#Shards of Infinity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reignpage · 5 months ago

Text

The Other Woman

Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3

The doctors and psychologists said it’d be great for your husband’s well-being to be with friends and family. And for the most part, that’s proven true.

Insisting on welcoming Satoru back properly, his students organised a party and invited anyone who had a remote connection with their teacher. Even Nanami had taken time off from work to be here and had given a polite pat on his shoulder and a genuine greeting.

That brought a huge smile to the white-haired man who pounced on the poor guy without remorse, giggling about how he knew he ‘always liked him really’. It felt great to watch him be surrounded by and showered with so much love and support, the kind he deserves; you could tell it was bringing life back to him. After all, it must have been painful for him to have been cooped up in the house trying to reconcile his new reality with the one he remembers.

You keep reminding yourself of that.

Satoru needs this.

He needs normalcy. The normal he remembers, the normal he went to sleep thinking about and not the one he had suddenly woken up to, years passing him by.

Everyone knows this. He knows this. Just as you do.

So why is every person in the party sneaking you pitying and concerned glances?

Sure, no one could possibly think this is easy for you, to be the stranger that Satoru still gets surprised to see in the morning. The one he hesitates to say goodnight to, unsure of the boundaries, the etiquette, the right thing to do. He sometimes forgets to text you if he’s going out, shocked and annoyed, you’re sure, to see the many missed calls and messages from you. And you know he studies the picture frames all over your house like a textbook that would give him all the answer he needs.

All he gets, you’re willing to bet, is the realisation that you’re both the tether he needs to keep grounded, that guides him through the sea of memories he cannot touch, and the leash that binds him to a role he doesn’t remember signing up for.

Are they looking at you with worry because of the inevitable toll this sudden shift has taken on your mental health or because your husband is talking to his ex-girlfriend the way he used to talk to you?

It can’t be the latter, right?

Because there’s nothing to be worried about.

Satoru is simply catching up, trying to stitch up the crater-sized hole in his memory with a familiar face. There’s no reason for your hand to shake as you sip your drink or for your eyes to keep darting back over to them, sat alone at a table like they’re the only people in here.

He’s laughing, throwing his head back and making that obnoxious cackle you love to hear. Loved. Because this one isn’t for you. It’s for her. The woman he shouldn’t be near, the woman he shouldn’t even think about, shouldn’t let touch his arm.

You’re the wife.

You’ve got the ring to prove it.

He’s wearing it. Just not on the hand attached to the arm strung over the back of her chair like he’s protecting her from the rest of the world. Hell, maybe he is. Maybe his infinity is on and covering her. But you don’t have it in you to throw something at them to find out. Either result would be just as humiliating as the other.

There’s nothing to be done.

You can’t interrupt.

Because Satoru needs to know what he said goodbye to all those years ago to know what he says ‘hey, pretty lady’ and ‘good morning, gorgeous’ to now. Or used to say. Now, you’re lucky if he even looks at you without shuffling his feet.

Eventually, the night draws to its natural end.

People bid their farewells twice, once to him and her, and then to you. Each time breaks your heart even more until you feel it crumble inside, little shards falling to pieces he won’t pick up. She stands before you, a small, shy smile, like she knows what she’s done. And says it’s ‘lovely to meet you’, and of course you can’t say it back.

Not when you had been introduced by your name, ‘my beautiful wife’ going nowhere near the tip of his tongue as if those words had never been uttered by your husband. And not when she had been introduced in a hastily withdrawn, stuttered freudian slip of hell.

“This is my girlfr— Sorry, I mean, my friend. From high school. Yeah, high school.”

Satoru blushes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he waves goodbye to her. And you can tell he finds the act lacklustre, an uninspired, unnatural way to say goodbye to the woman you woke up to and slept beside.

“Did you have a good time?”

He nods, a soft smile playing on his lip as he casts his gaze across the room, sweeping by the empty hall like he can still see every single person that came. “It was nice to see everyone and catch up.”

You’re thankful he doesn’t ask if you enjoyed the evening because you can’t lie to him but you also can’t tell the truth, can’t burden him anymore with the reminder that he doesn’t fill the shoes of your husband, that he continues to stumble with every step, dragging you down with him.

So, instead, you fill the silence with a question that is so harmless, so normal it slips out before you can even think to anticipate the devastating crack that goes through your very soul.

“Ready to go home?”

Satoru nods.

But he’s looking at a seat in the back.

A seat that’s probably still warm. A seat you could never fill because you aren’t the woman he thought, hoped, he would marry.

You’re just the woman he did.

#jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk drabble #jjk oneshot #Gojo Satoru #Gojo angst #Gojo x reader #Gojo oneshot

1K notes · View notes

divinit3a · 2 months ago

Text

eldritch aliens? . . . anyone order eldritch aliens with a false, "mimic" style body? . . . oops, wrong table--

alien au's are much fun. "cute" monsters that are actually horrifying parasites are fun. Why not both ?!

I really, really love sci-fi stories like Scavengers Reign, where there's cosmic horror and unnatural monsters... But also learning the beauty of the alien lifeforms, the circle of life far outside your control.

the concept is very vague in my head, but--

Sun & Moon (& Eclipse)

origin planet is semi-aquatic, hence the sea-star, vampire squid aesthetic

species is part of a hive-mind; being so far away from their home has severed this connection

highly adaptable; can change forms, reconstruct their body, mimic lifeforms to "better blend in"

"faces" and "limbs" are all faux, like an angler fish's lure; actual eyes and mouths are throughout body

cant speak (yet?) - would use telepathy which im sure feels great inside people's skulls

tidbits of YN

A lone scientist on a retro-tech space station orbiting a long-since changed Earth, studying parasite samples

Really loves cats - has a cat named Chimera on board, actually!

Story Crumbs / Premise

You are going to die. As glass shards float all around you in the endless void of space, the thought strikes you like a meteor. Worse than the targeted beams that cleaved your spacecraft in half. The cold, suffocating isolation of space beckons you to float for infinity. Then all at once, your world envelopes in a blinding white as limbs stretch out to envelope you, and you are plummeting down to Earth below.

. . . and that's all Ive got for now :D ty ty for reading the sillies~

#creature design.... beloved...#pom draws #pom yaps #dca alien au #fnaf dca #dca fandom #fnaf sb #daycare attendant #fnaf daycare attendant #sun fnaf #moon fnaf #cosmic chimera au #the best part of a sci fi movie is the Cat. Naturally...#cw body horror #tw body horror #cw multiple eyes

469 notes · View notes

kunareads · 1 month ago

Text

if i believe you | chapter five

train up a child

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 4.2k

content: angst angst angst. a series of flashbacks where we learn why satoru and reader are Like That. toji/shoko/suguru cameo. childhood emotional abuse, neglect, misogyny, slight anxiety depiction.

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

eight years old

the room feels like a cavern, cold and echoing, silence stretching between the walls like something alive. satoru stands in the center, small and sharp-eyed, his white hair a stark contrast against the dark wooden panels. he’s still catching his breath from the last exercise, his hands flexing at his sides, tiny sparks of cursed energy flaring between his fingers.

instructors stand along a wall, murmuring amongst themselves. a few clan elders are present as well, hands folded behind their backs. their gazes press down on him, waiting, evaluating.

“you can’t rely on that power alone,” a man says. “the six eyes are nothing without control. without discipline.”

satoru frowns. he’s heard this before—how his power means nothing if he can’t bend it to his will. how he’s an instrument, meant to contain the clan’s legacy and strengthen it.

but he’s a child. what is an instrument? what is a legacy?

“we don’t have the luxury of failure,” the man continues. “the gojo name is strength and prestige, and you will not disappoint. understand?”

satoru nods, brows drawn together. he’s already learned that questions only invite criticism.

“do it again,” someone commands, and satoru squares his shoulders.

he clenches his fists again and concentrates, letting his cursed energy pool around him. it’s heavy today, like it’s fighting back. but he’s not supposed to say that. it would sound like an excuse. so he forces it down, lets the power surge out, forming his infinity around him.

the instructors throw objects at him—stones, wooden rods, shards. infinity stops them all, but the strain leaves his shoulders trembling. he thinks about saying something—about how it doesn’t feel right today—but the look on the elders’ faces stops him.

“good enough,” one of them mutters, the words dripping with dissatisfaction. the bombardment stops, and satoru’s chest loosens.

but the relief doesn’t last. another elder steps forward, his gaze colder than the rest. “good enough is hardly acceptable. perfection is the standard here. his duty is to uphold it.”

satoru swallows down his confusion, the thing he hasn’t yet recognized as resentment. he doesn’t understand why it has to be this way—why he has to be this way. but he knows better than to question it when all eyes are on him.

“yes, sir,” he says, his voice small but his expression unwavering.

deep down, something begins to harden. a seed of defiance, of something too raw to name. he’ll get it right next time. he has to.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

your bedroom is quiet, bathed in the last slivers of sunset seeping through lattice windows. you sit on the floor, hands folded in your lap, willing your shoulders to stop shaking. your eyes burn as the tears spill over, and you reprimand yourself. you’re supposed to stay composed, even when it hurts.

your mother enters without a sound, her presence sweeping over you like a blanket. she sits beside you, movements fluid and controlled, her eyes averted from your tear-streaked face.

a soft hand rests on your shoulder. “you shouldn’t cry over something so small,” she says gently. “you’re stronger than this, aren’t you?”

you nod, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. her gesture only makes you feel smaller. her fingers trace through your hair, fixing the strands that came loose from your ribbon.

“there, now. we can’t have you falling apart every time something doesn’t go your way.” her voice is calm, almost soothing. but there’s something hollow in it, the words falling flat. “you must learn to carry yourself properly. you’re too old to be crying like this.”

you want to say something—to apologize, to promise that you won’t cry again—but your throat feels too tight. instead, you just nod, trying to control your breathing.

her touch lingers, brushing away stray tears with the corner of her sleeve. “your father expects more from you. we both do. a good daughter knows how to conduct herself. understood?”

“yes,” you whisper.

her hand drops away, and the space between you feels cold, like you’re being left behind. she rises to her feet with that effortless grace, pausing at the door.

“you’ll do better next time,” she says, a faint smile curving her lips. it’s more of a statement than an encouragement. “i know you will.”

when your mother leaves, the room is too quiet. you pull your knees to your chest, squeezing your eyes shut. it’s not the first time you’ve been comforted like this, and it won’t be the last.

and it’s not real comfort at all. just another reminder to be as quiet as possible. your mother’s words echo in your mind—you’re stronger than this. you’ll make sure of it next time.

eleven years old

the path is gravel, crunching softly beneath satoru’s sandals as he walks alongside an instructor whose name he barely remembers. the man drones on about refinement, control, mastery—things satoru has already heard a thousand times.

“you’re not listening,” the man snaps.

and he’s not. not really. his attention is elsewhere, his gaze drifting over the estate grounds, eyes half-lidded as if the sunlight itself is dull. the words filter through his mind like wind threading through leaves. meaningless.

he’s bored out of his mind.

but then, a prickle—faint but undeniable, slithering down his spine. the six eyes catch it before he does, sharpening his presence with a clarity that startles him. an unfamiliar presence. dangerous.

he turns, gaze snapping to the far end of the walkway where two figures pass. a man is there, someone satoru doesn’t recognize. black hair, stony expression, large build. but it’s the way he stands—soundless, predatory, and without the faint hum of jujutsu—that holds his attention.

his heartbeat quickens, and for the first time in his life, satoru feels something he’s not accustomed to feeling: uncertainty.

“eyes forward.” the instructor’s voice cuts through the moment like shattered glass. satoru’s head jerks back around, the man’s scowl deepening.

“you think you’re above learning?” the words are practically spit at him. “pay attention. your arrogance is going to get you killed one day.”

his mouth opens to argue, to tell him it wasn’t arrogance, that something—someone—was there, but there’s no room for argument. no room for anything other than obedience.

“what was i just saying?” the man demands.

satoru’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. there’s a stubbornness in his silence. a challenge. because if they won’t hear him, then what’s the point of explaining himself at all?

the man’s expression turns into a sneer. “if you think the six eyes make you untouchable, you’re more of a fool than i thought.”

it’s not the first time he’s been scolded for things that feel insignificant. but today his frustration turns into something colder, something hardened under the weight of expectation.

he holds the man’s gaze, unflinching. he won’t apologize.

“again,” the instructor growls. “this time, with your attention where it should be.”

satoru’s arrogance is blooming. not from confidence, but from the constant requirement to prove himself. the only thing he knows is that he can’t afford to be wrong. not when everyone expects him to be right.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the room is too quiet. too empty. every sound feels too loud, like it’s trying to fill the space where words should be.

you sit alone at a low table, knees pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. the tea set in front of you remains untouched, its warmth leeching into the cool air. your mother and father aren’t here. they haven’t been here all day.

your mistake had been small. stupid, even. you had spoken out of turn when your parents’ guests were present. your voice had slipped into the conversation without thought, your curiosity blooming too quickly to be contained.

a quiet look from your father, a disappointed look from your mother. that had been all. no scolding, no raised voices. just silence.

it’s worse than punishment. worse than anger.

they simply pretend you don’t exist.

the hours drag on, pulling you apart piece by piece. you can’t focus on your studies. your hands shake when you try to write, the brushstrokes uneven, smeared. you spend the afternoon retracing your own mistakes, as if perfect calligraphy will somehow fix everything.

your mother passes you in the corridor without so much as a glance. your father’s voice filters through the walls of his study, discussing matters of importance as if you’re nothing but a shadow. the staff moves about their tasks, too frightened to acknowledge you.

it’s not just rejection. it’s erasure. and it’s not the first time.

your parents’ approval is everything. without it, you’re withering from the inside out.

this desperate silence is a weapon, you realize. a means of forcing submission without a single word. it’s punishment disguised as calm. indifference is worse than cruelty.

by the time night falls, your chest feels crushed. your hands ache from gripping the brush too tightly, your eyes burn from straining to perfect each line.

when you finally gather the courage to find your mother preparing for bed, it feels like dragging yourself through ice.

“mom,” you whisper, your voice trembling in the stillness. “i’m sorry i spoke out of turn. it won’t happen again.”

your mother pauses, her gaze sliding over you with the dispassion of someone studying a textbook rather than a child.

“we expect you to conduct yourself properly,” she says, her tone smooth and detached. “if you wish to be treated with respect, you must earn it.”

the words hit like cold iron, settling heavy and unmoving in your chest. acceptance is conditional. love is conditional.

you nod, a tiny, frail movement, your hands clutching at your sleeves like that alone will keep you steady. her gaze lingers before she turns away, her attention already drifting somewhere you can’t follow.

you stay awake for hours, replaying her words over and over, carving them into your mind. because if you can just be perfect, then maybe you’ll be allowed to exist.

fifteen years old

the air in the city is different from the air on campus. dirtier, sure, but lighter. satoru shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning as he takes in the busy streets and the scent of fried food drifting from nearby stalls. he’s not even sure where they’re going, just that they’re not supposed to be there.

“you think he’ll notice we’re gone?” shoko asks, lighting a cigarette.

suguru hums. “probably. but it’ll take him a while to track us down.”

“yeah, and by the time he does, we’ll be long gone,” satoru replies. “we can just blame it on someone else. say we got kidnapped or something.”

shoko snorts. “yeah, because that’s believable. who’d kidnap us?”

“hey,” satoru starts, feigning a wounded look. “we’re kidnappable. valuable, even. they could ransom us.”

shoko rolls her eyes. “the kidnapper would probably pay yaga to take the two of you back.”

suguru grins. “at least he’d be getting a deal.”

they wander through crowded streets, weaving between stalls and vendors, occasionally pausing to look at something interesting. satoru buys enough dango for them to share for the next three days, handing them sticks without looking.

“trying to buy our loyalty?” suguru asks, biting into the sticky sweetness.

“just making sure the two of you don’t pass out from low blood sugar. you’re welcome.”

shoko rolls her eyes but takes a stick anyway, a smile on her lips. “think yaga’ll be pissed?” she asks, glancing over at suguru.

he shrugs. “probably. but it’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

satoru huffs. “he’ll probably lecture us for an hour and then make us clean something. big deal.”

“maybe next time you should think about that before dragging us out here,” shoko says pointedly.

“me? i didn’t drag you anywhere.”

“you literally said, ‘come on, let’s go before the old man finds out,’” suguru adds with a raised brow.

“yeah, well, you didn’t have to listen.”

“you made a compelling argument,” shoko says. “it’s definitely better than sitting around listening to yaga drone on about discipline or whatever.”

they lapse into easy quiet, tokyo bustling around them. it’s nice, just being here. out of bounds, out of reach, somewhere that doesn’t feel so suffocating.

when they finally head back, it’s mostly because shoko’s tired of just standing around. satoru drags his feet, almost hoping yaga’s not waiting so he can claim victory. but as soon as they step back onto school grounds, yaga is there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“you’re back late.”

shoko and suguru immediately point at satoru. “his idea.”

suguru shrugs when the man’s glare turns to him. “i tried to talk him out of it.”

yaga’s eyes land on satoru, who just grins. “don’t blame them. i was bored. figured it’d be good to let off some steam. they just followed.”

yaga’s expression doesn’t change, but satoru swears he can see a twitch in his eye. “so you dragged them into trouble because you were bored?”

“pretty much.”

“detention. all three of you. and you’re cleaning the training grounds.”

shoko snorts. “how are we supposed to clean grass and trees?”

yaga just keeps glaring at satoru, who sighs, thinking about how he’s going to get out of the worst of it. suguru’s shooting him a glare that clearly means you owe me, and shoko’s already wandering off like she doesn’t plan on helping at all.

worth it, satoru thinks. totally worth it.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the sun dips low on the horizon, casting the world in hues of orange and gold. your lessons ended hours ago, your hands still sore from calligraphy practice. but now, the house is settling into evening routines. your mother is somewhere behind closed doors, your father gone on business.

no one’s paying attention.

you’ve always been able to hear the festival from your room. every year you catch conversations carried on the breeze, the low thrum of drums, the high-pitched laughter of children. this time, you don’t just listen.

you slip from the house with careful footsteps, out through the rearmost garden where the lanterns haven’t been lit yet. it’s reckless. dangerous, even. but that’s the point.

the festival stretches through the village square down the hill, music and voices tangled together in a wild, joyful mess. you can hear it clearly now, the noise a pulsing thing that makes your skin prickle.

you move closer. grass tickles your bare feet as you duck behind trees, creeping down the hill until the sounds of celebration grow loud enough to drown out your heartbeat.

you catch glimpses of children chasing each other through the square, their laughter bright and unrestrained. paper lanterns swing overhead, painting everything in soft light. the air smells of roasted meat and sugar, and your mouth waters at the scents.

it’s beautiful. you edge closer, letting yourself sway a little to the music, copying the steps you see from afar, stumbling when your feet don’t cooperate. but it doesn’t matter.

no one’s watching. no one’s there to scold you. for once, it feels like something is yours.

you twirl, your arms thrown wide, a laugh slipping out before you can swallow it down. your hair comes loose from its careful tie, strands whipping against your cheeks.

you’re just about to spin again when a voice cuts through the noise.

“miss? what are you doing out here?”

you freeze, heart leaping to your throat. you know that voice—warm, familiar, one of the staff who’s always been kinder than the others. the one who sneaks you sweets from the kitchen when no one’s looking.

you whip around to see the woman standing a few paces away, her expression hovering somewhere between worry and exasperation.

“do you have any idea what kind of trouble you would be in if someone else found you out here?” her voice is urgent, but her tone is softer than the words.

you swallow hard, guilt starting to curl in your chest. “i—i just wanted to see it. just once.”

her eyes soften. “you shouldn’t be here. come, let’s get you back before someone notices.”

you hesitate, your feet still rooted in the dirt. but you allow her to guide you back up the hill in silence, the sounds of the festival fading into the distance. by the time you reach the estate, the air feels thicker. the woman pauses, her gaze flickering over your disheveled hair, dirt clinging to your robes.

“you shouldn’t do that again,” she says, gentle but firm. “but i understand.”

it’s not a reprimand. not really. and it’s the closest thing to kindness you’ve heard in weeks.

when you’re left at your door, you stand there for a moment, listening to the fading footsteps. the memory of the music lingers like a thread you’re unwilling to let go of.

you slip back into your room, but even as you sit down to fix your hair and make yourself presentable, you can’t help but smile.

the thrill of it lingers. you did something you weren’t supposed to do. and no one can take that away from you.

nineteen years old

elders are gathered around the table like birds of prey, their eyes sharp and their words sharper. satoru leans back in his seat, hands folded behind his head, his posture deliberately relaxed. because if he looks too engaged, they’ll take it as obedience. if he looks too bored, they’ll take it as disrespect. it’s a careful balance.

“now that you’ve assumed your role as head of the clan,” one of them starts, voice brittle with age, “the matter of your marriage must be discussed. you’ve evaded it long enough.”

he rolls his eyes. “yeah, because keeping the clan safe and doing all your dirty work is just me avoiding responsibilities, right?”

frowns deepen across the room, but no one denies it. the corners of his mouth twitch up. a small victory, but not a real one.

“you’ve been indulged because of your abilities. but this is not a matter that can be put off indefinitely,” another one insists, tone dripping with condescension.

“and what exactly is the rush?” satoru’s smile is all teeth, its sharpness dulling the unease in his gut. “pretty sure the world’s not ending tomorrow. or is there something you’re not telling me?”

they don’t appreciate the sarcasm. he knows this, and it’s half the point.

“you are the future of this clan,” one of them says. “your bloodline is the most important thing we have. without a proper successor, everything is at risk.”

ah. there it is. not his safety. not his happiness. the purity of the gojo bloodline. the legacy. the replication of a weapon.

“yeah, yeah. i get it,” he says with a shrug, feigned indifference cloaked over his shoulders like armor. “you want me to knock someone up so you can have your precious heir. message received.”

“do not be crass, boy.”

“i’m just saying what you’re all thinking.” his gaze flickers from one face to the next from behind his bandages, searching for a hint of humanity. he finds none. “but sure, go on. tell me when the wedding is.”

“you misunderstand.” the oldest of them leans forward, his knuckles pressed into the table. “the decision is yours. but it must be made.”

it almost sounds like he has a choice. but he knows better. there’s no freedom here, just the illusion of it. a cage painted to look like an open field.

“great. then i’ll do it when i feel like it. now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“your duty to this clan is not something you can avoid indefinitely.”

it twists something sharp in his chest.

funny, he thinks. i thought my duty was to be your attack dog.

“i’ll do what’s required of me,” he says, the words coming out flat and cold. “but don’t pretend like it’s for me.”

they’re still speaking, but satoru’s thoughts have already drifted. he’s imagined his future before, even if he never admits it. he’s never expected love to come easily. he’s never expected his life to unfold like some fairytale.

but he’s always believed that marriage could be real. something worth building over time. companionship, understanding, the kind of warmth that comes from years of learning each other’s habits and secrets. a partnership built on effort instead of happenstance.

but the elders don’t speak of partnership. they speak of bloodlines and duty and preservation. it’s not marriage to them. it’s breeding.

their gazes are heavy, but he meets each one with a calculated grin. when he finally leaves the room, the door sliding shut behind him, his hands are clenched so tight his knuckles ache.

they want him to be something he’s not. something obedient. something easily controlled.

and if he has to marry someone to meet their expectations, fine. he’ll do it. but it’ll be on his terms.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the air is cool, sunlight filtering through paper screens in pale, gentle patterns. your mother sits across from you, hands folded neatly in your lap, her eyes distant but not unfocused. there’s a heaviness in her posture today, a weight she’s trying to carry with grace.

this conversation feels important. something you should pay attention to. something your mother has prepared for.

“you’re of age now,” she begins, her voice steady. “there are things you need to understand.”

you nod, your fingers woven together in your lap. this isn’t the first time your mother has taught you something—proper greetings, scripture recitations, the art of composure. you expect this to be the same.

“a woman’s duty,” she starts, “is to serve her husband. to provide for him in the home. to be a source of stability. of comfort.”

the words are familiar. you nod again, the phrases sliding into place like pieces of the puzzle you’ve been assembling your whole life. you’ve always been taught to be good and useful.

“there are aspects of marriage you’ve been sheltered from,” she says, each word placed with precision. her hands smooth over her skirt, fingers shaking slightly before stilling again. “things that are not meant to be pleasant for you. things that must be endured.”

a furrow forms between your brows. “endured?”

“yes.” her gaze sharpens, something like caution in her eyes. “it will hurt. that is to be expected. but pain is not the point. it’s simply a consequence of what’s necessary.”

your confusion deepens. what’s supposed to hurt? you open your mouth to ask, but the question feels forbidden. “necessary?”

“to produce children.” her voice softens, but it’s the softness of a practiced recital. “your ability to fulfill that duty is most important. nothing matters as much as building your family.”

the words hang in the air. you try to grasp them, to make them fit into the structure of your understanding. but they don’t settle. they twist and tangle, leaving you more confused than before.

“pleasure is indulgent,” your mother says, her tone taking on a rhythmic, rehearsed quality. “it is a sin. your responsibility is not to enjoy the act, but to endure it. to perform your duty and bear children as you are meant to do.”

her eyes are distant again. and this time, you see it—the melancholy straining through the calmness. like she’s teaching you something she never fully learned herself.

“do you understand?”

not really.

but you nod anyway, because it’s the right answer. the only answer.

her shoulders relax, just barely. “good.” she rises to her feet, the movement practiced, graceful. “you will pray for guidance,” she says. “for strength and for humility.”

the lesson feels like something fragile. something she’s been rehearsing for a long time. precious and ugly at the same time.

“of course.”

her eyes stay on you for a moment longer, like she’s waiting for something. forgiveness, maybe. or understanding. but she leaves before you can offer either. the door slides shut with a sound too soft to be comforting.

the silence that follows is heavier than the words she left behind. it presses down and you feel hollow, like something was taken from you and replaced with expectation.

you should feel grateful for her guidance, for her wisdom. but instead, all you feel is a quiet ache that you don’t know how to name.

291 notes · View notes

hexefreya · 5 months ago

Text

I have spent some time trying to neatly wrap all the facts and details together in a satisfying conclusion, alas, time loop storylines are anything but neat...

Mage Viktor sent Ekko and Heimerdinger to alternate reality 2-7, and it's my conviction it was intentional down to the fact that Heimerdinger was transported three years into the past. And that is why the time loop he created is not actually a circle, it's an 8 (infinity) - two dimensions intertwined, as hinted by the imagery in the show. This way the only way his plan was going to work.

What we can confidently state is that Mage Viktor, who is inextricably tied to Hexcore, can manipulate it and has power over the spacetime continuum, at least to some extent through the anomaly. And he is going through the painstaking process of figuring out how to successfully untangle the paradox of Hexcore, at the heart of which are Viktor and Jayce. There is no way of knowing how long it took him to realize that willingly erasing himself from existence is the only way it can be done, but it is my opinion that once he was set on this mission, he was very methodical about it and catalogued everything during all the countless timelines and possibilities.

In the alternate reality 2-7 hextech was never developed and this is why this dimension was the one they were sent to - no Hexcore and no Viktor, who could intervene in creating Ekko's time device. But this reality was still touched by Hexcore - Jayce wouldn't even have been alive otherwise - Mage Viktor did save him as a child from the snowstorm. Without adult Jayce the explosion in his apartment, that killed at least one confirmed person (Vi), wouldn't have happened.

But damage is done. And here is where Heimerdinger comes into play to navigate through this turbulent period.

First and foremost he is the Head of the Council at that time, has detailed memory of how badly everything went wrong with Hextech in his own reality and even more importantly - he already spent enough time living in Zaun to understand the errors of Piltover's way in regards to the Undercity. By the time Ekko lands in this alternate reality three years after, Piltover and Zaun are obviously cooperating to the point where everything seems almost idyllic, and I think it's majorly due to the Heimerdinger's guiding hand in immediately destroying anything left from Jayce's research and targeted decisions and careful politics in uniting Piltover and Zaun after the explosion accident (like negotiating with Silco, preventing the first use of Shimmer, etc).

Viktor is incredibly complex, same as his motives. I believe that through everything he was still faithful to his and Jayce's shared dream and passion - help people, do good, make the world a better place with hextech. By sending Heimerdinger in reality 2-7, Viktor made sure hextech is never developed and the city is prospering, thus indirectly using hextech to change the world for the better, honoring best of his and Jayce's ambitions. There was no other reason for Heimerdinger to be sent back in time, he and Ekko would be able to recreate the anomaly with the remaining crystal shards regardless and his main plan would still work. But this way the city is finally prospering, Zaun is thriving!

With Ekko extracting the very last remaining crystal shards, Viktor made sure that this dimension is eradicated of all traces of Hextech. And by taking Ekko back to his own reality, armed with the anomaly (intended to reach Viktor and negate the anomaly in his timeline), Viktor forever closed the linked loop, initially created by him in the first place.

And since we've established Viktor wields the power to send people both ways through time (as demonstrated on Jayce and Heimerdinger), it's easy to assume he could transport Ekko back to his own reality into any specific timeframe he wished, for instance, way sooner than Viktor became the Machine Herald and the situation was escalated beyond reason. Which only circles back to my original take, that EVERYTHING was Viktor's meticulous plan how to erase hextech and to do the most good in the process.

To this I can only add my belief, that Mage Viktor was willing to condemn himself to unbearable pain - Jayce mercilessly trying to kill him without sparing a word (twice) - to create a better outcome in the aftermath of his and Hexcore destruction. And I think he was strongly motivated not only by the greater good, but by ensuring Jayce's survival.

I believe it caused him much distress to bear witness how the only hextech free reality comes from Jayce's demise. I'm sure he was essentially at peace as to what must transpire to himself, but to believe that the "perfect" world is the one where Jayce doesn't exist? He wouldn't do that to his own Jayce. He lost him once, not again. For him Viktor will carve out the world if he has to.

Mage Viktor didn't have a shadow of the doubt that even after these betrayals and horrific transformations Viktor's love for Jayce was as strong as ever. He was confident that Viktor, being reminded of it and thus freed from Hexcore influence, wouldn't even hesitate to destroy himself in order to save Jayce ("You must go, Jayce") and the only world, where Jayce can even exist! Even if it meant that Jayce would hate Viktor afterwards.

It is obvious that our Viktor never even entertained the possibility of his feelings being reciprocated. The sheer disbelief and awe in his eyes, when he dares to believe that he is seen and loved.

Who knew, that Jayce loved Viktor more than life itself? More than the world Viktor was trying so hard to save him for. Did Mage Viktor? Did he realize the futility of all his efforts in trying to save him, when he looked in Jayce's eyes and saw love reflected there? I think so..

#arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane spoilers #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor #jayce arcane #jayvik #arcane meta #arcane analysis #arcane thoughts #my thoughts

157 notes · View notes

sakkiichi · 2 years ago

Text

HERE COMES THE SUN.

They comfort you while you’re having a difficult time.

ft. Childe, Lyney, Albedo, Shikanoin Heizou x gn! reader.

cw/genre: hurt/comfort.

for my dear @https-furina I know you’ve been going through trying times lately, so I hope this can comfort you a little <3 I also struggled a lot with Heizou’s part, so I apologize if it’s no good at all…

if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !

✧ CHILDE

Linen sheets feel like ropes on raw skin against the morning chill.

Its warm cream color, ashen, nothing like the mirror sunrises you were used to witnessing right after you opened your eyes.

What’s the point in opening them anymore? You wonder.

You bury your face against the pillows. In any other occasion, you would have been grateful for the coolness of its silk.

Now it’s just an iceberg. Like a missing shard of your shallow beating heart.

“Someone’s sleepy today.” A familiarly perky voice greets, the mattress dipping slightly with new weight.

You rolling in the other direction is all the greeting that meets him.

“Hey, love! It’s time to wake up!” Childe chuckles, his hand gently shaking your body.

Yet something already tells him this is not right; you usually would have already shoved him away by now.

But today you’re just… unresponsive…

The dull oceans of his stare rise in dangerous waves at your state.

Hesitant, he calls your name, his tone more like a question.

And this time, he does get an answer.

Familiar arms he adores wrapped around him loop around his middle, your face burying against his chest.

You’re warm, yet you feel so… faraway… as if the pain of past memories was seeping out your light.

Ajax is no stranger to the despair palpable in your strong grip around him, he’s endured it himself, through years robbed of him by an abyss that turned him into a master of all weapons.

So because he’s known the cold of endless nights where all he had was a tattered red scarf to remember the warmth of a distant home, he now holds you.

And for someone whose hands were tainted in the filth and bloodshed of a lifetime of slaughter, Ajax is undeniably gentle.

His fingertips ghost over your skin, easing the burning anguish of bed covers that felt too rough, too suffocating, too wrong.

When your lover’s hands get lost in your hair, combing it, you swear sun rays filter through the deep sea you’re falling through.

And then, suddenly, the choice to swim upwards presents before you, scarred sun-kissed hands extended towards you.

You take them.

When you open your eyes, russet sunsets and constellations over your beloved’s skin greet you.

His lips find yours, a bit chapped but gentle; not his usual playfulness, but soothing aquamarine waves.

You swear Childe’s kiss tastes salty. And that’s when you realize the dry tear-tracks down your cheeks.

He made them dry, sunlight evaporating puddles after grey days.

You break the surface, the waters now turquoise beneath Ajax’s light.

He won’t let you sink again.

✧ LYNEY

A whole audience’s cheers fill the Opera Epiclese. Lights shine upon every smiling face, every vigourous clap of hands after the magician’s grand finale echoing through the theater.

However, the illusionist’s gaze of amethyst is focused on the sole grim expression amongst millions of joyous others.

Yours.

Your hands move, clapping together, as if automated; your eyes stare at everything, seeing nothing; your mouth is a taut line, your lips devoid of their usual vibrant tint.

Lyney doesn’t like that being his last memory before the curtain closes.

When you step out of the Opera House, an infinity of starfields is abloom across the crepuscular skies.

What a mockery; a cruel jinx on display, for you to see the unfulfilled sparks dimming inside your heart.

A sigh escapes your dry lips, a small cloud forming when it meets the late night chill.

“You’ll catch a cold there, mon coeur,” Someone you know, tricks and all, utters behind you.

Welcome warmth tinted in lavender envelops you the instant your eyes meet the magician’s starry ones.

A small smile tugs at your lips, the curse of melancholy still clinging to you through it.

“Lyney…” You start. The twilit breeze picks up around you, your arms instinctively wrapping around yourself for some semblance of a warmth you haven’t felt in days.

“That won’t do, ma chérie.” Your lover chuckles.

Then, with a wave of his hand, a piece of the night sky itself seems to become tangible in his grasp.

“Here,” he offers, draping it over your shoulders.

Upon closer inspection, you realize it’s a shawl; the cloth feels delicate to the touch, quite fine too, and yet, you feel the warmth of a thousand suns. If you had to describe its color you would come up empty. Silver glitter seems to be embedded in the fabric, but at the same time, it looks like multiple tiny lights had been stitched to the material. You suppose you’d call the hue, dark; a myriad of indigoes merge into violets, threaded together with navies and cobalts. And yet, when you move it, the colors seem to shift, almost like the clouds drifting across this midnight.

“I take it you liked it.” Lyney smiles, softer than his usual cheshire-like grins, when he observes your wonderstruck features.

“Very…” You muse, awestruck at the magical silk.

“It’s a châle de ciel,” your beloved explains, “It will change depending on the state of the sky at each time of day.” He pauses, eyes, the color of lumidouce bells and rainbow rose petals merged, glinting as he admires how the garment fits you. “But I can guarantee,” your illusionist steps closer to you, plucking something out of your hair. “That it will always keep you comfortable… warm or cool, whatever you need.” He finishes, handing you a pluie lotus.

You take a few seconds to appreciate the second gift of the night. The flower’s petals are the same color as Lyney’s eyes, yet not as vivacious.

“Shall we go, mon amour?” Your boyfriend inquires, already offering your arm to him.

Together, you leave the opera house behind.

You hope for light blues on your new cape tomorrow morning. And somehow, you know that’s what you’ll find.

You squeeze Lyney’s arm gently. The sun will rise soon.

✧ ALBEDO

When he sets foot on his camp in Dragonspine, Albedo finds the heater already on.

Strange.

The sun hasn’t even quite awoken yet, the snowy peaks outlined against skies still clinging to dreamless cloudy nights; shards of ice, embedded in the softness of dawn clouds. An accurate representation of the region of freedom’s snowy mountains: menacingly beautiful, brimming with lethal charm, for one step in the wrong direction, and the cold might as well consume you for good.

At this hour, no one was ever already working at his lab, making of these moments calm sunrise-tinted memories in the alchemist’s mind, before the day’s hustle and bustle began.

However, today, the running heater is not the only out of the ordinary salutation to greet the chalk prince.

The acute sounds of clicking vials, books being rearranged and crunching snow are confirmation enough that he is, indeed, not alone.

With silent steps, Albedo advances, keeping one hand hovering over his trusty sword. Then, he finally lays eyes upon the cause for the commotion, and despite the lack of danger, the sight doesn’t calm him any better.

“My dearest?” He calls. The instant your gaze meets his, your condition scares him more than any bandits ransacking his research material. Your hair is messy, falling on your face; dark circles are etched beneath your lower lashline, darkness clinging to you like remnants of turbulent nights; and you’re shivering, whether from the cold or because you’re distempered he can’t quite discern, although it’s most likely due to both.

“Hello, ‘Bedo…” You mutter, the flesh of your lips bitten, flecks of Dragonspine’s freeze coating them, the cold lacing with your bones, chilling you to the core. Your eyes widen when you notice your lover’s teal gaze scrutinizing you. You quickly busy yourself with classifying some potions, by color and texture, whatever takes the longest for him not to worry about your less than ideal condition.

However, perhaps you underestimated his attention to detail; for he has a skilled artist, after all.

“My love, are you feeling alright?” He questions, gloved hands gently taking the crystal vial-filled wooden box you were carrying off your trembling hold.

And in that instant, you don’t know if it’s the warmth of your prince’s hands on yours; or the comfort of his voice, like honey on bitter tea, but you find yourself taking a deep breath, the fresh air of a midwinter’s sunrise filling your lungs.

And then you talk. You spill every worry and bad dream, your shadows opening up to the gilded starlight of him.

And through it all, the alchemist’s hands warm yours, fingers interlocked, very much in the way your souls are undeniably so too.

Because no matter how daunting the river seemed when you faced it alone, when you were with Albedo, its typhoons calmed down, stone bridges and his outstretched hand painting safety and comfort in hues of gold before your eyes.

While the kreideprinz grounds you, the sun reaches its peak, a canvas of aureate and cornflower blue grazing the mountaintops.

You would be okay.

✧ SHIKANOIN HEIZOU

Emerald eyes read through you as if you were made of clear glass.

The way you worry your lower lip between your teeth; your fingers almost going white at the knuckles as you clutch a pencil, its wood creaking in your grip; and the general absentminded state you’re in, papers scattered over your desk, several case files stacked in disarray.

Something is clearly weighting on your mind.

“I think a break’s in order, wouldn't you agree, sweetheart?” Heizou suggests, standing up, those striking eyes of his fixed on you.

The detective’s voice is enough to stop the quickening clock ticking in your mind, regrets and dark spirals momentarily coming to a halt.

When you rise your furrowed brow, shades of maroon and viridian flood your sight, vivid as summer and warming your up just as much.

Nodding, you stand up too, limbs feeling heavy despite the comfort of your lover beside you.

The brown shades of your office turn into blue skies and soft pink sakuras not long after, the scented tree branches swaying above you, like fragments of dreams someone had given up on, waiting to be picked up by another soul who dared to imagine.

Your back rests against your lover’s lean but strong torso, the sweet smelling breeze combing through your hair, as Heizou’s chin rests on your shoulder.

“So will you tell me what’s wrong, darling?” Are the words of his that break the birdsong-filled calm.

A pang settles on your chest, you didn’t want to take away that cheeky grin that most of the time decorated his quick-witted lips.

“I…” You hesitate. “Well, it’s- it’s complicated, Heizou…” Your lids flutter closed, a shaky breath raking through you, as you turn around in his embrace, your hands bracing on his shoulders. “I don’t want to bring the mood down, you know…”

The detective places a thumb on your lower lip, smoothing over the bite marks you left there earlier.

“You never, ever, bring the mood down, dear. Never.” He leans in, brushing a soft kiss over your forehead. “My intuition told me right away there was something up.” He takes a stray cherry blossom petal from your hair. “So, why don’t we take the rest of the day off, love?” Your partner proposes, as he takes your chin in between his fingers, mischief flashing in his features.

And perhaps your lover’s smile was more infectious than you had ever given it credit for; and maybe the way he flashes his green eyes at you has your heart trembling in ways that have nothing to do with the fear and guilt you’ve been festering, but you find yourself retorting back, with a grin of your own:

“Don’t you have cases to solve, detective Shikanoin?”

This time, he takes a full sakura flower, delicately placing it behind your ear.

“I have something more important to solve right here…” He smirks, cheekily, as he admires your now flustered expression.

When you lean the side of your head against his chest, he cradles it with one of his hands, the other playing with the ends of your hair.

It would be unfair, if gloom were to take your soul captive when spring seems to linger through Inazuma’s breeze.

With a last look at you, the detective’s maroon lashes flutter closed too. He hopes, at least for today, he managed to protect precious you from the crimes of cruel sorrow.

He leans his head on top of yours.

The case is solved.

1K notes · View notes