#the moment where he strikes the bull king so hard it shifts shit in the solar system but the bull king is just like ough that hurt a little

[spicebiter]

My roommates are watching Lego Monkie Kid in the living room with me and I really get why this show is popular with the ADHD crowd

[softkuna]

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.

  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. As practiced, “I ans-“

  “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​

[kpopfanfictrash]

Sidhe (V)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Jimin / Namjoon

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Fantasy, Fey!AU / Royalty!AU

Word Count: 5,869

Description: In the land of Humankind and the Otherworld, the Fey and Humans live side by side. Cursed are the Fey though, unable to use their own magic without a human wishing it so. You were born and raised to end this curse, to take down the system - so what happens when the Human you’re bound to, ends up becoming so much more?

My stomach drops, realizing here is my proof. Here is the certainty that all human beings are evil. My father’s views appear at once, both valid and necessary. As I blow out the candle, I slide further beneath my covers and try to feel vindicated by this.

My father is right. I am right. This course is right.

That night though, I dream of tears. A river, which turns to blood at my feet.

I’m informed by a palace worker the next morning that Jimin has already left for the practice room, despite it only being half past eight. I hurry to get dressed, cursing his damn human punctuality. A crucial power play, one I’ve lost the advantage of. When I arrive ten minutes later, stumbling over myself, I take a small moment to steel myself outside the doors. Whatever today will bring, I can handle it.

“Hello, Your Majesty,” I intone, stepping over the threshold.

“We’re back to that, are we?” Jimin stares striaght ahead, eyebrows pulled together in concentration.

He’s not wearing a shirt. He’s – oh, shit, I swallow. His shirt is off, and I force myself to look away. Not before noticing the light sheen of his chest though, as if Jimin has been practicing in here for hours. He balances the knife carefully in his palm, weighing his options.

When Jimin throws, the movement is sure and straight. I can tell a perfect mark before it lands, and Jimin strikes dead center of the bull’s eye. He turns then, smiling faintly when he meets my gaze. I don’t return his happiness, brushing past him to stand at the weapons rack.

“I’m not sure why we’re here,” I say to him, offhand. “In my experience, weapons tend to tear people apart – not bring them together.” Picking up a spear, I consider the weight. It might be fun, to fight Prince Jimin with a spear.

Behind me, Jimin leans an arm against the practice target, pulling his knife free from straw. “I see you’ve not trained with other men,” he grunts, turning to face me. “I’ve found it forms a bond, once that’s completely unparalleled.”

“Only men?” I muse, looking up from the weaponry.

“Only having trained with men, that’s all I can vouch for.” Jimin grabs his shirt, tugging it over his chest. “But I’m certain the theory can be applied elsewhere,” he winks.

I make a face, turning away. As I move to leave, I nearly crash into someone. Dropping my spear hastily towards my feet, the weapon falling heads over tails in midair. The newcomer catches this easily, handing me back my weapon in one, smooth motion.

“Thank you,” I bow to him, cheeks flushed bright.

When I look up, I see he is Fey. Green eyes are slightly clouded with age and I wonder if he’s blind, before he turns to survey us both. His gaze lands on Jimin, and I suppose this answers my earlier question “My name is Eon,” he announces softly. “I will be your instructor.”

His voice is gravelly, serious, like his appearance. Eon. The name sparks a memory and I think I’ve heard it before. Yes – of course. This is Eon, general of the Fey. Second only to the Queen and King, in terms of power. I wonder why such a powerful fairy would be here, training newly anointed Sidhe and Master. When I decide to look over at Jimin, he wears a similar expression of puzzlement.

“You are both far enough advanced in weaponry and combat,” Eon nods, “that it seemed imprudent for anyone but myself to train you. A compliment to your teachers, I’m sure.” When the fairy meets my gaze, I garner the distinct impression he doesn’t enjoy complimenting my father.  

“Let us begin,” he clears his throat, turning away. “Choose a defense,” Eon waves a hand at the large pile of weapons and I reach for the bow and arrow, pausing when I see Jimin pick up a falchion. Interesting. The falchion is used in dual capacity, both on the ground and horseback. I thought Jimin mentioned being in the infantry.

Most importantly, the weapons are at odds with one another. Sighing gently, I set my bow and arrow down and pick up a short sword. This should work nicely, in hand-to-hand combat. Whirling gently, I slash through the air – testing the balance of the blade. Jimin watches me do so, a slight smirk to his face.

“What?” I demand, lowering my sword.

“Oh, nothing,” Jimin chortles, tilting his head. “It’s just such a small sword.”

He grins when I take a swing at him, deftly sidestepping my blow. The sword misses, whistling harmlessly past where Jimin once stood. “Would you prefer a broadsword, your highness?” I ask sweetly.

“Can you lift a broadsword?”

Scowling, I drop into a fighting stance. This time, I don’t aim to miss. Eon’s voice stops us both though, a firm cough which gains our attention. “That’s enough,” he declares, hands laced behind his back. “You may flirt on a separate occasion.”

I flush; the color blending nicely with the burnt red stone of the room. Jimin appears just as shocked as I am, which surprises me. I would’ve expected him to be laughing – giving a snarky comment or wink, at least.

“Come to the center,” Eon announces, walking away, “and we’ll begin.”

I follow him meekly, listening to Jimin’s footsteps echo mine.

“The art of combat is beautiful but dangerous,” Eon continues, still not looking. “It is intimate. To become Amhéin with one another, you must learn each other’s’ flaws. Learn weaknesses, as well as strengths. Winning in battle means understanding your opponent. Therefore,” he declares, coming to a stop, “your first step in training is fighting.”

It surprises me, for Eon to refer to us as Amhéin. Most Fey don’t use the term anymore, merely referring to their humans as Master – Patron, if they’re being kind. Speaking about our relationship in such an intimate way is not something I’m accustomed to.

“I’m not here to teach you tricks,” Eon says quietly. “Nor am I here to help with technique. You will find, more often than not, Sidhe training is internal. It is difficult for any outsider to influence.”

When Eon says this, I look at Jimin. I wonder what’s happening behind the calm exterior, since Jimin doesn’t seem worried at all. I am, though – my nerves rise like bile in my throat.

Eon coughs, returning my attention to his. “When I signal you start,” he nods, arching a brow. “You may begin.”

Jimin and I make eye contact. Locking gazes before he takes a step backwards, adjusting himself to a better position. I don’t move though, since it doesn’t matter where I begin. I’m trained to kill in all spaces. What’s surprising though, is that faced with the immediate prospect of hurting him, I find I don’t want to. I shake my head roughly, attempting to dislodge such thoughts. Resolve hardening, I remind myself Jimin is the enemy. He’s not the same as me, wouldn’t offer me clemency – so I should show him none in return.

Jimin watches me carefully, as though able to sense my shift in thoughts. It helps, to think about that girl in the courtyard; an innocent Fey Jimin used and discarded. The thought clouds my vision, forces my anger to the surface. Anger is good. My eyes narrow, jaw tightening at the thought. Jimin’s arms are held loose by his sides, the blade of his sword pointed towards the ground.

He swallows.

“Begin,” Eon announces.

I make the first move, stepping so quickly, I surprise even myself. Jimin’s sword flies upwards though and I spin, reassessing the strength of his skills. As soon as I strike for the second time, he avoids my blow. His falchion is longer than mine, curved, and I try to use this to my advantage. Moving in quick thrusts and parries, disappointed to find Jimin is just as skilled as I am. I admit this begrudgingly, only to myself. When Jimin manages to block me for a third time, I begin a long series of slashes, forcing him back to avoid my blade.

Jimin does a quick twist, darting away from me. Freed from the edge of my sword, he heaves his own overhead. The weapon is brought down where I was a second ago, just moments before I darted sideways. Ducking beneath his arm, I manage a quick slash to his bicep. Just a shallow cut – barely more than a flesh wound, but Jimin grimaces in pain.

I pivot to change direction, ready when Jimin lunges for me with renewed energy. He grunts in frustration, hair spilling across his forehead when I escape yet another blow. I don’t let this image distract me, pushing again to corner him against the wall. I’m impressed by his skills – Jimin is good, especially for a human.

Even for a human. If I’m being truly honest, he’s better than most Fey.

I suppose this shouldn’t be too surprising. I know Jimin fought in the infantry, though this is still hard for me to wrap my head around. I grew up thinking the Prince was spoiled, a pretty human forcing others to do his bidding. Finding out this isn’t the case, is still a bit of a shock.

Breathing heavily, I analyze the fight. Based off experience, I should be able to disarm Jimin in minutes. Even accounting for his exceptional level of skill. It’s odd, though. He’s keeping up well, for a human. We continue on like this, neither one of us gaining momentum. I accumulate a few scrapes and bruises, so does he.

Jimin’s injuries are far worse than mine though. This gives me a small amount of satisfaction, a grim smile tugging at my lips. The first cut I gave him is most painful, blood trickling down his arm to make his grip slippery. Sensing this weakness, I lash out. Sword nicking his right arm, hitting his wrist as Jimin lets out a cry. He spins aside in a desperate maneuver, avoiding my follow-up.

Closing in on him, I smile at my impending victory – only to be dismayed, when Jimin switches hands. He grins at my expression, resuming fighting me with his left arm. I’m disappointed to find he’s equally skilled like this. After only a few minutes of sparring, I can see that I’ll win. Jimin’s loss of blood is too draining; I can see it in his eyes. They’re dark, flickering with exhaustion and I know I’ll soon overcome him.

My grin turns vicious, and I do a tricky maneuver to knock his sword aside. Jimin curses beneath his breath, ducking once to roll on the ground, grabbing his sword at the end. I use this to catch my breath, letting a strange sort of peace settle against my bones. When Jimin pushes himself to stand I move forward, steeling myself as I gain both ground and momentum.

While we continue to fight, I lose myself to the rhythm of the battle. Reveling in the strength, the power I hold over Jimin. My feet dance, sword held as an extension of myself while I lean smoothly backwards. The cadence lights a fire within, scorching my veins as I slowly lose myself to anger.

Jimin slows, more on the defense than the offense. I sweep his sword easily aside, following this with an angry slash to his stomach which just barely misses. I’m so caught in this, so hypnotized by my impending victory that I laugh, exhaling once before – I look at him.

This is a mistake. A moment which seems to go on much longer than it truly does. A lifetime passes, while my eyes meet his. Jimin’s panic is plain in them, clear with realization that his strength has failed. That’s not all I see. He stares back at me with courage, with determination, the fierce anger which calls to my own. I’m elastic, pulled away from self-destruction as easily as I came.

Limbs trembling, I disarm him quickly. Two strokes which knock the sword from his grasp, sending the metal clattering to the floor. The point of my sword rests on Jimin’s clavicle and I say nothing, my breath coming in heaved spurts. I don’t know where to look. Don’t know what to say to him, and eventually I drop my eyes.

When I look back up, Eon is watching me. His gaze betrays nothing as he takes a step forward, walking over to Jimin. “Come, Prince,” he motions. “We should bandage that cut on your arm.” His voice is calm, reasonable, it breaks the silence of the room.

I don’t move when they exit, returning to looking at the ground.

Or at least, I don’t look at them – until my self-misery gets the best and my gaze darts upward. I need to see that Jimin is okay, need to know I didn’t hurt him. Eon has already passed though, hovering someplace beyond the door as Jimin moves slowly across the room. I notice his shirt sticks to his chest, matted with sweat and blood, nothing life-threatening.

Before I can move, Jimin turns. He meets my gaze head-on, holding nothing but curiosity for me. I don’t know what to make of this. Anger, I would have understood. Hostility, I would have known. No. Jimin just looks, vaguely intrigued. Before I can decipher this, he’s gone. Stepped outside and leaving me alone. I stare blankly at the door, trying to understand what just happened.

My weight sags backwards, hitting the wall to slide into a seated position. My legs curl beneath me, protecting me from the wave of pain which looms threateningly on the horizon. Sometimes it scares me, what I can do. I remember back when I was a child, my father would often force me to fight humans.

Only as a child. Eventually, I became too fast for them, too strong and humans were no longer a challenge. That’s what my father told me. In truth, I think the humans just stopped agreeing to come. No amount of money was worth it to them, no amount of honor was enough. I was too fast, too strong and I couldn’t control myself. Oftentimes, I hurt them.

It would be better to say it was just one of them. That I only had one accident, that I didn’t know any better. It would be easier to say that I cared. It’d also be easy, if I said I never fought those weaker than myself. That I took no pleasure in their defeats, that winning those victories brought me no joy.

It would be easier, but it wouldn’t be true. My father rewarded me for the win, no matter how small. It made me eager to please him, eager for the feel of a warm bed and meal. I trained myself to look past the human’s fear, to see my opponent as less than myself, smothering that pit of shame within my stomach. Winning was everything, no matter the cost it took in the long run.

My father once said that weapons have no emotions. They do not empathize and I, am ultimately a weapon. There’s a dark part of myself which embraces this. It’s easier, not to feel. Easier to be hard, to be steel. Without emotion, there is no pain. When I fight as a weapon, I find I don’t care. Don’t care what I need to do to win – which means I usually win. Out on the battlefield, it’s a liability to care. Caring makes one vulnerable; something others can exploit and take advantage of.

It’s a talent of us Fey, to embrace this darker side. To cross into the dark, animalistic part which knows no fear. I nearly did so today, fighting Jimin. I would have killed him, I have no doubt. I would have, if I hadn’t looked up. I blink then, frowning. Lifting a hand to my face, staring at the wetness revealed on my fingertips.

I can’t remember the last time I cried. I would laugh at this fact, if I weren’t already so close to losing myself. Instead, I let another tear fall. It feels oddly satisfying, though I’m not sure what I’m crying for. Because I stopped, or because I didn’t?

I’ve never lost a fight. Never stopped to spare someone, yet I stopped to spare him. Stopped to spare Jimin, with his dark eyes and courageous face. I don’t know why. My body shakes, more from fear than from laughter. The world around me is changing – I’m changing – and somehow, I don’t think my father will like what I’m becoming.

The rest of the day, I hold myself back. I force the dark part of myself to remain dormant, at least for now. Instead, I focus on his Jimin’s technique. On learning his motions, his reactions. He responds easily to the maneuvers Eon throws our way, fluid and graceful as any Fey.

The skills he possesses are outstanding, perhaps on par with my own – were I not much stronger than he is. I am though, which means for Jimin to win, I must be defeated within the first few minutes of the fight. As the day passes by, Jimin catches on. He adjusts his fighting style accordingly, adopting sneak attacks and slight maneuvers. It shocks me, when he wins. Just the one time, no more than that – but it’s more than anyone else has.

The monotony of combat is calming, a distraction which soothes my tangled thoughts. Jimin and I don’t speak, for which I am grateful. By the end of practice though, my muscles are spent. Body aching, sweat trickling down my back as I rest my hands on my knees. Jimin stands in a similar position, breath coming in uneven gulps. I avert my eyes from his damp shirt, clinging to the muscled body below.

As the sun sinks below the horizon, it casts long shadows across the floor. Eon declares the day complete, clapping his hands. “Return to your rooms for dinner,” he instructs. “Y/N, you are to dine in Jimin’s quarters.”

“What?” I ask, alarmed. My gaze darts to the human Prince. “Why not with the others, like we did the last night?”

Eon just fixes me with his clouded, green stare. “This week is about more than learning to fight,” he says to me quietly. “Now, go. Dinner will be served throughout the castle at seven.”

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can – Jimin clears his throat.

“Y/N.”

It’s the first word he’s said since this morning and when I look at him, his eyes are large, cautious. That all changes when he takes my hand though, gaze darkening while lowering his head. Jimin’s lips brush the back of my skin, a gesture as simple and gentle as a breeze.

Then he leaves, turning quickly to stride from the room. I just stand there staring, watching him go for far longer than I’d care to admit.

Standing outside Jimin’s door that night, I fiddle with the sleeve of my dress. My gown is emerald in color, bringing out the depths of my eyes. At least, that’s what my maid told me. I think it makes me look rather like a forest, lost in a sea of monotone. Staring at the door though, I swallow back these thoughts. It doesn’t matter what I wear, this is only a business dinner.

As I think this, the door flies open. Jimin’s eyes widen and he hesitates, but only for a moment. The gesture is so fleeting, I wonder if I imagined it entirely, “I thought I heard someone,” Jimin allows, smiling pleasantly. He steps back from the door, gesturing me to walk inside. “Please, come in.”

I look past him. The room beyond is lit by feylight, congregated energy used that’s less fickle than fire. The curtains are pulled to reveal a rising moon and I breathe in relief when I see a serving faery. Jimin and I won’t be completely alone.

“Thank you,” I nod, walking past.

Jimin sits down across from me, oddly formal in his mannerisms. The silence between the two of us extends, making me very aware we’ve only spoken two sentences since my arrival.

Arranging my skirts to the side of my chair, I attempt to look busy. When the server pours wine, I nod in appreciation, looking anywhere but at Jimin when I take a sip. The silence continues though, my pulse deafening in my veins. My panic grows at this, imagining long hours, filled with silence. When our server returns, he brings the salad course.

Just as I despair of ever hearing words again, Jimin asks, “Why did you hold back today?”

His question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?” I respond, swallowing a forkful of lettuce.

“Today, after the first fight.” Jimin leans in, eyes gleaming in the light. “You let me win – why?”

“I,” shaking my head, I take a small sip of my wine. “That’s awfully presumptuous, to assume I’d let you do anything.” Though I try to sound confident, I avoid his gaze.

Jimin snorts. “Oh, come on. I’m good, but you’re Fey. I shouldn’t have won – not once.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks, setting down my fork. “You won,” I say to him, gaze cold. “By merit alone. Our fight this morning,” I exhale, not caring to explain. “I don’t want to talk about. It’s insulting you think I’d ever let you win. Truly, there’s nothing so awful as a self-deprecating opponent,” I mutter, then stab angrily at a tomato.

Jimin considers this, then laughs. “Alright,” he admits, picking up his fork. 

His easy acceptance washes away some of the earlier tension. I breathe in relief, happy his questioning is over, though it appears my respite is to be short-lived. 

Jimin leans forward then, catching my gaze. “What about earlier, what happened during that fight?”

My teeth grind, since this is the one thing I don’t want to discuss. I consider pretending not to know what he means. This seems pointless though, since my Fey nature is sure to come up in other aspects of training. Jimin lifts his fork to his mouth, waiting. He’s interested in the answer – though he’s pretends that he’s not.

Pushing my plate away from me, I sigh. “We fought. You lost.”

I stop, not wanting to say more. For a moment, I wish I were human. Wish I could do more than mislead him, I wish I could lie. I can’t say this morning was nothing, because it wasn’t. I can’t say Jimin wasn’t in danger, because he was.

“Well, obviously.” Jimin studies me. “I’ve heard rumor that Fey can turn off their emotions when they fight. I’ve heard this makes them formidable warriors.”

No longer caring to pretend, I meet his gaze. “I’ve heard that as well.”

“Is it true?” he asks, a direct question.

“It is,” I frown. 

Jimin sits back, considering my answer. I wait for fear to creep over his gaze, for his eyes to look hurriedly away, but he does no such thing.

“What’s does it feel like?” Jimin asks instead, picking back up his fork.

Though I’m surprised, I try not to show it. “Why would I know what that’s like?”

“Don’t you?” Jimin asks, another direct question.

I grit my teeth, steeling myself against the growing anger. It’s true, faeries cannot lie. It’s considered bad form though, to use this against us. Jimin knows this – he must, given the stupid, little grin on his face. One which widens with each passing second.

I glare. “Yes. Yes, I know.”  

“So,” Jimin cuts off a slice of cucumber. “What does it feel like?”

When he looks back at me though, the grin fades from Jimin’s face. I realize then, maybe Jimin doesn’t want to play games either. Maybe he really does want to know this answer. I think it’s this, which makes me tell him the truth.

“It’s not a conscious choice,” I say slowly. “At least, not for me.” I pause, uncertain what next. “I don’t suppose you feel the rhythm of fighting? A certain tempo, almost like dancing.”

I don’t know if this is unique to the Fey. Or perhaps even unique to me. When Jimin nods though, acknowledging the statement, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Imagine that, just on a grander scale. It’s more than just feeling the rhythm, you become it.” Closing my eyes, I drift back to that moment. “Imagine your body turning to instinct, the only message reaching your brain is survive. Live, survive – at all costs.”

I feel Jimin watching me, but don’t yet dare open my eyes. “The Fey call it Otero,” I say, voice softening. “It comes from a word which means cancel, to blot out. When this happens, I no longer exist. It’s not that I lose control of myself, because I don’t,” I open my eyes. “I am control. The thing I lose, is myself.”

Realizing that’s all, I fall silent. I’m angry then, both at Jimin and at myself. Angry that he pried, angry I said so much. I chose to do this, though. Just because I can’t lie to Jimin, didn’t mean I had to explain.

“Y/N.”

I blink, distracted by the sound of my name. Jimin’s voice is gentle though, and it’s this which makes me see him. For the first time, I realize that of the two of us, I might be the more dangerous one. This thought shudders through me, sending my world tilting on its axis.

“Thank you for stopping, then.” Jimin must mistake my expression for one of confusion then, because he adds, “I know that this morning must have been difficult. If what you said just now is true, I’m amazed you were able to stop at all. So, thank you.”

I stare, allowing his words to sink in. Jimin is amazed I stopped. Before now, I hadn’t even questioned this but he raises a very good point. Thoughts racing, I struggle to piece together a logical explanation – unable to come up with one. None which make sense, anyways. My thoughts fragment, fractured and uncertain. I’ve never saved anyone, but Jimin.

I could ponder this more, were it not for the moon. Its light distracts me, the way that it plays over Jimin’s cheekbones. The way the slanted beams contrast with his lips, eyes burning in muted light. As I stare, drinking him in – I find my hand reaching shakily for my wine.

“You’re welcome,” I say, tearing my gaze away. “I doubt Eon would have let me kill you, though. He probably would have interfered before disembowelment.”

Jimin pauses for a moment, then laughs – surprised. “A joke,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Who knew?”

The door to his suite opens, cutting off our conversation with the arrival of the main course. The night flows easily after that. Jimin talks of his time in the military, noting the several different training locations spread across Humankind. He mentions a tour he’s to take in the spring, that I’ll need to come with – and the conversation sparks a memory.

“You chose a falchion,” I interrupt, cocking my head. “I thought you said you fought in the infantry?”

At this, Jimin smiles. “True. I fought in the infantry. I was convinced I could do it all, though. I went to various factions of the army, begged soldiers, generals – anyone, really, to teach me. I learned how to wield the falchion two years ago. Practicing in the woods, in the dead of night whenever my cavalry friend could spare the time.”

This impresses me, and I tell him as much. “Most people can motivate others,” I muse, tilting my head. “It’s more difficult I find, to motivate oneself.”

“True, but you over-flatter me.” Jimin smiles.

When the dessert course arrives, I find myself unsure of what to talk about. The man is confusing. No, not man, I correct myself – Prince. Catching my slip-up, I shake my head. Jimin is an odd mix of cocky and kind; self-motivated and easy-going. Picking at my dish, I stare down at the coconut trifle, trying to eat. I know coconut is an exotic, expensive thing, but I’ve never been very partial.

“The food is not to your liking?”

It’s the servant who speaks and I start, having forgotten he was here. “Coconut is delicious,” I smile blandly, allowing my bowl to be swept away.

Jimin watches all this, a tiny smile at the corner of his lips.

When I see him watching me, I flush. “What?” I demand, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing.” Jimin shakes his head, then grins. “I know you can’t lie, but even I could tell that was not true.”

Called out, I stifle a smile. “Well, no,” I admit. “Personally, I don’t like coconut. In general, though – I hear it’s delicious.”

At this, Jimin laughs. Throwing his head back and chuckles, the heartwarming gesture filling the room. “Is it true then, what they say about the Fey?”

My mouth dries, as he returns to looking at me. “What is?”

“That, ‘lying to be polite’, is an affliction which affects all sentient beings,” Jimin supplies, grinning.

“Court games,” I sigh, shaking my head, “are an unfortunate truth to all kingdoms. Although I can’t claim to be an expert at playing.”

“No?” Jimin takes a sip of wine, raising both eyebrows.

“No. I was raised far away from this,” I explain. “Out on the western coast.”

Jimin nods, as though this isn’t new. Which it’s not, I remind myself. Jimin was present at my bidding, he heard my hometown announced. This thought puts a sour taste in my mouth. It’s one thing to sit here, laughing over dessert with a Prince. It’s another, to associate him with the horror of that afternoon.

“You’ll have to learn at Ostia,” Jimin allows, laughter fading from his eyes.

“That’s fine,” I acknowledge, tracing the rim of my wine glass. “I’m a quick study.”

At this he smiles, somewhat sadly. “I’m sure you are.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause, while we both look at one another. The silence isn’t as awkward as before, but somehow feels even more invasive. My skin tingles, guilt rising in my stomach as I consider Namjoon. His face swims before me, gaze accusatory – though something even deeper than that, pushes him aside.

It’s then that I notice our server, packing up to leave. Heart racing, I realize he’s leaving us alone. The thought both excites and terrifies me. “Your Highness,” he nods, bowing low while he pulls his cart towards the hall.

“Let me help,” Jimin offers, jumping up to push open the heavy door.

The faery stills, speechless at the small act of kindness. He recovers quickly though, bowing once before hurrying away – not before thanking the Prince profusely. It’s the first I’ve heard a faery thank a human. The room falls silent upon his departure. Our easy camaraderie of earlier gone, replaced by something I don’t care to name.

Rather than stay though, I push myself to stand. “I should retire to my rooms.”

Jimin slowly nods. I’m eager to go, eager for the safety of two doors between us. The air is too thick for my comfort, too wired with energy and something else. My entire body is alive, my senses somehow sharper – or maybe duller – everything flipped from the way that it should be.

Jimin doesn’t stop me when I turn to leave. Halfway to the door, I trip, my haste making me clumsy and tangling my feet beneath in the rug. Jimin darts forward, somehow at my side before I fall. He clasps my elbow, steadying me gently to set me upright.

“Are you okay?” Jimin murmurs, eyes searching for any sort of injury.

My face is crimson, the only damage done to my pride. “I’m fine,” I manage, then attempt once again to leave.

Jimin’s grip tightens, holding me still. Surprised by his sudden insistency, I lift my gaze to his. This was a mistake, I realize. This close to him, I can see the rise of each mole on his neck. The paleness of his face, marred occasionally by old sunburn, from his time in the army. His hair is dark, eyes lighter – it’s hard for me to remember then, why people view him as frivolous. It’s hard to find any humor within that gaze, right now.

“Jimin,” I start, then stop. I don’t know what I was going to say next.

He slowly lifts a hand, tucking a strand of hair away from my neck. “Yes?”

A sharp, pang of fear tears through me. “I have to go,” I say, the words automatic.

Jimin’s brows knit, confused, though he releases me. “Of course.”

I nod, still facing him. It takes a moment for me to tear myself away, and I’m midway to the door before Jimin says my name out loud. 

“Jimin, don’t,” I interrupt, searching for an excuse. “I can’t – ʺ

His laugh is hollow, already seeming to know what I’m about to say. “And why can’t you?”

The words I want, my explanation of Namjoon dries in my mouth. I can’t tell him that, and so I search for another half-truth. “We’re different,” I turn to face him. This is true, but it’s not all of it. “I’m Fey, you’re Human.”

“And?” Jimin asks, eyes narrowing.

“When humans have feelings, they don’t last longer than five minutes.” 

This isn’t what I intended to say, but it’s true nonetheless.

Jimin’s gaze darkens. “Oh? Because you’re such an expert in what Humans are really like.”

“I could ask that maid from yesterday,” I blurt, then wince. That was unintentional of me – I don’t know what came over me, just now. I feel a flicker of shame when Jimin takes a step back, as though he’s just been slapped. I can’t afford to be kind to him though, and so I drive my point home. “It certainly looked as though you used her and left her,” I mutter.

“Well,” Jimin’s jaw clenches, eyes wide. “I suppose there are limitations, then, to even Fey honesty.” Shaking his head, the Prince looks away. “You can speak any lie, so long as you think it’s a truth. A clever loophole.”

“It’s not a loophole,” I counter, my annoyance growing the longer I stand here. “You act as though honesty is a game, one can play with. Do you think we Fey enjoy having to tell the truth? That we like our words be a game, never able say what we truly feel?”

Jimin doesn’t answer, gaze faltering when I take a step closer.

“No,” I declare, looking up at him. “I know what I saw. I don’t need to lie, to tell you that.”

“You don’t know me, though,” Jimin says, quieter. More to himself, than to me.

“I know enough,” I respond, finally pushing past him and out the door.

The door thuds shut and for a moment, I think he might follow – but nothing happens. When he does nothing, I take off down the fall. Steps quick and angry, steady until I close the weight of my doors behind me. I stay like that, chest rising and falling until I turn away from the hall.

I change mechanically into my nightgown. Even then, it’s difficult for me to fall sleep. I continue to stare at my ceiling, thoughts flickering past my vision like visions. When I do sleep, my dreams are of fire and smoke. Pain, the color of steely iron.

[Master List]

[tk-duveraun]

Sweet Dreams 9/10

Title: Sweet Dreams Setting: Modern Thedas Rating: PG-13 For Strong Language   Genre: Friendship & Adventure, minor Romance elements Pairings: (All relatively background) Ela/Cullen, Doribull Summary: For @elalavella. Ela’s been having vivid nightmares that are starting to feel far too real when the companions she has in the nightmares appear in her real life. She thought it was supposed to be the other way around! Previous Parts: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight  Warnings: Mild violence and gore

Ela is 200% done with this shit.

For just one moment, Ela was frozen in place, every muscle locked stiff by freezing tendrils of fear. But before her sword could even shift in her numb hands, Ela shouted a primal, wordless sound. When the scream ended, she twisted her hands on the grip and all-but growled in her throat. “You know what? No. I’m fucking done playing your game and being so fucking scared.”

She kicked the little fearlings scratching at her ankles and swung her sword in a wide arc in front of her. “This is just a damn illusion. My friends would never fucking leave me here alone.”

Ela spun around and swung her sword in the opposite direction, knocking off the top half of a crumbling tombstone. “I’m not dancing to your tune for one more goddamn second.”

Panting, she stood still and stared into the emptiness of the Fade, waiting for her friends to reappear. When they didn’t, she bared her teeth and shouted again, “I said give them back!”

The last word came out as a bellow that made everything shake and shudder until the illusion shattered with a deafening crash. Judging by The Iron Bull’s surprised expression, no one else had been affected the illusion. All they saw was her standing there, panting and aggressively holding her sword.

“You okay there, Boss?”

“We’re leaving,” Ela snarled. As she stomped past her companions and up the slope, armor materialized around her, wrapping her arms and legs in hard leather. When heavy, dragonscale boots appeared on her feet, her footsteps were suddenly audible and echoing like thunderclaps in the Fade. The vallaslin on her face looked sharper and more prominent once her hair pulled itself away from her face and tied itself up into a tight plait.

Distantly, she heard Dorian say, “Well, I suppose they always say that will king in the Fade.”

“Too fucking right,” Sera said.

Ela didn’t look back, but she knew her friends were also suddenly in proper combat gear, with steps that made sounds and hearts ready to end this and go home.

More fear demons tried to attack with their spindly limbs and sunken faces, but Ela’s sword cut through them as if they were nothing more than rags and air. She barely slowed at their approach, simply changed the angle of her blade to slice them in half as she passed. They were nothing. The fearlings at her ankles were less than nothing. The Nightmare’s time was over.

“That’s what you thought last time, and then you left Stroud behind to die,” the Nightmare said.

Ela let the words fall off her like so much water. She didn’t pause until she planted her feet at the end of the path where the Nightmare demon’s gigantic form rested. At the end of the space, laid Stroud’s body. It laid bloodless and untouched by decay and time, his silverite breastplate still shining in the reflected light from Dorian’s mage fire.

Thirty seconds. Ela gave herself thirty seconds to grieve, to mourn, to regret leaving Stroud behind, and then she turned away from the preserved body and faced the towering Nightmare.

“Your reign of terror ends here!” Ela shouted. She ran at the demon, sword raised over her head in both hands for a devastating overhand strike. The Iron Bull roared his own, wordless challenge and stood at her side, both of them hacking at the unnatural, grey flesh. Behind them, Dorian and Sera fired away at the arms and tentacles that struck towards them from the horrific mass of demon.

“That’s right! Struggle, mortals! Fight for an eternity of despair until your soul gives out, just Stroud. The Calling would have been a cleaner death than you gave him, Elashorei,” the Nightmare taunted. It’s voice was unaffected by their combined attack and didn’t even seem to be coming from the demonic form their weapons were striking. “You belong to me and will never leave this place again! Now you know true fear!”

But Ela wasn’t afraid. She was angry. She’s lost her parents twice. She’d lost her sister twice. She’d lost Stroud. And she’d fucking destroyed Corypheus in the biggest shower of magic since that fucker Solas made the Veil in the first place. One demon was never going to scare her, no matter how big it was. No matter how long she had to strike it with her sword. It would fear Ela as she hacked away at it until she won through attrition because she wasn’t going to lose anyone or anything else.

“Biting, scratching, clawing. Wear it down. Wear it out,” Cole said.

Ela’s eyes widened at Cole’s words. They were barely more than a whisper and oddly coming from a place he wasn’t standing. They were also her own thoughts, but hearing them from someone else made all of the pieces fall together. She kept hacking away at the large form of the demon as her mind raced, double and triple-checking her conclusion.

With a fierce grin, Ela jerked her sword out of the writing, demonic mass. “True fear is a sneaking, insidious thing that claws at your mind slowly over time until you’re too weak to fucking fight back! Not today, motherfucker!”

Ela spun in place and thrust her sword into the scuttling fearling that had been harassing her at her ankles the entire time. A ghastly, screeching wail shattered the sounds of battle as the demon died. The remaining fearlings retreated as the mass of limbs and writhing skin dissolved in front of their eyes.

The demon corpse skewered on her sword was the only remnant of their protracted battle. Ela pulled back her sword and kicked the disgusting carapace off the side of the rock platform so it could fall for all eternity in the Fade.

Sera walked up to her shoulder and spit over the edge. “Drinks on you for a while, eh, Elalaland?”

“On me?! I killed the fucking thing!”

“It was, arguably, your demon,” Dorian said, coming up on her other side.

“Yup. Your nightmares, your fault, Boss.”

“Oh, come the fuck, on.”

[softkuna]

Sukuna || Interview || Fic - oc

Part 1

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

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.”

  Koyori 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. 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.

  “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, 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.

  “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.

  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.

  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.

  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. As practiced, “I ans-“

  “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.

  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, 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.

  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. ‘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​