Fuji Shuusuke/Inui Sadaharu (Prince of Tennis) Tags: no major tags, genderswap, mental overstimulation, allusions to harm, mixed metaphors Word Count: 537
A glowing thread wraps around Inui’s fingers, pulsing and slightly dripping with wet potential. Inui spreads his fingers and watches as the thread pulls at the entire cloth spread out before him, tangling and knotting with the others. Each thread weaves together to make the whole, the singular thread becoming lost in the collective. But not for Inui. Inui sees each thread for its own purpose. Every interaction, every tangle, every single accidental ripple that make an integral part of the whole.
Once upon a time, there was a man who wished to know everything, and the djinn he’d captured hadn’t failed him. Inui can see every outcome before him. What will happen if he walks left or right, what happens if he kicks a patch of dirt. He can see the threads that are supposed to be invisible, see how they each interconnect while creating an image that seems totally random but is actually extremely organized chaos.
Soon, Inui loses the ability to move.
There’s too much to see. There are too many options unravelling before him. There are too many possibilities. And the longer Inui spends paralysed, unable to decide from any of the millions of paths sprawling out in front of him, the more the options change. A thousand branches wither with his indecision and another thousand bloom in their place.
Inui doesn’t move anymore.
Inui watches.
He finally knows everything.
Inui once thought not having all the information was maddening. Making guesses, extrapolating instead of knowing. It was terrifying.
But this.
This is truly maddening.
He doesn’t move, he doesn’t make decisions. He watches, sees the data change before him, lets it ebb and flow, and finds himself unable to do anything but watch.
A hand presses to his cheek, and for the first time in his — vast, endless — recent memory, it’s a surprise to him. The shock fills him with something akin to longing; nostalgia for something he never thought he’d miss.
Fuji turns Inui’s head (since it’s been a long while since Inui has found a need to move himself) and directs him to look at her. Her ever present grin is beaming at him.
“How does it feel, Inui?” Fuji asks, her voice a notch too pleasant; too knowing. And yet she remains a blind spot in his data, and Inui is drawn to that like a flame. “Your greatest wish has been granted. What now?”
She’s beautiful, a glowing void of information made flesh before him. He sees the paths of possibility blooming around her, but not intersecting her. There threads can’t tie themselves to her. Inui is transfixed by her ineffability. He wants to find out how she ticks, but in the same moment wants to wrap himself in the ignorance of it.
“Please,” Inui manages to say, his voice cracking from disuse. He can’t bring himself to continue, to vocalize what he needs.
He just wants it to stop.
Fuji grins once again. “Alright, Inui.” Her hand presses harder into his flesh, nearly grinding her fingers against Inui’s skull, and Inui can’t bring himself to mind. She moves closer, her lips hovering just in front of his. “I’ll grant your last wish too.”
FILL: TEAM MIYUKI KAZUYA/MIYUKI KAZUYA, G
Tags: no major tags, genderswap, mental overstimulation, allusions to harm, mixed metaphors
Word Count: 537
A glowing thread wraps around Inui’s fingers, pulsing and slightly dripping with wet potential. Inui spreads his fingers and watches as the thread pulls at the entire cloth spread out before him, tangling and knotting with the others. Each thread weaves together to make the whole, the singular thread becoming lost in the collective. But not for Inui. Inui sees each thread for its own purpose. Every interaction, every tangle, every single accidental ripple that make an integral part of the whole.
Once upon a time, there was a man who wished to know everything, and the djinn he’d captured hadn’t failed him. Inui can see every outcome before him. What will happen if he walks left or right, what happens if he kicks a patch of dirt. He can see the threads that are supposed to be invisible, see how they each interconnect while creating an image that seems totally random but is actually extremely organized chaos.
Soon, Inui loses the ability to move.
There’s too much to see. There are too many options unravelling before him. There are too many possibilities. And the longer Inui spends paralysed, unable to decide from any of the millions of paths sprawling out in front of him, the more the options change. A thousand branches wither with his indecision and another thousand bloom in their place.
Inui doesn’t move anymore.
Inui watches.
He finally knows everything.
Inui once thought not having all the information was maddening. Making guesses, extrapolating instead of knowing. It was terrifying.
But this.
This is truly maddening.
He doesn’t move, he doesn’t make decisions. He watches, sees the data change before him, lets it ebb and flow, and finds himself unable to do anything but watch.
A hand presses to his cheek, and for the first time in his — vast, endless — recent memory, it’s a surprise to him. The shock fills him with something akin to longing; nostalgia for something he never thought he’d miss.
Fuji turns Inui’s head (since it’s been a long while since Inui has found a need to move himself) and directs him to look at her. Her ever present grin is beaming at him.
“How does it feel, Inui?” Fuji asks, her voice a notch too pleasant; too knowing. And yet she remains a blind spot in his data, and Inui is drawn to that like a flame. “Your greatest wish has been granted. What now?”
She’s beautiful, a glowing void of information made flesh before him. He sees the paths of possibility blooming around her, but not intersecting her. There threads can’t tie themselves to her. Inui is transfixed by her ineffability. He wants to find out how she ticks, but in the same moment wants to wrap himself in the ignorance of it.
“Please,” Inui manages to say, his voice cracking from disuse. He can’t bring himself to continue, to vocalize what he needs.
He just wants it to stop.
Fuji grins once again. “Alright, Inui.” Her hand presses harder into his flesh, nearly grinding her fingers against Inui’s skull, and Inui can’t bring himself to mind. She moves closer, her lips hovering just in front of his. “I’ll grant your last wish too.”