happen at all 😎

Anyway, all of this makes it seem like a joining of the Erdtree and the moon was something desired by the Greater Will. So the idea that Radagon was specifically engineered for this purpose slots into this idea pretty neatly I think, especially since he went on to solidify the principles of the Golden Order based off of his experiences with sorcery. The idea that the family’s very existence might have been part of a wider agenda definitely puts a complicated spin on their character dynamics for sure

[demondesatan]

"A heart made fullmetal" 🩶

There's no such things as a painless lesson. They just don't exist. Sacrifices are necessary. You can't gain anything without losing something first although if you can endure that pain and walk away from it, you'll find that you now have a heart strong enough to overcome any obstacle. Yeah, a heart made fullmetal.

N: I can feel it tempting me, this picture perfect scene.

I will dive head first into an undiscovered world! Whoah!

M: When I was younger, I wandered so far away -

underneath that stormy sky.

Each day a different journey, all of my dreams

came to life before my eyes.

N: I wondered if someday I’d travel so far,

I could leave it all behind.

No matter if it took forever to move one step at a time.

M: As I looked up, every rain drop

reflecting the light around me.

Shooting through my heart, pulling it apart to show

the wounds that I’d been hiding for so long!

N: Rays of light so blinding as they’re crossing at my feet.

Off into the distance going forever,

Where they are going’s still a mystery!

M: Now all I see’s the afterimage burned into my eyes

So I’ll dive head first into that undiscovered world!

N: Drained of our color, we put on a mask,

and we hide all that matters in the end.

There’s something better,

there is a dream, that will give us all hope to share.

M: More than the stars in the sky,

More beautiful than flowers and gems, so bright.

We reach out. Just like a window or a hologram, whoah,

we look inside…

N: Look at this scene, something that we

painted with the colors we feel.

Both: Pushing all the shame, loneliness and pain away

N: And blow them off like bubbles in the wind!

M: If the wounds I’ve suffered finally tear off with a scab,

Or I stumble on this road that I’m traveling,

I know that I’ll become stronger than I am!

N: I can feel it tempting me, this picture perfect scene.

I will dive head first into an undiscovered world!

M: Whenever I tremble ‘cause I know

the shadow of tomorrow’s getting close…

N: Shooting past the misty sky, is a rainbow colored light, whoah,

Calling out my name from oh so far away! Yeah! Whoah!

M: In the afternoon after the rain has finally stopped,

When the light reflects off everything,

shining so bright and banishing the dark!

N: Every single shade combines, the gradients converge,

No matter where I might be, after so long I’ve yearned,

I know someday I’ll find my place within that undiscovered world!

[hosannan]

it never gets easier — nanna on sociability;

"It feels a bit strange to suddenly be surrounded by so many people... I should be happy about it, shouldn't I?" — Nanna (Nordion Princess)

Now, that's an odd thing to say when your game ending, base skill (Charisma), and every subsequent descriptor of you subscribes to:

Lachesis's daughter. A charismatic young lady, she has her mother's graceful bearing. Appears in Fire Emblem: Thracia 776. — (Nanna: Nordion Princess) Daughter of Lachesis, the princess of Nordion. Known for her grace, charm, and kindness. Appears in Fire Emblem: Thracia 776. — (Nanna: Beloved Princess)

Which substantiates that while Nanna is capable of inspiring devotion and compelling those around her with emotionally-intelligent leadership skills, in reality, she struggles to adapt around new places with plenty of strangers. It's a nice dichotomy, I think, that she personally brings it upon herself to put her best foot forward despite feeling at odds, socially. I've always considered the talks from FEH, especially between Kiran and Nanna, to be more character detailing rather than something she'd ever profess to publicly, so it's like a nicely kept secret between her and the audience playing. So, in the same way, this is a secret she won't ever divulge to anyone but you! (points through the screen 💖—)

I find it refreshing that she actually has private reservations in new places around new people, since her publicized character is built on connection and natural grace. And to top it all off, she's got a breadth of experience when it comes to being dropped into a new crowd, given that she and Leif converged with Seliph's Salvation Army after essentially losing a majority of their own army in an attempt to liberate Ulster. I can't imagine it being painless, but in her own way, Nanna makes it look easy. Girl has the tendency to put her all into getting to know people and subsequently holding those people close, even if she feels frankly out of place doing it.

I indulge in the idea that Nanna couldn't help but feel othered in these situations. On top of the Salvation Army or even being summoned into FEH, she also had to move countless times (Ulster Capital, Hrest, Tahra and ultimately Fiana), so that probably magnified the feeling of being out of place. And yet she pulls away from this natural wariness because she always has been the type to overcome her base self. There's something inside her that demands mastery and self improvement, and yearns deeply for bonds despite herself. She wants fellowship, she wants commitment, she wants to swear by the growing amount of friends and family she's made. She wants to be more than herself, in order to belong. With her people and for her people.

I can only imagine she's still striving to better herself even now in the academy.

It's never easy, even if she makes it look that way, but to her, the friends she's made and the friends she has yet to come across are more than worthwhile.

[itianexpert-blog]

Where Vintage Grunge Meets High-Fashion Rebellion

In the ever-evolving landscape of streetwear, few brands manage to straddle the line between edgy rebellion and luxury quite like Gallery Dept. Born from the creative synergy of Los Angeles artists Josh Fine and Maurice Malone, Gallery Dept Clothing is more than just a clothing label - it's a cultural phenomenon that reimagines vintage aesthetics through a contemporary lens, injecting high-fashion sensibilities into the world of skate and punk.

Their story begins in a sun-drenched Californian skatepark, where Fine and Malone, seasoned veterans of the art scene, found their creative paths converging. They bonded over a shared appreciation for all things vintage, particularly the raw energy and rebellious spirit of 70s punk and 90s grunge. This common ground laid the foundation for Gallery Dept., a brand that would weave nostalgia with contemporary artistry, transforming worn-out garments into canvases for their subversive vision.

Their approach is anything but conventional. Instead of pristine production lines and meticulously sourced fabrics, Gallery Dept. thrives on upcycling and reimagination. Vintage band tees, distressed denim jackets, and faded sweatshirts are breathed new life through hand-painted graphics, bold bleaching techniques, and unexpected juxtapositions of materials. Every piece tells a story, bearing the scars and imperfections of its past life, imbued with a unique character that speaks to the brand's core values of authenticity and individuality.

This dedication to rawness and individuality extends beyond the garments themselves. Gallery Dept. shuns traditional runway shows and celebrity endorsements, preferring instead to cultivate a community of artists, musicians, and skaters who embody their rebellious spirit. Their campaigns are less about polished perfection and more about capturing the raw energy of underground music venues and graffiti-laden backstreets. It's about showcasing the clothes on individuals who live and breathe the brand's ethos, not faceless models on a sterile catwalk.

This unconventional approach has garnered them a cult-like following among fashion's forward-thinking set. Celebrities like Kanye West, Travis Scott, and Drake have been spotted sporting their distinctive denim jackets and bleached tees, further solidifying the brand's position at the intersection of streetwear and high fashion. But Gallery Dept.'s appeal extends beyond celebrity endorsement. It's the authenticity, the rebellious spirit, and the sheer artistry that resonates with a generation yearning for something beyond mass-produced trends.

Their pieces, though meticulously crafted, maintain an aura of DIY rebellion. Bleached denim looks like it was ripped straight from a vintage store, graphic tees bear hand-painted skulls and scrawled slogans, and oversized flannels appear straight out of a grunge music video. It's a deliberate rejection of the polished, mass-produced aesthetic that dominates much of the fashion landscape. Instead, Gallery Dept. celebrates individuality, imperfection, and the raw energy of street culture.

But it's not just about nostalgia and rebellion. Gallery Dept. also injects a healthy dose of high-fashion sensibility into their creations. Collaborations with iconic luxury brands like Louis Vuitton and Adidas elevate their garments beyond the realm of streetwear, while still retaining their distinct aesthetic. They manage to walk the tightrope between street grit and high-end luxury, creating pieces that are both covetable and accessible.

This is perhaps the greatest strength of Gallery Dept. They haven't forgotten their roots. They haven't succumbed to the temptations of mass production and designer collaborations that often strip the soul from independent brands. They remain true to their core values, their love for vintage, their appreciation for street culture, and their unwavering commitment to individuality. In a world of fleeting trends and manufactured hype, Gallery Dept Hoodie stands as a beacon of authenticity, a testament to the enduring power of raw creativity and rebellious spirit.

So, the next time you see someone sporting a faded Gallery Dept. tee with a hand-painted skull, don't just see a piece of clothing. See a testament to a brand rewriting fashion rules, one distressed denim jacket, and bleached t-shirt at a time. See a community of artists and rebels reclaiming vintage aesthetics and injecting them with a contemporary edge. See a brand that simply refuses to be confined to the boxes.

[meli-r]

Another short piece on some topics that inspired me yesterday, using Touma Kouzaburou and the OC to describe them.

*****

Touma let out a soft, short laugh.

“What?” Yashiro asked.

"Well, you've been absent today, and I found myself strangely missing your company. I realized it's your final year before college. Tell me, what is friendship to you?"

Yashiro took a moment, her gaze wandering as she considered the question. “Mutual interest and sharing values. It shouldn’t involve sacrifices or compromises that undermine one's principles and beliefs.”

"I see. You prioritize values, goals, and mutual respect for each other's integrity," Touma continued in a softer tone, taking a sip of whisky as he glanced at the table. "I had a friend just like that, but I lost him when I was ten or so."

“In your homeland?”

“Yes. We met while I was in Ogishima, but we went our separate ways. He left the island before me. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing now. I was never good at friendship or love. I’ve come this far myself without either. But whenever I am with you, these concepts pique my interest. Perhaps someday I’ll find their meaning. We walk our own paths with distinct values and goals, yet here we are, converging in a way.”

Yashiro raised an eyebrow, sighing and gazing toward the glass at the side of the room, observing the skyscrapers. “I guess I still have to navigate around the concept. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle without knowing all the pieces.”

“What about you?”

“What?” Yashiro looked at him.

“Any childhood friends?”

“Sure,” she raised her eyebrows for a second, turning to the glass window again.

Touma sighed with a smile. “You don’t sound so sure.”

“I never had somewhere to belong like you,” shrugged Yashiro. “We traveled a lot, my father and I.”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Making friends was always easier than keeping them,” she continued, her tone tinged with a hint of nostalgia. “It's like I was a fleeting presence in their lives. Never really rooted anywhere.”

“I envy that,” Touma admitted, surprising both Yashiro and himself with the confession. “Growing up in Ogishima, I always wished to break free, to see beyond the boundaries of the island. It felt like a cage, and I yearned to explore Japan, experience the world outside. Expecting things to always stay the same is not life. It’s a delusion. We need courage, the type not even a God any longer beholds. To know fear, but conquer it. To see the abyss, but with pride. Everything we gain in this life, we will eventually have to lose. Do you remember that passage from Nietzsche?”

“How could I forget it? You've been drilling it into my head ever since I lent you the book,” she sighed.

“There's a different kind of yearning. The desire to venture into the unknown, to break away from the familiar. It's a longing for a life I could have had, different from the one I knew. But now I’m free. The money and reputation I've earned I can use for whatever I want. To follow my beliefs. To travel or take detours like this.”

“I hope so,” she looked at him.

Touma noticed that her voice showed a displeasure that almost sounded as if it were sadness. “What is it? Why do you have that tone?”

“I’m sorry. It's something I was just thinking about.”

“Thinking about me?”

“Among other things. Sometimes I envy you and your life,” she frowned briefly, her gaze drifting toward the city lights like realizing she had said something she would not have wanted to say. “And I shouldn’t.”

Touma’s eyes opened wide for a moment. “No, you shouldn’t. That must have been hard to admit.”

“There were times when I wished for a quiet, ordinary life, like the one you had. And that courage you hold dear.”

Touma leaned back. “It's like we each hold a piece of the puzzle the other longs for, yet we're unable to see it within ourselves.”

Yashiro sighed, a mixture of melancholy and acceptance in her voice. “We always yearn for something we lack.”

“Ever felt lonely?” Touma asked.

“Yes.”

“I mean really lonely. That no matter what you do or who you're with, you still feel it, like you can see the whole universe and life unfolding around you but you can't truly feel it and time just passes?”

“I know what you mean.”

Touma leaned in, his expression growing darker. “And have you ever felt so lonely you could do something out of boredom you should regret, only to prove that you can act, that you can live?”

“No,” she quickly responded, frowning.

“No? Never? Or have you held back that desire because you’re ashamed of it?” he smirked with narrowed eyes briefly.

“I never felt a need to prove anything to anyone. I just always wanted to be left alone. To live.”

"The essence of the Übermensch, wouldn't you say? To forge one's own path, unrestrained by societal norms. Unlike Sibyl, I've chosen to embrace my desires, to revel in the power of my own will. Nietzsche wrote of the eternal recurrence—the idea that every moment of our lives will be repeated infinitely. For me, that’s not a burden—it’s liberation. The power to transcend the ordinary and define my own existence.”

"It may offer liberation in your eyes, but it sounds like an excuse for indulgence and a rejection of responsibility. I know you mean more than what you say. The pursuit of one's desires without considering the consequences on others is a selfish endeavor, not a noble liberation."

Touma took another sip of whisky, the amber liquid reflecting the soft glow of the room. His chuckle echoed in the room, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Ah, Yashiro, you always cut straight to the core. Well, we can agree to disagree on that, can't we? I have two words for you: moral relativism. Responsibility can be as confining as societal norms. Have you ever thought about the liberation it offers? You have a way of making it sound almost… poetic."

Yashiro's glare hardened, a mix of exasperation and a reluctant smile appearing on her face. "Poetic responsibility?"

Touma grinned and leaned back again. "Don't let my words distract you from the essence of our conversation. We're not plotting a heist or planning a murder here. No need to summon Sibyl to pass judgment on our philosophical banter."

He chuckled, creating a brief moment of levity that seemed to ease the tension in the room. Yashiro sighed, her shoulders relaxing. "Your sense of humor sucks."

Touma laughed and softly shook his head with a smile, as they both paused to savor the aroma of the meal before them. Their gazes lingered on each other, Touma's eyes momentarily entwined with Yashiro's, a subtle smile playing on his lips, before they took a moment to cut into a succulent piece of meat, the flavors mingling with the rich undertones of the whisky in their glasses.

"Just trying to add a touch of Nietzschean absurdity to our otherwise serious discourse. Life's too short to take everything too seriously, especially when debating the meaning of it all."

[rainlores]

a baguio postcard:

on place revisits, familiarity, culture and its changes, memories, and the timespan before being back.

what's in places and how do they have a heart? it's a soul alive and breathing that cradles mine. an eye for an eye, and here i witness some beauty that had survived the weathering of ages, stones carved on a moutain edge, and as i stretch my hand out the car window, it is the familiar chill i felt when i was little. or so i thought. it was nature enduring the tragedies of itself, and upon its fragile shell lies my seven-year old yearning heart who thought that out here, the sky is a little nearer and i could almost reach for it.

i find myself in a city so foreign while dwelling in its familiarity. like my dainty hands had known the waters of that lake when we paddled. like my feet had already traversed these same streets, a muscle memory of childhood's sanctity. i find myself walking down the streets by the road, knowing where it leads us because after multiple times of back and forth, i had already known where is where. where the tip of mountain touches the cloud just barely. where the secret bamboo sanctuary resides, and how come the steepness of the road resembles life. where the tall pine trees scatter by the sidewalk. where is the transient house we have lodged before. i am not a stranger here; i am not a tourist. i am visiting an old friend and embracing its familiar face. i am hearing the familiar rhythm of its beating heart, an echo of the past and present and the folktales it holds within. i am sitting under the shade of a tree and identifying that the grass had turned greener.

in its architecture, i wonder about the rocks that stay steady in its potential force, that amid the tiny earthquakes under the ground and the weight of cars and the people's dreams, they withstand. how come the residents trust the fact that they live in a tilted earth, and that any minute a slight roll of rock would alter their course of life? yet aren't we all living in one? we balance ourselves where the plates converge the other, humbling our feet to the ground. god. this city and the cold it carries, of jampacked streets and the session road where all the life intersects. this city and its secrets away from the noise. this city and its ghosts on abandoned hotels. the city and its culture, challenged by the constant modernization, the traces of history, and what had become of the motherland. the city and its local and ancient stories. this city and what we take from it. this city and what i cannot claim from it; i only borrow a sliver of its sunlight to take with me. this city and how its avenues become memory lanes of what was, and what will be, that revisiting feels like a time travel. it holds a fragment of me when i was seven, ever so vivid that i remember the cold more than the being. when i turned nine and i learned how to bike. then when i was thirteen and homesick and my family was miles away and for two nights i cried myself to sleep and for three days i had to win. and fourteen when it felt like decades ago and the only thing that remained was constancy in change. when i was fifteen and i had never felt so alive at midnight. and twice a fragment of me when i was sixteen when it was 7 am and we have no sense of direction and all we did was walk.

hence, this city—where we celebrate love and age and a christmas and two new years and a holy thursday and one win and two losses. this, where i commemorate time in which i am forever seven looking out the window and on the way home i tucked in my sweater all the good things and i did not cry.

what's really held in our souveneirs? those ube jams, strawberries, flowers that only survive in cold (and how courageous we are to take them home where the sun burns the petals), bonnets, and keychains? do we take so much because it is our way of staying, of remembering, of storing the city in something tangible like a memoir? but maybe, just maybe, in leaving, we do not carry the memories as we go down the mountain. they become like ghosts in the park, and once revisited, they are resurrected alive in the spirit of familiarity. they are never buried even in thousands of tourists, because in one way or another, we have our footprints forever embarked in pavements, names forever carved on trees. we say goodbye to a place covered in fog, knowing there will be a next. knowing that we will be welcomed again, and when we come back, we can linger again in the light it shares; it teaches us how one can nurture warmth between the spaces of intertwined gloved hands and feel the skin underneath, something so humane. it teachers us how to store summer inside a tiny pocket and how to tend to a soil where love was thought impossible to grow.

forever seven,

yen.

[nctsworld]

completely floored

✩ jeno x reader | best friends to lovers | fluff | smut | 1.5k

SUMMARY | who knew gaming on the floor like you two used to could change everything between you and your best friend? WARNINGS | smut, floor s*x, oral s*x (m receiving) RATING | mature PROMPT | staring at each other’s lips for a moment before giving in REQ BY | anonymous

AUTHOR’S NOTE | bless up for the boring jalapeno teasers to give me inspo and i’ve been wanting to write jeno for a long time so hehe i also haven’t played uno in forever sorry if there’s anything off

In Jeno’s basement rental suite, you two are sitting comfortably near each other on his carpeted floor, playing Halo together with your backs leaning against his worn-down sofa. 

“You doing okay?” Jeno asks with care, glancing over at your side of the TV screen where you’re blatantly struggling to stay alive from the onslaught of enemies. His gaze then falls on you for a second. 

“Yep, doing great,” you singsong, sarcasm laced in your tone. He catches sight of you sticking out your tongue in frustration.

Jeno’s not sure why the expression from you comes off more cute to him than usual. He smiles to himself in amusement and turns his attention back to the game.

It’s been about six months since you’ve last hung out one on one with him. Third year of university has been busy for both of you, but you’ve managed to find some free time now that finals were finally over this semester. 

And it feels exactly like old times from high school when you two used to sit on the floor at his parents’ house, gaming until the sun rose.

But things have definitely changed since then.

Like how gorgeous Jeno has gotten.

When you unsurprisingly die and have to wait to respawn until Jeno plows through the current batch of enemies, you waste your time in noticing his chiseled jaw line, the sexiness in his confident grin, and the raw attractiveness that exudes from him. 

You shake your thoughts away, attributing them to how you probably just missed hanging out with him, along with the fact that you’ve been single for way too long. 

After a couple more rounds of Halo, Uno replaces it as the next game of choice. Still on the floor, you’re now facing each other. About a few feet apart from you, Jeno has a leg pulled nearby to his chest, his arm resting on his raised knee. On the flipside, you’re sitting with lax legs bent onto their sides, parallel to the carpet. 

The early rounds of Uno are peaceful, but as it progresses, playful competitiveness emerges. The game shifts drastically when Jeno suddenly plays a handful of draw four cards. 

Your jaw swings open, shocked that he held onto so many for so long, and you complain about the unfairness of the situation. Smugly, Jeno shrugs and retorts back that’s simply how the game works. 

Twisting your mouth to one side and squinting your eyes, you then drop your cards in a teasing state of anger and launch yourself towards him. Your best friend merely laughs as you attempt to punch him in the arm. 

However, things take an unexpected turn. You lose balance and accidentally topple him down towards the carpet, your chest pressing atop of his.

Your faces are inches apart from one another. You’re both heavily breathing, practically inhaling the other’s air.

Each parties’ eyes flickers towards the other’s lips. Your gaze lingers longer than it should and you reprimand yourself because this is your best friend—your drop, dead gorgeous best friend who is looking at your lips with the same craving. 

Chest to chest, your hearts race together, pounding against the other almost in sync. Carefully, with a gulp, Jeno gently palms your cheek. Your eyelids flutter to a close.

Lips meet and collide, and you lay your hands on the planes of his chest. You’ve always felt safe around Jeno, but you’ve never felt more safe with him than like this. 

Soon enough, the kissing escalates, transforming into ones that drip of neediness and burning desire. Your touches dig deeper into each other. Throughout it, your shirt is thrown aside and you quickly attach yourself back onto him to help him rid of his layers.

Marking his body with a trail of hot kisses, you slowly make your descent towards his significantly hard desire. Seeing him shirtless is nothing new, but now that you have him up-close and all to yourself, you traverse his beauty without hurry. 

Peeking up at him when you reach his abs, you see him looking right back with an intent, ravenous stare. Because you’re not used to it, you feel a tingle in your cheeks and brush some hair behind your ear as you continue your trek.

Once at your destination, you strip him of his jeans and brief-boxers. Gasping silently at the sight, his sizable cock springs out and slaps against his stomach. You lick your lips, wanting his length immediately in your mouth. Instead, you restrain yourself and leave feathery kisses upon it.

Jeno sighs at the minimal sensation, his erection twitching in yearning for more. His sighs melt, replaced by sharp gasps and the ruffling of eyebrows as you devour him whole. For what you can’t engulf with your mouth, you pump with your hand.

“God...” he pants, eyeing you closely with with his hands behind his head, bare arms flexing delectably. Saliva begins to pool around his base as you suck endlessly. He peels a hand away and runs his fingers through your hair. “You’re so beautiful.” 

Coming up for air, you chuckle as you stroke him steadily. “You’re saying that ‘cause I just sucked you off.” 

“No.” Jeno strongly disagrees, a stern glimmer obvious in his eye. Shaking his head, he rises onto his forearms and leans in right up to your face. 

Your best friend whispers the following into your mouth as he rubs his thumb tenderly over your cheek—

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful.” 

Another kiss, but this time, lips are crashing fiercely, like it’s the last time you’d ever kiss anybody. Jeno caresses your upper body and similarly, your hand continues to squeeze and jerk him off. Impatiently, you stand to hurriedly remove your bra and tug your bottoms off. 

Jeno’s tongue drags along his lower jaw when you rush to your purse to grab a condom; he watches attentively at the perfect view of your ass.

You scuttle back and ease the rubber onto him, and within seconds, you’re sitting on his length. Once he’s completely inside, an acute throaty moan pierces the room and your head cranes back. You’ve never had anyone fill you up so full before, and yet, it doesn’t take much time to acclimatize to his girth.

Riding him, you bounce relentlessly with your weight on your knees and your hands graze his upper frame. You’re gone, blinded by ecstasy, but Jeno’s hazy look doesn’t stray from you. 

His pretty fingers glide upward over your stomach, then over your breasts. At first, he thumbs your nipples to play with you prior to kneading them hungrily in their entirety.

Without warning, Jeno seizes your back with one hand and brings himself up, snatching your breasts into his mouth. 

“Fuck, Jeno,” you exhale in pleasure, sinking your nails into his flexed back and shoulders. “What are we doing?” 

“Do you wanna stop?” he asks between the snug puckering of his lips around your nubs. 

“No, no,” you immediately reply, shaking your head profusely. “You feel too fucking good...” 

When he’s finished loving your breasts, you gesture for him to lean back down during a kiss. Like before when you fell on him in the beginning, your chests are glued together again, this time now sans clothes. 

Your lips maneuver over to his neck, attacking him with kisses, and you fuck him with the your ass jutting out. The wet slaps of your sexes intermingling, Jeno’s panting, and your whines penetrate your surroundings.

“I’m close, I’m close...” he says, his eyes rolling to the back of his head in timing for what’s about to happen. 

Dragging yourself away from his neck, you kiss him fervently while you fasten your pace. He moans into your mouth as he unravels, his sweaty palms relaxing against your perspired back. You follow right after, practically reaching your peaks together.

After a few moments, you roll off and lay beside him. Both of you pant towards the ceiling in disbelief. The disbelief that runs through you is immersed with an underlying fear. 

“Maybe I should get going...” you say unsurely, sitting up and looking at your clothes at the other side of the floor. 

Just because you’ve had sex with him, it doesn’t mean Jeno still isn’t your best friend, nor does it rid of the fact that he knows your change of emotions like the back of his hand. He sits up too, warmly wraps an arm around your shoulder, and kisses the top of your nude arm. 

“How about one more game?” he mumbles into your skin. 

“Which game?” you whisper curiously.

One more peck, this time on your cheek. 

“The game called Stay the Night.”

Your head turns to face him, gazes converging. He flashes you his saccharine smile, his eyes following suit and smiling as well.

“Can’t play it without you, but only if you want to.” He rubs the tip of his nose against yours, causing you to giggle. “What do you say?” 

You get lost in his eyes, realizing that maybe you’ve always had something for Jeno, whether you were conscious of it or not.

Despite it all, you know your feelings aren’t unrequited. They can’t be, not with the way he’s looking at you as if you’re his entire world right now. 

In response to his proposition, you lean in for another kiss. It’s definitely not the last kiss you give him tonight. 

Not by a long shot.

[ladyofbraavos]

"I would rather spend one lifetime with you, than face all the ages of this world alone." // "I would give up my crown if he asked it of me."

We all yearn for happy endings in a sense. Myself, I’m attracted to the bittersweet ending. People ask me how Game of Thrones is gonna end, and I’m not gonna tell them … but I always say to expect something bittersweet in the end, like [J.R.R. Tolkien]. I think Tolkien did this brilliantly. I didn’t understand that when I was a kid — when I read Return of the King. [×]

⋅

So it wasn’t clear to us at the time, but [GRRM] did sort of say things that made it clear that the meeting and the convergence of Jon and Dany were sort of the point of the series. [×]

[actualbird]

// lost gold event spoilers, marius chara story ep2 spoilers, obligatory disclaimer that these are just my opinions and my personal interpretations

mini character analysis: marius von hagen, facade vs. sincerity, harsh truths vs. persisting hope.

man i am Thinking about Marius von Hagen.

ive played through a bunch of his card stories and am one bit away from finishing his chara story ep2 and im farthest in his lost gold route and just. im kind of obsessed now about the recurring theme of facade vs. sincerity and harsh truths vs. persisting hope.

facade vs. sincerity is the first theme i picked up on, since it’s pretty obvious. thanks to his status and background, he constantly has an Image Of Himself to keep up and establish. in investigations, he tends to put on masks and acts the exact way he needs to to get people to slip up. here, facade and sincerity are at odds.

but then also marius casually has the tendency to “act” a certain way to get things like praise and reassurance, which could arguably interpreted as him using facades (which in this situation i think is actually him just saying theyre facades, theyre actually sincere, but he hides that, says it’s just an act) to acquire the deep seated sincerity he wishes. here, facade is a medium by which to acquire sincerity from others. 

let’s swerve now to harsh truths vs. persisting hope. i saw this first in his chara story ep2 where he had that conversation with that forger painter dude (i forgot his name, sorry). marius had said to that dude something along the lines of like “hey don’t you believe in art, i think you do, deep down.” and that dude laughed at him, called marius naive, said that art in this world is about money because of the harsh realities of capitalism (mood lol). the story then goes onto reveal that marius was right, actually, that dude did believe in art, did have genuine emotionally-driven reasons for doing what he did. here, the persisting hope trumps the harsh truths.

but then in the lost gold event, marius route 02-06, his hope gets himself in danger. he tries to talk bryce out of his search for immortality, he has hope in bryce that he will change. when marius realizes he cant stop bryce, marius still appeals for bryce to be good and honest and answer his questions about the overarching case. bryce responds by pulling out a fucking knife, presumably to stab and kill marius. here, the persisting hope is attacked by the harsh truths. EDIT: preceding sentence may be proven wrong since im not done with the whole lost gold event plot.

but facade vs. sincerity and harsh truths vs. persisting hope aren’t two themes in a vacuum. they converge through marius’ life, through his actions, through his personality. 

like, why does marius crave sincerity? because he has hope. why does marius employ facades? because harsh truths are painful. sincerity is a truth, but truths to marius can be scary. a facade is a wall he ultimately puts up to protect himself in case his hope is wrong. 

these fascinating intersections make it so apparent that marius is the youngest. he’s the youngest in the team, he’s the youngest in his family. im not saying that hope and fear are exclusively young traits, but that it does fit in with how his life has gone so far.

marius was a kid with honest dreams he was allowed to pursue with a father and brother who supported him. then his older brother goes missing. then he’s thrust into a world of corporate snakes and responsibility. then he’s a young guy who was forced to grow up very quickly under the weight of the circumstances he’s in. when that happens to somebody, when they have to grow up in such a short time, they put up walls, they protect themselves, because the light inside of them yearns for something theyre not sure they can get anymore. 

facades, sincerity, harsh truths, persisting hope, all of that comes together in a hodgepodge, creating a character that, at his core, just wants to be okay

maybe marius von hagen’s basic fear is this: he doesnt want to get hurt.

[lexiepiper]

Selfish

Sometimes, being the Master of Time meant that he could be selfish...

Clockwork watching Danny's accident occur was a Phic Phight prompt by @prydoniantrash

-

One of the greatest perks of being the Master of Time was the ability to personally witness every historical moment that caught his eye. Over the course of his calling he had stood invisibly at the elbows of the infinite realms’ greatest inventors, had floated casually between warriors grappled by the heat of bloodlust, and had drifted on the eddies of time as entire galaxies swelled into being or faded away to oblivion.

Most events were mere curiosities, distractions from the constant demands of the Observants for him to prune a timeline here or trim down a paradox there. Tedious, mind-numbing work that made his core ache with fatigue.

The perks almost made up for the downside of existing outside any single time stream. Due to the nature of his being, Clockwork could only skim his finger lightly over the tantalising pull of emotional attachment, but was never truly permitted to form any lasting bonds. After all, it wasn’t as though there were many other creatures out there that so blatantly broke the rules of reality, let alone broke them in a way that would even allow the person to interact with something such as himself.

So, he immersed himself in the curiosities of the ages, and tried not to dwell on it too much whenever loneliness raked sharp talons through his soul.

Still, it didn’t stop him from wondering if there was even the slimmest chance, out of all of the immeasurable opportunities, that he could find someone with whom to share his quiet existence. He always quickly pushed the thought away and found something interesting to watch in an effort to distract himself, but the unassuming question would eventually come creeping back, and he’d once again have to confront the heavy ache brought on by the shackles of his calling.

He was tending to a tiny wrinkle in the time stream, tenderly ironing out the kinks when a glimmer caught his eye just down the line. It was an irregularity that he had rarely seen before, and he frowned and drew it into the focus of one of his scrying mirrors.

There was a tear in the fabric of reality.

Before he could take a closer look, Clockwork’s core shivered as two Observants materialised on either side of him. He froze in place, trepidation buzzing through him. As always, they’d managed to surprise him by slipping out of time to circumvent his foreknowledge.

“Destroy the abomination,” they said in unison.

Clockwork stayed still, one hand holding the mirror’s frame to keep the irregularity magnified. With a flick of his thoughts the image on the screen zoomed in, highlighting not only the unnatural, reality-breaking portal, but the method of its creation.

There… there was a metal man-made tunnel, boring into the earth beneath sleepy suburban sprawl. He waved his free hand  and the interior of the tunnel lit up with the telltale acid green of ectoplasm, punching a hole between dimensions like a bullet through paper.

The terrible, soul-chilling scream of death sent a spike of horror through his core. There was… there was a person in there! A… a child… A child who…

The timeline shifted, and suddenly, Clockwork could see again.

The universe stopped.

The Observants were frozen on either side of him, and the great pendulum in Clockwork’s chest swung with the heavy release that might have accompanied a sigh in someone who needed to breathe. With the realms at a standstill, the very planets suspended in their orbits, and the nuclear fusion of stars paused down to a subatomic level, Clockwork began to parse through every single branch of reality available to one Daniel James Fenton.

The future could be kind to the boy. If Clockwork simply tweaked the timeline to prevent to portal from ever catching him in its grasp, then he could see Daniel as an astronaut, as a teacher, as a musician, or as a million other things that filled his life with joy. He could see partners, marriages, children. There were adventures and heartbreaks, laughter and tears, and more often than not, a long life full of everything that made the human experience worthwhile.

Yes, Daniel James Fenton could have a wonderful life. If permitted to live as a human, untainted by any realm except that of his birth, he would likely die old and satisfied, surrounded by the people who loved him.

The alternative almost didn’t bear considering.

If he was caught inside that portal, misery would stalk him for the rest of his days.

Clockwork watched every option, delved deep into every single possibility, and saw the blood-drenched horror that had likely brought these two Observants to his tower.

In between threads of darkness and despair shone a single gleaming timeline that shimmered with possibility. Clockwork found himself drawn to it, and waded through the mountains of pain until he isolated that fragile silver thread and grasped it in the palm of his hand.

The child could see him. And not only that, but love him, with the eternal bond of parental ghost and their child.

His core hummed, and Clockwork tightened his grip on a future that was so improbable that it would almost be impossible. He’d be playing with the dangerous chance that the darker timelines would converge and overpower this tiny thread of hope. Careful pruning would be required, and even then, the desired outcome might not be certain.

Still, the humming in his core rose until it built into the dreadful weight of yearning, and Clockwork nodded once, his mind made up.

He slipped time back into place, but a little to the left. The Observants disappeared from his tower, or perhaps they had never been there in the first place? Clockwork hurriedly shielded the boy’s creation from view to all but himself and then slipped through his mirror into the Fentons’ basement, severing every alternative and effectively cementing whatever happened as the only timeline that would continue to exist.

His choice here simply caused all other possibilities to melt into nothing.

The tunnel in the ground flashed with the destruction of reality, and as Daniel James Fenton’s screams echoed in his ears, a smile crept over Clockwork’s face.

Usually his job was one of altruism, pruning and guiding the timeline to grow in a way that benefited the continued progression of reality, but as the impossible child stepped into the void between the living and the dead, Clockwork retreated to the tower. His core sang with elation, and he carefully rubbed the silver stand of hope between two gloved fingers.

Perhaps this chosen future would bring more pain than not, but for once, Clockwork didn’t care about other people. He could see a future where he wasn’t alone anymore, where he finally had a child to love and who loved him in return. He watched his mirror, content to observe for the time being as Danny Phantom stumbled out of the Fenton portal and collapsed onto the cold metal floor, and Clockwork couldn’t help but feel that just this once, he was justified in being a little selfish.