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pontevoix · 4 days ago

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he got to see the sun. that’s what he remembers. that it burned him red, boiled him into lobster scarlet. he remembers that he made an old habit of smacking the muscles at his thighs with his closed fist, just to shake himself alive. because he always forgot to stretch & because damp cold in the underground used to make him ache. he always used to strike his leg, too, because he was always angry with indignation.

it had been natural then to think that something separated him from levi. it was something that they never discussed but held true in the arguments they held, late-night, on a mattress that they never planned to share. levi disagreed with some of the rhetoric farlan used, the way he smacked his leg muscle to keep it alive, the way that his anger was a smart delight for pride.

he got to see the sun. there were spaces in the underground where cracks & crevices turned into a window of above – isabel used to watch pigeons roost close to their escape, & farlan cupped his hands to collect scraps from below. levi stood beside him & worried himself weary until farlan shoved his hands back into his pockets & watched sunlight kiss levi’s cheeks like a promise. his skin never turned gold — & levi never cupped his hands.

generations in a sunless place meant that farlan felt an affinity for people named rats. he likes the teeth of meanness, & he swears that it means strength – it mean that when he cupped his hands for sunlight, it is something stolen. for a while, isabel had been like him, stealing sunlight.

levi had been raised in underground, but never needed to steal sunlight — when he agreed to take farlan as a peer, he had been new enough to an isolated game that he never made himself rogue.

so it had been easy, to look at him, & know that the sun was in him.

if it hadn’t been in him, they never would have made it upwards — because of a bleeding heart, levi gave farlan the chance for sunlight to pool in his palms in abundance. farlan still had a habit of beating indignation against his thigh when he was feeling self-righteous, but he got to see the sun.

he got to see levi watch him with farlan abundance of sunshine, scalding in his hands. he got to see levi love him & love him more — boiled over enough until farlan’s own pride turned contagious & guaranteed that levi tasted war for the first time against the captain of the corps. a blackmailer, like any other man with power. & a man capable of swallowing mercury as thought it were wine. he was charismatic, even if he were a shade of suspicion. farlan wasn’t sure if he wanted to hate him or salute him.

never mind. it turns out war is more appealing a thing than making crime an empire, making crime corporate. levi wanted smith dead, wanted victory like a hunting trophy. farlan wanted hypocrisy. sunshine pooling in his hands & tomorrow on his tongue & collective purpose.

he supposes he had always been weak to that sort of idealism. the scouts were like rats, he supposes, so he sympathized with them.

in the midst of that, he remembers arguments & possessiveness shared. levi had the sun in him & kept proving he could shine.

he & farlan were separate in ways they weren’t before — it wasn’t just the divide of sun-stealing or sun-keeping, but they were separate with military bunk beds assigned to them as though they were never intertwined. still, levi snuck between his legs & always wanted him, wanted him, with sun dripping through his fingers.

farlan always wanted him, wanted him. even if he got to see the sun, his nature is stolen things – it occurs to him, tugging on a strand of black hair to provoke levi, that levi might have been a stolen thing.

farlan remembers this realization when he remembers that there are things he doesn’t remember.

his memories had been scattered. his memories had been war rather than survival, side-stories rather than the end — farlan remembers then, that they had been separated by life & death.

that feels pretty fucking final.

the realization makes him feel young anyway, even across both lives. levi has the sun in him. even now, even always.

so it felt like youth melts into panic that night that they sat together on the steps outside farlan’s apartment.

they knocked knees together because they always do, because they fit well together. it felt like panic when farlan scratched his nails over the denim at levi’s knees in something soothing & remembered too much.

then it had been a conversation built like a bruise, that felt like a guillotine.

maybe i’m overwhelmed, he doesn’t say. across two lives, he’s always spoken in a way that skirted the softer words outright. the emotion words.

the words come out sometimes, intrusively & slippery – but it’s a shared agreement that he & levi share, to guard their words. it’s a learned habit, muscle memory. ‘ maybe i need some time, ‘ farlan says instead. ‘ maybe we need some time. ‘

his sneaker ground over cigarette ash that one of his neighbors left behind. ‘ there’s no one but you – ‘ he says as assurance. & honestly, there’s nothing but you. ‘ never will be. but we never gave it a chance, right ? to be ourselves ? ‘

it’s an ineffective speech. levi hears some of it, doesn’t hear the heart of it. calling quits is supposed to be the selfish thing that gives farlan more life, gives him longer than tomorrow. it’s supposed to be the guarantee that he doesn’t have to keep cupping his hands for sunlight, stealing moments. it’s supposed to be the way that he chooses his end, if he has to end.

he hadn’t been sure there was an end story for him. he’s still not sure if they had been an end story. he ends things with levi, because he wants to know so badly that the end of things ( end of now ) wouldn’t have meant that they ended.

he supposes it’s also supposed to be the selfless thing too — because levi’s always got the sun in him.

anyway, farlan spends the next month adding cigarette ash to the stairwell. sometimes he sees his neighbor there. they nod at one another.

the want for selfishness & for selflessness meant that he didn’t want to remember more, that he didn’t want to be a side story.

he & levi neglect more conversations, & it blows up anyway. even when levi pretends to forgive him & looks sideways from him when they take isabel to the pier, when they pretend that things are fine, & that their youth was immortal.

sunlight scalds him & leaves blisters & levi leaves & chases self-ruin through a man ( zeke jaeger ) that always looks like he remembers too much. maybe jaeger had seen war too, but farlan doesn’t remember his name. either way, jaeger is a choice that levi makes & never makes.

selfish decisions blow up anyway, because farlan remembers more — he remembers scratching inked numbers into a budget sheet at a scratched wooden table, remembers knowing that levi liked to lean at his side & pretend that he was checking his arithmetic. levi had always good at the logic of numbers, but never been good at striking balance between extreme things, extreme figures —- even if the two of them shared their coin purse, levi gave him the budget & forgave him for sentimental spendings.

he remembers more. things are split between them, but he keeps remembering more. he remembers flying. he remembers dying : it smells like rain. he remembers thinking that his legs should hurt. he remembers isabel discarded, muddied & dead.

levi hasn’t done more than hint at remembering the beginning, & his hints leave room enough for doubt —so maybe this is it for farlan. maybe it doesn’t make a difference if farlan played a hand for selfishness & selfnessness.

maybe he is determined to love hard enough that he can lose, that someone else can win their next steps. he still doesn’t know what happened to smith. he doesn’t remember that much. there might not be much to remember.

even so, isabel is not muddied. she sits atop the kitchen & kicks her legs & talks because she had never been good at stealing sunshine. she was supposed to be rat, through & through – but she never quite managed that either. she pooled together sunshine in her hands anyway, as though she never thought that it were lacking – as though she were confident that she could generate her own kind of gold.

across two lifetimes, she generated gold. farlan worries sometimes the generation were not sustainable – she’ll need to breathe better, breathe in the dark. levi argued with him across two lives about his worries, & isabel never seemed to notice that there was room for conflict.

maybe she really can generate her own gold. otherwise, it feels difficult to imagine how easily she could imagine speech so easily without consequences. she never thinks of the consequences, & she’ll always be forgiven for the fact.

but she kicked her legs on the kitchen countertop & mentioned a ring & didn’t wait for the ground to fall from beneath their feet.

farlan’s not quite sure if levi will look at him again. he’s not quite sure how he had managed to look at him in the first place, after he had ended things & after the pier & after nothing was right.

so levi leaves. farlan can’t tell if it’s selfishness or selflessness that prevents him from following all the way. he always used to angry with indignation, invigorated with pride — he extends his pride to levi, too, & understands that heartbreak sometimes means humiliation.

but he stays near enough, anyway, because there really might be nothing but levi — he sits on the floor, remembering that he needs to vacuum & picking at worn threads on the rug.

isabel sits next to him, generates sunlight, settles her head against his shoulder because that is her right. farlan pinches her cheek, & blood rushes to, & she is with him —- she is like him, a life force on a stopwatch. she doesn’t know it. he doesn’t know what it means.

FROM @st4rsinclined : isabel pauses, observing the blonde for a long moment before she settles next to him on the couch. the apartment is too quiet for her tastes — levi’s been missing since the night prior and has been silent on their phones. that familiar guilt pools in her stomach, but she can only help one of them at a time, and presently farlan is there. she nudges him gently with her elbow, clearing her throat. “i didn’t know that wasn’t why you guys broke up. i figured it was a big enough bombshell and you guys were acting really weird, not like you usually did when you had little fights.” a soft fidget of her hands before she smooths them along the fabric of her pants. “are you okay?”

she sits by him when he turns sullen, shell shocked by consequences that won’t ground her forever. farlan reaches out to her ( by consolatory instinct ) with the way his hand roots through her hair. she protests, & it’s not enough to save her.

isabel is not muddied. she is not dead. she remembers nothing, as far as farlan can tell – she speaks as though impulse were her only guideline, as though her memories of levi & farlan could exist entirely in cheap photobooths that smelled liked sea water & soda.

it’s not fair. it’s fucking not fair.

farlan wishes he believed that ignorance were bliss — maybe it would have kept him alive longer, once before. maybe it would have secured him something self, this time. but he likes himself too much to keep his eyes shut — he remembers whether he likes it or not, whether he is selfish or not. that is pride, even if it leaves him slumped against the floor as though it were the easiest place to be.

‘ you didn’t do anything wrong, ‘ he murmurs, even if shock makes his voice static. don’t worry about it — you generate gold, so there is no need to apologize. farlan frees his hand from her hair & drops it around her shoulder. she is like him, forever like him.

farlan drops his head back against the wall. the facts are digestible bombshells. levi bought him a promise for forever. & that doesn’t fit into memories; it doesn’t fit into selfishness. levi bought him a promise for forever, & he never got to make the offer.

the question of selfishness or selflessness blended too much, & it places an anvil against farlan’s chest. the weight is a greedy thing.

he toys with isabel’s hair anyway, indulges her, because she is her right – even while she slides her hands against the seam of her pants & tries to resist from generating too much gold, from generating too little.

‘ i broke up with him before he could do it, so. it’s on me. we’ll take care of it, ‘ don’t worry about it. she is not muddied. he knows that both he & levi will work to make sure that she stays that way.

but she asks if he’s okay, & it makes farlan remember every soft word that he’s chosen to avoid. his lips purse into what could be a smile, & he can promise — ‘ we’ll be okay. that’s what we do, you know ? ‘

it would be a lie. but he says it to isabel, so it must be true. he believes it enough not to understand where the line between selfishness & selflessness dissolved. he was meant to steal stolen, & levi might have been a stolen thing.

but even stolen things might be kept forever. levi has never been prone to half-hearted gestures. levi was willing to offer him forever.

farlan doesn’t know what to do with that, with missed opportunity. it feels like a loss. it feels irreversible. he feels an urge for an old habit of smacking the muscles at his thighs with his closed fist, just to shake himself alive.

#100. c. church #thERE U GO SFGSFD #st4rsinclined

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moonsmourning · 1 month ago

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@st4rsinclined: STORM: receiver wraps a blanket around sender during a rainy night *tangerine & maven

it's the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the cabin that makes him recall the last half a day. he and maven had been following some leads for a mission they took on together, but it had gone tits up at every given chance. they'd chased their so-called 'lead' to some half-deserted forest, where they'd found their lead, but with many more leads. it was an ambush, tangerine thinks. but during their brawl he and maven had taken out almost all of them, aside from two people. the two most important people. maven had gotten hurt, and a storm had been coming over head, so tangerine had to improvise. he decided maven was more important and whisked her away from the scene. he'd found a little cabin in the woods which looked like it did have an owner, but one who hadn't been around in a while, so he broke in and tended to the woman's injuries.

now they were waiting out the storm.

he finds maven sitting by a cracked open window, no doubt listening to the howling of the winds and the heavy downpour of rain. his presence beside her wasn't even enough to pull her from her thoughts. blue eyes flicker down to the white wrappings around her arm, regarding his work with a soft huff. he doesn't like it when she gets hurt; he'd rather take all the stabbings, punches, and hits if he could. lifting his hands, he drapes a blanket he found around her shoulders and sits down in front of her, fixing it over her body with a smiling. ❝ there, all snug as a bug in a rug, ❞ tangerine muses, allowing his arm to lean against the windowsill and his other one to drop onto the woman's knee, giving it a soft rub. suddenly, his smile drops, and he grows serious. ❝ listen to me darlin', yeah? the second this bullshit storm lets up i'm gonna' go out there and find the bastard that did this, ❞ hand lifts from her knee, his finger gesturing to her stitched up arm, ❝ and i'm gonna gut him, armpit to arsehole, you hear me? no one gets away with hurtin' my girl. ❞ shifting, he leans back, gaze fixated solely on her, ❝ and i'll take great pleasure in killing the rest of those pricks. ❞

#TANGERINE. / answered #TANGERINE. / v. bullet train #st4rsinclined #st4rsinclined: maven monroe

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gravesung · 2 months ago

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@st4rsinclined ( charlotte. )

❝ AVERY, STOP! IT'S NOT too late, you can still come back — gojo-sensei won't let them kill you if you just explain! ❞

#ic.#yuji threads.#st4rsinclined #GIGGLES!!!!!#feel free to expand into para! im forcing myself to sleep or i would write more of this (if i let myself start. it won't stop)

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pontevoix · 17 days ago

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tsukishima grimaces again, shifting a bit to pinch at kuroo’s side & to make space. that way, at least, kuroo wouldn’t make his arm fall asleep — tsukishima can pretend that this is a type of stoicism or tolerance in the face of boundaries that keep blurring. but still . . . it is an embrace, loosely formed & indecisive where it falls

when he finished karasuno, his professional plan had still been venturing just past surrender. instead of getting a degree in something nondescript & settling into a career that meant nothing memorable, he countered his plague of indifference — he feels it like a grim reaper, shuffling alongside things that felt too much like early onset & promising no future. so it had been a daring thing to shuffle through university paperwork & course catalogues; it had been daring to presume that even if he was guaranteed dissatisfaction . . . at least he could choose things for himself. at least he could want for the sake of wanting.

his professional plan had still been venturing past surrender. he tried out for the university team & called it recreation & thought that it would end there.

but the city suited him — sendai is the city of the trees, & so it felt like a natural place to form new habits. reluctant runs by the riverside, self-imposed promises that grocery shopping should happen on tuesday evening, walks back to his apartment that guarantee him ten to fifteen minutes for a phone call conversation he won’t bring himself to be able to have otherwise. he has a favorite spot to stand at the train station in the morning, & he watches the clock as he scrolls on his phone —- satisfied with the realization that his schedule is his own.

this self-possession not a new thing, because he had been accustomed too often to the solitude of mismatch schedules in his family home — but it is his. they are his habits, his decisions, his preferences. the train will come, regardless of where he stands, but he has chosen to stand here.

it’s rewarding to know that he can establish a home for himself, that he is capable of it.

comfort starts to be enough, then, to tempt him past surrender — it’s impulse born from the adrenaline of knocking shoulders with his teammates that he agrees to join tryouts for a team within the professional league, that he agrees to situate himself more firmly within want.

it had been a difficult thing to try to talk about. before the try outs, his thumb had hovered over yamaguchi’s name in his text messages & tried to imagine how he could articulate that he was entertaining a world in which he had been wrong for years — that recreation was not enough, that he wanted deeply for the sendai frogs to choose him, that he did not want to be dissatisfied.

he sent a different text message instead. for instance, he messaged hinata, whose physical distance made him more accessible & whose inclination for conversation made tsukishima certain that he would take the message as a type of provocation or challenge for insight.

[ txt ] sendai’s teams looking good

[ txt ] lol

then later fidgeted with his fingers when he told akiteru later that he was going to try out for the frogs with his university team because it was good practice. he said nothing of himself, nothing of his intentions.

& then he hadn’t known how to handle the victory. he hates losing more than he likes winning, so it prepares him poorly for trying to communicate that he has chosen to be competitive. that he has chosen an additional responsibility because he wants to win.

it feels easier to tell hinata or kageyama because they’re always in the currents of competition; they know the thrills. it’s harder to tell yamaguchi, harder to tell akiteru because it’s something that he has to admit in person. it’s something he has to confess to those who have seen him sink to his lowest.

the lowest is something they don’t call by name. yamaguchi never needs to, because he’s so accustomed to roundabout pathways & to anxiety that bubbles over. he always lands on the right way of building a conversational balance that is an equal exchange.

akiteru tries to name it & hesitates because it sits in him too & takes another form. he’s nostalgic in a way that kei never was, & he had handled sadness like turbulence in a way that kei never had. the thing that they don’t call by name is something that akiteru had felt; it was something that kei refused to feel.

& it’s harder, too, to tell them because finding a high does not prevent a low. the prospect of confessions & growth guarantees a spell of days of heavy limbs, heavy tongue, heavy soul. a part of him is certain that he is grateful that it’s the weekend when he tells them — he doesn’t yet have a need to email excuses for the way that he’s losing track of scheduling —- & a part of him forgets gratefulness.

it makes him feel as though he’s lost even when he’s won. yamaguchi gets so excited that he smacks tsukishima upside the head, despite tsukishima’s protests — akiteru threatens him with the sentimentality of wet eyes, & tsukishima tries ward him off by shoving a second serving of their shared dinner towards him. they avoid a crisis & sink back into their routine anyway —- at that time, tsukishima had been paying some rent at akiteru’s apartment. the prospect of student housing had threatened too much stimulus & scraped anxiety against his skin, & akiteru has always been inclined to accommodate him in ways that tsukishima would rather not admit that he has needed.

but the city suited him — sendai is the city of the trees, & so it felt like a natural place to form new habits, to choose a career for the sake of wanting. he starts renting on his own, drawing out his university years so that it turns more feasible alongside museum work & sport. his grumbles sometimes that his wallet is wearing thin & disguises that it’s a real source of stress. there had been little guaranteed when he was split between two part-time jobs, split between refusing sponsorship deals ( & certain that he has few prospects for sponsorships ), split between residual classes, & split at the ends with the understanding that even now, he does not want to try a roommate.

roommates threaten too much noise, too much extra scrutiny. even without cause, he prefers the idea of his anonymity.

even so, a thin wallet hadn’t yet enough cause for regret —- & that’s promising in his too-small apartment that always smells a little like the neighbor’s laundry soap. the space turns home to preferences — window blinds & lamp light rather than overheads; a pile of blankets folded neatly over the back of the couch, though they are too numerous; a stack of textbooks & recreational reading that he repurposed into a table beside the too small couch.

he’ll move, maybe, when work turns full time — for now he is too tall for his apartment, & kuroo is too tall for his apartment. still, it had been the natural place for them to greet each other, to know each other after years of expectations established between peers & competitors —- after years of expectance established between those who knew each other from a distance.

but again, there is that embrace that isn’t much of anything. kuroo’s breath still settles against his grasp. tsukishima bites his cheek, & he’s made to think of every gamble that they never had.

even if boundaries are not yet drawn, they are everything not yet established. they are stupid in youth; they are a one bedroom apartment that wants to be twenty-two meters squared. they are still looming closer in ways that means confessions & conversations soaked in sentiments not properly translated. tsukishima’s ears keep turning red, & he listens to kuroo tell himself as he is.

hindsight always comes into play. tsukishima realizes in sporadic bursts that he, too, had looked at kuroo as a leader ( or at least partly defined by his leadership ) —- in those early days when text messages were a thrill, there had been a lot unknowns & imaginative assumptions of other that never meant anything until now when it’s friendships born-again & born-natural : english practice & arguments that don’t make sense & horrible movies & dramatics for which tsukishima never asked.

kuroo takes up an appropriate amount of space in tsukishima’s apartment. he’s intrusive sometimes in ways that tsukishima hasn’t yet learned to mind, even now —- when couch cushions sink at an uncomfortable angle that makes tsukishima sit crookedly as kuroo brings himself to his knees & chases dramatics.

tsukishima doesn’t have much patience for theatricality, so he takes advantage of his hand’s positioning still to try to pinch at kuroo’s side a second time.

but it’s too late, tsukishima thinks, when kuroo’s face is too close to his —- it’s a guise of jest, & that still doesn’t detract from the warm spread of kuroo’s breath against his cheeks. it doesn’t detract from tsukishima’s increasing awareness that his ears are red, that they might stay red forever.

‘ dangers of taking a protege, if you can call at that. they tend to turn cannibalistic, ‘ tsukishima offers. his tone is always his — too deadpan, too joking, too incontestable. all things that make him charming, all the things that make him less than charming. still, he offers the challenges he can because they came from childish roots.

he looked at kuroo as a leader when team rivalries framed their interactions, when adolescence scoffed at every connection.

but kuroo’s breath splays over his skin, & it leaves little room for prior conceptions of leadership —- here’s a man with, with so many pieces of him that are too ready to be unkempt, ready to stick out at odds. here’s a man who can’t say the right thing, who seems to feel too much.

& tsukishima hates to admit that he understands the appeal. here too is a man shrewd eyes, with the clean jaw, with the capacity to exchange barbed wire & thorns. tsukishima watches it happen, watches it unfurl in the way that kuroo performs a ‘ broken heart ‘ —- tsukishima finally manages to pinch kuroo’s side in reprimand, because he can rise to a challenge too.

still, the challenge is lost when kuroo settles against him & makes a pillow against tsukishima’s thighs. it detracts from old adolescent accolades to leadership & celebrates instead the charm of two men, new to adulthood & uncertain in its trajectory. they are grounded then in a similar trajectory.

the equilibrium that they tease out is a tempting thing. what do i get when i win, tsukki?

tsukishima is caught between 1 ) wanting to reprimand him for calling him tsukki because admonishment is muscle memory now a & 2 ) wanting to sketch the shape of kuroo’s cheekbones, of the bridge of his nose with the pad of his index finger.

he likes that sort of thing, doesn’t know he likes that sort of thing — to know a person’s shape so well that it becomes its own language with passing touches & familiarity

he retracts his hand for a moment, & it hovers for a second — awkward & indecisive & conscious of danger.

‘ i’m interesting enough, ‘ he says, because he’s always been good at shrouding himself in a cloud of arrogance that might pass as confidence. he’s even better at keeping his tone sideways & cool —- a challenge for action, even if it were framed as could-be neutrality.

he’s interesting enough, good enough that he should be enough of a win.

still, he entertains kuroo’s provocation — kuroo prods at his chest, & tsukishima rubs at the afflicted area with his indecisive hand to prove a point.

‘ if you win, then i’ll go to shibuya. to one of those arcades you were talking about, ‘ he decides & shrugs & keeps trying to find his point of neutrality. but the red at his ears keep giving him away, more so when he glances down & sees too much vulnerability ( undefined ) written against kuroo’s features.

it’s enough to make tsukishima relent a campaign of an indecisive hand. he pats kuroo’s cheek twice ( still awkward ), & his touch is soft enough that he at least promises something is heard.

he likes that sort of thing, doesn’t know he likes that sort of thing — to know a person’s shape so well that it becomes its own language with passing touches & familiarity.

uninvited, his thumb curves a path over kuroo’s cheekbone.

‘ is that good enough reason? ‘ he pauses & speaks into a grey space - whether being interesting is good enough reason, whether mundane promises are good enough reason. still, he keeps his tone cool. he’s good at that.

akemi demands a lunch date a week after his graduation. he doesn't like sushi very much –– his sister loves it though & he doesn't turn down a free meal, so he learns to tolerate it & has his go-to's so that it's at least an okay experience. besides, if he doesn't meet up with her she'll track him down & make sure that he finds his way to the restaurant. so instead he saves her the trouble & glances over the menu for his favorites, orders himself a nice helping of california roll, dragon roll, & shrimp tempura roll. for a moment he debates the allure of saki but gives it up in favor of the look that akemi shoots him & knows that this will be a lunch full of company but also an interrogation.

truthfully, he's known it's been coming. it almost makes him laugh that his parents have chosen to let her have the discussion instead of them. then again, he holds akemi's opinion high in standards, so perhaps they think that it'll carry more weight coming from her.

he leans onto his elbows on the table, crosses his legs a little firmer underneath him, & allows steel chopsticks to come down around a crab rangoon, pulling it onto his small plate. the appetizer is set between them as if it'll hold promise of truce & white flags, but tetsuro knows better than that.

" have you decided what you're going to do? scouts aren't going to wait forever if you're putting together a reel to send them & there's still testimonials that you'll have to get from coach nekomata. " akemi's voice is pleasant as she reaches forward & grabs her own, delicately nibbling at the edge of the fried wonton wrapper as her sharp gaze cuts his way. for what it's worth, testuro takes a big bite out of his own just to spite her, just to save face for a little while longer as he tries to work it around in his head.

this has been coming since they were knocked out by karasuno & he knew it. logically he knew that they've have questions –– would he be going pro? he's never talked much about it, nor has he talked about attending college on a scholarship to possibly take that further. every time the conversation is brought up tetsuro expertly dodges past it & magically has some meeting that he has to attend; kenma is calling, i have to go, you know how impatient he can get. in truth, his phone hasn't rang much since losing; kenma's name does come up more often than not, but outside of that it's more or less just bokuto that texts him, along with a few from tsukishima when he feels the urge rise up.

they all handle their losses in their own ways; testuro has never been one to let it take over every inch of him, has never been the one to tuck his head & cry because it's never been that serious. he's never wanted to lose, sure, but he's never felt it in the same way that some do. he doesn't think that makes him less of a player –– he just thinks that he has found moderation over the years in how losses & wins add up.

he also thinks that he's a little numb from the fact that nekoma is no longer his. the team is turned over to kenma & the others; he is a captain without a team, a memory only in name & in the number on his jersey inside of his closet. that sits heavier than he wants to admit to himself, even on those days when they're good days. some days his fingers run along 01 & he thinks of the blocks that he missed, thinks of the serves that he could've saved. he thinks of rallies going entirely too long. he thinks too much of those training camps & watching potential blossom in a team that had had everything pushed against them.

the numbness hasn't escaped his chest. he's unsure of if it ever will, or if there's always going to be this numbness that settles within him when he thinks of volleyball. it's been a part of him for so long now –– since he was a child, since he had learned to spike & had simply received a ball. coach nekomata had seen something in him & to have him there throughout his entire career in high school? it feels like his faith was ill placed –– it feels like he hasn't fully ever earned it. how can he call himself a captain when he couldn't lead them toward a championship in the reality of it all?

his lips purse & he loses his appetite for the fried delicacy. he sets it back down on his place & keeps his eyes averted; akemi is patient to a fault, but she will not let him slide for much longer. her patience is that of a tiger that is slowly circling its prey, ready to leap at the last second & take it by surprise. his sister has always been sharp & good at what she does; he supposes that's why she's gone the lawyer route, why in just a few short years she's already begun to make her way into a place in a local firm, wins already on her back. a keen eye for details –– & an even keener eye for bullshit.

so kuroo doesn't even bother to try & fight his way through something pathetic like an excuse, because she will see right through it & that'll be another conversation that he doesn't need.

" i'm not going pro. i'm thinking of putting applications in for sports management. " there, just rip the bandaid off.

the table is silent for a solid minute before akemi sets her chopsticks down & he feels the spot between his shoulder blades prickle. he doesn't want to answer questions about it –– it's not like he's happy with his choice, but every single time he thinks of heading back onto the court he feels like there's a heaviness there that he can't shake. maybe it's just taking a loss too hard, maybe it's just his own insecurities bubbling up & wrapping their hands around his throat. either way, this is a consolation prize –– he had liked helping out bokuto with tsukishima, had liked finding the potential in kenma & needling him until he had no choice but to love the sport.

so finding potential can be a good thing, a safe thing, & it can be a good idea. so he goes with it.

" are you going to really be able to be around the sport & not be part of it? " a keen eye that works around details. akemi's face is neutral when she looks at him but an eyebrow slowly begins to raise. she knows him too well, has exposed all the raw edges to his nerves that he doesn't want to acknowledge, not now.

" i'll be fine. " it's said with a shake of his hand like nothing more needs to be said.

his body falls back into tsukishima's side with a quiet oof that falls from his lips, his side smarting from the pinch that had been leveled there. his tongue presses against his cheek as his arm wraps its way around him, makes space so that kuroo can stay where he is but so that he can breathe too. for a moment, kuroo forgets how to breathe –– he's pretty sure tsukishima can feel it, the way his heart stutters with the way that his arm is pressed against the pulse of his neck.

he wills his thoughts to quiet.

" you're right, you know. the thought of starting over, having a new team, letting them down on the court –– i wasn't ready for it. " a shrug of his shoulders that jostles them both, but he allows him a piece of himself. he allows himself to break off a piece of importance, of quiet acceptance that he has been keeping locked down for too long now. it's why he's sluggish with his papers & the work that he does four days a week here, the ones that tsukishima sometimes looks over & scoffs at, a soft tsk before he instructs him of where his math is wrong.

sometimes kuroo gets it wrong just so that he'll correct him.

he hasn't touched a court much since he's lost to karasuno. sometimes he helps kenma practice, but it's rarely on a court –– it's in the backyard or along the river like they used to, the sounds of tokyo quieting their thoughts as the ball bounces between arms & leaves the telltale marks of athletes in their wake.

the thought of starting over without kenma at his side, without even lev by his side, it makes something uncomfortable tighten in his chest. he never thought he'd be the type for sentimentality when it came to teammates; they change constantly because that is the nature of sports. it is a business on the undercurrent, no matter how much someone wants the team to stay the same. but something about being the one that has to walk away hurts more than he thought it would –– & he hasn't figured out a way to seal up that ache in himself yet.

so he comes here four days a week & watches horrible movies & pretends that learning english is an absolute pain. in reality it's become like home & as much as he hates to admit it, it might be starting to thaw out the part of him that's felt cold & detached for far too long.

the weight of tsukishima's arm around his neck feels like an anchor that's bringing him back to the world that he keeps finding himself floating away from. his head aches in the right way when he thinks about volleyball when tsukishima is near –– & he isn't entirely sure what that all means. he's not sure what he means when he feels his own pulse against the warm skin against his neck & wonders what it would feel like if he just turned slightly & pressed his lips against it.

a gasp leaves his lips though that bokuto would be proud of –– the dramatics clear as he spins slightly, presses his knees into the couch that still ache from hitting the court far too often. he's too close to tsukishima's face now, his hand moving down his shoulder blades with the change in position.

" you are breaking my heart. i can't believe you want go against me. i've taught you, my little protege, & now you repay me like this? " he has learned more from bokuto than just volleyball, his eyes widening dramatically & his bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. there's a frustration in his huff as well –– the thought of going against tsukki, the old spark starting to work its way up in his chest despite his best efforts.

for the first time in years, tetsuro feels a little more alive than he had before, feels a little bit more like himself & like he wants to feel the court beneath his feet once more.

he allows his body to fall, head colliding with muscular thighs that have been built from years on the court & keeping in shape. the promise of the heat that leaks through pants makes him shiver slightly, but he tilts his head up, lets his bangs fall over his eye a bit more.

" what do i get when i win, tsukki? because you gotta make this interesting for me. " his hand comes up, prodding at tsukishima's chest directly in the middle.

he would go either way; the spark that's been lit is starting to ignite into flames, familiar trajectories & plays beginning to work its way through his head like they had before. for the first time in a long time, the part of his mind that has been trying to build a wall around volleyball in order to protect the memories, starts to come down. it starts to yield to the sledgehammer that tsukishima easily wields.

he thinks that akemi would see through his bullshit with this, too. if it had been anyone else telling him that he was going to play, he wouldn't have succumbed so easily. but it's tsukishima, & he finds that he has a hard time denying him anything.

it's dangerous. it's dangerous because he knows why he would grant him anything he wanted.

it's dangerous that when he looks up from this angle, he feels stupid, starstruck in a way that leaves him feel like a sixteen year old with a crush once more. back then it had been with a loser who was tactile & knew how in the hell to cheat his way through a boss fight but draw it out at the same time when all kuroo wanted to do was go outside.

he feels the heat drawing to his cheeks dangerously & swallows hard –– this is dangerous because he keeps finding it harder & harder to hold himself back, to not just blurt everything that keeps rolling itself around in his head.

tetsuro bites his lip harder & feels his throat go dry. glasses & the upturn of a nose shouldn't look as good as they do. his head shouldn't feel so good, heavy & light at the same time.

tetsuro had thought that he had been in love before, with kenma & the infatuation of knowing someone so intimately.

this is different though. this is the same feeling he gets when he hits a block just right. it's the same feeling he gets when he steps onto a court & feels the weight of a match on his shoulders.

he realizes that he's only ever fallen in love twice: with volleyball & with kei tsukishima.

both are beyond dangerous. both have the power to break him in so many different ways.

#100. c. tsukishima #after this took me 4 days sdfgsdfg #kept fALLing aslEEP #st4rsinclined

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howlrs · 17 days ago

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❛ you point that thing at me you better pull the trigger . ❜ * kuna

prompt tba. // @st4rsinclined

HE KNOWS SHE CAN'T PULL THE TRIGGER. they both do. even as the handgun's barrel presses up against the firm plane of his chest, imprinting the tattooed skin right over his heart, it shakes, wavers with the ragged breaths that push and pull from her lungs. fletch has to have anticipated how bad persephone's reaction would be when they found out about adeo. either they did anticipate it, and this is all on purpose somehow — radio silence as persephone tore through the guards and fled with no destination — or they don't know her as well as they thought they did.

figures, then, that the only person who does know her is able to find her without help. even in a city that's strange and crowded and bright. perhaps that's why fletch sent sukuna with them; if he got past his ego, it would be easy to see that sukuna is her only true anchor.

this isn't their first time through the wringer. he knows how many hours to give her. he knows how to track her patterns; they aren't so different from the way she moves through tokyo. having encrypted location trackers helps, too. eventually, he finds her in an apartment unit tucked away among chinatown's tightly-packed market buildings, accessible only from the rooftop of the building next to it.

didn't take long, upon entry into a dark and quiet room, to be shoved up against the wall with a forearm at his throat and a gun barrel up against his chest.

he knows she can't pull the trigger. they both do. persephone's head drops onto his shoulder with a strangled noise in the back of her throat, lets the gun clatter to the floor. she still hasn't told him anything — she hasn't had the words yet. there are too many. there are too few. ❝ ... sorry. ❞

#>> IN.#st4rsinclined #>> bond ( st4rsinclined » ryomen sukuna — we fight every night for something; when the sun sets we're both the same. )#{ set this right after our other thread to keep the momentum goin <3 }

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cursesavior · 1 month ago

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✉ @st4rsinclined said: “ i don't smoke except for when i'm missing you. “ the boys!

"Ah, so it's my fault you picked up such a bad habit? I guess I really am an awful influence." Suguru gives a huff of a laugh, the corners of his lips quirking up in a half-smile as nostalgia floods his mind. It's funny, in a way - Suguru himself picked up the habit from Shoko, and now Satoru was taking after him - it's a weird little detail that ties them all together, isn't it? The world has worn him down, made him hesitant to believe in ideas like fate, but sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders...

Now's not the time to be contemplating such things, though, is it? Suguru had been gone on an international trip, having heard about some particularly strong curses wiping out monkeys over in Shanghai. It's only natural, given how many human beings flow through there day in and day out, the stress and despair building up with every muttered complaint - but it meant he'd been gone for a little over a week, entrusting the temple to his family, and of course, asking Satoru to keep an eye on his daughters. The girls had practically tackled him as soon as he walked through the door, but his reunion with Satoru had to wait a little longer, finding him smoking in the dusk air on the porch outside his bedroom.

He feels bad for making him wait so long - he must've missed him quite a lot to resort to lighting up the cigarettes he'd left behind. Suguru knows he certainly missed him - it was strange, feeling so lonely in a city so full of life. He likes it better here, where it's quiet, just him and the little family he'd found despite it all.

"Well, now that I'm back, I suppose you won't be needing this anymore." He hums, plucking the cigarette right from his lips and holding it up to his own, taking a deep inhale and letting the burn settle in his throat and lungs. His free hand gently holds his chin, tilting Satoru's face towards him before closing the distance, locking their lips together and letting the smoke flow between them. He's not sure what compels him to do it - a desire for intimacy after spending so much time apart, or perhaps he's just conflicted, torn between the part of him that wants him to stop smoking altogether and the part that enjoys it as something they could share.

The rest of the smoke dissipates as he pulls away, pressing another chaste kiss against his lips with a smile, before moving to put out the cigarette, leaving the end of it snuffed out in his ashtray. "But really, you shouldn't make a habit of it. It's terrible for you, you know? Who knows how much of it your reverse-cursed technique can fix." Hypocrite that he is, telling him to quit when he's been doing it on and off for years, but he supposes he's always been that way - saying one thing and doing another. The consequences should be his alone to bear - he doesn't know what he'd do if it effected Satoru's health, especially since he'd be the one to blame. Maybe he just worries too much, maybe he's just a nag, but still. He can never help himself when it comes to his one and only.

#— i get dark only to shine / IN CHARACTER.#— i should have told you everything / ANSWERED.#st4rsinclined #these lyrics make me so emo :sob:#but i had to have them shotgun i cldnt help it <3

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mindsafe · 2 months ago

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@st4rsinclined || CONTINUED FROM [ X ]

it's rare that sobriety ( or something close to it ) finds him, && even rarer does it find him well. on those select days where kenny makes a conscious effort to keep clean, he is prone to fits of RESTLESSNESS which worsen with every exhumed memory; this time, the bones stay buried, && he is able to breathe.

❝ --to your health, runt. ❞ kenny toasts, promptly bringing the bottle to his lips, christening it with a generous swig ― good beer always tastes better from a bottle. it's his second one of the day, which ( for him ) is pretty damn good. he'd been keeping pace with his nephew, in between idle chit-chat, && commenting on the other's overly-precise technique. ❝ y'know, it's a waste of time tryin' to cut them all perfect-like; leave that to the blades. . . ❞

it was a variation of an old recipe, passed down his bloodline from father to son ― or in kenny's case, father to grandson. one small batch could fill the stomach of a grown man. before blenders were popularized among households, kenny was forced to make the batter from scratch; shredding each potato on the jagged edges of a rusty box grater. . . some nostalgia doesn't need to be revisited.

there was one night, where kuchel was ‘ working ’, && she had left him some money for pizza. . . instead, kenny raided the pantry, && with a few staple ingredients, he was able to prepare a home-cooked meal. to his surprise, the brat couldn't stop stuffing his face like a teeny tiny chipmunk, && it gradually became their thing: they would cook ( together ); they would eat ( together ); && they would get in shit for the mess they made ( together ). it only made sense that kenny would eventually teach him the process. he wouldn't be around forever. . . he wasn't sure if he'd be around as long as most. . .

kenny shifts in his seat && adjusts the positioning of his legs. uri hates it when he has his feet on the table; too bad uri's not around to scold him. neither is kuchel, surprisingly. frieda had some other commitment ― ‘ roller derby ’ he thinks? && rod. . . didn't need to be here.

otherwise contented, it remains difficult not to get caught up in his thoughts during periods of quiet. REGRET carries over from another life, && refuses to die. it's persistent, like the humming of electricity in the walls. something in his eyes must give him away; that, or he speaks without thinking ( as he is prone to do ). he's hoping on the former; chances are, it's the latter.

❝ --jeez, you weren't kidding about coming for uri's nachos. . . ❞ kenny brays so hard that he almost spills his drink. some things are just too funny. ❝ he's always on my ass about how i'm my own worst enemy, telling me how i'm not the same man i once was; how i can be the person you need me to be, but i have to forgive myself. . . ❞ laughter fizzles && he heaves a sigh. ❝ you know, when 'chel got pregnant, i was ready to break that fucker's legs. . . she never gave me an address, or even a name ― didn't want me getting arrested again, i guess. we were still living with our ‘ zayde ’ back then, but he was already on his deathbed, mind you. . . so i dropped out of high school to help out with money; never was much of an academic anyway. that was when i started taking odd jobs, here && there, && that's how i met uri, so technically. . . i owe you. for making that kind of love possible. ❞

a thick mixture is transferred to a large bowl, && the binding agents && seasonings are introduced. that's his cue. it's their thing, && they have a system: levi makes the batter; kenny fries it. he slams back the rest of his bottle, before he'll have to actually get up && commit to manning the stove ― not that he minds. it was always his favourite part. there's nothing quite like the sound && smell of hot oil in a tiny kitchen, watching it sizzle && spit, while waiting on fritters to take on that gorgeous shade of golden brown, on both sides. often, he'd whistle while working; if he was in an especially good mood, he'd sing.

❝ --i don't need to make a fortune. i married rich. ❞ kenny dismisses the suggestion casually. it wasn't the first time his nephew had brought it up, && it likely wouldn't be the last. part of his reluctance lies in a general disinterest in entrepreneurship; && part of it lies in a stubbornness that seems to run in the BLOOD. . . he readies the stovetop: a frying pan; a spatula; && a shit ton of oil. ❝ patience is a virtue, brat. adank. ❞ he takes bottle number three with a self-satisfied little smile. ❝ go have a seat, now. you've done plenty. ❞ he adds, gruffly, but not unkindly.

#st4rsinclined #「 ♛ 」oh sinnerman; where are you gonna run to? ( kenny )#「 ♛ 」verse: i look at the world && i notice it's turning ( modern )#iTS SOMETHING #kenneth talking about his past? being vulnerable? it's completely possible

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pontevoix · 2 months ago

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𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞: new years edition from @st4rsinclined : kuroo & tsukishima

who insists on cleaning the house for “a fresh start”?

tsukishima has an odd relationship with the idea of momentum – he’s prone sometimes to falling into cadences of ups & downs & surges of not-quite motivation. & it’s fine, mostly, because it doesn’t matter that much when it comes to determining what he feels needs to be done, to determining what he’s going to do.

but a cadence of up & down makes it fleeting enough that he feels as though it were something he needs to snatch at & tighten his fist around it so that that it might stay put.

the idea of a new year is the source of a nervous sort of anxiety that tsukishima can’t properly bring himself to voice. & still, if he’s in an upswing, then it makes it apparent.

generally speaking, he’s clean. he keeps a tidy space, & he doesn’t care too much about the idea of deep cleans. kruoo matches him in that regard. he’s clean, too. he’s tidy.

he also has a deeper preference for lived-in spaces than tsukishima, & sometimes it litters a shared living space in a way that tsukishima has grown to accept.

but when there is the grasp for momentum, tsukishima turns more prone to cleaning the home for a ‘ fresh start ‘ so that he doesn’t feel as though he were veering close to losing momentum.

it sounds a bit frightful to lose momentum.

who sneaks away to watch the stars and reflect on the past year?

tsukishima has never been prone to nostalgia, & he isn’t lying when he concedes that he has little patience for it either — he’s too caught in the present, too concerned by the future. it’s a wonderful safeguard when it comes to habits that encourage a man to remember his strengths as something past.

in truth, tsukishima has never been prone to nostalgia because he’s not entirely sure that it is a helpful thing.

in recent years, he’s been venturing closer to a person that he wants to become – so there hadn’t been a version of himself that made more sense than the one that exists in the present. if he remembers his youth, he remembers himself as having been prone to noncommittal habits, to a quiet hold.

he’d rather not regret the commitments he has made now. so he tries to think forward just enough.

kuroo is similar — thinking present & thinking forward. & kuroo differs too – because he has always been prone to nostalgia, to finding comfort in the older memories that had been sources of warmth —

kuroo finds a lot more ceremony in reminiscing than tsukishima does. & tsukishima understands it because the people closest to him have always been prone to appreciating the sentimentality of ceremony & good times — he understands it well enough not to mock, not to dispute when reflection is asked of him too.

at the new year, they stand at the street & harbor drinks against their chest. kuroo studies the sky, & tsukishima can’t see the starts properly amidst pollution but –

yeah. he’ll reflect on the past year if he’s asked.

who struggles to stay awake and falls asleep before the countdown?

tsukishima deeply & desperately wants to be capable of staying up later in the evening. he tries sometimes & fools himself momentarily into the prospect of success when settling into bed to watch a movie with his laptop on his chest — but he always falls asleep thirty minutes into the movie. then his neck hurts & his headphones threaten to get be bent at the wrong angles –

it’s a frustrating defeat as much as it is humiliating.

if he’s celebrating the new year at home, he’s inclined to fall asleep early — & he does a terrible job of making a convincing argument that he’ll manage to stay awake. by ten, he’s caccooned himself in a layer of a two sweatshirts, a blanket, & socks. kuroo tells him that he looks like the world’s unfriendliest snowman, which isn’t particularly clever, so tsukishima just glowers.

kuroo has a harder time of falling asleep than tsukishima – & he doesn’t complain when tsukishima trusts him enough to sink against him well before midnight.

if they’re at a public celebration for the new year, tsukishima stays awake without struggle — & though kuroo manages to make himself thrive in their good company, he tires at the same time tsukishima does. there’s little need for deliberation between them about when to leave the public celebration.

who always wants to watch the fireworks, even in freezing weather?

neither of them particularly care for fireworks themselves, but kuroo ( still prone to sentimentality ) has a fondness for festivals & food booths & the warmth of community celebration.

there are fireworks there, sometimes.

tsukishima follows kuroo to the festivals, anyway.

but he does hate the cold. he would do everything in his power to avoid spending an excess time in freezing weather. consequently, because he is a logical man, he is appalled that kuroo is so indifferent to threat of winter winds or biting cold. as far as tsukishima can tell, kuroo forgets his scarf more often than he remembers it. besides that, he’s got a terrible habit of pressing cold fingers against the back of tsukishima’s neck when he thinks that tsukishima is being particularly annoying.

who writes a detailed list of resolutions?

kuroo is prone to moments of grandiose wants sometimes. he doesn’t really write a list of resolutions as much as he grows restless at work sometimes & writes down a list of ambitions & goals — not all of which are achievable, not all of which he has to pursue. it bothers kuroo, tsukishima thinks, when he feels too close to stagnation or restlessness.

so kuroo strives for a lot, & sometimes tsukishima doesn’t understand it — recently, he’s grown grateful for it, though he doesn’t say as much well. it’s admirable.

of course, tsukishima also feels as though a list of resolutions may be detrimental to him. his first instinct is to confine himself too well — & a resolution would only serve to enforce that.

who's claims not to care about new year traditions but secretly hopes they work?

kuroo falls into traditions for the sake of celebration & indulging in nostalgia —- tsukishima falls into traditions sometimes with some begrudging reluctance & with some feelings of gratitude.

it’s not so much that he hopes that new year traditions work or that he wishes for luck, but when he gets caught into the idea of momentum . . . he hates the idea of things that might spoil it.

he’s prone to noticing indicators of bad luck & omens. he’s prone to carrying it with him like a cloud. it’s a point of anxiety sometimes.

tsukishima would rather avoid anything that gives omens for the future.

who insists on always spending new year's together and kissing at midnight?

they don’t always insist on spending new year’s together. they’re both prone to bouts of pride & indignation that means that means they lapse into communication sometimes as though it were a challenge.

so sometimes they split ways. sometimes they resent it. sometimes they understand it.

but they still settle into one another well enough that they understand rituals & wants.

they don’t kiss where they can be seen. because they both are prone to their own types of privacy. but if they are in public ( & alone ), kuroo kisses tsukishima. because it makes them both hide a smile, because it’s a shared celebration.

if they are away from a shared space, tsukishima kisses kuroo. because it’s his turn. because it’s a fair exchange, because it makes kuroo’s lips turn into a smile against his own.

both kuroo & tsukishima are well-equipped to make more than compelling arguments.

who wants to start new year's day 'the right way' (early, nice breakfast, etc)?

tbh they both really like sleeping in on the new year. that’s the right way to start the new year. then they realize they’re out of groceries so it blows up in their face. sad !!!!!!

who starts a hobby on january 1st and sticks with it all year?

kuroo talks about starting a new hobby on december 31st. then he tries something new on march 22 that he remembers had been on his list of things to try, & so he counts it briefly as a new hobby for the new year.

they’ve been stumbling into new habits & hobbies & rituals, though – all of which are accidentally discovered in efforts of navigating communication. it has nothing to do with the new year. it has everything to do with them.

who suggests writing a letter to their future selves to open next new year’s?

actually neither of them they’re both too proud to do that. akiteru tries to tell them that it’s a nice practice though. momentarily, tsukishima felt the urge to strangle his brother when he said that – but only mildly.

#100. c. tsukishima #THERE U GO #st4rsinclined #5. headcanon

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