[closed-ish] catchall

[ascends]

Who ⬤ suguru and co.
What ⬤ reunions of the sad and messy variety! substories! event prompts? the world is our oyster.
When ⬤ throughout march
Where ⬤ the sky's the limit, baybee
Content Warnings ⬤ it's suguru... i'm going to go ahead and say cw for violence, at the very least


[i'll be posting closed starters here for the foreseeable future, but just pm me here or over at tuchanka if you'd like me to write something up!! i love coming up with custom starters... please don't be shy...]

Comments

satoru - only one by yellowcard playing in the bg for these sad hs losers

[ascends]

[there's no reason to resist—and, truth be told, no opportunity to, for satoru's grip on suguru's wrist is absolute; suguru is offered no quarter as he's dragged to a somewhat more secluded location, the paper beneath his feet giving way to smooth, cool concrete before his attention shifts to that nearby alleyway. wouldn't it be fitting, in a way, to slip inside of it? the two of them, picking up in a place so similar to where they'd left off. maybe they'd both step back into the (neon) light, this time; maybe they'd both remain stuck in the shadows. suguru isn't entirely sure which would be worse.

satoru, however, stops just short of said alley, choosing instead to hover somewhere in the half-light. this, too, is fitting; suguru feels a fond sort of amusement—the ghost of something he'd given up long ago—as he studies satoru's face, taking in even the most minute changes. it isn't that he's pleased, seeing satoru so stricken. such a sight is far from satisfying, especially as satoru finally sees fit to pull away, busying himself with peeling paper from his shoe while attempting to piece everything together.

and suguru will give satoru this, as he tucks his hands into his wide sleeves: it must be a shock, coming face-to-face with someone dead and buried. he understands the complex array of emotions; he understands why satoru is, understandably—uncharacteristically—at less than his best, and yet this is more than being confronted by a living, breathing embodiment of failure. you can't just keep, satoru says, cutting himself off mid-sentence, and suguru thinks: keep what? what could he possibly keep doing, after dying? haunt satoru's waking thoughts?

(it's more probable than it should be.)]

Keep living? [he supplies, softly, as he just barely inclines his head. it's bittersweet, this reminder of his mortality; perhaps he should be angrier about it, and yet, calmly:] I know that I'm dead.

[you should at least curse me at the end, he'd said, feeling so light—so unburdened—after the better part of a decade. that feeling of peace has yet to fully leave him; later, he knows, it will dissipate as he recalls how he lost, why he lost, but for now: he's dead. that's all there is to it.

and satoru, his executioner—his friend—is here with him, hence the measured look he gives satoru now.]

Do you?

[because this is hell. the living belong somewhere far, far above; why is satoru even here?]

nanako - you are my sunshine 😭

[ascends]

[food doesn't interest suguru.

the smell of it, perhaps. the scent of sizzling oil and crisping meat does hold a certain appeal—and yet, as suguru makes his way down this bustling street, suguru pays little attention to vendors hawking their goods alongside it. taste is a luxury, of sorts? one that suguru would willingly sacrifice, for blandness should be a virtue. a goal. what he would give for everything, everything, to slide down his throat without demanding the cost that is taste.

but he doesn't expect anyone to understand—which is why he tucks his hands into the pockets of his plain black pants, making sure to maintain his barely there smile as he explores this portion of "his" territory. no, thanks, said smile says. i'm not interested, so don't waste your time.

(because the plan, such as it is, is to continue exploring what will be the parade route. it's a trip down memory lane, in a way? a bittersweet pill to swallow, in that, once upon a time, he'd planned a parade of his very own; he'd stationed marshals at specific points, entrusting them to maintain order as his curses ran amuck. it failed, yes—but what it could have been! what it could have been.)

and credit where credit is due: no one bothers him. no one pays particular attention to the man in all black cutting through the crowd, because in his more comfortable attire, suguru is so plain as to escape notice; he's free to slip between groups of youkai with ease, searching, all the while, for a quiet spot from which to observe the goings-on around him.

and this is when he spots her.

she's slumped at the very end of a bench, one hand curled about her phone even as her other hand rests near a half-eaten stick of sticky-sweet dango. too traditional for her tastes—and yet, as suguru takes in the curl of blonde hair falling against her cheek, suguru knows it can be no other. nanako. the sorcerer he'd rescued from a cage, all those years ago; the child he'd raised as his own, alongside her twin. they were never apart.

(why are they apart?)

but even as he watches her from afar, chest tightening (because she's young, so young, why is she here), he's all too aware of others' eyes? the glances others toss her way as they pass—which is why he swiftly crosses the distance between them, enjoying, to some degree, the way a handful of observers hurry right along. he isn't particularly intimidating, like this—

—and yet it doesn't matter. this is his girl? it isn't like her to fall asleep on a bench in the middle of (hell) nowhere, hence the oh-so gentle gesture that is him smoothing her bangs back, him pressing his fingers to her forehead. warm, but not worryingly so. it speaks to exhaustion more than anything.

and thus, as her eyelids just barely flutter, suguru softly murmurs:]

Nanako.

[wake up. why are you here, he wants to ask? on this bench; in hell—but he saves such questions for later, more concerned with nanako's well-being as he coaxes her back to consciousness.]

🥺

[megapixel]

[Being in hell has taught Nanako one important lesson: no matter how dead she may be, no matter how far removed she is from everything that matters, she will run into reminders about her life at every possible opportunity.

First, it was that weird monkey who rambled about his twin. Then it was Sukuna, revealing himself on the network and forcing Nanako keep a low digital profile — which goes completely against her nature. And now it's this stupid parade, a total joke compared to the one that Master Geto orchestrated. Master Geto's plans made sense, and all of the marshals under his command obeyed him — were loyal to him — up until his death. Here, there's barely a shred of loyalty to be found, with factions bickering with each other and tasks going unfulfilled. Nanako herself is a prime example of its failures — she has no interest in any of this.

The mundane activities of this parade drive home the fact that she truly is in hell. Why else would she be tasked with hanging decorations for an event that means nothing, when in life, she was at the center of the action, meant to fight? She hates everything about her responsibilities and so she easily abandons them, walking away from the pile of cloth that she was supposed to hang who knows where.

And she stands by her decision to do so! Except, as she walks along, snapping pictures of the more dedicated inhabitants of hell, Nanako knows she can only shirk responsibility for so long before it becomes a problem. She's already close to broke, having spent what little she grifted from monkeys and swiped with the help of klepto-kitties.

She needs money. And she doesn't want to do any of these boring, pointless jobs to get it — especially not if she's going to end up working alongside a monkey.

So! Taste-testing it is, Nanako decides when she happens upon a restaurant looking for help. She accepts the proffered dango, takes a bite, and passes judgment, earning herself a bit of money and a free treat. It isn't what she would have chosen, but she hasn't exactly been rolling in money and food since her arrival, so she deposits herself on a bench and continues to eat.

As soon as she is midway through the dango, it hits her: a wave of fatigue so intense, she knows she's going to fall asleep. She tries to fight it, in fear of being vulnerable without Mimiko to watch over her — in fear of being found by Sukuna and killed a second time — but even the act of keeping her eyes open is too much.

She falls asleep. And she dreams.

It's a scene from her memory: Master Geto, sitting at her bedside, smoothing back her hair and murmuring reassurances. Nanako. She must have been sick because she remembers being quiet, saying nothing, just listening to Master Geto talk. Nanako. That was the first time she felt safe after Master Geto took her and Mimiko away — the first time she believed that he would take care of them.

Nanako.

When she opens her eyes, she does so slowly, caught in that dreamlike feeling of security. She registers that touch upon her forehead but it does not fill her with alarm. It's too familiar, too right, and she wants to savor it for as long as she can. But then, as full awareness comes upon her, that feeling of security is replaced with an ache, a deep longing for a home to which she can't return —

As she looks up into the face of Master Geto, Nanako stills.

It's him. She immediately knows it to be true. There is no doubt in her gut, in her mind, in her heart, and yet — she still forces herself to look at his forehead. She still takes a moment to make sure. She still feels a knee-jerk flare of anger, of pain, of loss — and fear that this, too, will be taken away. That she might wake up a second time over and find herself beside a sorcerer wearing this body like a skin.

But the moment passes. Nanako remains awake, and he remains himself.]

Master Geto.

[Spoken too softly for her lips, as though his presence is a secret she can't share with anyone else — as though to say it any louder would shatter this moment.

But Nanako is the more expressive twin; quiet, contained behavior does not come naturally to her. As soon as the whisper is spoken, she throws her arms around him and clutches him tightly.]

You're here.

[Act like an adult.

That was the advice she had been given when she wanted to reclaim Master Geto's body. That is the advice that she thinks about now, hanging on to Master Geto like she's all of five-years-old again, lost and hurt, afraid of letting go. The words stubbornly surface in her mind as she feels her eyes begin to burn with the threat of tears.

It was hard without you, she wants to say. I made so many mistakes. I thought I was doing the right thing.

But what comes out is a tightly wound:]

I'm sorry.

[For all of it.

For allowing his body to be used like a puppet. For bowing before a curse. For getting Mimiko killed.

For not acting like an adult.

The days in hell have been long. The year without him even longer. Nanako wills herself not to cry, but when she takes a breath, it shudders in her lungs. When she closes her eyes, her cheeks are wet.]

reim - i assign this thread the song guy by lady gaga

[ascends]

[let it be known that, if suguru did not have an apartment to pay for—if suguru did not have another mouth to feed—then suguru would never agree to this? would never allow a sniveling youkai-slash-monkey to crawl closer, seeking to kiss the toes of his sensible black shoes—but here he stands, expression impassive as he slides his foot back another few inches. just out of reach! the youkai-slash-monkey all but sobs, dropping its rat-like face to the floor as it implores suguru to please, please, allow it the honor of—

—well. suguru, naturally, tunes this creature out, shifting his attention over to his so-called "partner." the man stands in the corner, scribbling away about who knows what; he seems like the sort of nerd to take copious notes, so:]

They expect us to make something out of this?

[the thing on the floor shivers, speaking of the honor that is someone such as suguru paying it such close attention—but suguru places his foot atop its shoulder, shushing it with a solid shake. gross.]

What do they want?

[give him the checklist, nerd! he's Yawning.]

it is time

[allweather]

[Neither of these people should be helping anyone learn to, ah, interact with others in this particular fashion — that's what Reim has determined. And, naturally, as he is one of these people who shouldn't be doing it, that means he should focus his efforts on at least making sure nothing too absurd happens and hope for the best. Currently, he is taking notes on the hasty tips someone else gave him on how to teach this crucial skill ("be mean?" he writes, and frowns at it).

Anyway, hold on, hold on—]

Now, hold on — don't step on them so suddenly. [A beat; he makes a face like he can't believe he's going to say this, but:] That has a lower success rate than other strategies I've been made familiar with...

[Baby steps, sir! Specifically baby steps not on another person, first? Gracious.]

What I've recorded here as a suitable "starter" activity is, er... 'Precision of language.'

[......well, he fuckin' wrote it down, so.]

Be specifically stern?