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tatooedlaura-blog · 3 years

Text

Five Words

I’m back again ... this time with a requested ‘Leonard Betts’ follow-up ...

this tried to kill me a little bit ... not lying ...

@laurenclare88 @today-in-fic

&&&&&&&&&&

No surprise to either Mulder or Scully, he was awake when she called, “hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, me, you okay?” Twisting his head back to see the clock behind him, “it’s almost midnight.”

“Feel like getting some hot chocolate? Coffee? Platter of waffles the size of your head?”

He heard something in her voice, and not sure if she’d been crying or sound asleep until five seconds before she called, he sat up, “well, Waffles and Stuff is open and in the middle so we can meet there, if you’d like, or if we hit Rolls and Holes, I’ll come pick you up.”

It was actually called Benny’s Café but they specialized in homemade cinnamon rolls and peanut butter donut holes, hence Mulder’s highly inappropriate, yet completely fitting, nickname.

She didn’t laugh like she normally did, juvenile as the nickname was, and he headed towards his shoes, wondering what could have happened since he left her yawning, at her front door, two hours ago, “Waffles and Stuff is fine. See you in ten.”

She must already be in the car because it took ten minutes to get there. Hurrying now, he tossed on a sweatshirt, then his jacket, heading out the door a minute later, turning left for the stairs instead of right to the elevator because hoofing it would be faster. The car ride there was quiet, traffic light, pavement dry.

Waffles and Stuff was empty this time of night, and as he parked, he spotted her already in their booth in the corner, having graduated from the counter a year or so back. Waving to both the cook and lone waitress, Max and Catherine as they had learned some time ago, he slid into the bench across from his partner, “fancy meeting you here.”

She didn’t feel like banter tonight, heavy burden weighing but not forming concrete thoughts able to be spoken out loud just yet. Instead, “you want to split the waffles or fly solo?”

“Scully.”

Hands on the table, she raised one in his direction, fingers waving absently, wrist bobbing in a ‘give me some time’ gesture, “I think I’d like to split a set of Belgian with extra butter and get bacon and sausage on the side. How’s that sound?”

Now she was just freaking him out. Stopping her flopping hand, “Scully? What happened? Is it your mom? Bill? Talk to me, please?”

She jerked her hand away from him, nearly taking out her water glass in the process, “just … they’re fine … I just …” frustration made her words stutter, nostrils flare, jaw tighten for a moment, “I haven’t …”

Not pushing in the moment, he leaned forward, holding his pointer finger up to stop Catherine’s approach, “do you want to eat here or get it to go? We can share in the car if you want.”

Eyes shutting, she took a deep breath, palms flat on Formica. Exhaling slowly, she found her center for a brief second, “just some hot chocolate for now.”

Mulder called the order to Catherine, adding a ‘thanks’ before returning to Scully, speaking slowly again, “are you okay?”

Her head shook a ‘no’, eyes glued to the table, fingers white. Mulder’s stomach tightened but venturing a guess that she’d had a nightmare about Betts and couldn’t form the words yet, he nodded, trying again to touch her, tracing his fingers over the cold knuckles on the back of her hand, “you’re fine here, okay? We can stay as long as you like.”

Caught between crying and screaming, she let him run his fingers over her for another moment before sliding back, hands dropping to lap as eyes bounced from his chin, then to his chest before landing on his still extended hand, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

She knew damn well she didn’t wake him up, but both realized she needed to steer them back to middle ground, neutral conversation, “you didn’t. I was watching ‘Golden Girls’.”

Not knowing this particular vice, she met his green eyes, almost smiling, “who’s your favorite?”

“Um, Sophia. What kind of asinine question is that?”

Hot chocolate arrived amidst the debate of Sophia vs. Rose and ordering their smorgasbord, things stayed light through another side of bacon and a second helping of hot chocolate. Stuffed by 1:15am, Mulder saw her drifting away again, heaviness settling where frivolity had been moments earlier. Tapping her ankle with his shoe lightly, she didn’t startle but refocused on him, “that better be you.”

Continuing, “it is.”

“Good. Otherwise, we’ll never be able to come here again.”

Catherine somehow managed to clean their table without disturbance, in, out, feeling the odd pall over them. Neither so much as glanced her way.

Subtly lifting his leg, he set his foot on the booth beside her, preventing any escape from his next questions, “what happened? Did you have a nightmare about Betts? Did you see something? Hear something?” He felt microscopic pressure against his ankle as her thigh muscles tensed to move but he held steady, not letting her leave. Voice dropping to a whisper, he leaned forward, “you’re starting to freak me out.”

Her face crumbled for a moment, then snapped back to normal 1 am, shifting gears a third time when her eyebrows crashed together, lip curling, chin wobbling in an instant, then back to normal. The gambit of emotions that crossed her face in under four seconds was heart-wrenching and Mulder followed along, panic about to overrun control.

Moving his foot, he shifted in beside her, arm around her shoulder, fear growing exponentially, his voice wobbling quietly in her ear, “what happened?”

“Betts told me I had something he needed.”

With the speed of a fucking bullet, realization froze his heart, and his other arm completed the circle around her, pulling her into his shoulder, burying his face in her hair, “Betts in a psychopathic fucker.” She couldn’t quite find words to tell him about the bloody nose that had sent her spiraling so she tried to move closer instead, wishing for a way to crawl into his lap without rebuke or reprisal. Ice still coursing through his veins, he choose denial mode as opposed to depths of despair, comfort instead of chaos, “he’s certifiable, Scully, why would you give him a second thought? A first thought, even?”

When she didn’t respond, he let go of her, standing, tossing money on the table and taking her hand, “come on.”

When he pulled away from her, she nearly sobbed, missing him in that second more than she’d missed him in … well … possibly ever. Seeing his extended hand started the roller coaster all over again and shifting, she followed in silence, little hand wrapped in big, not waving goodnight to their hosts, not seeing anything but his jacket inches from her nose.

Her nose.

And the slightest headache thrumming behind it.

She stumbled over the curb, running into his back, catching herself before hitting the ground. Her control was gone, her walls blown to hell, her mind focused on five words, four years, three drops of blood, two people, one soul and the suddenly ticking timebomb of a six-letter word.

She couldn’t say it.

Mulder had her face in his hands, trying to comprehend the unimaginable, eyes darting between hers, betraying any kind of cool exterior both knew he didn’t have, “you’re fine, Scully. You are going to be fine. Betts is … was … and ever shall be … nothing to us. He wanted to get under your skin and he knew how and he did it and he’s burning in hell right now and you can’t listen to anything he said. Do you hear me?”

Held still by large palms and calloused fingers, she let the tears escape, her voice reaching his ears in a wet, spitty, stilted stutter, “you … you didn’t hear … how he said it … Mulder. He … he had sympathy in his words, the look …” eyes closed for a moment, swallowing hard, “he looked genuinely sorry.” Choking inhale in, one sob shook both to their core, “he wasn’t saying it to be cruel. He was saying it … to be kind … and he’s dead and he can’t … he could have …”

Shaking his head, he finally pulled her into a hug, most of her upper body disappearing into his embrace, “he couldn’t have done anything, Scully. He removed tumors because he needed them. Doctors do the same thing. He didn’t cure, Scully,” he kept saying her name, needing to hear it out loud, prove she was still standing in front of him, his denial in place but his fear still winning, “he removed. Doctors cure, he mangled, he cut, he … he couldn’t have helped you but Leonard Betts doesn’t matter anymore because your fine and he’s gone and he was just fucking with your head because he could. He would have said the same thing to me had I been in the ambulance with you. I know enough about these people to know it would have ended with that phrase regardless of who was in the truck.”

Neither was sure who he was trying harder to convince and neither dwelled on it.

Instead, she stayed up on the curb while Mulder was one notch below in the gutter, hug evened out, height difference conquered with concrete and asphalt. A cone of silence enveloped them, traffic noise, barking dogs, airplanes overhead, all fading away, until, Scully, mess of emotions somewhat in check, spoke quietly into his chest, “will you take me home?”

“Of course.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Leaving his car behind, he drove hers to her apartment, both climbing stairs and locking doors behind. Her microwave clock now read 2:09am as she held out her hand to take his coat, walls still down, mind and heart exhausted, “would you mind sleeping in with me tonight? I wouldn’t normally ask but …” sentence running off to nowhere, she waited, eyes pleading in that Scully way.

“You got any sweats for me?”

Once in bed, not as awkwardly as either expected, they remained a civil distance apart but facing each other, eyes tired, eyes burning, eyes not breaking contact for fear the other would disappear in the time of a blink. Mulder, desperate to reach out to her, kept his hands to himself, “you’re fine. You will always be fine. You’ll go to the doctor if you need to tomorrow and he’ll tell you there’s nothing to worry about and then we’ll go ride roller coaster somewhere or run through the fountains of DC naked in celebration that I was right and you were wrong.”

She had already planned the following morning in her head but staying silent about that, she instead flashed him a small smile, trying her best to make it look genuine, to force her eyes to sparkle in amusement just enough to allow him to fall asleep in peace, “naked, huh?”

He saw through her bullshit like she was a plate glass window, “not on the roller coasters.”

“Oh, no. Definitely not on the roller coasters.”

Trying to keep his voice steady, “you’re going to be fine.”

Finally reaching towards him, his hand met hers halfway, “I know.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Sleep eluded him, preferring to listen to her stuffy inhale than to drift into slumber but even the great Fox Mulder eventually had to give in to sleep, drifting off around 4:15. Scully, faking until 3:30, woke at 5:45, slipping out of bed, five-minute shower, out the door by 6:30, leaving her partner behind.

Three favors later, she was trying to hold herself together in the MRI tube, magnets banging, head aching, muscles tensing with each new sound. How could that machine capture anything when her mind was racing so fast the images should just be a blur of thoughts, smudged terror captured in black and white, brought to you by the marvels of science?

She wished he was there so she could hold his hand.

&&&&&&&&&&&

Mulder could fake a few things as well. He woke when she left the bed, stayed still, eyes shut, while he listened to her shower. He heard her come back in, sort through her closet, open dresser drawers, felt the air in the room change as she did, donning armor for her day ahead. She was at the foot of the bed so not in his possible waking view but to know she was comfortable enough to do her routine with him asleep five feet away made him quake inside. He held it together, even as she returned to the room, keys lightly clinking in hand, to give him a lingering kiss on the cheek, to brush his hair back as her thumb ran over his forehead.

He waited five minutes after he heard the front door lock before rolling over, stretching, missing her beating heart and radiating heat. Staring at the ceiling when done, he refused to ponder, instead, two grunts and a back crack later, he was up, standing, heading to the shower.

Problem was, the warm water, the smell of her soap, the view of damp towel on rack and dry one beside, just for him, caught him off-guard. Halfway through soaping up, he broke down, standing under the water, sobbing tears covered by loud water pinging off the walls. He gave himself what felt like five minutes before straightening back up, finishing his shampoo and wash, ending with a steamy-mirrored pep talk during which he convinced himself Scully would be just fine.

Making the bed, he headed out, calling a cab to get him to the diner, then driving himself home, waiting impatiently for a phone call he knew was inevitable. He could have heading to the basement, he could have taken a nap, he could have stared at the wall and had a panic attack the size of Montana but instead, he read his email, his phone never far from his hand.

&&&&&&&&&&

Scully saw the mass, a bright white spot of dread in her sinus cavity, doctor explaining, in the background, diagnosis and treatment options, but most of her attention was filled with it.

It.

IT.

That thing settled comfortably next to her brain.

IT.

Mesmerized, she nodded when they asked if she’d like to be alone for a minute; if she would like to call someone.

And then it was quiet, the snick of the shutting door the only noise in the room.

Leaving just her and the bright white mass on the light board.

“Mulder. Could you come down to the hospital, please?”

She could hear it in his voice as he said, “which area?”

“Oncology.”

The sound of a fight building. The sound of defiance taking root.

Or denial.

“I’m on my way.”

#msr #MulderNScully #leonard betts #x-files fanfic #My writing #five words #four years #three drops of blood #two people #one soul #and the sudden ticking timebomb of a six-letter word

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softkuna · 3 years

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Sukuna || Interview || Fic

Part 1

Content ║ Punk!Sukuna x reader. There is an oc version here.

Beauty wasn’t in the eye of the beholder, no, it is in the mind. Sukuna was enraptured. Addressed again, he shifted his posture, leaning into the arm of the couch as she did with her chair. The two were close in their cohort. An air of comfortable conversation lingered between them, much to his dismay. Her question wasn’t unusual. He’d been asked it in the beginning of his career and one where he had a planned answer.

Count ║ 2,626 K

Consider ║ Swearing. Female Pronouns (she/her).

Creator ║ This is the reader version. I took the name of the oc out. Hopefully the double post isn’t too weird? I did research on punk fashion, culture, and all which was really interesting. I knew some stuff about it before, but it’s really rich! I hope it’s not too information dense for you guys. Either way, Punk!Sukuna is now my comfort au and writing him is an absolute delight!! Also, Sorry for changing from ‘you’ to she/her ;v; it’s a lot easier for me to write/edit this way.

Sukuna had a lazy grin as he lounged back into a modern cream sofa. His arm stretched across the back of it, ankle crossed over his knee. Eyes staggered from the two cameras set up to the woman talking with some other chick. One held a small stack of papers, the other was grandly gesturing. He breathed out a short-stop breath, wishing they wouldn’t waste his time with bickering. Annoying as it was, it left a thick self-satisfactory lather over his ego.

“-didn’t you say the band?”

“Yeah, but this is better.”

“Sure… but what happens if-“

Quite frankly, he hated most press and avoided it, so to just have him in the hot seat was a double-edged blade. They didn’t get the whole band, but they did have The King himself. Whatever publicity he thrived off of were live shows, signings, fancams, tangible and real-time events. Interviews were a complete and utter waste of his time. He did a couple in the beginning, but found them pointless, callous even. They all asked the same shit. So, him coming alone was absolutely a note to pin to the fridge, even if it were a passive-aggressive post-it note.

His head turned to the two going back and forth. It wasn’t until the third minute ticked by that Sukuna felt the flashpoint of his blood plummet, “Yo! We doing this or what? You’re wasting my time here, Eros.”

The blogger whipped her head to the man with an indignant, “Excuse me?”

“Eros. Known for being reckless and unreliable? Like your scheduling.” He leaned forward, elbow on knee and chin in palm. The aura of shit-eatery exponentially growing, “You’re not excused, sorry, not sorry Princess.”

“I think you have the wrong God,” She quipped as she dusted off the front of her outfit. It was a smart look and an intentional one for an interview with a punk rocker. What would strike the best complement than a khaki academic outfit? It consisted of a white high collared button up, sleeves billowing before cinching at her wrists. The blouse was stuffed into high-waisted, cuffed khaki chinos, pleated at the center of each pant leg. Over top, a gray woolen sweater vest. Accessories included various silver rings, a black ribbon to tie under the folded collar, and small silver studs as earrings. Makeup remained that done-up natural with brow, liner, and mascara. Hair had been swept into something similar to a faux 1920’s bob, pulled loosely back. The overall silhouette made the perfect contrast.

Sukuna wanted to peg her as your average superficial fashion bitch, he really did. Even at the concert, she dressed smartly despite the pathetic look on she wore on face. It wasn’t until afterwards when he saw the burn in her eyes, that he craved for her to prove him wrong.

Black flats clacked as she approached her own seat, a matching armchair to the couch. She held a certain command once she walked in, instructing him on where to be, which camera to look at, and what the introduction would be. He listened, admiring how her small frame moved to and fro, fixing up last minute edits on a paper, chattering with who he assumed to be a videographer. It was a whole production. One that was hers. The set itself was practically out of a home décor magazine. It was a general space used across the publisher, but she was born to be there. Deserved to be there. Her calculated glee and deliberate positioning of each member made him feel as though he were looking through a mirror.

The interview process began.

She sat professionally, legs crossed and leaning on the arm of her chair closest to Sukuna. He was unmoving, that slit to his lip curling upwards as the cameras began. She introduced the blog, the channel, her social media handles. With a smile, she introduced herself, “With me in this special is lead singer of Two Face, the King of Curses – Sukuna.”

The camera panned to his lazy wave, “Yo.” He looked to her, she looked to him and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of interest. Maybe the man was meant for cameras after all.

“After looking more into the punk scene, there’s a pretty interesting history behind it. Revolution, social discourse, poverty, violence, and unity. As someone in the scene, can you talk a little bit about what you know of the background?”

Sukuna drank in her voice, smooth and warm like the steady strum of a bass guitar. For a moment, he wondered if she sang. He quirked a brow, “Sounds like you didn’t research enough to summarize it yourself,” Eyes flickered to her features, watching as slight annoyance crinkled onto her nose then smoothed, “Let me learn you, Daisy. Starting back from rock in the 50’s, take that, strip it, build it with shit you find in the backyard…” His wrist rolled as his harmonious voice sang on, lacking even a single stutter as he summarized the movement top to bottom, inside and out, “…So, people would make their own records, sell them in plastic bags, they’d scan and reprint photos to make their own ‘zines. Shit was hard to distribute without tech…”

Much of his dissertation, she hadn’t even found on her own deep dive into the culture. Sure, the anarchist and nihilistic ideologies were well known to pretty much anyone who would listen, but the deep history and connection between communities was far beyond the surface scratched into.

“There’s a crowd of sub-genres now. Fuck ‘punk is dead’ what even is that bull shit?” Sukuna scoffed, jerking his chiseled chin to the side, “Only thing that’s dead here is – ironically – peoples drive to change.”

His interviewer sat in silence for a moment, mind spinning. He spoke in the way a well-educated University professor gave a dissertation to his peers, dripping in confidence from his storm of information. He was articulate despite the fowl language, even including a tie in to modern perception. Excitement curled into the recess of her mind. In a delightful turn of events, expectation and reality didn’t match up.

She leaned forward slightly folding her hands over the arm of the chair, “That was comprehensive. Thanks!” She chuckled, causing the man before her to freeze and thaw with a nod. She continued, “With all of this mention of D.I.Y. culture in punk, let’s talk about Vivienne Westwood.”

Sukuna kept his attention to her profile as she spoke to the camera, catching himself in the glow of her enthusiasm, “On Kings Road in England, she kickstarted the fashion movement into gear. Now, many would think that with a style such as this, it would’ve been hand-me-downs, pins, self-stitching, but contrary to this belief, many of the clothes in her store were expensive. Knock offs circulated, and seeing as much of it did have that hand-done finishing touch, many decided to take tailoring to their own hands…” Not that this was a competition, but she found herself trying to prove his ‘research’ comment wrong. Her ability to scour and exhaust her resources of fashion history is the furnace that kept her going and she would make it well known that she was not to be challenged.

The approaching lurch of a stalemate stuck to the walls of the vocalist’s stomach. Something he didn’t think he’d feel for a while. Small stuff over here may not’ve known all there was about the cultural history, but he could feel the crashing wave of fascination washing over him as she spoke. Sure, some of it he knew. Some of it he naturally garnered from stylistic preference and others he learned for marketing, however there was just a certain target she aimed for with such precision that he bled a newfound admiration.

“You’ve answered it already, yeah, I know. I saw the interview,” Her head tilted to the side, pleasant smile hinting at her trick, “but enlighten me for a second about how your natural style transitioned to what it is on stage. We’ll put up some of the photos taken from last night here,” her hand gestured to some empty space, “You basically turned chiaroscuro and made it a performance. It’s obvious in how each member contrasted with themselves and the stage.”

The chick didn’t even know who he was a week ago, yet somehow watched every interview since the start? An answer tumbled from the tongue readily, “Punk is like a renaissance of music. Like I said before, it tore down the foundations of what was before and built something new out of it.” The words were succinct, but as her pretty lashes bat, he was goaded into continuing, “Contrast is important. I like art. I like plays. Just ‘cause it’s punk doesn’t mean I can’t have it look aesthetic? Or is that a word only snobby fashion journalists can use now?”

“Hm. Change ‘journalist’ to ‘vocalist’ and you’re a word away from meeting the requirement,” It was a sour candy treat traded for his lemon warhead.

“Ouch. Miss Blog-Spot here has some sass,” His large frame leaned further into the armrest, cheek resting on that fist.

“Mister Eight-Track here is some a–“

The videographer clapped his hands, “We have sponsors, you know. We can at least censor him.”

It was Sukuna’s time to laugh a loud, hyena-like cackle. A large hand smacked his leather-clad knee. She scrunched her nose again, biting back her tongue from childishly jutting out at him.

As soon as the videographer clapped his hands again, she recollected herself, shuffled her papers, and continued on, “From what it looks like, you took a mixture of old and new high-trend brands and added a touch to them to keep with theme. Even now, you’re wearing a Real McCoy with cone spikes embedded. Is that custom made? McCoy isn’t cheap.”

Part of him hated her keen eye, but reveled in her raw talent all the same. “I’m not going to bull shit you and say I dumpster dive for my clothes. I like high quality things. What’s the point in making money if I can’t spend it? What’s a bigger ‘fuck you’ than having your version of a top-brand item being worth more than the original?” With a proud glint in his eye, he rolled the jacket off, sure to make a grand display of strong, bare arms as he did so. The muscle tank he wore was similar to the concert before, white with a pocket, neckline was stretched and worn. It hung over the dense muscle of his shoulders and chest. Sukuna could feel the trail of her eyes on him. His chest puffed from her approval. He threw the jacket over his knee, flipping the leather inside out to show where the studs had been placed, “See this? Did it myself.”

Manicured fingers touched the inside of the jacket, thumbing the connecting points that the studs were pressed in by and sealed. The work was immaculate. Sukuna leaned back, canines gleaming as he saw her mouth move in a silent ‘wow’. He picked the front of his tank top, snapping it up and allowing it to billow back to his body, “Embroidered this, too.”

He waited for her comment, her praise. Why? Like he needed some two-bit Vanderbilt bitch’s validation. He chalked it up to being praised by a master of the craft. He hadn’t been prepared for her to take the fabric between her fingers and rub it, concentrated brows cinched like a corset. Well-toned abs flinched in response to her delicacy, but she didn’t notice.

The embroidery was messy and chaotic, but it was obviously intentionally. The way the needlework was so clean, barely leaving a hole from the pull of the exceptionally soft fabric. It wasn’t floral like in the concert, but abstract stitching created crosses and streaks here and there, using the composition of the fabric as like it were a canvas. Experimentalist. It was like touching the work of Westwood herself.

God, she hated how perfect it was. It squeezed her heart to know that he was so effortlessly multi-talented. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers once more, attention being stolen by his baritone voice. She could practically hear the treble in it, “Ey Princess, you think it’s okay to just touch me?” His breath caught under the arrogant teasing of his words. Not from the words themselves. Couldn’t care less about that. What choked him up was whatever resplendent emotion flared from them when she peered up to him.

“Let me check the tag.”

“What?”

The blogger leaned back, cheekily snapping the shirt as she did so. “Your shirt, can I check the tag? I want to see what its made out of. Also, sorry.”

Sukuna blinked twice, mouth stupidly hanging open before he leaned forward, “I’ll allow it.”

He may have tinnitus, but he wasn’t deaf enough yet to miss the mocking ‘I’ll allow it,’ muttered under her breath. He wanted to laugh, but for the second time, the graze of chilled fingertips along his skin shut him up. Along the back of his neck, she fiddled to flip the collar and tug it. Her eyes squinted and a hum escaped her throat. Sometimes she wished she could read upside down. That’s when she sat on the back on the sofa and leaned closer, pulling the shirt to better read the small print. If Sukuna were a cat, he’d lean his head into her. The thought physically bothered him.

“I knew it. It’s American Pima. Thanks for letting me check.”

He missed the shiver her touch gave him as she sat back into her chair.

“While I have more questions for you, this video’s gotten pretty long already, so we’ll have to cut it a bit short here,” She gave a closing statement, motioning for her guest to do the same. With a thanks, the cameras were cut.

While the editor and videographer chatted together, She leaned heavily into the back of her chair, poised posture slipping into something more comfortable. Long lashes slid closed and a heavy drag of breath lifted her chest. Sukuna’s eyes trailed along her form, contemplating Eros once more.

She exhaled sharply, “I do appreciate you coming on stage. It’s disgusting how talented you are.” She laughed, cracking an eye open to meet his, “I prepped a lot of questions thinking you’d be short with me. It’s a shame I only got to ask a few.”

He was surprised himself. It was more than just her talent to make him talk - she may have been the first to see him as an opportunity rather than a commodity. ‘She would be the first and last reporter to see me as a meal’ was the thought he had going into this interview. He had every single intention to shut down her buffet, make it apparent that he was not to be dined on by a single soul. Yet, if his dish were ‘opportunity’, hers would be ‘intrigue’. He wanted to devour it, to know its palette and identify its spices. It was a compulsory urge to order, just to see why he craved it in the first place.

“Film the next few concerts. Backstage.”

Tags: @lovesakusa

#⛩.sukuna #⛩.fic #⛩.punk #🍺.jjk #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fic

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halorocks1214 · 4 years

Text

the law of attraction

AO3 Link

Word Count: 5464

Summary: The Law of Attraction demonstrates how we create the things, events, and people that come into our lives. Our thoughts, feelings, words, and actions produce energies which, in turn, attract like energies. Negative energies attract negative energies and positive energies attract positive energies

Previous Parts (in order): Alan | You are here!

holy shit i need to stop telling myself to keep my fics short cuz thats what always makes them three times longer than i originally planned. anYWAYS, i know the point of fabfivefeb is kinda to focus on one bro a week specifically, buuuut my brain grabbed my face, yelled an idea into it and now this is going to be a full series i guess. i hope this still counts! also, just as a warning, the first few fics are going to be chronologically out of order-- gordons pov fic, aka this one, comes like, almost last in the line of fics i have planned-- but im hoping that just adds to the aesthetic im giving this series

thanks again to @gumnut-logic for the wonderful prompt ideas. i used “How did you do that?” and iridescent

--------

If you asked just-turned-10-years-old Gordon what he thought of his kid brother, you would probably be horrified at the things he could and did say.

Nowadays the 22-year-old felt bad about it-- like, exponentially so-- but back then he couldn’t help it. It was a Tracy rite-of-passage to not want a younger sibling when they came-- yes, even Scott, who Gordon secretly believed it was his fault for John being so nerdy. You should have wanted a nice pair of tennis shoes in his place, Scotty, not a chemistry kit.

Gordon, for all intents purposes, managed to be the worst-case out of four. Virgil wondered if his fiery temper rubbed off on Alan growing up, and the more Gordon caught wind of how Alan could be when angry, the more Gordon thought his immediate older brother was right.

Regardless, everyone in the family managed to at least get the OG Tracy baby to play nice when Alan was born. Gordon’s involvement could be described as nothing: he never did anything to actively harm Alan (he was raised better than that, c’mon), but whenever Gordon could get away from the tiny tot, he did. A couple of years went by, the world adjusted to five Tracy sons, and so did the Tracy family. Even Gordon was starting to see the merit in being an older brother.

Then, tragedy struck.

The avalanche that ripped apart their entire world came crashing down in more ways than one. Hoo boy, the tabloids had a field day with it. They always wanted to know every little detail, and when the family refused to give them anything, they came up with their own stories. The only details they got were from cheating, as a nosy reporter managed to grab a picture of 3-year-old Alan fighting for his life in the hospital, and the internet ran with it.

It was very quickly found out that their mother had died in the disaster as well, and along with the little snake’s photo of Alan, accusations were thrown around as if they were nothing more than plush baseballs, not full-blown knives digging into the Tracy men’s skin. Where was Jeff Tracy? Did he leave his wife and youngest to perish without a thought? The man did have four older sons, maybe he considered them to be more valuable? The last child wasn’t a planned addition in the first place, so it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to assume so!

What they would never know, Gordon thought bitterly and spitefully, was how Alan wasn’t the only Tracy kid that played in the snow that day. Alan easily got sick as a child for undetermined reasons, and lo and behold, the tiny blonde started running a low-grade fever during their vacation. Lucy offered to stay with Alan at the cabin while Jeff went to find an on-sight doctor. Virgil, who was starting to get into that kind of stuff, went with him.

John saw… something in the gift shop he wanted to grab (none of the brothers could really tell you that much about that day anymore), and since it was relatively close to where Jeff needed to ask for a doctor, the parents felt it would be okay for the red-head to explore the shop by himself, especially since John was easily the most well-behaved out of the children. Gordon was going to go with them to-- what did you expect-- get away from Alan. That’s when smother-hen-in-the-making Scott suggested Gordon stay back with Alan so he could get to know the baby of the family more.

The only reason Gordon agreed to stay was that Scott was staying as well. Gordon hadn’t had that much time recently to hang out with his oldest bro, so he thought it was worth dealing with the little tyke in the room as well. Besides, mom was there too. She could watch him.

Gordon couldn’t for the life of him remember who was where when the literal tons of snow came to say hi. They all got knocked out relatively quick, but from Dad’s recollection of Scott’s eye-witness account, Scott and mom woke up at some point. Scott then went on to carry his youngest siblings out and away from the danger zone, only to re-pass out a good distance away from the buried cabin.

There were many details left out by Scott, and even more were left out by their father, who wanted to give his eldest some sense of security despite all the chaos. Gordon would only learn a little bit more (and by golly was it enough) when he was 16 and grounded by Scott himself. We know Dad is gone! Stop trying to replace him! Gordon shamefully admits that he was purposefully trying back then to be as difficult as possible. Sure, it was due to grief over losing their last living parent, but that didn’t mean he had to take out his rage like he was less than half his age.

People always credited Alan as being the angry baby, but Gordon could be a right bastard when he wanted.

Virgil shut up him right up with a tiny admission that Gordon would never let Scott know he knew. It was the least the swimmer could do after everything their oldest brother gave up.

“You know he promised her, right?”

Teenaged Gordon hissed as Virgil readjusted his piggyback, jostling Gordon’s broken leg in the process. Sneaking out didn’t really seem all that thrilling anymore. He still managed to squeak out through gritted teeth, “W-What?”

Virgil kept his face straight, a weird kind of stoic covering all of his emotions burning within, “Scott promised mom he would keep you two safe. It was the only thing he could do for her.”

That gut-punch didn’t help Gordon’s bruised ribs, and Virgil should have just broken his leg more next. Would have been a nicer follow up than the metaphorical groin kick Gordon received.

“Dad wondered if she was even aware-- or maybe even alive-- enough to hear him.”

Gordon had a lot of time in the hospital to think about those words, even more so when he watched his brunette brother sleep by his bedside. 22-year-old Scott should have been furious, should have ripped him a new one for being such a prick, but the only thing Gordon witnessed him do that night was run into the room as soon as he got the news that Gordon was okay and gently collapse onto his younger brother to collect the blonde into his arms while he tried desperately not to break down-- tried to be strong. Gordon was so caught off guard that he could only wrap his arms back around Scott in a weak attempt to reassure the new head of the Tracy Clan.

Later in the week when Gordon wasn’t so dead on his feet, Scott finally found the reprimand he wanted to give and tore into Gordon. Of course, Gordon snapped back too. They had the typical ‘What were you thinking?!’ ‘I wanted to have fun!’ kind of argument, but it was… softer, in a way, especially on Gordon’s part.

During that same night, after the argument, Gordon would hear 10-year-old Alan sneak into his room with a box full of familiar lights, abruptly reminding Gordon of a feeling he felt a long time ago, back during the ‘recovery’ part of the aftermath of the avalanche. One he couldn’t entirely explain until right then, thanks to Scott’s reactions throughout that entire week.

See, Scott’s plan of Gordon getting along with Alan backfired pretty horribly as Gordon, in all of his trauma and denial, managed to loop his tiny mind around into thinking Alan was at least partially responsible. If he wasn’t sick… if he wasn’t there… if he hadn’t been born--

Yeah, he was 8 at the time, but Gordon still feels sick for even coming up with that thought way back when.

Well, what’s done is done, and for the majority of the first two years, after their wonderful mom left the Earth, Gordon could only describe it like a daze of sorts. Dad was drowning himself in his work, Scott had seen horrors not even adults should’ve had to have seen, Gordon was stuck in the nice world of childhood depression, Virgil and John were caught in the middle like they always were and sometimes still are, and Alan? They really weren’t sure what he was going through due to one simple problem.

Because that was the joke of the day, the ironic twist so to speak. Believe it or not, Alan tended to be a quiet kid.

Many who knew their family would retort with yeah, anyone is quiet standing next to you, Gordon! or they would at least point out the constant babbling that tended to come from the youngest Tracy in the first place. First, Gordon would snort and admit, okay, that’s fair, and then explain how Alan was quiet when it really mattered.

And how it sucked.

The kid could go on and on about what video game he played recently or how stupid his homework was, but when you got down to it you couldn’t get Alan to talk enough.

Back when Alan still did school on the mainland, his older brothers didn’t even know he was being bullied until the bruises started showing up on parts that weren’t covered by clothes (the ones that were, though, damn). It didn’t even occur to the older brothers that Alan was getting more and more quiet each day. After getting the perpetrators expelled and rightfully ripped a new one, Scott and John asked Alan why on earth he didn’t tell them. He just shrugged his tiny kid shoulders and said, “It didn’t seem like that big of a deal.”

Virgil’s 18th birthday was a night to remember, not just because it was a blast, but because they spent half the night in the waiting room at the hospital. They were hanging out in the cities, which was probably already a bad idea. In the first half of the day, the five of them had to cross a crosswalk. Simple enough, right? However, with the torrent of adults much larger than him, 12-year-old Alan lost his grip on John’s hand and toppled over with his arm out in front of him, leaving the limb out on a silver platter to be squashed by a rather large boot.

The man that did it felt really bad, actually, which was a breath of fresh air. He insisted that he would pay for any medical bills that came from the accident. The only reason they never went to any medical facility (immediately, at least) was that, after calming down, Alan insisted his arm felt fine. His reaction time in his fingers was still okay as well, so they left it alone. The four of them probably should have questioned why Alan was so quiet for the rest of the party, but they were too into the euphoria of Virgil’s big day to realize so. A little bit more into the celebration and Alan went missing. It was a miracle that they got Scott to not run off to the nearest police officer immediately. In hindsight, they probably should have, but panic makes the mind go woo woo.

After an hour of searching, they found Alan silently crying his eyes out in a corner. Gordon suspected Virgil never really got over the guilt. None of them have, probably. They really should have insisted they got it checked out right away. Sure, the reason they mainly assumed it was okay was that they’ve been hit with worse and only walked away with bruises-- John walked home from school one day with dirt and mud in his hair, scrapes littering his arms, and when asked what happened the ginger silently commented, “I got hit by a car,” as if it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Not only did Jeff feel the number of years dwindle until his inevitable heart attack, but he also got to watch his eldest gain his first grey hairs with many more to come.

While getting a piggyback from yours truly, John calmly asked Alan why he didn’t say anything (again). The youngest just shrugged and buried his face into Gordon’s neck, “I didn’t want to be a problem. It’s Virge’s day…”

It would be a reoccurring problem for Alan to be hush-hush about physical and emotional strains put on him for years to come. It wasn’t a big problem out on the field (yet), but they were always extra sure to drill into the freckled boy if it seemed like he wasn’t talking as much as he usually did. They were pretty sure it came from the fact that Alan was originally, well, not planned, as all those wonderful journalists pointed out.

They never actively kept it a secret. The age gaps, as well as the press, made it real hard to do so in the first place. Plus, keeping things like that a secret did more damage than not. But the idea was there, and the idea of being a ‘burden’ on anyone was a damaging thought that always seemed to ring in the back of Alan’s subconscious, so he made sure to only speak when he felt he absolutely could or if it wasn’t too much of a task he was asking of them (which they all hated, Scott especially).

The rest of them hoped to pick up what Lucy left behind, which was her efforts to make her newest son feel wanted and loved despite not being apart of the original quota. Gordon worried his older brothers felt a little too guilty about not being able to fully wash it away. It was part of the reason they let him act a little bit childishly on missions: if he feels comfortable enough to do so, then they can’t take it away from him out of fear that they’ll never get it back. It was also why he was just so excited to go on a mission: he could prove himself to be just as good as his older brothers.

Speaking of their mother (man, Gordon loved to ramble tonight, didn’t he), the whole reason any of this was a thing in the first place was Alan’s reaction to the avalanche. That’s when his whole ‘silent act’ issue became apparent. Because the kid became quiet. Period. He stopped talking for two years. Young Gordon wouldn’t even realize this until Virgil started to teach him ASL in their free time. Alan was still an energetic kid, he just… could not get his voice box to work.

The doctors insisted there was no physical damage, either, so they just had to wait and learn ways around it.

Gordon just could not wrap his young, tiny mind around why his loud and obnoxious and annoying younger bro just shut up. Intrigued at the idea of Alan actually being quiet, Gordon started to hang out with him more, especially since Gordon craved the general sense of peace during that time in his life. Yep, crazy, energy-lover Gordon needed the space to just sit and think, and where better than to rant about how crappy life was then at your great-listener-because-he-didn’t-want-to-talk brother.

As time went on in the second half of those two years, the youngest two grew close. Closer than any of the older brothers thought possible. Scott thinks they created their own hand language just for themselves during that time. Gordon was slowly becoming more and more himself, and Alan, well, still didn’t talk, but his energetic-ness was getting bigger and bigger each passing day. Unfortunately, so did their eagerness to be the biggest piece of shits in the world.

Baby Alan stumbled across a can of whip cream that the family forgot to put away. Toddling over to Gordon, the little one shook the can around as a way to say, ‘What could we do with this?’

Gordon’s first idea was to put a huge, glopping pile right on Scott’s pillow where his head directly laid. The sputtering and anger Scott responded with, as well as Virgil’s and John’s snickers at the whole thing, filled Gordon’s head with a million ways to continue his meticulous schemes. Alan got roped in the second the general idea of being able to make his family happy came to fruition.

April 16th was the day The Terrible Two officially started. Virgil was pretty sure he saw John’s calendar with this day marked specifically as a way to remind him not to come down. Virgil just wished he could ask his immediate older brother to let him up on ‘Five that day too.

Their pranks became more and more intense as they came up with each new one, and on the anniversary of their mother’s passing, they disappeared the entire morning. Due to grief, and the fact none of the remaining three sons wanted to deal with tar and feathers or their coffee mug shocking them again, they didn’t think too much of it. Honestly, after the last prank of filling their pillows with jello, they found the quietness to be a blessing. Then the sun started to set without the two of them home yet and they saw it as less of a blessing and more of a curse.

They couldn’t lose them, not on that day.

The house security cams showed the two of them heading into the woods behind their house with some kind of box, and that was all Scott, John, and Virgil needed to go sprinting out of the house. At this point, Dad was getting better about not drowning in work, but he still needed a little more counseling before he would be fully back. That left the three eldest brothers to go on a wild goose chase.

After searching for what Scott remembered feeling like a thousand years, they stumbled upon the two blondes giggling in an opening in the trees. Bursting through the bushes without a second thought, Scott and Virgil (with John behind them) not only saw their brothers unharmed and having a blast in the middle of the opening, all around them in the trees hung big and bright lights. It was as if they were standing in a pocket of stars. Stars they made from their own will and determination.

It was iridescent enough to make the three older brothers gasp just once before remembering why they were out in the dark and cold woods in the first place. Scott trudged over a little more forcefully than he probably realized. Right as he stood over his two youngest brothers, Alan’s tiny, freckled face looked up into his eyes obliviously and pointed at the set of lights.

“Look! Gordz made it pretty!”

Scott and Virgil wrapped their younger brother in the biggest bear hug ever, anger and fear forgotten. It was quiet, whispered and somewhat broken from two years of non-use, but damn, it was Alan. The light at the end of the tunnel seemed even closer. The two of them might have stained the back of Alan’s shirt with tears. Alan didn’t need to know.

Meanwhile, John, flabbergasted and slowly entering a state of shock due to his adrenaline drop followed by even more adrenaline after hearing Alan again, walked over to where Gordon was and simply asked, “How did you do… that?”

It was a question for more than one thing: how did you get Alan to start talking? How did you hang up the lights with no serious injury? How did the two of you grow up so quickly and closely without us even realizing?

All Gordon did was shrug, bring his hands behind his head with his elbows above it, and cheekily grinned, “There are just some secrets two brothers need to keep!”

When the two blondes shared a room that night, tangled with one another like the cords in the lights, Gordon felt something in his chest. It was something warm and fuzzy, and he would only feel it again for years to come when it was towards his only younger brother.

The 10-year-old didn’t know what it was, but he knew that when he figured it out, he would try to be better at it than Scott ever was. Heh, nowadays, he realized that probably wasn’t possible, but that was also okay.

Alan only needed one Scooter.

Right now, however, he needed his one and only Gordz.

---

Brains and other therapists suggested the reason Alan got quiet after going through a traumatic event was simply that it was easier to block things out if you were quiet.

All the brain energy that went to his mouth could be used to not think about the awful things he heard or witnessed. It was perfect. It left the rest of his brain to still be used for all of the other things he liked to do: he could hang out with his brothers and sister, play video games, and (unfortunately) work on homework without cause of concern.

Alan thought it was simple. His family thought it was torture. After all, he wouldn’t tell them what was wrong, and if he didn’t tell them they couldn’t fix it. It was everything their ‘am big person, protect the small’ inner programming hated and they felt like screaming. It was the avalanche again. It was Alan’s bullies again. It was the broken arm again. It was Dad’s disappearance again. Man, they never thought Alan would come back after that one.

But dammit, Gordon thought, their dad isn’t gone anymore, and it was because their stupid, selfless little brother was willing to go through hell and back to get him for them. The least Gordon could do was show Alan how much it was appreciated. How much he was appreciated.

But at this point, Gordon was on the verge of calling it a night.

It was a simple fucking question: do you remember where those stringed lights were?

Sure, it’s been God knows how many years since anyone has pulled them out, and Grandma did pack away a lot of stuff in rather secluded places that she deemed unimportant or, well, too traumatizing. But they could at least give him a general direction on where to go! Everyone knew the basic details of the layout of their storage compartments, come on!

Gordon was sitting in the kitchen, groaning into his hands when he heard someone clearing their throat from the doorway. Snapping his face away from his palms, he looked up into the eyes of none other than his father. The older man had eye bags for days, and his eyes were a little wearier than Gordon liked, but the small grin made Gordon feel like everything was alright.

Or maybe it was the box with the familiar lights in his arms. Mostly that.

Gordon stood up and blinked, “D-Dad--”

Jeff walked into the kitchen in a way that spoke, ‘let me say this first,’ “Scott mentioned you were driving your family crazy searching for this. I may not know how you boys set up the island after I left, but I do know your grandmother is stubborn as a bull. The only place she would have put this was in the decorations closet, where it wasn’t, which I’m sure you figured out, hence the constant nagging, so that means some kind of outside force moved it to a place least expected.”

Gordon was lost, “Where was it?”

Jeff let out a slight huff of air, “The back of Alan’s closet.”

Damn. Dammit dammit damn. Why wasn’t that obvious?

With a grip gentler than Gordon remembered he had, he took the box from Jeff. As he was examining the contents, he was able to smile at his father, “Thanks, Dad, this is exactly what I wanted.”

Jeff laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing softly, “I’ve left this family to take care of itself twice in my lifetime, it was the least I could do. May I ask why you need them?”

The least I could do: goddamn was this family a hive mind sometimes. That didn’t stop Gordon from asking his burning question, “How quickly can we make these waterproof?”

It took all of half a second for Jeff to raise his eyebrows in confusion, followed by one of his trademark grins.

Oh yeah, the Tracy family was coming back

---

“Shhh Allie, keep it on.”

Alan rolled his eyes. Whenever Gordon blindfolded him it always ended poorly. Whether the ultimate bad ending would come to Alan or Gordon completely depended on how previously well-thought-out Gordon planned this to be. Regardless, Alan needed to do something other than chores and college applications since there was none of it left for today. He was getting so good it was kind of bad. In fact, one of the first things he did was drown himself in his work to the point that everything he missed in his captivity was done within the first three days of being back.

And here the public thought Alan and his father had nothing in common.

Alan felt Gordon’s hands on his shoulders the entire time they walked together. Eventually, they paused as Gordon needed to open the door to the outside, which was a great sign, by the way. Alan’s ears were picking up every little noise, including each of the thunks their feet made down the stairs, as well as the whistling of the wind blowing through their hair. Alan didn’t need to take off the blindfold to know it was night. The last thing Alan was looking at before Gordon scared the shit out of him with the blindfold from nowhere was the clock, 10:04 PM.

The thunks suddenly became less hollow, signaling they were on solid ground. It took Alan a couple of seconds longer than he would’ve liked to realize that Gordo was walking them straight towards the pool. Alan, remembering all the times he’d been shoved in it, started to fight back. Only minorly, though, like a baby wolf trying to overtake the Alpha of the pack. In the end, it didn’t matter, as Gordon stopped both of them with a slight push downward on Alan’s shoulders, signaling he didn’t need to walk anymore.

Gordon took his hands away and started speaking when he saw Alan wasn’t going anywhere. He walked around to the front of his brother, “So… this might be a long shot, but you remember those ‘starry lights’ we played with all the time?”

Alan blinked a few times behind the blindfold. Yeah, he did remember them. It was a huge staple between them. The days it got hard, or cold, or when it seemed like nothing would get better, they would pull those lights out and forget everything else. It felt like they were surrounded by a blanket of hope.

Gordon first wanted to do it in some random room at their old house two years after their mother passed, but quiet Alan suggested they go out to the woods. He flapped his tiny hands, and to paraphrase what he said, We’ll have more room! Plus, the real stars will make it even cooler!

From then on, it was just another thing between the two of them. They pulled the lights out when one of them was sad and the other wanted to cheer them up. After their mother’s death, after failing a test at school, after Dad’s disappearance, after Gordon’s hydrofoil crash…

Gordon will forever be grateful for Alan’s ability to be a little piece of shit. He’ll never know how the kid snuck the box into the hospital and he hoped he never found out. The hospital staff wasn’t as thrilled by the lights hung up around the room. Gordon was pretty sure he saw the pic up on ‘Five at one point, though, so at least someone appreciated their talents.

Right, the important matter at hand. Gordon needed to work on his rambling-when-stressed problem, “Well, Allie Allie Allie, guess what I found?”

Before Alan could tilt his head, the blindfold was untied from his head by Gordon. It fell off his face to reveal said older brother standing directly in front of him with a grin on his face that said, ‘you’re not going to believe this.’ Once Gordon saw Alan’s attention was completely on him, he stepped out of the way quickly so Alan’s line of focus could stay on what was in front of him and not just on his brother.

Alan’s breath caught in his throat.

Gordon smirked at his brother’s flabbergasted look, “You know how they say how the ocean isn’t that much different than deep space? Well, I think I found a way to make them even closer.”

Alan held his hand out in front of him only slightly. He was worried if he moved anything that the beautiful sight in front of him would go away. Those wonderful, amazing lights were all submerged in the pool in various spots near the bottom, the refractions making it look like there were twice as many. The pool looked like it had a weird, unique case of the chickenpox. It was breathtaking.

Little puffs of Alan’s breath were condensing into the familiar white clouds in front of his face due to the chill, but he didn’t care. The sight in front of him was much more important. Before he could sign a thank you, or maybe even just cry (which he would hate, thank God for interruptions), Gordon slung an arm around Alan’s shoulders, catching the freckled boy’s attention again.

Gordon waited for those wide, blue eyes to look at him directly before beginning, “I can’t even begin to imagine what happened up there. Part of me wants to be selfish and never come up with thoughts even close to that kind of shit, but… it’s not fair to you.”

Alan blinked and was suddenly turned 90 degrees to be standing front-to-front with Gordon. The older brother continued speaking when he put his hands on Alan’s shoulders, stretching his arms out to their full length, “You don’t… you don’t have to talk about everything, I know that first hand, but… don’t shut us out. You’re not a burden, you’re not a problem, I know that’s a thought of yours that’s been made worse by that bastard but the last thing I want is to--”

Gordon choked off his words due to a mixture of rage and pure sadness bubbling within. Suddenly, he couldn’t look Alan in the eyes anymore, “I just don’t want to fail you any more than I already have.”

Gordon looked down at their feet to watch some of his tears fall to the ground and splish-splash on the concrete. Dammit, he promised a lot of things (mainly himself) that he would be strong for this, but he supposes he was never the best at taking things seriously.

Gordon’s breath hitched at the feeling of two small hands on his cheeks. Those same hands brought his face back up to look at Alan sadly grinning, his own tears starting to form in his blue eyes. Before Gordon could curse himself out for failing this plan so spectacularly, his heart stopped in a good way at a tiny admission, a verbal one.

“Please… don’t make… me cry, too…”

Holy shit. Part of Gordon’s brain thought, ‘sweet, it only took a few weeks, a new record!’ but the other part, the big brother one day I’ll be better than Scott! part leaped a hundred feet in the air out of pure joy. With a laugh, Gordon yanked Alan into his arms and squeezed tight. Alan simply returned the gesture, albeit his arms were around Gordon’s waist, nor was his grip as strong. They did both have tear tracks on their cheeks, however.

Alan was still there. He was still their selfless, annoying, little bro, and he might not be fully back, but it was enough to know that not even the fucking Hood could take him away from them.

It would take a while to get back to normal. Scott would still pass out due to exhaustion from time to time until he fully realized it was all over, John, while not physically up on ‘Five, would take a while to fully come back down to Earth, Virgil was going to be found at that damn piano bench more than in his own room, and God only knew how Kayo or even Dad was going to react as the days went forward.

But they would get there. The Terrible Two were going to make sure of it, one prank at a time.

#fabfivefeb #fabfivefeb2020 #gordon tracy #alan tracy #jeff tracy #scott tracy #thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #fanfiction #fanfic #my post #my fic #series: rules of alchemy

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softkuna · 3 years

Text

Sukuna || Interview || Fic - oc

Part 1

Content ║ Punk!Sukuna x oc. There is a reader version here.

Count ║ 2,626 K

Consider ║ Original Character. Swearing. Female Pronouns.

Creator ║ I swear this will go somewhere, I just enjoy the set up too much. So this is the version with the oc that I have. Her first name is Koyori. I have tagged this so that if you dislike ocs, you can read the other version. But! If you like ocs, hopefully you’ll like her ;v;. I did research on punk fashion, culture, and all which was really interesting. I knew some stuff about it before, but it’s really rich! I hope it’s not too information dense for you guys. Either way, Punk!Sukuna is now my comfort au and writing him is an absolute delight!!

“-didn’t you say the band?”

“Yeah, but this is better.”

“Sure… but what happens if-“

Koyori whipped her head to the man with an indignant, “Excuse me?”

Black flats clacked as she approached her own seat, a matching armchair to the couch. Koyori held a certain command once she walked in, instructing him on where to be, which camera to look at, and what the introduction would be. He listened, admiring how her small frame moved to and fro, fixing up last minute edits on a paper, chattering with who he assumed to be a videographer. It was a whole production. One that was hers. The set itself was practically out of a home décor magazine. It was a general space used across the publisher, but she was born to be there. Deserved to be there. Her calculated glee and deliberate positioning of each member made him feel as though he were looking through a mirror.

The interview process began.

Koyori sat professionally, legs crossed and leaning on the arm of her chair closest to Sukuna. He was unmoving, that slit to his lip curling upwards as the cameras began. She introduced the blog, the channel, her social media handles. With a smile, she introduced herself, “I’m Yama Koyori, and to join me in this special is lead singer of Two Face, the King of Curses – Sukuna.”

The camera panned to his lazy wave, “Yo.” He looked to her, she looked to him and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of interest. Maybe the man was meant for cameras after all.

Much of his dissertation, Koyori hadn’t even found on her own deep dive into the culture. Sure, the anarchist and nihilistic ideologies were well known to pretty much anyone who would listen, but the deep history and connection between communities was far beyond the surface scratched into.

Koyori leaned forward slightly folding her hands over the arm of the chair, “That was comprehensive. Thanks!” She chuckled, causing the man before her to freeze and thaw with a nod. She continued, “With all of this mention of D.I.Y. culture in punk, let’s talk about Vivienne Westwood.”

Sukuna kept his attention to her profile as she spoke to the camera, catching himself in the glow of her enthusiasm, “On Kings Road in England, she kickstarted the fashion movement into gear. Now, many would think that with a style such as this, it would’ve been hand-me-downs, pins, self-stitching, but contrary to this belief, many of the clothes in her store were expensive. Knock offs circulated, and seeing as much of it did have that hand-done finishing touch, many decided to take tailoring to their own hands…” Not that this was a competition, but Koyori found herself trying to prove his ‘research’ comment wrong. Her ability to scour and exhaust her resources of fashion history is the furnace that kept her going and Koyori would make it well known that she was not to be challenged.

“You’ve answered it already, yeah, I know. I saw the interview,” Koyori’s head tilted to the side, pleasant smile hinting at her trick, “but enlighten me for a second about how your natural style transitioned to what it is on stage. We’ll put up some of the photos taken from last night here,” her hand gestured to some empty space, “You basically turned chiaroscuro and made it a performance. It’s obvious in how each member contrasted with themselves and the stage.”

The chick didn’t even know who he was a week ago, yet somehow watched every interview since the start? An answer tumbled from the tongue readily, “Punk is like a renaissance of music. Like I said before, it tore down the foundations of what was before and built something new out of it.” The words were succinct, but as Koyori’s pretty lashes bat, he was goaded into continuing, “Contrast is important. I like art. I like plays. Just ‘cause it’s punk doesn’t mean I can’t have it look aesthetic? Or is that a word only snobby fashion journalists can use now?”

“Hm. Change ‘journalist’ to ‘vocalist’ and you’re a word away from meeting the requirement,” It was a sour candy treat traded for his lemon warhead.

“Ouch. Miss Blog-Spot here has some sass,” His large frame leaned further into the armrest, cheek resting on that fist.

“Mister Eight-Track here is some a–“

The videographer clapped his hands, “We have sponsors, you know. We can at least censor him.”

It was Sukuna’s time to laugh a loud, hyena-like cackle. A large hand smacked his leather-clad knee. Koyori scrunched her nose again, biting back her tongue from childishly jutting out at him.

“Let me check the tag.”

“What?”

The blogger leaned back, cheekily snapping the shirt as she did so. “Your shirt, can I check the tag? I want to see what its made out of. Also sorry.”

Sukuna blinked twice, mouth stupidly hanging open before he leaned forward, “I’ll allow it.”

“I knew it. It’s American Pima. Thanks for letting me check.”

He missed the shiver her touch gave him as she sat back into her chair.

While the editor and videographer chatted together, Koyori leaned heavily into the back of her chair, poised posture slipping into something more comfortable. Long lashes slid closed and a heavy drag of breath lifted her chest. Sukuna’s eyes trailed along her form, contemplating Eros once more.

He was surprised himself. It was more than just her talent to make him talk - she may have been the first to see him as an opportunity rather than a commodity. ‘Yami Koyori would be the first and last reporter to see me as a meal’ was the thought he had going into this interview. He had every single intention to shut down her buffet, make it apparent that he was not to be dined on by a single soul. Yet, If his dish were ‘opportunity’, hers would be ‘intrigue’. He wanted to devour it, to know its palette and identify its spices. It was a compulsory urge to order, just to see why he craved it in the first place.

“Film the next few concerts. Backstage.”

tags: @lovesakusa

#🐇.oc #⛩.sukuna #⛩.fic #⛩.punk #🍺.jjk #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna x oc #ryoumen sukuna x oc #jjk x oc #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen fic

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