#or just kid cosmic in general

[aadrawings]

The great feeling of seeing people going on about the Wander pilot is rivaled only by the frustration of seeing no one talk about the Kid Cosmic pilot

[bunnieswithknives]

The soul of Wicked is randomly inventing extremely elaborate relationships between characters who barely interact at all in canon. Also Fiyero is here.

[geminipixels]

Vincent left work early, after receiving a call from his sister-in-law to celebrate the twins birthdays. He couldn't help himself from judging Benjamin and his modest home, which was an odd change from their family's more lavish living. But he couldn't contain his excitement in seeing his nieces.

Desiree did the honors of aging up Yasmine and Yara, while the Celeste brothers celebrated and provided emotional encouragement for the girls.

Yasmine was the older of the girls and took quite a liking to Vincent, where the feeling was mutual. She's the more sociable and friendly of the girls and was quick to charm her uncle with her adorable smile.

Yara, on the other hand, took a calmer approach to Vincent due to her shyer personality. Though, it didn't stop Vincent from showering her with love and letting her become a Velcro baby towards him.

It took a while for Vincent to put the girls down and let them spend time with their actual parents. But as Desiree put the girls to bed, Vincent and Benjamin had a chat in regard to the upcoming wedding plans.

Vincent insisted on being the wedding planner, but was informed his parents were taking care of the venue and wedding plans. So instead, he offered to help style both Benjamin and Desiree for the wedding. Benjamin was hesitant to the idea at first, but reluctantly agreed in trusting his little brother's vision.

[chrissssssmut]

Hi hello sir, I kindly ask a story with popular girls Asa and Ahyeon asking shy+nerdy mreader for help studying. No smut obviously and no need for yandere. Just fluffy stuff

Perks Of Being The Nerd

Asa & Ahyeon x Nerdy Male Reader

You didn’t expect much out of sophomore year.

Not fame. Not a girlfriend. Definitely not two.

Your goal was simple: survive AP Chem and keep your manga collection hidden from the occasional hallway tormentor. You were painfully good at blending in—until they happened.

Asa and Ahyeon.

The reigning queens of the junior class. Known for their looks, wit, and tendency to dominate literally every school event. Asa was sharp-eyed, tomboyish, and had a habit of chewing gum like it owed her money. Ahyeon was sweeter, mischievous, and occasionally so charming it felt like she was glitching the simulation.

And somehow, through some cosmic joke, they were now sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your perfectly highlighted notes like they belonged there.

“Okay, so explain covalent bonds again,” Asa said, squinting at the textbook like it had personally wronged her.

“They’re the ones where atoms share electrons,” you muttered, pushing your glasses up and refusing to make eye contact. You could feel both of them looking at you.

“That’s so cute,” Ahyeon said suddenly.

You blinked. “...Covalent bonds?”

“No,” she giggled, “you. When you explain things like you’re afraid we’ll break.”

“I—I'm not afraid,” you said, then immediately regretted it. “I mean, not of you. Just, like. Talking. In general.”

Asa smirked and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “You talk more when you’re passionate. Like, just now. You went full anime professor mode.”

Your heart skipped.

You were going to die. Right here. In your kitchen. Surrounded by girls way out of your league and a stack of flashcards.

It all started three days ago when Ms. Kim paired you up for peer tutoring. Apparently, Asa and Ahyeon were “slipping” in chemistry. You’d expected them to blow you off immediately.

But instead—

“Hey, you’re that smart kid, right? The one with the cute notes?” Asa had said, cornering you after class.

“You have the best handwriting I’ve ever seen,” Ahyeon added, eyes twinkling. “Can we study at your place?”

You said yes before your brain could stop you.

Which brings us back to the present.

“You make this stuff sound easy,” Asa said, tossing a pencil up and catching it. “I swear, if teachers explained things like you do, I wouldn’t be failing.”

“I-it’s not really hard,” you mumbled. “Just patterns and logic, mostly. Like code.”

Ahyeon tilted her head. “You code too?”

You nodded. “A bit. Mostly games. Visual novels, sometimes.”

“You’re like, the most interesting guy here and no one knows,” Asa said, stealing one of your erasers.

“Maybe because he’s hiding behind his bangs and hoodies,” Ahyeon teased, leaning toward you slightly. “We’re gonna fix that.”

“Fix what?”

“You,” they said in unison.

Somehow, “study sessions” became a regular thing.

They always brought snacks. Ahyeon liked lying on the floor with her feet up on your bed, whining about reaction rates. Asa always claimed the desk chair and spun in it until she got dizzy.

You tried to stay professional.

Tried.

But sometimes, Asa would lean over your shoulder and ask about a formula, her breath warm against your ear. Sometimes Ahyeon would rest her head on your arm while you explained things, and it was impossible to focus when your heart was beating like a drumline.

“You’re blushing again,” Asa said one afternoon, grinning like a shark.

You immediately buried your face in your hoodie.

“No fair,” you mumbled. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“But it’s cute,” Ahyeon chimed in. “And you never tell us what you think.”

“I—I do!”

“Okay,” Asa leaned in, eyebrow raised. “What do you think of us?”

You froze.

“I—I think you’re both…” You swallowed. “Very…good at learning?”

They stared at you.

“Wow,” Asa said, snorting. “That’s the nerdiest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“I love it,” Ahyeon said.

You peeked up at them.

And found two girls smiling at you like you’d just given them the moon.

“Hey,” Asa said quietly, after a silence. “You ever think about, like…dating?”

You choked on your juice box. “W-what?!”

“Not like that!” she added, laughing. “Okay, maybe like that. It’s just—we were talking, and you’re…kind of great?”

You blinked.

“You help us study, you’re smart, you make the best snacks, and your dog loves us.”

“And,” Ahyeon added, sliding closer to you on the couch, “you make me feel calm. Which almost never happens.”

Your face felt like it was on fire.

“Are you saying… you like me?”

“We like you,” they said in unison again.

“I—I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Ahyeon whispered. “Just let us hang out with you more. Maybe hold your hand sometimes. That okay?”

Your voice came out small. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

So that’s how it happened.

One minute you were the quiet nerd with an anime wallpaper and a carefully curated pen case, and the next you were dating the two most popular girls in school.

Well. “Dating” might be a strong word. It started with long tutoring sessions that turned into movie nights. Hand-holding during breaks. A cheek kiss here, a forehead bump there. Soft “good luck” messages before tests and chaotic selfies from their classrooms.

Sometimes you caught people whispering when you walked down the hall with them on either side.

But then Asa would glance at you, bump your shoulder, and smirk.

Ahyeon would flash you a grin like you hung the stars.

And suddenly, you didn’t care what anyone thought.

Because somehow, impossibly—you were their favorite nerd.

End.

(But they definitely make you teach them anime intros next week.)

[supercutszns]

rotten to the touch; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc: 3.2k

pairing: pre-tlt luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: you’re pretty sure you’re an awful person. you’re pretty sure luke castellan is too. and you’re pretty sure you want to make out with him.

warnings: reader is flawed & not the greatest, luke is ... a little dark🫣, small mention of blood, swearing, lots of making out but no explicit nsfw, a bit toxic, & no more more ‘i can fix him’ or ‘i can make him worse’ it’s ‘he can make ME worse’

notes: this is… sluttier than my usual stuff so it’s not as good but i’m trying, feedback is appreciated! also i wonder what cabin we think this reader would be in, let me know where you’d place her im curious :) maybe i’ll write more of her in the future she’s interesting!! and thank you for 100 followers i am so grateful<3 designated song for this fic is crush by ethel cain

You are a miserable, wicked, asshole of a person, and everybody knows it. Including you.

It’s unclear to you why you turned out this way—every reason to blame never satiates the fury searing your insides. All the campers hate you. The counsellors, too. Even Chiron looks down on the viciousness inside you. You are Camp Half-Blood’s black sheep; a mean, bitter person with no love for the people around you. And it’s not just for show. You know you’re rotten. You know the anger will never go away.

It’s evident in the things you think about other people—the way you pick them apart in your head, toss them aside, because they just don’t see it. This miserable, unforgiving world, with children sleeping on wooden floors because the people who created you think you disposable. Because they can just make more of you. More, more, more, until one of you comes out rotten, born of all the ugliness they have inside them. You are the worst parts of Godly blood. The wrathful parts.

Everyone hates you. Everyone hates a person with an unquenchable anger.

But everyone loves Luke Castellan.

He’s a saint at Camp Half-Blood if there ever was one. Handsome, generous, kind. Goes out of his way to help out the new kids and gives them homes in his cabin. He’s the best swordsman in camp by a mile. Shit, you’d even love Luke Castellan if you didn’t know any better.

But you do, and you don’t, and it’s complicated, okay?

Because there’s something you know about Luke Castellan that nobody else does: he’s miserable and wicked, too.

You see it in his eyes sometimes. The way they look at you at dinner, when you’re picking at your food away from anyone else at your table. Something familiar rises in them, and your stomach twists. His body tenses whenever someone mentions his father, but the smiles he flashes are so charismatic nobody notices. But you do. It’s exciting.

During sword practice, he quips back and forth with the kids and laughs whenever they take a jab at him. He’s light, easy, carefree. But you see how he holds back, the tension in his shoulder, the way the arc of his sword never fully finishes. So you wait until everybody leaves and he’s alone, with the training dummies and the setting sun. And you. Hiding.

He slashes through them and spears through their heads. You see it, the gnashing of his teeth, the sweat curling down his cheeks. There’s something there. A chasm he’s hopeless to fill.

Before you know it, you’re going out of your way to catch him training alone. It’s creepy, you know, and awful, you know, but the more you watch him the more you see a sort of violence scabbed under his skin.

Whenever you see him now, the feeling you get is entirely foreign to you. It’s almost . . . longing.

Wherever she is, you’re pretty sure Aphrodite’s having a cosmic fucking laugh. And you’re sure she’s laughing double tonight.

The Aphrodite cabin is hosting some secret party for the older counsellors. You’re definitely of age to be a counsellor, but you’ve never been made one because that would probably make half the campers drop out. Chiron and Mr. D don’t know what to do with you. You’re sure you’ll be kicked out of camp soon for good.

But you’re here anyways, for a reason you don’t want to admit, and you stay tucked in a corner as the world around you mingles. Luke is on the other side of the room, lovely as always, laughing with a few other counsellors. He brings a drink up to his lips, and you have a startling thought of what it would be like to kiss him. And you’re fucked. You’re so fucked. Because for the first time in your life you want something tangible, something real. You want to hear him and feel him and pry him apart, and a part of you wants him to actually see you, see all the awful things that might make you the same. You feel like a teenage girl with a crush, and it is infuriating.

An Aphrodite girl comes up to you with a foolish smile. “Hey, sorry, you want a drink?”

“Fuck off, you idiot,” you snarl.

You wait for her to leave. She doesn’t. “You know, you don’t have to be so mean all the time,” she says evenly. “If you’re here, you might as well enjoy it. So yes, I want to give you a drink.”

“Have you ever thought that I’m not being mean? Maybe I just am.”

You glare at her. She looks you up and down. “Sure,” she shrugs, walking away. There’s a vivid picture in your mind of her falling through a hole in the cabin floor. It doesn’t soothe you, but at least the fantasy is there.

The night drones on. You’re sick of the smells and the laughs and the heat. And you’re sick of yourself. You can’t believe, underneath all your sourness, you came here to stare at a boy you barely know, and you don’t even know why. He’s fascinating, and you resent him, and he’s also beautiful. But he’s looked back at you all of three times tonight and you’re sick of the way your skin crawls when he does.

Leaving the cabin brings the relief of the cool night air, and the singularity of your body. You are the only one who feels this rage. You are the only one who hates.

To stave off your discomfort you walk around to the back of the cabin, to the crest of the hill facing the water. The stars above twinkle at you in spite. There’s a bitterness in your throat you want to wash down with something worse (maybe you should have taken that drink), but you know it won’t matter. Nothing matters. Those stars and whatever they hide are apparently the only important things in the universe, so why should anyone care about anything?

They stars only get brighter. It’s probably their goal to piss you off. You grunt, “Oh, fuck you,” to them. It’s not enough, never nearly enough to expel the rotten part of you. “Fuck you. Fuck off!” You groan at the sky. Nothing happens. Until:

“I’m guessing you’re not having a fun night.”

You whirl around. It’s hard to see in the dark, but whatever light is left catches a long scar on a cheek. Your stomach knots.

“Yeah, me neither,” Luke Castellan says, hands in his pockets as he meanders towards you.

Even when he’s close enough, you don’t say anything. If you do, you’re afraid it’ll be something ugly. Like I kind of want to make out with you. Are you awful too? I need a lobotomy.

The thoughts almost make you laugh. Been a long time since you’ve been funny.

He nods at the sky. “Those things don’t talk. You do know that, right?” He’s still so captivating, so self-assured, even when there’s no one around but you.

“Gods, you’re the worst,” you scoff. You really mean it, so you can’t look him in the eye.

“Then why have you been staring at me all night?”

It catches you so off-guard that you whip back to face him. He has an eyebrow raised and the itch of a smile that makes you burn with shame. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He shrugs, leaning against the cabin wall. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been brooding in the corner watching me the second you came in.” He cocks his head to the side, adding, “Actually, you stare at me all the time. At meals and stuff. I really hope you don’t think you’re being subtle.”

You huff. “Okay, if we’re really being honest here, you started that! You do it too! All the time!”

His hands shot up like he was being arrested. “Hey, I never said I minded it. A guy’s . . . just gotta wonder. What’s up with you spying on me when I’m training alone, anyways?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You watch me when there’s nobody else around. I’m not blind. It’s weird. If you want tips you can just ask me. Or if you like what you’re looking at, at least be upfront about it.”

You speak before you can take in that last sentence, or the way his smile took pride in itself when he said it, or how embarrassed you should probably feel. “You didn’t answer my question about why you started staring at me first.”

The anger (shame) blinding you made you forget how close you are to him right now. Close enough to touch, but not enough to see. But almost there. Almost.

“People think you’re mean,” Luke says after a moment, his dark eyes probing you. The words curl out of his mouth slowly, like he’s choosing them all with care. “You’re rude. You never listen to anyone. You judge everything. They all think you’re awful.” Again, he looks you over. “I’m not so sure.”

“If I’m awful, then you’re awful,” you spit before he can say anything else.

He just shrugs. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m not sure.”

It’s irritating, his calmness. He has the same anger you do. How come he can just . . . shove it down? You try to unearth any fury in his eyes, but it’s too far back. Simmering. “Jesus,” you mutter, “You’re worse than me.”

He looks genuinely taken aback by this. His scar deepens when his brows wrinkle. “What?”

“You’re a pretender—that’s what you are.” It’s your turn now, to step closer, to make his skin crawl. “Look at you. Everyone loves you. You’re this perfect golden boy and you’re sweet and attentive and whatever the fuck but you know it’s one giant lie. At least I’m honest, but you just sit pretty and act like you don’t have that . . . thing that I have. Resentment. Insanity. Whatever you want to call it. We’re the same, but I’m the only one getting shit for it.”

Now, you are close enough to really see him. The patterns on the wood behind him frame the vision of his ever-shifting face. You realize that this, like most things are to Luke Castellan, is a challenge. You also can’t remember the last time you saw him lose one.

But when you play, you play to win.

“You don’t know that,” he dares.

“Oh, I do. You’re rotten, Castellan,” you sneer, index finger jabbed into his chest. You can feel his heartbeat if you concentrate. “And you’re not owning up to it, so you’re also a coward.”

However scathing you look, it isn’t enough. If anything it only makes Luke’s manner more playful. Nothing feels playful anymore. Everything, inside and outside of your mind, feels like constant, exhausting war. Maybe that’s why you don’t slap his hand off you when it wraps around your wrist, keeping it pressed to the middle of his chest. His heartbeat thrums through you.

He tilts his face towards you, grinning, “Then why do you want to kiss me?”

All right. What the fuck. It feels like you’ve been electrocuted.

“What the—what are you talking about?” You blunder, but he knows, of course he knows, because there’s something between the two of you that has been formed and understood by eye contact alone. He can probably read your mind. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you’d like to read his just as much.

He cocks his head. “I mean, you did call me pretty,” he teases, and it’s almost endearing. “You’re pretty like this too.” His other hand comes up to your face, and you’re surprised you don’t flinch when his thumb gently smooths the crease in your eyebrows. “Don’t call me a coward, heathen. Then we’ll both be embarrassed.”

The nickname makes you want to fight, but the touch makes you dizzy. “You don’t want to kiss me, Luke,” you say with all the control you have, which, right now, is increasingly sparse.

“You’ve gotta stop telling people what they want,” he muses. The hand on your wrist traces further down your forearm. The one on your face snakes around your hips. “One of your more disagreeable qualities.”

His words fan over you. That fire simmering in his eyes has finally come to the surface.

“One of?” You challenge.

“You let me make out with you and I’ll give you a whole list.”

You snort, hoping it hides the shortness in your breath. “What a charmer you are.”

His lips brush yours. “Well, that’s what makes me so rotten, isn’t it?”

There’s hardly time to unravel if that’s a question or a statement because you grab a fistful of his shirt and he kisses you. Your heart detonates. It is not rotten in the slightest.

His body is warm and firm. You smell the cabin wood and the drink on his breath. It all matters, and none of it does. You’re warm everywhere as he wraps both arms around your back, and the way he kisses is, unfortunately, exactly how you thought he would. Your hands are tentative in his hair. So is your mouth on his. But Luke is so deliberate in the way he kisses that you know he’s thought about this, too. It makes you all the warmer.

His hand takes your jaw and tilts it up. You know your neck is shaky with breath, and you’re pretty sure he’s admiring it. You don’t complain when he presses a kiss to your jaw, then another one, like he’s testing the waters. “You’re so nice like this,” he mutters almost to himself, thumb running across your neck. “If only people could see you.”

“Then they’d see how mean you are too, no?” You huff. “You don’t want that.”

Another kiss to your jaw. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

Whatever feeling is harbouring in your body right now, it’s so fulfilling it almost makes you uncomfortable. You want to reject it. You’re not supposed to want things. Worse, you’re not supposed to get things. Luke starts marking a path down your neck and you are so determined to enjoy this that you’d kiss a fucking baby if someone asked you to. You might as well be a saint.

He bites the pulse point on your neck, sure to leave a mark, and a shudder rips through you. You’re pretty sure the bastard starts laughing. You hit his shoulder in retaliation.

“Easy, heathen,” he reprimands in your ear, and you know he’s still smiling.

“Don’t—don’t call me that.” You hate that you start to smile, too, and that your stomach burgeons with butterflies when he pulls back to look at you.

He touches the corner of your upturned mouth, kiss-bitten and red. His expression is boyish. “Hard to when it makes your face do that,” he goads. “I thought it was impossible for you to smile.”

“Be quiet.” You thread a hand through his camp necklace and bring him closer. You can almost taste his mouth on yours, but he sweeps past you at the last minute.

He gently tugs your earlobe with his teeth and whispers, “Yes ma’am.”

Fuck him. Seriously. You might have to.

It’s a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath his shirt and he does the same, and you’re both angry and greedy and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet. Now you’re just teenagers fooling around at the back of a party, and it’s the first good thing either of you have had in a long time. Luke leaves you gasping whenever his mouth hits certain places, maybe too many places, and he teases you accordingly. “So sensitive,” he taunts, pressing his knee between your legs so he can see you squirm. You rake your nails through his scalp and he tilts his head back to groan. It shuts him up for a while.

He bites your neck until you say his name. You trace lines on his stomach till he takes your hand in his own. You’ve been hungry for something your whole life, and you finally have something to sink your teeth into. For better or for worse.

After Hades knows how long, laughter floats out from the front of the cabin. Sounds of feet tripping over each other and muffled goodbyes. You pull away from Luke, chests heaving together. His hair is wild, his shirt crumpled, and he looks entirely satisfied with it. Smug little shit. “Party’s letting out,” you mutter.

“What a damn shame.” His hand rubs your jaw, and it’s too tender a gesture so you angle your head away to peek over the side of the cabin. You barely pay attention to the kids straggling back to their bunks.

“Is now the time you tell me all my horrible qualities?” You ask once you’re ready to look at him again.

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Actually, I came up with more since I said that so I’m pretty sure it’ll take more than one night.” He fakes a wince, “Might have to spread it out for a few days.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh, you ass.”

“I’ll give you one for starters.” You feel like a tornado when he kisses the juncture between your jaw and your neck. “Your hands are too cold.” They’re tucked underneath his shirt right now, pressed against his back. You don’t move them. “And,” he adds, “you’re incredibly crass.”

“Thanks, dipshit.”

“Thank you for proving my point, heathen.”

The commotion at the front gets louder, and you know your time to go undiscovered runs short. “You meet me again tomorrow, and I start telling you the rest?” He raises his brows.

The prospect both repulses and excites you, although perhaps they’re hand-in-hand. You tentatively reach up to trace the scar on his face. A faint, jagged line that holds scripture within it. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Even though I’m rotten?” You ask, and there’s an echo of mischief in your voice, too.

He’s got a strange expression when he looks at you. “That’s not true.”

He leans down, angles his head to kiss you. It’s slow, but bitter, and he bites down on your lip until you’re pretty sure there’s blood. “Luke,” you murmur, and he kisses you softer. You lean into him like a hapless, lovesick fool.

After you part, he loosens his grip on you. The bumbling campers have gotten louder. He stares at you, and you see the chasm in his eyes again, brimming with fire. Same as yours. You know you’ll see him tomorrow.

He says, “You’re not rotten. You’re right.”

And damn it, you really do believe him.

[dreamersworldduh]

BEYOND THE PAST

• CONNER KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You and Conner Kent are mysteriously pulled through time by your future son, Casey Kent, and arrive at a rebuilt Mount Justice. There, you encounter the next generation of heroes—the children of your former teammates—and a future shaped by your legacy, one you haven't even begun to live.

WARNING! FLUFF. Male Pregnancy.

WORDS! 9.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, here we are with part 2 of this series that I almost attempted to purse a series on Wattpad. Anyway, sorry for the wait—enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! — THE STARS

NEXT PART! — THE FUTURE

YOU AND Conner stood frozen, eyes locked on the young man in front of you—Casey Kent, your supposed son. The weight of his words echoed in your mind, refusing to settle, refusing to feel real. The world around you felt oddly still, as if even the air in the futuristic Mount Justice had paused to process what had just been revealed.

Shock didn't even begin to describe what you were feeling.

Disbelief sat heavy in your chest, your pulse pounding in your ears. Denial should've been your first reaction. It was your first reaction, bubbling up instinctively because nothing about this made sense—time travel, future children, a grown man standing here calling you 'Dad'.

But then there was his face.

The shape of his jaw, the curve of his brow, the hair that curled slightly at the ends just like Conner's did when it got too long. His stance, his energy, the calm intensity in his gaze—it all screamed Kent. But it was his eyes, glowing faintly with the same cosmic shimmer as yours, that made something deep in your chest tighten.

He wasn't lying. He couldn't be.

You and Conner exchanged a glance, neither of you speaking, but both clearly grappling with the same thought:

Could this really be our son?

Casey took a small step forward, reading the disbelief in your faces with understanding. His voice, when he spoke again, was calm but sure, steady like someone who had prepared for this exact moment.

"I know this is a lot to take in. Believe me, I've had years to think about how this meeting might go." He gave a faint smile, though it was lined with something almost sad. "You're both still trying to figure out how any of this is possible. So... let me explain."

You and Conner remained silent, waiting—watching—as Casey folded his arms and took a breath.

"You've been brought twenty-five years into the future," he said, gesturing around the high-tech room. "This is Mount Justice—rebuilt after the war. A lot's changed, but this place is still home. For me. For the next generation. For you... eventually."

Your brows furrowed, but you didn't interrupt. The mention of a war raised alarms in your mind, but you stored that away, for now.

Casey continued. "I didn't use a time machine, or a speedster's help. The kind of time travel I used—it's... magical. Purely." He paused, eyes glinting slightly. "Zatanna helped me. Or rather, future Zatanna. It was risky, but we didn't have a choice. Something's happening in your time that could change everything—including whether or not we're ever born."

"We?" Conner finally spoke, his voice still low, controlled, but laced with suspicion. "There's more of you?"

Casey nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah. I'm the oldest. You'll have four kids in total—me, and my younger siblings: Corra, Cole, and Cameron."

You sucked in a slow breath, your body still trying to process one impossible thing before being handed four more.

Casey chuckled gently at your stunned expression, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. It sounds wild. But it's true. We were all born from the two of you. Raised at Mount Justice. Trained with the League, the Team... the next generation of heroes."

He looked at both of you now, with a kind of reverence in his gaze. "You were incredible parents. Strict sometimes, yeah—but you taught us how to be strong, how to be better. You loved us fiercely. We grew up watching how much you loved each other."

His words hit like a quiet storm, spreading warmth and weight across your chest. You hadn't even wrapped your head around the idea of having a baby in your timeline, and now here was the future standing in front of you—grown, articulate, and impossibly real.

And he wasn't just proof of your future. He was hope.

But beneath that hope, a flicker of dread sparked. If he was here now, twenty-five years before his own birth... what exactly was he trying to stop?

As if reading your thoughts, Casey's expression shifted. The warmth and familiarity that had flickered across his face moments ago faded, replaced by a much colder seriousness. He folded his arms over his chest and let out a quiet breath, his tone dropping into something more measured.

"The man who attacked you—he's not from your time either," he said. "He came through the same kind of rift I did, though we still don't fully understand how he managed to pull it off. His presence in your timeline is... dangerous. Unstable."

Your chest tightened. You exchanged a quick glance with Conner, who remained stoic at your side but tense, his jaw clenched and his fists flexing at his sides.

"Who is he?" you asked, your voice low, wary. "What does he want with us?"

Casey's gaze hardened. "We don't know much. He's elusive. Off the grid, even in our time. But we know one thing for sure—his name."

He paused for a beat, then said it: "Olympian."

The name hit the air like a cold gust of wind.

"Olympian?" Conner repeated, the word rolling from his tongue with suspicion. "Sounds like some wannabe god."

Casey gave a dry, humorless smirk. "Yeah. That's kind of the point. He sees himself as something greater. He draws power from something ancient—some believe it's a corrupted form of cosmic and divine energy, others think he was born in a lab like you, Dad. But no one's been able to confirm the truth. He operates in shadows, moves across timelines, and his agenda..."

He shook his head.

"All we know is that he has a vendetta. A deep one. Not just against the League or the Team, but specifically against our family."

Your stomach sank.

"Me?" you asked quietly.

Casey nodded slowly. "You've always been his focus. For years now. We don't know what ties him to you, or why it's so personal, but he's made it clear—you're the one he wants. You're the one he's been trying to get to. But since he can't reach you in our time���either because of the protections around our timeline or something else—we became the targets instead."

Your breath caught. "You mean... your siblings."

Casey's jaw clenched. "Corra, Cole, Cameron. He's tried to go after all of us at different points. He's calculating. Brutal. But always just out of reach, always hitting and vanishing before we could catch him. We never knew when or where he'd strike next."

You could feel Conner tense beside you, his protective instincts kicking in the second he realized his children—his future—had been threatened.

"But now," Casey continued, "something changed. Somehow, Olympian found a way to get around the safeguards. To go back—way back. To your time. To you."

The weight of that landed like a punch to the chest.

"So now he's not just targeting the future anymore," you muttered. "He's here. In our time. Coming after us directly."

Casey's eyes met yours. "We don't know how long he'll stay hidden, or what his next move is, but one thing is certain—he's not going to stop. Not until he gets to you."

The room fell quiet again, the hum of distant technology the only sound.

"He's not just hunting you," Casey added after a beat. "He's hunting your legacy. And now that he's here, everything is at risk."

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively resting against your abdomen, where your future had only just begun. The gravity of it all settled into your bones.

Olympian wasn't just a threat to your life.

He was a threat to everything you and Conner had yet to build.

Conner's voice broke the heavy silence that had fallen over the room, rough around the edges but steady, the kind of tone he only used when something was bothering him deep down. He had been quiet ever since Casey mentioned Olympian targeting your children—his children. His mind was clearly spinning, caught between the reality of what was happening now and the impossible weight of what this future could become.

He took a small step forward, his brows pulled together in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

"What about... us?" He glanced briefly at you, then looked back to Casey. "In the future. Where are we?"

Casey's expression changed instantly.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—grief, restraint, nostalgia, maybe all three tangled into one complicated emotion. He glanced away for a moment, his shoulders tense, the weight of the question visibly sinking into him. When he looked back, he met Conner's eyes and forced a small, bittersweet smile.

"You live in Smallville," Casey said gently. "In the farmhouse. The one you grew up in with Ma Kent. It's... still there. You kept it all these years after Uncle Clark moved to Metropolis with Lois and Jon."

The words landed with a kind of quiet finality. You could practically see the memory forming in Conner's mind—the creaking wood floors, the scent of baked pie, the open fields stretching for miles, untouched by time. Smallville. Of course it would be Smallville. It was the one place that had always grounded him.

"That's where I grew up," Casey added, his voice softening. "You raised us there. It was safe. Peaceful. You kept us close to the land, away from the chaos when you could. You taught us how to fight, sure—but you also taught us how to live. You taught us what mattered."

Conner's eyes dropped to the floor, jaw flexing slightly, clearly caught between pride and guilt. Pride that he'd raised a family like that... guilt that he couldn't yet understand what led him there. What would lead you both there.

Then, Conner asked the next question—the one you had been quietly dreading ever since Casey first appeared.

"What about him?" Conner asked quietly, his eyes drifting to you now. "What about... him?"

Casey's gaze shifted. You watched as his mouth parted slightly, as if he had prepared for this moment, maybe even rehearsed it in his mind a thousand times. But no words came. He opened his mouth again, then closed it, his jaw tightening. The shimmer in his eyes shifted, not glowing with cosmic energy this time, but something much more human.

Grief.

He couldn't speak. He looked at you for a long moment, and you saw it written plainly on his face.

You understood. Immediately.

It was the way his expression faltered, the way he clenched his fists, the way his gaze dropped as if meeting your eyes would make it all too real. He didn't have to say it. You knew what he was trying to avoid saying. What he couldn't bring himself to put into words.

You reached out instinctively, gently resting a hand on his arm. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He simply exhaled—a slow, trembling breath—and gave the faintest shake of his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

You nodded once, trying to keep your own expression steady. You didn't press him. There was no need. The silence between you said it all.

Conner looked between the two of you, his features hardening with the realization. His jaw tensed, and he turned away for a moment, letting the truth sink in. You could feel the shift in him, that familiar storm of protectiveness and pain brewing just under the surface.

The truth was clear. In the future Casey came from, you were gone.

But your legacy—your children, your strength, your love—remained.

And now, in this time, you had a chance to protect all of it before anything could take it away.

The corridor leading to the mission room was bathed in soft, ambient light, humming with the quiet energy of advanced tech. You walked beside Conner, still trying to absorb the sheer reality of everything Casey had told you. The weight of his revelations pressed against your chest like a second skin—about the future, your children, and the war you had yet to witness.

Casey walked a few steps ahead, his cloak swaying as he led you and Conner through the gleaming hallways of the rebuilt Mount Justice. Every inch of the base had been upgraded—sleek metal walls lined with embedded light panels, holographic directories, and clear glass doors that shimmered as they slid open with a whisper.

But the mission room ahead still gave you a familiar feeling. It had the same general structure—round table in the center, chairs arranged in a circle, and the large wall display you remembered from your own time. The energy of the space, though modernized, still buzzed with purpose.

As the doors parted, you stepped in, and immediately all eyes in the room turned toward you.

There were six young heroes gathered at the table, clearly in the middle of a briefing, until your sudden entrance drew their full attention. Each of them wore a uniform representing their lineage—familiar emblems worn in bold new styles, the next generation of the Team.

Standing at the head of the table, aged but powerful in presence, was Nightwing.

His once jet-black hair was streaked with silver at the temples, but his stance was strong, sharp as ever. The iconic black and blue uniform had evolved, now bearing a sleek, high-collared design and a digital gauntlet on his left arm. But even beneath the armor and the years, that unmistakable calm authority still radiated from him.

When his piercing blue eyes landed on you and Conner, his expression shifted from stern focus to something else—surprise, followed quickly by recognition.

He stepped forward slightly, his voice roughened by age but still confident.

"Well, I'll be damned..." he muttered under his breath.

You opened your mouth to greet him, but the younger heroes were already reacting.

One of them, a girl with vibrant reddish-pink hair tied in a braid and wearing a sleek black-and-violet suit with glowing orange accents, stood up quickly. She had Starfire's fierce eyes and Nightwing's calculated poise—clearly their daughter. Her gaze bounced between you, Conner, and Casey, curiosity flaring.

Next to her sat a lean boy with wind-swept blond hair, wearing a golden and green suit, a stylized arrow symbol on his chest. His green eyes narrowed with interest, and you didn't need anyone to tell you—he was the son of Artemis and Wally. The confident smirk on his face was pure West.

Across the table were twin girls in matching uniforms, sleek ocean-blue with bioluminescent white detailing. Their red hair was tied back in tight buns, and their eyes glowed faintly—echoes of both M'gann and Lagoon Boy. The bond between them was clear even from a glance, their body language almost synchronized.

Standing near the back was a quiet, contemplative teen with olive skin and sharp, intelligent eyes. His outfit was a deep navy, adorned with arcane sigils across the arms and chest—his aura practically shimmered with latent magic. You felt a twist of recognition in your chest. He was the son of Zatanna and Dick Grayson, an heir to both combat and sorcery.

And finally, leaning casually with arms crossed, stood a broad-shouldered young man with deep brown skin and piercing dark eyes. His uniform was black and gold, trimmed with the markings of Atlantis and the sigil of the former king—Aqualad's son.

The room, moments ago full of discussion and strategy, had fallen into silence. They stared, not rudely, but with something close to reverence—like they had just stepped into the past, face-to-face with living legends.

Casey broke the silence.

"Everyone," he said, stepping aside, "I'd like you to meet my parents... from before it all started. From the past."

He looked back at you with a soft smile.

"This is my father—" He gestured to Conner, then you.

"And my pa."

There was a long pause, the gravity of the moment settling over everyone.

Nightwing let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, walking forward. His smile was weathered but genuine.

"Welcome to the future," he said. "Looks like it found you whether you were ready or not."

It was strange—surreal, even—to stand in this space and be greeted not by your teammates, but by the next generation, the children of the people you once fought beside. Their faces held echoes of those you knew, and their energy hummed with the potential of everything you and Conner had once fought to protect.

Casey stepped forward, his expression filled with pride, yet undercut by a thread of reverence as he gestured toward the table, where the young heroes stood attentively.

"I figured it's only right you meet them properly," he said, glancing back at you with that warm, familiar smile—the one that made it impossible to deny he was yours.

You nodded, still a little breathless, your hand unconsciously resting over your abdomen, the place where your future—his future—had only just begun.

Conner, meanwhile, lingered for only a moment longer before his eyes shifted toward the back of the room where Dick wondered to, hands clasped behind his back.

As Casey began the introductions, Conner slowly made his way toward him, and you could see Dick's sharp eyes soften as they met Conner's. The two men held each other's gaze for a long second—like they were seeing ghosts, and maybe in a way, they were.

Casey motioned toward the first young woman—the one with the vibrant reddish-pink hair and the proud stance that reminded you so strongly of both fire and steel.

"This is Korya Grayson," Casey said. "Nightwing and Starfire's daughter. She's the field strategist for our squad, and probably the best flier out of all of us. Her Tamaranean side makes her a powerhouse, but don't let the fire fool you—she's calculated. Quiet strength."

Korya offered a respectful nod, her golden eyes studying you with a mix of awe and curiosity. You smiled, recognizing that spark in her gaze—the same sharp glint you'd seen so many times in Dick's.

Casey moved to the boy with the golden-and-green suit, his wind-tousled hair and smirk giving away his lineage before he even spoke.

"This is Ezra West, son of Artemis and Wally," Casey said, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice. "Fastest mouth on the planet and second-fastest feet. He inherited his dad's speed and his mom's attitude. Keeps us on our toes."

Ezra gave a cheeky wave. "Pretty wild to meet you before I even exist. Time travel is so weird."

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at that.

Casey turned to the twin girls standing just to the side of the table, their ocean-blue suits practically glowing under the light.

"Mira and May'al M'orzz, daughters of M'gann and Lagoon Boy. Telepathy, density-shifting, and emotional projection. They're always in sync, even when they pretend they're not. Mira leads with empathy, May'al with instinct."

The twins gave identical nods, their expressions calm but welcoming. You could feel the psychic flicker of curiosity coming from one of them—just a gentle touch, respectful, nothing invasive.

Then Casey stepped toward the teen cloaked in magic, his dark hair slightly curled, his fingers unconsciously brushing one of the glowing sigils on his forearm.

"This is Zahir Grayson, son of Zatanna and Dick." Casey's tone shifted slightly, more reverent here. "He's a walking library of magical knowledge. Z taught him everything she could. He's grounded, but you don't want to see him when the gloves come off."

Zahir nodded politely, his voice quiet but sure. "It's an honor to meet you. Both of you."

And finally, Casey gestured to the tall Atlantean teen with the black-and-gold armor, who had watched you the entire time with sharp, observant eyes.

"This is Kei'lan, son of King Kaldur'ahm. He's got the training of Atlantis and the spirit of the Team. Doesn't talk much—but when he does, you listen."

Kei'lan offered a respectful bow of the head, his deep voice smooth but serious. "I've heard many stories about you. None of them do justice to what I'm seeing now."

You gave him a nod of respect in return, humbled by his words.

As Casey finished the introductions, you glanced to your right, where Conner now stood face-to-face with Dick.

They weren't saying anything at first, just standing there in that heavy silence that needed no words. Then finally, Dick let out a quiet breath.

"It's been a long time," he said.

Conner's voice was softer than you expected. "You're older than I imagined."

Dick smiled faintly, his eyes flicking toward you. "And he look just like I remember him."

There was something unspoken in that moment, something heavy with shared grief, with the memory of the years between this moment and the ones that hadn't happened yet.

"Dick," Conner voiced, making the older man look at him. "I need to know what happened."

Dick finally looked at him. His blue eyes had a tiredness in them—older, yes, but deeper than just years. It was the kind of tired that only came from loss.

"We shouldn't talk about it," Nightwing said. "You shouldn't know yet."

Conner stepped forward, his tone hardening. "I have a son—four kids, Dick. I just found out about Casey a few days ago. Then I get time-traveled 25 years into the future and find out he's not the only one. We have three more. Corra. Cole. Cameron." His voice cracked slightly. "And none of them... have him."

Nightwing looked away again, his silence thicker than any wall.

Conner pressed on, the emotions bubbling just beneath the surface. "I've got future children looking at me like I'm their anchor, and their father— because—their Pa—isn't there anymore. The version of me in this time doesn't have the love of his life by his side. He's raising them alone." He took a shaky breath. "I need to know why."

Dick still didn't respond.

"And on top of that," Conner continued, almost growling, "some lunatic with god-like powers is hellbent on killing him. We don't know why, we don't know how, but he's already started by attacking our kids."

That seemed to finally break through.

Dick exhaled and rubbed his face, the tension in his shoulders clear. When he looked back at Conner, he seemed older than ever.

"It wasn't supposed to happen that way," Nightwing murmured. "None of it was."

"Then tell me," Conner said. "Please."

Nightwing hesitated for a long time. But finally, he turned away from the window and faced him directly.

"It was during the invasion," he began quietly. "Twelve years ago, the war with Darkseid happened."

Conner's eyes widened slightly, but he remained still.

"It wasn't just another battle," Dick continued. "It was the battle. Earth had been holding the line for years, but Darkseid finally came himself. No proxies, no parademons—it was him. Full force." He swallowed hard. "And your partner—he was the one who stepped up."

A chill ran down Conner's spine.

"We were losing," Dick said. "The League, the Team... nothing was stopping him. But your partner—he accessed something none of us had seen before. Something deeper in his cosmic power. A frequency... a kind of energy beyond anything we understood. I don't know if it was instinct, or desperation, but it worked."

He looked down, voice lower.

"He fought Darkseid. One-on-one. And he won."

Conner's breath caught.

"But it cost him." Dick's gaze lifted. "He was gone before any of us could even reach him. Vaporized in the sky, consumed by his own power. His energy tore through the battlefield like a second sun. It saved us. It ended the war." His jaw clenched. "And it broke the family he left behind."

Conner stood still, jaw trembling. He blinked rapidly, but no tears fell. Not yet.

Nightwing looked him square in the eyes. "You want to know why the future you is the way he is? Why your kids carry this weight? It's because they grew up with a legacy, not a father. They never heard his laugh, never saw the way he looked at you. They only know the stories." He shook his head. "And they loved him anyway."

Conner nodded slowly, his throat tight. "I'm not going to let that happen."

"I know," Dick replied softly. "That's why you're here."

The two men stood in silence, the weight of fate between them. And just down the hall, unaware of the truth that had just been spoken aloud, you stood surrounded by the next generation—smiling, unaware of the moment that would one day define your legacy.

Unaware of the price you'd pay for it.

THE TENSE moment was broken by the sudden hum and flash of the Zeta Tubes activating. A sharp, familiar chime echoed through the sleek metal corridors of the mission room, drawing everyone's attention.

Your head turned instinctively, the muscle memory still there after years of field missions and unexpected arrivals. Conner's body tensed beside you—not with fear, but with that same sharp edge of readiness he'd always carried when the unexpected walked through the door.

Out from the swirling light stepped a group of figures, all of them dressed in full gear. And though they wore new suits—refined, upgraded, more advanced than the ones you remembered—you recognized most of them almost immediately.

Just... older.

The first to emerge stood tall in regal red and gold armor, a tiara gleaming on her forehead, a lasso clipped at her side. Wonder Girl—Cassie Sandsmark—was no longer just the eager, bold young woman you once led into battle. She had grown into her title, and it was clear just by the way she carried herself. Now she was Wonder Woman, in every sense of the name. Her presence filled the room like a crashing wave—confident, commanding, unstoppable.

Beside her, in a sleek, black and red uniform with high-tech gauntlets and a tattered cloak trailing behind him, was Red Robin—Tim Drake. His eyes were sharper now, his expression more weathered, carrying the weight of too many secrets. His cowl was down, but the lines on his face told a story of battles won, and battles lost.

Just behind him, stepping casually out of the tube but scanning the room with a practiced speed, was Blue Beetle. Jaime Reyes. His armor looked more alien now than ever, etched with neon blue glyphs that pulsed as he moved. His eyes locked on you for a moment, widening just slightly in recognition before narrowing again—processing.

Then came a blur of red and white, slowing just enough to reveal a face that hadn't changed as much as the others—though the youthful glow had been replaced by experience and responsibility. Impulse—or rather, The Flash now. Bart Allen. His suit was sleeker, aerodynamic, the lightning bolt insignia sharp across his chest. And though he still carried that spark of enthusiasm in his eyes, there was something heavier behind it.

Static followed next, his coat flaring as he stepped onto the platform, electricity crackling lightly at his fingertips. His dreadlocks were longer now, streaked with silver at the ends, and his shoulders had broadened with age and command. He greeted a few of the young heroes with nods, familiarity in his movements.

Beast Boy walked in at a slower pace, his green skin now darker, his uniform more practical than playful. His expression was more solemn than you remembered, though he gave a faint smile in your direction—tinged with disbelief.

But it was the last figure who made you and Conner both stop dead in your tracks.

He stepped through with the confident weight of someone used to being watched, his cape sweeping behind him, tall and sharp in a black armored Batsuit. For a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

Batman.

But then he spoke.

"Report," he said, voice gravelled and steady, but not Bruce.

Your eyes widened slightly as your gaze swept over him—same bearing, same cape, same silhouette. But something was off. His frame was a bit leaner than Bruce's, his movements more fluid, and then you caught it. The jawline. The eyes. The presence that mirrored Bruce's, but with a precision that was more blade than shadow.

Damian.

Conner muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. "Wait... that's not Bruce."

You took a half step forward, your voice quiet with realization. "It's Damian."

Casey stepped in beside you, nodding. "He took up the cowl a few years ago. Bruce passed it to him before stepping down. Officially retired."

Your eyes lingered on Damian—Batman now—as he moved toward the others with surgical calm, engaging with the future Team leaders, speaking in low tones with Dick. But he didn't look at you. Not yet.

The feeling that crept into your chest was complex—nostalgia mixed with disorientation. These were your friends, your peers, your family. But they had grown, evolved, stepped into the roles you had only ever seen as distant futures.

Now they stood before you, a reflection of everything that would be.

And yet, here you were, still from a time where the world hadn't yet shattered. Where the future still hovered just beyond reach.

And every one of them was looking at you and Conner like you were ghosts

THE ROOM fell into a strange silence as the newly arrived heroes stood motionless, their eyes locked on you and Conner with expressions ranging from awe to outright disbelief. You could feel the weight of their gazes—each one of them seeing someone they hadn't laid eyes on in decades, someone they had believed was long gone, lost to time and sacrifice.

Wonder Woman—Cassie—was the first to break from her stunned expression. Her golden bracers caught the light as she stepped forward, her voice soft but laced with emotion. "It's really you..." she murmured. "You're—you're alive."

Tim—Red Robin—stood just behind her, his analytical gaze sweeping over you like a scanner, taking in every detail. "He's younger," Tim muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. "Both of them are. That's not the Conner from our time either."

"No," Bart—The Flash now—added with a blink. "They're from the past. Their biometrics, heart rates, aura frequencies... everything is younger. Before... everything happened."

You could see the emotion trying to crack through their composed faces. For them, this was like seeing ghosts return to life. You and Conner weren't just teammates or friends—you had been family. And for those who had carried your memory forward, seeing you now—untouched by time, unaware of your own future—was too much to fully comprehend.

Beast Boy took a slow step forward, his voice low and uncertain. "How is this even possible? He's been gone for decades. You—" he looked directly at you, and his throat tightened, "—you died."

Static folded his arms, electricity flickering faintly around his fingers. "There's no way this doesn't cause a paradox."

More murmurs echoed among them, confusion thick in the air.

But it was Batman—Damian Wayne—who spoke next, his tone sharp and coldly precise. "Casey." He didn't raise his voice, but the weight behind it sliced through the conversation like a blade. "You brought them here."

Everyone turned to Casey, who stood calmly beside you and Conner, seemingly unfazed by the intensity of the reactions around him. But you could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself, like he was ready for the backlash.

"I did," Casey said evenly.

"You pulled them from the past," Damian pressed, stepping forward, his cape sweeping behind him. "Without League sanction. Without Zeta clearance. Without any temporal stabilization protocols. Do you have any idea what kind of damage you've done to the timeline?"

Casey remained composed, but the room tensed around them.

"I know exactly what I did," he replied, voice steady. "And I'd do it again."

Damian's scowl deepened. "You jeopardized everything we've built—everything they gave their lives for—because you wanted a reunion?"

"It's not about me," Casey snapped, and for the first time, his voice cracked, the pain breaking through the composure. "It was never about me."

He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between you, Conner, and the rest of the gathered heroes.

"Olympian is here. In their time. We don't know how he did it, but he found a way back—before all the safeguards, before the defenses, before the League had prepared for his kind of threat." Casey's eyes moved across the room. "If he kills him—" he gestured to you, "—he erases all of us. Me. Corra. Cole. Cameron. We'll never be born. And this version of Earth—everything you've built here—might not survive what comes next."

A heavy silence followed.

Casey looked directly at Damian. "I didn't do this for sentiment. I did it because we're losing. We've been on the defensive for years. And you know as well as I do that we've been missing something—someone."

His voice softened as he turned toward you.

"We need him," Casey said quietly. "We need them."

Damian didn't respond at first. His gaze lingered on you, unreadable behind the stoicism that defined him. But you could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his side. He remembered you. He'd mourned you.

Finally, he stepped back.

"The damage is done," Batman said. "We can't send them back now, not without destabilizing the timeline further. Which means they're here—for now."

Everyone in the room seemed to take that as their cue to breathe again, the tension beginning to ease just slightly.

You looked to Casey, who exhaled deeply, the burden of his decision still pressing down on him, but his conviction unwavering.

"I know what's at stake," he said quietly. "But I'd rather risk the future... than lose the people who gave us one."

The familiar hum of the Zeta-Tube filled the air again, followed by the artificial voice announcing another incoming arrival. Heads turned instinctively toward the portal as the light shimmered and coalesced into form.

"Zeta-Tube activation: designation C-88, Corra Kent."

Before the light had fully faded, a young woman stepped through the glowing arch—tall, confident, and clearly frustrated, her voice already carrying through the room as if she'd been mid-rant during transport.

"Seriously, I leave for five minutes to patrol the south perimeter and the entire League just disappears? You all just ghosted me? Batman, I know you've got your mysterious ninja exit thing going, but the rest of you—really?" Her voice was sharp with exasperation, but there was something undeniably vibrant and familiar in her presence.

She had a striking appearance, blending your features and Conner's effortlessly. Her dark hair was pulled up into a high, practical bun, a few rebellious strands falling into her face. Her eyes—your eyes—glowed with that soft cosmic shimmer, and her uniform was black and silver with crimson accents, a long coat billowing behind her like a cape. The House of El symbol sat proudly on her chest, reimagined with intricate etchings that seemed to shift slightly in the light. Her boots clicked against the polished floor with each hurried step as she walked fully into the mission room.

"Okay, seriously, is anyone going to explain why I was left out of whatever this—" She suddenly stopped mid-sentence.

The room was silent. Everyone's eyes were on her, expressions varying between tense, awkward, and amused. Casey stood near the front, arms folded, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The rest of the older heroes stayed quiet, watching the scene unfold.

Corra's brows drew together as she glanced around. "Why is everyone staring at me like I just said I'm switching to villainy?" She gestured wildly. "Hello? What did I walk into?"

Casey stepped forward with a hand raised. "Corra... don't freak out."

She gave him a look that could only be described as pure little-sister irritation. "Why would I freak out, Casey? Is this about the tower lights again? Because I swear that wasn't me."

"No," he said quickly, then glanced toward you. "It's not that. It's just... maybe take a deep breath."

Still confused, Corra turned to follow her brother's line of sight—and her words caught in her throat.

There, across the room, standing near Conner with the quiet stillness of someone trying to understand the surreal moment they were living in—was you.

You watched her face shift. At first, there was confusion. Then recognition. Then something raw and unguarded—shock, disbelief, vulnerability. Her lips parted slightly, her chest visibly rising as her breath hitched.

She took a step forward, her voice trembling now, no longer filled with sarcasm or confidence.

"...Pa?"

Her eyes widened, tears immediately welling in them. She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, as if you might disappear at any moment if she blinked too long.

You took a step toward her, your own heart pounding in your chest, barely able to speak through the emotion rising in your throat.

"Corra," you said, your voice cracking on her name.

That was all it took.

In an instant, she closed the distance between you, flinging her arms around you with the force of someone who had waited years for this moment. She clung to you like a lifeline, her breath shaking as she buried her face in your shoulder.

You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, your chest tightening, your vision blurring as you held your daughter—your future daughter—in your arms for the very first time. She was grown. Strong. Brave. And yet in that moment, she melted into you like a child who had just been reunited with something she thought she'd lost forever.

No words were spoken for several long moments.

Just the quiet, heart-wrenching reunion of a father and the daughter he hadn't even met yet—but who had clearly been missing him for a very long time.

Corra trembled in your arms, her grip firm and desperate, as if afraid letting go would cause you to vanish again. Her face was buried in the crook of your shoulder, and even as the rest of the room watched in silence, giving you both space, she couldn't hide the tears that poured freely from her eyes.

Eventually, she pulled back just enough to see your face again—needing, craving that confirmation that this wasn't a dream or a cruel illusion. But the tears kept coming, streaming down her cheeks no matter how many times she tried to blink them away.

She let out a breathless laugh, half-choked, wiping at her face with her sleeve. "Gods, I can't even stop," she whispered, cheeks flushed. "This is so embarrassing."

You cupped her face gently, brushing a thumb beneath one of her eyes, your own expression soft, overwhelmed with emotion.

"Don't be," you murmured. "Not for this. Not ever."

Corra's lip trembled again, but she steadied herself, hands still resting lightly on your arms as if she couldn't fully let go yet. "You don't understand," she said, trying to collect herself. "You've been gone my whole life. I never even got to hear your voice—not like this. Casey told us everything he could, but it's not the same. And now you're just... here."

You nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry," you said quietly. "I didn't know what the future would bring. I didn't know I'd—" You stopped yourself. There were some truths neither of you were ready to speak aloud. "I'm here now."

She nodded slowly, eyes still glistening, breathing shakily through the swell of emotion. She gave another soft laugh and leaned against your chest again, her voice muffled. "Cole and Cameron aren't going to believe this."

You smiled faintly, brushing a hand over her hair. "Tell me about them."

Corra pulled back again, her eyes lighting up even through the tears. "Cole's twenty, hothead like me—maybe worse. Has your stubborn streak, but Dad's glare. Cameron's seventeen, quiet, way too smart for his own good. He's the empath. He'll probably cry just from being in the same room as you. They're gonna lose their minds when they hear you're here."

You could only imagine it—three more children who had inherited pieces of you and Conner, who had grown up never knowing you, but apparently carrying your legacy in their blood and spirit.

Corra wiped at her eyes again, finally beginning to breathe a little steadier. But then her gaze shifted past your shoulder—and landed on Conner.

She blinked in surprise, and for a moment she just stared, brows lifting, lips parting in disbelief. Then she tilted her head and gave a low whistle.

"Whoa..." Her voice was filled with recognition, and just a little amusement. "That's weird."

You turned slightly as she stepped toward Conner, studying him with wide eyes. "You look so young," she said, almost laughing. "I just saw you this morning at breakfast—grumbling over burned toast and yelling at Cole for leaving his boots on the stairs. You had more gray in your hair and half the patience."

Conner looked a little taken aback, but his smirk crept in, faint but real. "I guess future me's a grump?"

Corra grinned through the last of her tears. "Oh, you have no idea."

But then her gaze softened again, and for a beat, she just stared between you both—her two fathers, together, alive, and younger than she ever thought she'd see them.

"I can't believe this is real," she whispered. "But I'm so glad it is."

Later that night, the once-bustling mission room of Mount Justice had gone quiet. The energy that had filled it earlier—buzzing with reunions, disbelief, and the unmistakable weight of time colliding with itself—had faded into a more serene stillness. The blue ambient glow from the overhead lights reflected softly against the walls, casting long shadows across the floor as the hour grew late.

The League had been the first to leave.

Word of a critical incident unfolding in the outer quadrants of the Earth's defense grid had called the senior heroes back into action. There was urgency in their departure, but even amid the chaos, they took the time to come to you and Conner—individually. Each of them embraced you both with heartfelt goodbyes, some quick, others lingering. Cassie had held you longer than you expected, whispering that she never thought she'd get a chance to say goodbye properly, then promising she'd return. Tim had offered a simple handshake, though his eyes betrayed how deeply your reappearance affected him. Bart—still quick—hugged both of you in a blur of motion and words.

Beast Boy looked like he wanted to say more but couldn't find the words. Static just nodded with the quiet understanding of a man who'd seen too much. And Damian—Batman—said nothing at all, but his eyes held a rare respect as he turned and disappeared into the shadows with the rest.

Once the last echo of the Zeta-Tube faded and the glowing arch powered down, it was just the four of you left: you, Conner, Casey, and Corra.

Dick and the next-gen Team had tactfully cleared out, giving you all space without even needing to be asked. Zahir offered a respectful bow before vanishing in a shimmer of magical glyphs. Mira and May'al gave Corra soft smiles. Ezra flashed a wink. Korya nodded to Casey and said, "Take your time. We've got things covered here."

Now, in the softened quiet of the mission room's lounge, a low conversation had begun between your children—children you had only just met, yet already felt tied to in a way that was almost painful in its intensity.

Corra sat cross-legged on the sleek, cushioned bench, a throw blanket around her shoulders like she was a child again, despite being a fully trained powerhouse of a hero. Casey leaned against the holo-console beside her, arms folded, one foot propped against the wall.

You sat nearby on a lower step beside Conner, listening to them with a kind of quiet wonder. Even now, you were still absorbing everything—every word, every gesture. Watching the two of them interact, argue lightly, laugh—it stirred something deep in your chest.

"So," Corra was saying, wiping the last of her dried tears away and smoothing her now-frizzed hair, "do we take them to Kansas tomorrow? I mean, it's tradition. Dad always does dinner on Sundays. Cameron's probably going to freak out when he sees Pa."

Casey raised a brow. "Freak out? Corra, you practically collapsed. Cameron's going to start crying the second he feels Pa walk into the house."

"That's sweet," you murmured softly to Conner, who smirked, though his eyes remained fixed on the siblings in front of him.

"Anyway," Casey continued, arms now gesturing, "we also have no idea how Dad is going to react."

Corra frowned. "You mean future Dad?"

"Yeah," Casey said. "He's... different. Not in a bad way, just—he's been carrying a lot. Raising all of us without Pa. Alone, basically. He's not cold, but it's not easy for him. Seeing them"—he gestured toward you and Conner—"younger, full of life again, especially Pa... It's going to hit hard."

Corra looked down at her hands for a moment. "Yeah," she admitted. "It will." She glanced back up at you, her expression gentler now. "But I think he needs to see you. Even if it hurts."

You felt your throat tighten, but you nodded, voice soft. "If he needs time, we'll give it to him. But... if it means seeing my kids again, all of them together... I'll face whatever comes."

Conner nodded beside you, his hand brushing against yours in a silent affirmation. "We'll do it together. Like we always have."

Casey smiled slightly at that—like a part of him had been waiting to hear that for years.

"Okay," he said. "Then we'll bring you to Kansas tomorrow."

He looked between you and Conner, his gaze settling on yours. "Just... be ready. He's not the man you knew. He's you—but after a lifetime of losing you."

You nodded slowly, heart pounding.

Then Corra reached for your hand again, gripping it tightly. "But he's still your Conner. Just... older, a little more tired. But deep down, he's been waiting for this."

You smiled at her, your voice trembling. "So have I."

After the long, emotionally charged day, Casey offered a quiet nod and gestured for you and Conner to follow him down a private corridor branching off from the main living quarters of the rebuilt Mount Justice. The halls were lined with softly glowing panels, their subtle illumination casting calm, ambient hues along the walls. The sound of your footsteps echoed faintly, the only noise breaking the hush of night as the base settled into stillness.

Neither you nor Conner spoke much during the walk. The two of you were exhausted—not from battle, but from the sheer magnitude of everything that had happened in a single day. The future had dropped into your lives like a meteor, shattering everything you thought you knew and leaving you surrounded by the fallout: older versions of friends, grown children you hadn't yet fathered, and the looming shadow of a threat determined to end you before your legacy could ever begin.

Casey stopped in front of a curved doorway that slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a sleek but comfortably designed room bathed in cool blue lighting. It was clearly a spare guest suite, but it still had a warmth to it—like someone had taken the time to ensure it wasn't cold or sterile. A large bed sat nestled against one wall with a set of smooth, metallic drawers beneath a transparent data panel. There were folded clothes already prepared on the bench at the foot of the bed, and a softly humming ventilation system filled the space with the faint scent of something earthy and calming—like cedar and starlight.

"This used to be Zatanna's room," Casey said as he stepped aside to let you in. "She stayed here a lot before moving into the Tower permanently. We've kept it ready. You can rest here tonight."

You gave a small nod of gratitude, stepping into the room. The floor beneath your boots shifted slightly, designed to adjust for comfort and temperature. Conner walked in behind you, his gaze sweeping across the futuristic amenities, but his expression was distant. You could tell he was still mentally unraveling everything—especially the idea that the older version of him had raised four children without you by his side.

Casey lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, watching the two of you as if he didn't want to leave, as if part of him still couldn't believe you were really there.

"You two deserve a moment to breathe," he said finally. "I'll check in first thing in the morning. We've got a lot to figure out... but for now, just rest."

You turned to him, meeting his eyes, and for a second the air between you felt fragile, delicate, as if too many more words would break the spell. So instead, you simply said, "Thank you, Casey."

He gave a soft smile—one that looked almost exactly like yours—and nodded.

As the door hissed shut behind him, sealing you and Conner in the quiet of the room, a long silence stretched between you.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, the cushion adjusting beneath you with silent precision. Your hands fell into your lap as you let out a slow, unsteady breath.

Conner crossed the room, dropping heavily into the bed across from you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped as he stared at the floor. The weight in his posture mirrored yours.

Finally, you looked up and met his eyes.

"We're in the future," you said softly, still not quite believing it. "We met our children. We met our son. Our daughter."

Conner nodded, his jaw tight. "And... I raised them without you."

You stood up, crossing to him slowly, and rested your hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't lose me," you said. "Not yet. And we're going to fight like hell to make sure it stays that way."

He looked up at you then, his expression hard—but vulnerable in a way few ever saw. He gave a short nod, then pulled you down beside him.

You two laid down on the bed, you were lying on your side, your back pressed against Conner's chest. His arms were around you, strong and steady, holding you close as if anchoring you there, grounding both of you in this strange reality. His hand moved in slow, soothing circles over your lower abdomen, where the life growing inside you had yet to show. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent, as if he were touching something fragile and sacred.

You placed your own hand over his, lacing your fingers together with his warmth beneath your palm. You didn't speak for a while. You didn't need to. You both just breathed—together, quiet, still.

Eventually, it was Conner who broke the silence.

"We don't even know who he is," he murmured, his voice low and quiet in the dark. "Olympian. No one does. Not even in this time."

You nodded slightly, your head resting on the pillow. "Just his name. No origin. No motive. Just... that he's after me. And that he's willing to kill for it."

Conner's hand paused for a moment before it started moving again, slower now, his touch protective. "He's not going to touch you," he said firmly. "Not while I'm breathing. And he sure as hell won't get near the kids."

His words were steel. Not a promise—a vow.

You turned your head just enough to look at him, catching the edge of his profile in the soft light. His jaw was clenched, his expression distant but focused. Beneath the surface calm, you could feel the storm he was keeping buried. The thought of anyone—especially someone like Olympian—hurting his family was enough to set the air around him on edge.

"He already tried," you whispered. "He went after them. In the future. And now he's here, in our time, trying to stop everything before it even starts."

Conner tightened his arm around you. "Then we stop him first."

You swallowed hard, emotions bubbling up again. "What if... what if I really do have something in me? Something he wants. Something cosmic. Something I can't even understand."

"Then we figure it out," he said without hesitation. "Together. Like we always do."

You let the silence stretch again, comforted by the steady beat of his heart against your back.

After a moment, you spoke again, softer this time. "You think he'll come for us again soon?"

Conner's voice was cold, calm, but dangerous in that way only he could be when he meant every word. "If he does... I'll make sure he never touches you. Or Casey. Or Corra. Or anyone with our name."

You turned in his arms slowly until you were facing him, pressing your forehead gently to his. His eyes met yours, unwavering.

"I know you will," you said.

His hand slid up, brushing your cheek, then down again to rest protectively over your still-flat stomach. You both stayed like that for a while—wrapped in each other, guarding something fragile, something that hadn't fully formed yet but had already changed everything.

Whatever came next—whatever darkness was waiting in the wings—you wouldn't face it alone. Not now. Not ever again.

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: Your Fall Awakening

✧ "I loved watching the base of those thunderstorms, the billowing tops of the cumulonimbus, the lightning that effortlessly lit up the lake and the sky. It was gorgeous, so energetic. I was in love." - Ginger Zee

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. This is a gender-neutral reading, change any pronouns to apply to you. Also, the tense changes from past to present to future, I hope this doesn't make the reading difficult.

Also! Thank you so much to everyone who put in a paid reading request, when my life stabilizes, those will be on the top of my priority list. <3

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

Pile One (King of Cups, 5oC, The Sun, The Knight of Cups)

This energy feels sudden but fated. This year’s eclipse season has been insane and you were always destined to reach a cosmic juncture of complete renewal around this time. The scales are tipping in your favor and this is your season to receive. 

This is my emotionally attuned pile. You were a sensitive child—a walking bundle of warmth and acceptance—until people took advantage of your gentle soul. You could have been the typical sunshine kid always giggling, easily making connections, and being a bright energy people were easily attracted to. Whether or not you were aware of it, people saw your capacity for love and happiness as intimidating and “fake”. Their reality did not shine as bright as yours so they could not fathom your authentic happiness.

That doesn’t mean people did not try to take advantage of your gentleness. Society associates friendliness/happiness as weakness and sees you as an easy target to get over on. Being trusting isn’t naivety, it isn’t your fault that you extended your time and resources to greedy people, it is their loss that they ruined a genuine connection because they were too far gone in their own misery to recognize a helping hand out of the shadows. 

This is a general reading so the details of what happened vary greatly, for most of you, there was a series of traumatic events involving your interpersonal relationships that scarred your heart. I visually see a wilting flower or a chest caving in on itself. 

Betrayal, cheating, abuse, years and years of lying, bullying, isolation, being ignored, and just overall feeling less important than the other people in your life.

But we don’t need to get into the nitty gritty of that bullshit. That chapter is closed, burned, and a renewed phoenix is rising from its ashes. 

To any other person, these events would have turned them rotten and nasty, but you never passed this hurt onto others, you just held onto it and kept holding on until it slowly drained and left all the cavities in your body empty and numb. You’re used to depletion, giving and giving, but being left in the dust after everyone else gets their fill and moves on.

Listen to me, you are stepping into your rainfall- the world revolves around you- era. You’re being rewarded for your resilience and “the cycle ends with me” attitude. A hurt person hurt you and you turned that into further reason why you would never be so cruel to another soul.

You got the sun, the best fucking card in the deck, right in the middle of your spread. With the lies you’ve been fed over the years, at some point on your journey, you got lost in the illusions of lack and fear. Fear that you weren’t enough and less than the magnificent being you truly are.

But this juncture is like a lightning strike of clarity to your consciousness, you are realizing that this journey is just that… a journey. A life lesson circling you back to your power so you can acknowledge just how fucking desirable your heart actually is.

People tried to rob you of your happiness because they wanted it. People tried to squash your kindness because they wanted it. People abused your time and energy because they yearned for it but could never have it. Think about it, if you had nothing of value, they wouldn’t have plotted on the resources you offered. 

We’ve all heard the saying, “You don’t know how good you have something until you lose it.” Life put you on this course of being on top, hitting rock bottom (deep depression), and then climbing up again so you can cultivate the strength to have a sensitive soul and defend it against all the greedy hands who want a piece. 

This journey taught you discernment, who to trust and who not to trust. It taught you how to pick yourself up and dust off. You learned to be stingy with your time and treat yourself as high value. Most importantly, you experienced your first full cycle of rebirth, where you learn that even your lowest of lows are temporary and it is universal law that all things eventually come to an end to be reborn bigger and better. 

True strength is seeing the world’s ugliness and not letting it taint you. You’ve been the victim of cruel actions and you wouldn’t dare enforce those on anyone else. The universe honors people like you. You were always meant to experience this upcoming win fall.

If you’re reading this, you’re already beginning to feel it. Shifts like this happen internally before manifesting externally. You step outside and the world looks more… romantic.

You can feel it in your bones that you are about to receive your fairytale life. The moon is smiling back at you and the stars are spelling out your name.

Embrace this Knight of cups energy and follow the whims of your heart, they’re leading you to your new timeline. Fall in love with yourself and acknowledge the battle you not only survived but won. 

P.S. Little you is so motherfucking proud of who you are and what you stand for. They knew you would make it back to them. It pained them to see you lost in other people’s lies but they never doubted your capability to see love in life again. Your kid self lived and breathed this joy and they knew nobody could truly take it from them. They are happy to see you realize it too.  

"Sometimes, the strongest roots grow in the softest soil."

Pile Two (King of Swords rev., King of Pentacles, 10oW, Queen of Wands rev.)

YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH! There is no fucking reason to fixate on changing yourself when you are already perfect as is, sugar plum!

You carried your family’s burdens up a verrry long mountain. You were trekking through life with a generational weight strapped on your back. Your greatest devil was expectations. 

You were told who you should be, what you should do, how you should act, what you should believe in. 

There weren’t many loving voices in your home, your efforts were met with harsh critiques and a heavier load on your plate. This is the classic case of being pushed beyond limits no child should have to reach. In your upbringing, it was perfection or nothing. Not only did you have to excel academically, you had to be attractive and have a thriving social life, do extracurriculars, and anything else that exemplified you as a model child and citizen. 

And even then, when you did all those things, you didn’t get the proper acknowledgment or congratulations you deserved. Lots of you just got higher expectations set after you proved you could reach an already unrealistic standard. God forbid you didn’t reach those standards, some of you got shunned or abused. 

Sometimes you felt more like a project your people flaunted rather than someone they authentically loved and cared for.

This fucked with your young psyche. I mean… what's the point!? You jump through all these hoops to barely get a pat on the back? Yeah, you seemed perfect on the outside but internally, you were teeming with self-hate and the contempt of not being enough for anyone. 

I am getting frustrated just channeling this message, damn you deserved so much more! 

(Do you get migraines or tension headaches?)

This is my pile of people who did not get the privilege of choosing their own career path. Your guardians told you to study to become a doctor, engineer, scientist, artist, or whatever the hell they wanted to flaunt as an extension of themselves. 

But get this, your people didn’t do that shit either! They push so hard for you to be someone they’re not because they’re projecting their (fear of) failure onto you. 

For some (those who were not ignored or abused), it wasn’t malicious. They pushed you to be great because they wanted the best for you, but the way they handled it was fucked up.

There was a lot of fear about falling short of expectations and disappointing the people around you. Creating this mindset that you had to perform for affection and needed to prove that you were of value to people in order to be loved.

Some of you heavily rebelled against this authoritarian force in your life. Explicitly, through using sex to satiate your desire to feel loved. Like with your family, you viewed love as transactional and went into “relationships” with people who disguised their lust for you as love but only truly wanted to exploit your vulnerable state.

I am sorry you did not deserve that, you are better with those energies out of your life. 

BAAABBBYYYY, this season is rinsing out all that gunk between your ears and pushing the weight off your back. Can you feel your spine unfurl?

This season you’re letting all the bullshit go. You’re garnering strength the rest of society only talks about. You’re looking at yourself in the mirror and saying that nobody’s expectations are worth living a life you don’t want to live. Those people were empowered by you not recognizing your own capability, they were the only measurement of how worthy you were and the only source of the approval you craved. 

(why won't this center???^)

You’re awakening to just how much of a bad mf you truly are! You’re the king of pentacles- you’re your own empire! You’re reclaiming your power and acknowledging that with all the time and effort you put into building someone else’s dreams, you have the strength to build your own!

With every challenge thrown at you, YOU BODY THAT SHIT!

I’m getting chills, I feel like a hype man lmao. I’m your biggest fan fr. I want you on my team! You’re an irreplaceable asset that anyone would be blessed to work with. 

All the pressure you faced has forged you into a one-of-a-kind gemstone and you are shining brightly! 

This journey taught you the power of control and how to take the reigns of your own chariot. You will never allow another soul to take your will from you again. 

*Clears throat* Don’t tell anyone I said this but… expect your life to blossom in ways you can’t even begin to fathom.

Your 5th house: leisure, pleasure, romance, creativity, and your 10th house: higher self, your image, and how you carry yourself once you leave the shadows is getting a major activation.  

The dreams of your future that you wouldn’t dare whisper to the people in your life are being heard by Source and they’re being packaged (with a cute lil bow) behind the scenes, ready to be delivered at your feet. I am not kidding, your oracle cards are: 10th house, 5th house, Venus, fated meeting, and “Blessings you couldn’t even dream of are walking to your front door”.

There is a special emphasis on your creative endeavors, unleash the side of you that was shunned, and allow it to garner the love and attention that has always been meant for you! It is your time to live life the way you’ve always wanted to. 

P.S. People don’t want to hear it because getting your expectations high is a “bad” thing or whatever, but you will meet someone. It’s a fated meeting and you two are meant for each other. Royal love. You got all court cards and while I was typing, “one-of-a-kind” autocorrected to “one-of-a-king”. 

Pressure Reveals Our Brilliance

Pile Three (10oS Rev., 10oW, 8oP, Queen of Swords, Emperor)

Growing up, my mom always told me that when we feel like we’re wandering aimlessly, we’re actually slowly inching closer to where we’re meant to be.

I pass these words of wisdom on to you because you know the pain of wandering all too well. When you were younger, your energy was unadulterated and you dreamt big without any doubt creeping around your skull to sully your aspirations. You are naturally a very ambitious person with a killer drive to get shit done.

However, something shifted. I don’t think it was a specific event, it happened over time. The wrong people and painful situations slowly chipped away at your spark for life until your body lost its will and you slowly staggered to the ground with all ten swords in your back. 

There was a dense fog around who you were and what you wanted. You questioned your desires and your ability to achieve them, growing more frustrated with your own confusion. Until eventually, you stopped dreaming. Anything to curb the painful disappointment of feeling like a person coming from a broken mold. Or a human without an outline, just an indistinct blur melting into the background. 

I feel static in my bones. I see that your shadows locked you in place- paralyzed. Limited only to the realms in your head as you watch the world evolve and move on without you.

This pile struggles with the most intense anxiety. Have you seen Inside Out 2? There is a scene where the anxiety emotion goes into overdrive and can’t remove herself from the control panel and Riley has an ongoing panic attack. For a huge chunk of your life, your anxiety couldn’t release itself from the command center. Your whole life has felt like you’ve been holding your breath, waiting for the panic attack to subside. 

You’re a nervous nelly, I’m afraid. Not to be offensive, but I imagine a nervous, wet chihuahua shaking like a leaf (haha, been there).

Something about your friendships and the negative influence of others is important. The ten of swords is typically a betrayal card. These situations left you with an aching sense that you didn’t have control over the direction of your life, so you spent your days worrying about everything that has and will go wrong.

Maybe people told you that you weren’t capable? Maybe you felt like you didn't measure up to the people around you who had direction in their lives.

You have a lot of energy, pent-up energy. It is actually one of your blessings, you have an abundance of energy to achieve all that you set your mind to. But these traumatic events locked up this vitality and prevented it from being properly expressed. It didn’t go away, it got transmuted into mental energy and you “thought” yourself to death. 

It’s funny—you probably daydream about taking action and doing the everyday things that others do without a second thought. For them, it’s normal, but for you, it’s a wild dream. 

This is my late bloomer pile. The things people your age typically do, you haven’t gotten around to because you can’t seem to get your body and mind on the same accord. 

You had restless energy, your body was always on but not in motion. Think of a tightly stretched rubber band aching to be released anywhere but stuck in this moment of tension. You felt the pull, the urge to leap into action, yet something held you back—whether it was doubt, hesitation, or simply the weight of expectation. Each day was a reminder of your potential, a constant yearning to break free and finally express that energy in a meaningful way. But, the second you went in for the kill, your bones locked up and left you stagnant.

I want to cry writing this. Your wishes are so simple and you will get them tenfold, quote me. 

This season you are getting the key to freedom from your mental prison- clarity. Clarity on just how possible everything is. You are awakening to the world at your fingertips and the very road map woven into your heart.

It sounds silly, but you dream of work! You want to go out and create without paralyzing fear looming over your shoulder. This is your deepest desire because you are meant to do it. You’re the fucking emperor AND the queen of swords. Your name is meant to be plastered on a building somewhere, and no amount of fear or doubt is going to keep you from that. 

This journey taught you how to build mental fortitude and define yourself. You won’t listen to any voice that prevents you from living the life you want to live, not even your own. The next time you get stabbed in the back, you won’t even flinch and you sure as hell won’t stop your motion. 

You don’t need to think, just be. Your feet will take you to where you need to go.

(Shoutout to my Rahuvians!)

Your wildest dreams have been heard and answered, and you’re beginning to find your direction again. I know it’s hard to believe, especially after spending so much of your life in an illusionary prison—a mental construct that felt all too real. But take a deep breath and allow those bars to melt away. Remember, this chapter is just that: a chapter in your life. You are ready to turn the page and embark on a new adventure, one that could be your very first! Embrace the possibilities ahead, and tell any lingering fears to shut the fuck up and kick rocks.

This next phase in your life is anything but slow, it’s a complete 180 from what you’re used to. Get ready to be a busy bee and in high demand. Your mind and body will be sharp, focused, and honed in on your craft. You are mastering something and achieving great success. “Blessings you couldn’t even dream of are walking to your front door.”

P.S. I know that was a long, agonizing, period in your life but jump for joy now that it’s over! I promise you, it truly is!! Don’t stress about the past or worry about what you should or could have done differently. You did everything perfectly and you were always meant to be where you are right now. 

I know this might sound cliché, but the situation was out of your hands. The lesson was about learning to surrender control and trusting in the only constant in life: change. Nothing lasts forever, your pain is temporary. Trust that this experience has shaped you, and now you have the opportunity to step forward with newfound strength and resilience. Embrace the future—it’s waiting for you!

She's Using the Colors of Her Aura to Define Her Being

Pile Four (2oP, 7oW, 4oW, 90P, Clear, Third Eye Chakra, 1st House, Pluto)

Hmmm, pentacles (earth​ = stay and grow, grow, grow) and wands (fire = go, go, go)… “Should I stay or should I go?” 

Nobody wants to hear it, but you’re being pushed into hermit mode. But fear not! ☝🏾 This will be your last and most peaceful retreat. You’re caught in a battle between the urge to slow down and prioritize your wellness and the temptation to jump up and grind. Embrace this time for reflection and self-care—it’s essential for your growth. When you take the time to recharge, you’ll emerge stronger and more focused, ready to tackle whatever comes next with renewed energy. Trust that this phase is necessary for your journey.

The right answer is a blend of both. Make a steady meditation and fitness plan you can rely on where you feel productive yet kept to yourself. Your energy is sensitive at this time and people are going to try and purposely trigger you because they can sense that you’re getting ready to pop out and do your mf jig!

You are crazy intuitive and are awakening to this fact, but just like the start of any journey, you’re trying to find a balance between your intuition and judgment.

Spoiler alert, they're the same thing! 

ESPECIALLY for you. Check to see if you have Pluto, Ketu (south node), Jupiter (Sag or Pisces), Mars (Aries or Scorpio), or Moon (Cancer) in your first, fourth, seventh, or tenth house. Or literally anything in your eighth house.

You are blessed with the ability to see beyond the veil of illusion and are meant to nurture and refine this gift. Embrace it as a powerful tool for understanding yourself and the world around you. Trust your intuition and allow it to guide you through challenges, helping you uncover deeper truths. 

This season is bringing changes to your physical body and immediate environment, you feel most vulnerable to the weather changes and are probably having trouble sleeping. You are likely feeling tension between your eyebrows and are seeing images that aren't actually there. 

You’re experiencing a third eye awakening and a major karmic clearing, this is my most spiritual pile by far. If you’re not into these types of things, this isn’t your pile. Actually, this group really stands out from the others, I don’t have advice for you per se; this message is to assure you that you’re not delusional. 

I am here to tell you to trust what you’re seeing. You’re right! Whatever you think is happening… is happening. If you think great things are coming, they absolutely are. Conversely, if you feel that something shady is going on behind the scenes, then that’s exactly what’s unfolding. Trust your instincts; they’re guiding you toward the truth.

Here’s a secret about intuitive judgment: If the thoughts are causing anxiety and plaguing you with fear, they’re not true. On the other hand, if your instincts provide insight into a situation and help you feel more in control, you’re on the right track. Even if the truth is harsh or painful, knowing it empowers you to make informed decisions about your next move. 

The truth is enlightening, even if it leads to a tower moment where everything you thought you knew comes crumbling down. Lies may feel comforting at first, but they can slowly trap you, binding you to a life that isn’t truly yours. Your soul craves deep transformation and healing. It may sound cryptic, but this is your season to die and allow yourself to be reborn anew. Embrace the intensity of Scorpio season; it’s a powerful time for you to shed old skin and welcome a higher version of yourself. 

Who is this higher version? You have been cultivating them bit by bit with every trial thrown your way and it is finally time for them to rise to the surface. This version embodies your resilience, wisdom, and strength, shaped by your experiences and the lessons learned along the way. Embrace this transformation and let your true self shine. You are ready to step into your power and create the life you’ve always envisioned.

(Any Mula natives in the chat?)

I am excited for you, it’ll be tiring and unpleasant but the world waiting for you on the other side is one of bountiful harvests and celebrations! Hang in there! 

Embrace the slowness and allow yourself to relax while it's here because this next chapter is TURNT. 

P.S. You’re hot—like really, incredibly sexy. Your gaze is piercing, and people feel as though you see straight through them into depths they aren’t even aware of. You don’t have to do much to unsettle others; they’re easily triggered because they can’t hide behind the safety of their masks when they’re around you. Your authenticity and intensity shine through, making them confront their own truths. Embrace that power; it’s a gift that not everyone possesses!

She Follows the Blueprint Woven Into Her Flesh

[kunasthiast]

champagne problems (part 1)

summary: Golf clubs, generational wealth (and trauma), and a childhood friendship that aged like milk. Everything is hell with Sukuna... especially if you had relapses of the memories that made you emotionally constipated for the last 12 fucking years. pairings: sukuna x reader (female) cw: crack fic! (pls don't take this srsly), one-sided enemies to lovers, slow-burn, delusional denial, aggressively coded sexual tension, french toast, suggestive content words: 17.1k (had to cut in parts since i've got too much words)

It’s either the universe has a twisted sense of humor or you were abandoned by it. Really. Of all the people in this planet, in this country, and in this obscenely, soul-sucking, beige-coded, stepford-smiling gated community, you had to be stuck with him. 

Sukuna.

That pink-haired bastard with more money than god and an ego large enough to have its own gravitational pull. For the love of strawberries and all things sacred, he’s a narcissistic, cocky asshole that you refuse to be associated with. For years now, actually. And he, by the way, just happened to be your self-proclaimed mortal enemy.

You’ve known him forever—since diapers, actually, thanks to your parents being disgustingly close. (Money and golf, as they say, deepen relationships and ruin offspring). Back then, it was you, Sukuna, and Gojo: inseparable, chaotic, and constantly banned from formal events for “behavioral disruption.”

Then came college. And oh, college. A series of very questionable decisions – booze, bad judgment, and that one summer you both agreed to never mention again. The one where tequila blurred every line you swore you’d never cross. Let’s just say, some boundaries were… explored. Poorly.

And of course, to top it all off: a stupid, petty fight that led to a rift in your friendship. Now, you’re both single parents, stumbling through young adulthood with a baby on each hip. You, with your son. Him, with his daughter.

Minimal contact is the unspoken rule. Occasional passive-aggressive exchanges at neighborhood meetings (gods, this is a cookie-cutter suburban hell – why is every lawn looked like the golf course green?). Where the air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and thinly veiled judgment, and every conversation was a subtle competition for the best-manicured lawn and the most successful offspring. 

Forced civility at school (because, of course, your kids go to the same overpriced academy that call tests “challenges” and uniforms “identity expressions”), and you’re both contractually obligated to show up at family business functions, aka golf disguised as networking disguised as family bonding disguised as a pissing contest.

And, speaking of contests – you’ve been lock in one with Sukuna for years. Specifically, your annual power play at the PTA sponsorship table. One-upping each other in increasingly ridiculous ways because nothing fuels you more than spite.

But what’s life without being a little bitchy, right?

Unfortunately, karma – being the absolute bitch of life – decided that your kids would become best friends. Not casual playground pals. No. Soulmate-level best friends. The kind that build pillow forts with emotional depth. With the insistent sleepovers, shared inside jokes in their own weird language you’re 90% they invented, and referred to each other as siblings.

How did it happen? You have no fucking idea. 

Or maybe you do, you’re just in deep denial. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s some goddamn cosmic joke. Maybe the universe has you by the throat and won’t let go until it watches you suffer in 4K.

Not that you don’t love his daughter – she’s an absolute angel, the kind of sweet that makes dentists nervous. But her being your son’s BFF? That’s… inevitable. 

Especially in your tight, old-money-adjacent social circle. They’ve known each other since they were just wearing diapers, since they were teething on the same overpriced Montessori rattles. 

Just like you and Sukuna. 

Except this time, it’s different. Because their friendship demands one thing: coexistence. You and that tattoed-to-the-gods asshole had been forced to coexist. Again, coexist.

And Sukuna? Oh no, he doesn’t do coexisting. Nah. Nope. Never. He breaks balance. He thrives on chaos. He gets off on making your life just inconvenient enough to ruin your peace, but not enough to justify a felony charge.

And this morning? This godforsaken Saturday morning? He outdid himself.

Twelve years of passive-aggressive parenting – scratch that, thirty-three years of slow-burn emotional warfare – have led to this moment. This may just be his masterpiece.

Because this was when the relapse started—and Sukuna made damn sure you felt every inch of it.

The first thing you register at seven-fucking-A.M. is the sound of something dying. Violently. It’s mechanical. Obnoxious. It sounds like a robot lawnmower from hell just met its end outside your bedroom window.

The second thing you register? Pure, unfiltered rage.

Your eyes snap open like you’ve just been slapped by God himself. That noise—it’s outside. Your house. Your lawn.

You lurch out of bed like a woman possessed – dazed, furious, still marinating in last night’s sleep deprivation, because of course you were up ’til 3 AM binge-watching that dumb dating show where someone literally said “Montoya, por favor,”. You then grabbed your pillow and screamed into it for ten minutes. Regret? Never heard of her.

You barely register the cool cling of your La Perla silk sleepwear against your skin as you stomp toward the window. One violent yank later—

And there it is. Not a noise. But, a nuisance. Him. Sukuna.

Shirtless. (Is that not a violation of at least three HOA rules?) Smirking. Holding a hedge trimmer like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial that probably ends with “Dior Sauvage: For Men Who Deserve Jail.”

You’ve seen him shirtless before. Too many times. College. His apartment. Your apartment. That goddamn couch in the frat house that probably caused seven diseases just by looking at it. Heat. A lot of teeth. Chaos. And him tracing lazy circles on your back like he was trying to memorize you. The worst part? You let him.

The morning sun, which used to mean peace and lattes, now glints off the sheen of sweat on his stupid, tattooed chest—each muscle cut like it was carved by demons with a thirst for drama. His pink hair is tousled just so—purposefully chaotic, like the universe made him hot just to personally ruin your life.

And then you see it. What used to be your hedge. You blink once. Then again. No change.

Your lush, lovingly imperfect, expensive-as-shit privet hedge is gone. Vaporized. Replaced by a row of cold, surgically shaved shrubs that look like a serial killer’s idea of curb appeal. Your eye twitches.

As if summoned by your fury, Sukuna glances up. His crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on your rage – or maybe something else. That look – the one he gave you at 2AM on your billion-dollar couch the night you swore it was a one-time thing. The one that said, “I’d ruin you if you let me.” And you let him. Back then. Right before shit got complicated. Right before you woke up next to him and pretended that everything’s normal as fuck. Again. 

He knows what this is doing to you. And that annoyingly smug bastard does this all with a smirk. A slow, wolfish, go-ahead-lose-your-mind kind of smirk.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he mouths. Oh, of course. You can lip-read him. Of course you can. Curse your stupid subconscious for prioritizing Sukuna Fluency over Spanish.

You inhale deeply. Try to center yourself. Failing that, you simply open the door like you’re kicking off Act One of a Greek tragedy. No robe. No shoes. No dignity. Just you, rage, and a whole lot of leg.

“Sukuna,” you bark, voice rasping like vengeance incarnate.

He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he turns, casually leaning on the hedge trimmer like he’s posing for The Bachelor: War Criminal Edition.

“Oh. You’re up early,” he drawls. His eyes flick downward—just for a second, but long enough to set your entire nervous system on fire.

“You—” You gesture wildly toward the massacre formerly known as your hedge. “What the actual fuck did you do?”

Sukuna squints at the row of plant corpses like a man admiring the Louvre, “Landscaping,” he says.

“That was my hedge.”

“It was an ugly hedge.”

You nearly combust. “Are you clinically insane?!”

He finally turns fully to face you, crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on female rage. “Don’t be dramatic. It looks better now.”

“Better?!” you screech. “It looks like it was done by Hannibal Lecter with a pair of OCD scissors!”

Sukuna hums. “You’re welcome.”

You take one murderous step forward. “You owe me a new hedge.”

“I gave you a new hedge.”

“I will burn this entire street down.”

His grin widens, predatory. “Might wanna change out of that nightie first, sweetheart. Fire hazard.”

You freeze. That’s when it hits you. The air. The breeze. The sudden realization that you are—very much—standing in front of Satan in La Perla silk.

Short. Bare. Clingy. Absolutely illegal in three states. Straps like dental floss. Chest support? None. Coverage? Legally negligible. Your arms fly up like someone just yelled “freeze!”

And Sukuna? Oh, he notices. He notices everything. His gaze drags over you slowly, hungrily, with the smug satisfaction of a man who knows exactly the effect he has.

“Nice outfit,” he murmurs. “All for me, babe?”

Your soul? Gone. Astral projected. Witnessed its own murder. And a tiny, traitorous part of your brain, the part you usually kept locked in a soundproof room, whispered, ‘Yep.' You crushed that traitorous voice with the force of a thousand suns.

“Shut up,” you hiss, spinning on your heel like a scandalized Disney princess on the verge of committing a felony.

“Don’t be shy now,” he calls after you, laughter rumbling from his chest like a goddamn villain. 

“Come back! Let’s negotiate... hedge replacements. Or anything else you’re aching to trim.”

You slam the door so hard you hear a bird scream outside.

And you? You launch yourself face-first into the couch like a woman wronged by fate, God, and the HOA.

Because of that man. Because of Ryomen. Fucking. Sukuna. Because your life is a telenovela and that devil is hot and ruining your lawn.

Your theatrical death scene is cut short by the sound of a small, sleepy voice.

“Mom?” You freeze.

Riku, your 12-year old son, stands in the hallway, looking like he’s fought a pillow and lost. Pajama shirt backward.  One sock. A feather in his hair?

He squints. Then pauses. “Why are you yelling? It’s Saturday.”

You try to pull yourself together, smoothing down your very not-child-appropriate sleepwear and flattening your hair like that’ll help.

“Nothing,” you say. Too fast. Too high-pitched. Too guilty.

Riku eyes you. Then the door. Then back to you. “Mom, why are you dressed like that?”

Your soul flatlines. “I—no reason. Go to bed.”

“It’s seven in the morning.”

“AND?!”

He sighs like he pays taxes and you’re the child here. “Did you fight with Papa again?”

Your brain short-circuited. “Papa?”

He yawns. “Unckuna said I should call him that. Since we’re like family.”

Something in your chest twists. He said that? The same man who claims relationships are just complicated sleepovers with taxes? The one who ghosted you emotionally mid-snuggle and then had the audacity to joke about building IKEA furniture “as a team”? The one who doesn’t even believe in relationships (more like… you both don’t) that last longer than a lease. 

And now he’s out here playing pretend dad to your son? Like he didn’t once whisper the word “ours” into your neck and pretend it was a joke.

You see white. You see God. You see the void. You also see a very expensive therapy bill forming in your future.

“That man is NOT your father,” you snarl.

“He also said your hedge looked like a haunted broccoli. With trust issues.”

“HE MURDERED MY HEDGE.”

Riku shrugs. “It was kinda ugly.”

You gasp. “It was tastefully whimsical!”

Then your phone buzzes.

[Do Not Answer]: good morning, sweetheart. hope you’re still wearing that cute little nightie. you always looked best in silk. see u later 😘

You stare at the screen like it personally offended you. Then briefly consider throwing your phone out the window. Or yourself. Unfortunately, your insurance doesn’t cover “Sukuna-related injuries” or emotional trauma due to unsolicited thirst traps and flirty, horny, late-stage situationship texts. 

Because he’s done this before—flirting like it’s harmless, like it doesn’t drag old memories up from the basement where you thought you buried them under shame, sarcasm, and 12 years of pretending you don’t miss him. The way his hand used to fit in yours, the ghost of his lips on your neck, the memory of his laugh echoing in your apartment, a laugh you hadn't heard in person for years. All of it was buried, but the soil was thin.

You scream into the couch cushion like you’re dying on a battlefield. And worse than shame, deeper than anger, in the dark corners of your soul, is the memory of liking it.

“Ew,” Riku mutters. “Do I have to hear about your weird grown-up drama?”

“IT’S NOT WEIRD DRAMA.”

Riku gives you a long, tired look. “Mom.”

“What?!”

He points to the phone. “I know you like him.”

Your entire soul dissolves into steam.

Despite the fact that he just ruined your precious Saturday morning with this hedge incident and a completely inappropriate message to send to your ‘co-parent’, Sukuna was moving on with his day. Specifically, he was cooking breakfast like some domestic menace in his obnoxiously sleek, state-of-the-art kitchen that looked like it belonged in the magazine spread of Architectural Digest.

Because unlike most rich assholes, Sukuna didn’t trust personal chefs. People spit in food. People sneezed in food. People existed near food, which was already bad enough. So, every morning, he cooked his own. For him and his daughter. Without fail. And since it was Saturday, that meant one thing: big breakfast.

Which also meant, thanks to the unfortunate circumstances of your life, you and Riku would be there too. Because in a twist of cosmic cruelty, his daughter Keiko had long ago declared that Saturday breakfast at her dad’s house was sacred tradition. 

And Riku, the traitor, had readily agreed. Of course he did. The two of them had been best friends since they were in kindergarten, and you? You were just along for the ride. Fuck it, right?

Keiko, same age as Riku, stomped into the kitchen like she owned the place (she does, it’s her dad’s) – hair a tangled mess, eyes half shut, wearing an oversized My Melody pajama set like a gremlin princess.

“Daddy, what’s for breakfast?” She flopped onto a barstool, chin resting on her palm, already judging the pile of ingredients on the counter: eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, rice, miso soup, and a whole loaf of milk bread that was about to get French-toastified.

“Morning, princess. You’ve got drool,” Sukuna said, wiping her face with casual affection before returning to the stove, flipping eggs like a culinary showoff. She snorted. He hummed. 

Everything about this household was too chill. And that was his bragging right.

And now here you were, an hour later (mind you, it might already be 8:02AM). Not in your silk sleepwear now, but in your Loro Piana lounge set – a color-matching oversized hoodie and baggy sweatpants. In enemy territory. Sitting at his obnoxiously pristine kitchen island while the bane of your existence plated up French toast like he hadn’t just murdered your hedge in cold blood an hour ago and sent you a text message that would make Satan blush. Maybe you were Satan. Life was suffering.

You sat stiffly, stewing in silent rage, eating his stupidly delicious food in his stupidly perfect kitchen like the fool you were. Betrayed not just by your son, but by your taste buds.

Riku, of course, had zero shame. He was already seated next to Keiko, looking entirely far too comfortable as he reached over and swiped a piece of bacon from her plate.

“Hey!” She snapped. “That’s mine.”

Riku shrugged mid-bite with zero remorse. “Now it’s mine.”

Keiko kicked him under the table.

Sukuna – ever the type to let kids settle their own beef like unsupervised wolf cubs – didn’t even flinch. Like everything's perfectly normal. But his eyes, for a flicker, held a strange intensity as he watched you, a glint that wasn't just amusement. He simply set a plate in front of you, stacked high with French toast, bacon, and disgustingly perfect scrambled eggs. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in close – voice infuriatingly close to your ear and a sin against sanity.

“Eat up, sweetheart,” he murmured, smug as ever. “Wouldn’t want you getting lightheaded from all that screaming this morning.”

Your fork nearly snapped in half. 

Keiko, sensing the chaos brewing, quickly changed the subject.

“Daddy,” she said, perking up, “Riku and I are gonna work on our science project later, ‘kay?”

Sukuna sat down, completely unbothered. “What is it?”

“A volcano model,” Keiko said proudly.

Sukuna arched a brow. “Lame.”

Keiko glared. “It’s for school!”

He snorted. “What happened to building a flamethrower?”

You nearly choked. Nope, you choked on your French toast.

Riku’s eyes lit up. “Wait, we can do that?”

“No,” You snapped, pointing your fork at Sukuna. “Absolutely not. Do NOT encourage them.”

Sukuna smirked, utterly unrepentant, and shrugged. “Relax, sweetheart. I wouldn’t let them  build an unsafe flamethrower.”

Your stared at him in disbelief. “There is no such thing as a safe flamethrower.”

The kids immediately started whispered like they were plotting something completely unhinged.

You took a long, deep breath. One problem at a time.

Right now, your biggest issue was pretending this breakfast wasn’t delicious. Which, unfortunately, it very much was. It was fucking amazing. Yeah, you’re easily pleased when it comes to food. But giving Sukuna even an ounce of satisfaction? Absolutely not. So, you settled for silent suffering, stabbing your fork into your French toast with unnecessary force.

Sukuna, because he was the devil incarnate, noticed. Obviously. Because the pink-haired menace always noticed.

“Good?” He asked, smirking.

You chewed aggressively. “No.”

Riku, your traitor of a child, spoke with his mouth full. “It’s really good.”

Keiko nodded, licking syrup off her fork. “Yeah, Daddy’s food is always the best.”

Sukuna looked insufferably pleased with himself. You swallowed your pride with the same intensity you swallowed that stupidly fluffy French toast. It was almost worth selling your soul for. Mind it, almost. This man could burn in hell. Preferably after breakfast.

Some time the next week, you were sprawled on the couch, half-dead after surviving what felt like a thousand back-to-back meetings. Thank God you work from home, and thank heavens it’s the family’s generational business. You could’ve been stuck in some sterile office with fluorescent lights, but nope, you're chilling at home, in your luxurious chaos. Oh, and did you mention it’s old money and generational wealth? Yeah, that kind of wealth. It’s a blessing… or a curse. Honestly, it depends on the day.

It was a Tuesday evening, and you were half-heartedly flipping through Netflix, trying to figure out which rom-com would match your mood. Naturally, you were leaning toward something unhinged and wildly unrealistic – you know, peak escapism… because why not? Maybe something classic with Matthew McConaughey, who was inescapably charming, or Hugh Grant with that disarming, floppy hair of his. Adam Sandler was also on the table, because who doesn’t love his chaotic, awkward brand of comedy? Basically something that might almost restore your faith in the idea that true love could be both absurd and beautiful. Almost.

Then, the door opened, and in walked your son, back from school.

And no – you don’t fetch him. Not when your smug, self-appointed savior of a neighbor has been picking him up for years now. Five, to be exact. Something about “Tch. We’re neighbors and they’re best friends – I should just do it instead of a fucking driver,” as if that was the most obvious and safest solution (no kidnaps, right?) in the world. Well, it is.

You didn’t even argue. Why would you? Free childcare and no afternoon traffic? That’s a win. You don’t argue with that kind of magic.

“How’s school?” you asked, still scrolling through the abyss of movie options.

Riku kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door with the grace of a well-raised (you raised him) gremlin. “Fine,” he called, heading straight for the fridge. “We had a math quiz. I killed it.”

“Good job, baby genius,” you said, eyes still glued to your television as you scrolled through rom-coms. You finally hovered over How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, thumb on the remote paused mid-air. “So, steak or sushi for dinner?”

“Nah, Papa said we might do burgers tonight.”

You blinked.

“Wait – what?”

“Yup,” Riku said, nonchalantly tearing into a kunafa pistachio chocolate bar and zero shame. “He said if I finished my homework early, he’d take us to that place with the crazy milkshakes and the gold leaf fries.”

Your jaw dropped. Turned slowly at your child. Offended.

“You’re making dinner plans with him? Without me?”

Riku, blissfully unaware of the storm he was causing, crunched into the chocolate bar. “I mean… yeah? It’s Papa. He plans everything better than you do anyway.”

You gasped, obviously scandalized by your son’s betrayal. Clutching your chest in exaggeration with an, “Excuse me?!”

Before you could fully process your son’s betrayal, your phone buzzed with a FaceTime call. A FaceTime call. From your mother. Red flag. Big red flag.

She always call through FaceTime if it was a serious business to discuss. Like weddings. Or funerals. Or your personal life, which she had no business being involved in.

You almost didn’t answer, but curiosity—and the very real possibility of her forcing a conversation about your non-existent love life—compelled you to pick up.

The screen flashed, and suddenly, your mother’s entire face filled your phone, her expression beaming with suspicious delight.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she chirped, like didn’t just interrupt your most sacred of moments — talking with your son who clearly forgot that you have to eat dinner too.

“What’s wrong?” You narrowed your eyes, instantly suspicious.

Her smile widened. Uh-oh. You knew that smile. It’s an all-too-familiar sign that something – something – was very, very wrong. It’s a trap. Oh my god, why the fuck did you answer it? You could practically hear your sanity slowly crumbling.

Your father’s voice rumbled from somewhere off-screen. “Is that her?”

Your mother turned the camera. And there he was – your father – glowing with smug satisfaction, reading the newspaper like a man preparing to ruin your peace. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, not even bothering to look up. “How’s Sukuna?”

You blacked out, “WHAT?”

“Oh, your father and I just had the loveliest brunch with him yesterday,” your mother practically sang the words, her voice dripping with way too much enthusiasm.

Your brain short-circuited, processing. “You—what?”

“Brunch,” she repeated slowly, as if you were some kind of idiot who didn’t know what brunch was. “At that little place by the golf course! You know, the one with the fresh strawberry tarts? We were so surprised when Sukuna walked in! And oh, sweetheart—he insisted on paying.”

“Even the wine,” your father added, flipping a page, and still not looking up from his paper.

You stared, horrified. Yep, your entire existence is crumbling in real time.

“No. No, no, no. What the hell were you two doing having brunch with Sukuna?!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” She waved a hand dismissively. “It wasn’t planned! We were there. He was there – fate, darling. Fate.”

Your father set down his paper and finally looked at you like the sage old man he was. “He’s a good man.”

Oh my god. You fought the urge to throw your phone across the room.

Your mother sighed a long, dreamy exhale that belonged to a teenage girl meeting her favorite boyband, not a grown woman discussing your literal neighbor. Your self-proclaimed enemy.

“Oh, sweetheart, he’s just so charming and thoughtful! He even asked how we were, how you were, how Riku was—” She paused, giving you that look. "He even asked about your garden. Said he was sorry about the hedge. And then he asked what kind of flowers you liked.”

Sukuna… apologized? And asked about your favorite flowers? A memory flickered – Sukuna, years ago, nursing you back to health after a particularly bad tequila night, carefully placing a bouquet of spider lilies (your favorite, but you never told him) on your bedside table. And now, a pang of something that felt suspiciously like longing hit you. But no. Deny, deny, deny. Lock it down the deepest vault.

“Mom.”

“— and honestly, it’s just so rare these days. A man with such good manners…”

“Mom. We’re neighbors.”

“And handsome, too! I mean, obviously, we always knew that, but now—”

“MOM.”

Your father nodded, the sagely figure of a man who had clearly seen things.  “Still a shame he’s not yet married.”

You swore you were about to die or throw yourself off a cliff. You weren’t picky at this point.

Your mother giggled. That dangerous giggle. The one that said she was absolutely about to dive into matchmaking hell. Everything is hell when it comes to everything with Sukuna involved.

“Mom, I swear to God, if you’re about to —”

“Oh, I just think it’s such a shame you two never worked out!”

You screamed in frustration.

Right at that moment, Riku poked his head in the camera. Of course. “Oh. Grandma’s talking about Papa again, huh?”

Your mother, ever the opportunist, perked up. “Oh, hi, sweetheart! Have you eaten? Did Uncle Sukuna pick you up from school?”

Riku flopped onto the couch, still munching on his chocolate bar and nonchalantly stealing one of your throw pillows that your leg was clearly hugging. “Yeah. We’re also gonna have burgers tonight! And gold-leaf fries.”

Your mother gasped. “Gold-plated?! Oh, see? Isn’t he wonderful?”

Riku shrugged. “I mean, yeah, he’s cool.”

Your soul left your body.

“Mom,” you said, voice shaking. “Please. I beg you. Stop.”

She only laughed. “Oh, darling, don’t be shy! You know, when I was your age, if a man looked at me the way Sukuna looks at you—”

“HANGING UP.”

“Wait—!”

Click.

You threw your phone onto the couch like it physically burned you. Riku, completely unfazed, finished his chocolate bar. How he finished it that fast was beyond you. Was he part vacuum cleaner?

“…So, mom,” he said, casually. “can I sleep over at Kei’s tonight?”

You grabbed the throw pillow and playfully smacked him with it.

Wednesdays. Hump days. The weird, middle child of the week. The day that usually smelled like stress and overpriced cold brews.

Normally, Wednesdays were crammed with back-to-back meetings: clients, your personal assistant, your shopping assistant (because, priorities), and the occasional emergency call from your hair stylist because your toner was apparently too warm. But, not today. 

Today was sacred.

Today was shopping day. A full, uninterrupted day of retail therapy. Chanel, Cartier, a suspiciously overpriced iced matcha with edible gold flakes—you earned this. 

You even texted your driver, Hiro, at 9 a.m. sharp to be on standby – like the responsible adult you occasionally pretend to be. Your credit cards warmed up like a Formula 1 engine, and all your favorite stores knew to roll out the metaphorical red carpet.

This Wednesday was going so well until Sukuna betrayed you.

You were still in your robe, smearing serum across your face like a rich house cat bathing in luxury, when your phone pinged. You glanced at the notification and felt your soul leave your body.

[Do Not Answer]: babe, I’m slammed with meetings [Do Not Answer]: mind picking up the kids today?

You stared. 

Blinked. 

And blinked again.

… Babe?

Babe.

Babe?!

The sheer audacity of that word nearly made you drop your gua sha.

He doesn’t call you babe. He never calls you babe. Well, that was years ago. But, he says “princess” with that smirk when he wants to piss you off, or “gorgeous” when he’s being annoyingly charming, and most of the times, lately, he calls you “sweetheart,” and you’re so ready to combust anytime. But babe?

Babe is sacred. Babe is relationship territory. Babe is dangerous. Babe is cruel. 

You could feel twelve years’ worth of buried feelings rattle like a demon in the basement of your emotional trauma house. You shoved them back down with professional precision.

This was a trap. A distraction. You needed to focus. And also... what meetings?!

You jabbed your fingers at the screen, rage typing like a woman possessed.

[You]: since when do you have afternoon meetings? especially on a wednesday?! [You]: this feels illegal [You]: actually, I feel scammed

He replied instantly. The man had the nerve to send:

[Do Not Answer]: lol

LOL?! Oh, he thinks this is funny? Your eye twitched.

[You]: what if I was busy? [Do Not Answer]: you’re not [You]: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT [Do Not Answer]: you literally told me you had nothing scheduled this week

Okay, he wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The point is: he’s a treacherous man-child who clearly weaponizes your schedule against him. He couldn’t just pull the “I’m busy” card on you like that anytime. Not on a Wednesday, when your shopping trip had been meticulously planned to indulge in luxury and self-care.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, itching to send him something even more venomous. But instead, you stared at the blinking cursor, sighed like a Victorian widow, and texted:

[You]: k

You groaned dramatically into your hands. Yeah, to hell with your skin care. You went back to your bedroom and flopped onto your bed and groaned into your 600-thread count pillow. Somewhere in the distance, a dramatic violin played for your suffering. You were going to have to endure the other moms. The PTA vultures. 

And possibly your own mother, who loved nothing more than materializing at school pickups like a judgmental ghost, armed with gossip and Sukuna-related questions.

Your phone buzzed again.

[Do Not Answer]: thanks, sweetheart. appreciate it ;) [You]: shut up

Hiro, your long-suffering driver and part-time therapist, was clearly thrilled by the unfolding drama.

“Madam,” he greeted, glancing at you through the mirror. “You look… thrilled.”

You scowled, sliding dramatically into the leather seat like a woman betrayed. “This is Sukuna's job. I’ve been scammed. I should sue him for emotional damages.”

“Is it really a scam,” Hiro asked diplomatically, “if he asked nicely?”

"He didn't ask nicely! He said lol. That’s verbal assault.”

Hiro hummed like he agreed, but he didn’t. Traitor.

When the car pulled into the school gates, it was like arriving at the frontline of a suburban battlefield. Mothers. Nannies. Personal bodyguards. Chauffeurs in black luxury cars. PTA moms who always dressed like they were going to brunch with the royal family.

And you?

You wore sweats, your old uni hoodie, and exactly zero makeup. You looked like the before picture in a glow-up video. But your diamond rings sparkled like hellfire – your only giveaway that you were rich as fuck. You weren’t broke, you were just done with these kinds of scene.

The judgment came fast. Some of the moms did that thing where they glanced at you, then whispered behind their hands. A few nannies gave you nods of respect, probably because you weren’t the usual “too-rich-to-function” type.

But the worst? 

Mrs. Yoshida.

PTA Queen Bee. Two-time “Mother of the Year” because she nominated herself. Three-time brunch committee president. The woman probably tried to trademark: “yummy mummy.” The woman who would call the manager at a fucking charity event. Her heels clicked on the pavement like judgment incarnate as she stalked toward you. 

"Oh,” she said, smiling that fake ‘I pity you’ smile. “It’s so nice to see you doing the school run for once!”

You blinked. Then smiled sweetly.

“Oh, and it’s so nice to see you still dressing like an overworked air hostess.”

Her smile dropped like the stock market is full of reds.

Hiro choked on his laughter.

But before the woman could recover from the verbal slap, you spotted the kids. Riku and Keiko. Standing side by side. Waiting. Hopeful. Clearly hopefully waiting for Sukuna to get them sundae on the way home.

Except when they saw you, that hope died.

Riku blinked, confused. To your horror, his face fell. Your son, your flesh and blood, is disappointed that you’re the one picking them up. This left you gaping in disbelief.

Then, Keiko turned. She titled her head with the slow horror of someone discovering they’d been served sparkling water instead of Sprite.

Basically, her entire soul left her body.

“…Where’s daddy?” she asked, peering into the Rolls like Sukuna was hiding in the glovebox.

“Busy,” you said.

Keiko looked physically ill with that word.

“So… you're picking us up?"

"Yes, Keiko."

"You?"

"YES, KEI. ME. GET IN THE CAR.” You’re controlling yourself with pure rage wrapped in customer and parenting service. Trying to remain calm as possible in front of all these judgmental PTA moms.

As they begrudgingly climbed in, you caught sight of Mrs. Yoshida again, watching the entire ordeal with the satisfied smirk of someone whose life is just a little bit less messy than yours. Yeah, you’ve had enough of this soul-sucking vibe. You just wanted to throw a juice box at her.

Once the doors shut, Riku sighed, dramatic as ever. “Well. This is awkward."

"Awkward?" you scoffed. “You’re disappointed in your own mother picking you up. That’s awkward.”

Keiko crossed her arms like a betrayed heiress. “Daddy always buys us ice cream after school.”

Riku leaned forward. "Yeah, Mom. You buying us ice cream?"

You looked between the two gremlins and then to Hiro, who was silently laughing in the front seat. You exhaled sharply, “…Fine.”

They cheered and you glared at these two gremlins.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I swear to God, if you two start rating me as a school-run parent—"

Keiko already had her little pink notebook out.

"You're at a 2 right now," she said, flipping open a page. "But ice cream might boost you to a 5.”

“Out of 5, right?” You said with a smile on your face, overly excited with the high-rating.

“No, out of 10.” Keiko nonchalantly said as she write on her pink notebook.

Your face fell with a what an actual fuck is happening reaction to everything around you.

Riku nodded. “Papa's still at a 9.8."

A 9.8?!

“What did he lose 0.2 for? Murder?” Clearly, you shouldn’t be near kids. But one of these kids is your son. So, yeah.

Riku shrugged. "He called my math homework stupid."

Keiko giggled. "Oh yeah! But then he bought you Jordans, so it’s okay."

You turned to Hiro, scandalized, “Are you hearing this? This is corruption. He’s bribing them.”

Hiro, looking at the road ahead, and with a perfectly straight face, just said, “It's a delicate ecosystem, madam. He plays the long game.”

You groaned.

And that was how you ended up at a drive-thru, buying two sundaes and one sad coffee. You, in the front seat, emotionally wrecked while your son and Sukuna's spawn ranked your parenting.

You finished at 2. Sukuna is still winning.

The moment you pulled into the driveway, your phone pinged.

[Do Not Answer]: how’d it go? [You]: ur child is a menace [You]: she ranked me like i was on the next top parent. a 2, sukuna. A DAMN TWO [Do Not Answer]: lmao [You]: this isn’t funny. ur evil tactics are spreading [Do Not Answer]: u just mad i’m winning parenthood [You]: i’m blocking u [Do Not Answer]: nahh u’re not

He was right. You scowled at your phone anyway. Before you could chuck your phone out the window, Riku turned to you.

“Can Kei sleep over?”

You blinked. “Didn’t she just rate me a TWO?!”

Keiko smiled sweetly. “It was just feedback, mama.” (You are not her mama. You’ve explained this. Repeatedly.)

Riku nodded sagely. "Yeah, Mom. Feedback’s important."

You squinted at your own son. And then stared at them both for this unbelievable situation of you being manipulated by these two gremlins.

Hiro (again, your driver) was full-on laughing now, no longer bothering to hide it.

"You know what?" you muttered, rubbing your temples. "No. No sleepovers. I’m officially clocking out as a parent today."

"Mama, no!” Keiko gasped.

“You gave me a two.”

Riku groaned. “Mom, you’re being dramatic.”

“You know what’s dramatic? Giving me a two, then immediately asking for a sleepover.”

Keiko huffed. "Fine. I’ll bump you to a five."

Riku crossed his arms. “You did buy us ice cream.”

"Are you guys seriously negotiating my score?"

Keiko beamed. "So that’s a yes?"

You sighed.

This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

"...Fine."

They cheered. Hiro, the traitor, just continued laughing in the front seat.

You ignored them all and pulled out your phone.

[You]: ur little gremlin just emotionally manipulated me into a sleepover [Do Not Answer]: that’s my girl [You]: come get her. i’m done parenting [Do Not Answer]: lmao no [You]: i hate u [Do Not Answer]: no you don’t ;)

You glared at the screen. This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

You were going to scream.

Or text him again.

Or maybe both.

But for now?

You needed wine. And maybe a therapist.

Golf was supposed to be a sport. A peaceful, relaxing Friday activity. Supposedly.

But no. Of course not. Why would anything in your life be peaceful? 

In your life, everything was a battlefield – including, but not limited to, your tragic excuse for golf skills, the stiletto-thin patience you’re currently wearing, and the fact that you’re stuck listening to old-money business jargon that sounds like it came out of a rejected Succession script. Or maybe Dynasty, you never know anymore.

At the stupidly pristine golf course, your dad stood with Wasuke (aka Sukuna’s dad, aka walking intimidation in pastel polos) and Jin (Sukuna’s twin, aka the lesser evil?). Their conversation smelled like money. Like old, generational, smells-like-the-inside-of-an-oak-safe-and-a-Ferrari-merged-wealth. The air around them crackled with hostile mergers and billion-dollar foreplay. 

Your sister was occasionally chimed in like she was born in a boardroom, and Gojo—another menace of the century with Sukuna — was playing both sides with the enthusiasm of a court jester who inherited a hedge fund.

Let’s be real: only three of you gave a single solitary shit about actual golf – you, Sukuna, and your mom. And your mom only cared because she once beat a CEO with a 7-iron and hasn’t emotionally recovered since.

The sun was bright. The grass was green. The vibe was hostile. And, you were already regretting your entire bloodline. Then, the worst voice known to mankind – smooth, smug, and utterly punchable – cut in from behind.

"You’re holding it wrong.” 

You turned your head so fast your neck cracked. “Can you shut up?"

Sukuna stood there, leaning on his golf club like he was auditioning for Rogue Billionaires Weekly, smirk carved across his face like he owned the damn country club. Spoiler: he might be. 

"Your stance is off. And your grip is fucking weak.” he said, voice mocking.

"My grip is fine, thank you.” Also, what the fuck even is a stance? You’re holding the club?!

He just grinned at you. That infuriating, teeth-flashing, smug little shit grin.

You sighed and turned back to the sound of corporate greed happening ten feet away, like a live-action PowerPoint presentation from hell. Yep, this is your slow, corporate-sponsored death.

"—the Dubai expansion is moving along," your dad said, adjusting his golf glove like a Bond villain. "Full return on investment by Q3 next year.”

Wasuke nodded. "And you’re securing exclusivity on that?"

Your sister jumped in. “The terms are favorable, but the board wants to explore secondary partnerships.”

May gods help you. Not the secondary partnerships.

"Secondary partnerships dilute brand value," Jin said, matter-of-factly and a voice flat as a Wall Street banker’s soul. "If you’re going in, go in alone."

Gojo, never missing an opportunity to self-promote, smirked. "Which is why I love working solo. No boards, no shareholders—just me, my money, and my incredible business instincts."

Sukuna snorted. "You mean your incredible luck?"

Gojo gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. Really, an Oscar-worthy performance. “'Kuna, I am deeply, deeply wounded."

"Don’t call me that," Sukuna muttered as he causally swung his golf club with perfect precision and sent the ball flying.

Meanwhile, Jin just dropped some casual xenophobia into the convo with, "I don’t trust the French.”

Heavens, they’re really brothers.

Wasuke didn’t even look up from his phone. “Their money’s good, but their loyalty is nonexistent.”

You leaned toward Sukuna out of curiosity. "Do you actually know what they’re talking about?"

Sukuna gave you a look that said: I have watched blood diamonds being auctioned off with less drama.

"Do you think I sit in boardrooms for fun?"

"Honestly? I try not to think about what you do."

"Because you’d get too distracted?" he said, mockingly sweet.

You rolled your eyes. "Because it’s probably illegal."

His smirk said no comment. Then Wasuke shifted the convo to Formula 1 – Sukuna’s domain of god complex and expensive toys.

"Motorsport contracts for the Euro manufacturers are wrapping up," Wasuke said, eyeing the scoreboard. "I want F1 projections next week."

“Already sent them,” Sukuna replied, because of course he did. “Wind tunnel drama, but the numbers are solid.”

"F1’s a money pit," your dad noted.

Jin smirked. “Yet they still beg us to be in their garages."

Your sister gave a knowing nod. "That’s because you control the entire supply chain. Power units, manufacturing motors, aerospace-grade materials—"

"You don’t win a championship without our parts," Sukuna added with terrifying ease.

Gojo whistled. "Damn. Y’all are playing god."

Wasuke smirked. "We don’t play god. We just make sure everyone needs us."

Sukuna’s crimson eyes flicked to yours. "Sound familiar?"

Ugh. That was a direct hit. You knew exactly what he was hinting at.

"Don’t be mad our family has the luxury industry in a chokehold," you shot back.

Jin laughed. "Our industries are co-dependent, though.”

You rolled your eyes. “Strategically entangled with deep-rooted dysfunction. There. Fixed it.”

“That’s rich, ”Sukuna chuckled under his breath. “Coming from the woman who emotionally negotiated a 5/10 rating out of a twelve-year-old.”

You whipped around to glare at him, your golf club pointed like a weapon. “Your daughter emotionally blackmailed me with dessert, okay? I’m the victim here.”

He took a slow step toward you, eyes gleaming like he was about to say something incredibly inappropriate. Especially in this place where you’re surrounded by family.

And you know that look. You hated that look he’s giving you right now. You just froze there, mentally preparing for the impact, fully aware that if this man so much as winked, your ovaries would detonate.

You sighed. "I hate it here."

"Sure," Sukuna drawled, “but you love getting the family-and-friends discount on Richard Mille."

You opened your mouth to argue — then shut it.

“…That’s what I thought," he said.

Meanwhile, the boardroom larping continued, with Jin casually lining up his golf shot. "By the way, what’s your play for the next expansion?"

Your dad smirked. "Exclusive deal on a rare pearl farm."

"How rare?" Sukuna asked.

Your sister crossed her arms. "One-of-one. Completely untapped market. If you want the pearls, you go through us."

Wasuke let out an approving chuckle. "That’s how you do business."

Sukuna turned to you. Smirking. "And you call me a capitalist pig."

You rolled your eyes. "I never said I wasn’t one too."

"Exactly."

Gojo clapped his hands together. "Okay, enough. Some of us are here to actually have fun.”

"Some of us are here to play golf," Jin added, eyes pointed at your disaster pose.

“Do you have broken legs or something, dumbass?” Sukuna asked. “Your stance has been criminal for the last 30 minutes.”

“Fuck you,” you whispered through a deep, meditative breath.

Gojo hummed, sipping his iced coffee. "No, he's right."

Your sister nodded sagely. "I’ve seen better posture from Riku playing Wii Sports."

Your mother sighed. "Honey, at least pretend you inherited some athletic ability."

You took a slow, deep breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t bury everyone here with a 9-iron. That’s a lot of jail time. And, murder is fucking illegal.

Across from you, Sukuna's shit-eating grin widened. “Want help?"

You gave him a deadpan look. "I would rather set this golf club on fire and dance around it like a pagan ritual."

"Aww," he cooed. "You’re so cute when you’re in denial."

Before you could golf club his skull, your dad clapped. “Alright, enough flirting. Take your shot.”

Flirting???

You turned slowly to look at him, completely horrified. Because why does every family function have to end up with everyone talking about your and Sukuna’s relationship.

“Dad.”

"Yes, dear?"

"That was not flirting."

Gojo grinned. "It kinda was."

Sukuna just snickered.

You ignored all of them and took your shot—which was terrible. The ball barely made it by three meters before pathetically rolling to a sad, pathetic stop like it just gave up on life. Not that golf balls have life but – everything’s just so stupid.

"Yikes," Sukuna whispered.

Gojo coughed to hide a laugh.

Your sister patted your shoulder. "It’s okay. Not all of us can be naturally gifted."

Sukuna slung an arm over your shoulder—bold move like a smug snake. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ve got other talents."

You shoved him off. "Like resisting the urge to commit first-degree homicide?"

He laughed and stepped up to take his own shot. He positioned himself with stupid, effortless confidence, gave a casual swing and then nailed it perfectly like it was nothing. The ball sailed through the air perfectly, landing exactly where it was supposed to.

Your father beamed. "Now that is how you play golf!"

Sukuna smirked at you. "See? That’s what maturity looks like."

You glared. "Maturity? You have a gold statue of yourself in your front yard, Sukuna."

"Confidence," he corrected.

Your mother sighed dreamily. "Oh, Sukuna, you should teach her more things. Maybe then she’d finally listen."

You choked. "Mom."

"She has a point," Gojo piped up. "I mean, you don’t even peel your own oranges—"

"That’s different," you snapped.

Sukuna grinned. "How?"

"Because peeling fruit is a waste of time. It’s too much work.”

"Uh-huh," he said, completely unconvinced. "And yet, you eat the ones I peel for you."

You paused.

Sukuna smirked with a wink, “Exactly.”

Gojo laughed. "Ohhh. He got you there."

Your sister gasped. "You’ve been peeling her fruit for years?"

"Yeah. Since high school.” Sukuna shrugged like it was nothing.

Your mother looked at you. "Sweetheart," she said, voice thick with judgment and amusement. "This is why we love him more than you."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Strike you down, Zeus, you’re ready.

Before your soul could ascend, Sukuna glanced at his watch. "We should wrap up soon. We have to pick up the kids."

Oh. Right. Riku and Keiko.

You groaned. "God, I hope they haven’t schemed anything.”

Sukuna just smiled. "Hope all you want. We both know they’re worse than us."

Your sigh was basically a prayer. Because he was right.

Then he looked at you – really looked – and for a second, you saw it. A familiar, almost nostalgic glint in his crimson eyes. That something in his eyes. The history. The bullshit. The college days.

Before the weird, co-parenting situationship.

Before the kids.

Before all this strategic dysfunction.

Of course it started with betrayal. Because why wouldn’t it?

REWIND TO 15 YEARS AGO

Ah, the golden age. The era of questionable fashion choices, stolen Netflix passwords, and zero concept of consequences. You were younger, dumber, and apparently, very susceptible to being peer-pressured by your stupidly attractive childhood best friends and tequila with a price tag that could fund a small startup.

And the betrayal? Classic Gojo.

Not yours. 

Not Sukuna’s. 

But Gojo freaking Satoru’s.

The plan was simple. A chill, lowkey, totally-not-going-to-spiral-into-chaos evening. The threey of you. One rare, bougie-ass bottle of unreleased tequila – procured through one of Sukuna’s many mysterious family connections, which probably meant some shady auction involving something you don’t even know if legal or illegal at this point, but like… whatever. Details.

And the holy trinity of chaos – you, Sukuna, Gojo – were supposed to break in your overpriced couch (emotionally) and consume alcohol worth more than your rent. In your apartment. With music, chaos, and maybe light emotional trauma.

But Gojo?

That flaky, unreliable, sunglasses-wearing disaster of a human being? He didn’t show up. He straight up ghosted.

No text. No call. Just vibes – and not even the good ones. You and Sukuna were left staring at your phones like you’d both been stood up by the world’s most unserious Tinder date. Sitting in the dim glow of your apartment, side by side on your ridiculously expensive couch. The tequila, untouched, sat like a third wheel on your pristine glass coffee table, judging you.

And of course Sukuna, ever the picture of carelessness, was lounging on your couch like he owned the place (well, he and Gojo has your spare keys thanks to your very insistent mother who said that this was for safety purposes). He’s made himself too comfortable. His expensive leather jacket? Tossed like trash. His shirt? Pushed up just enough to flash his abs like a Calvin Klein ad. His legs? Sprawled. Man was taking up 80% of your couch like it came with a deed in his name.

You’d almost asked him to move his knee off your thigh, but that required energy and dignity – both of which were too low.

“He’s a piece of shit,” you mumbled, flipping your phone screen-down like it had personally betrayed you too.

Sukuna just huffed, stretching like a lazy cat. “We knew that.”

A beat of silence.

Then you turned your head. Sukuna was already looking at you.

And that was the beginning of the end.

You didn’t even need to say it, but you did anyway – because you’re you and you’re brain was one shot away from being completely unhinged.

"Fuck him," you said, curling your fingers around the bottle’s neck. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

Sukuna’s smirk was criminal. ”Gladly.”

Tequila hit like a kiss and a slap. Warm and mean. Sweet with aftershocks. It tasted like rebellion and a future apology text. It burned, sweet and smooth, slipping down your throat like bad decisions.

And by the fifth shot, everything had softened. You, the air, the line between sense and chaos. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just in that dreamy, blurry zone where every thought seemed brilliant and you suddenly had strong opinions on things like fruit ethics and the social implications of banana neglect.

"Okay, hear me out," you began, swirling your glass like you actually understood tequila tasting. "If a banana has brown spots and you throw it away, isn’t that, like… fruitism?” You argued, dead serious.

Sukuna blinked at you, slow and unimpressed. “You’re equating overripe produce with discrimination?”

"Okay, but isn’t it?"

Sukuna, drunk but still insufferably rational, huffed. "Fruits were literally made to decay. The spots don’t even mean they’re bad. They’re just riper. Sweeter.”

“I’m just saying,” You squinted at him and gestured with passion. “And people toss them like yesterday’s garbage. That’s bias.”

He groaned, rubbing his face like your IQ physically pained him. “You’re drunk.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “You’re hot.”

He didn’t even blink. “Still doesn’t make what you said smart.”

“Can’t have it all.”

Shot seven was the real villain. That was the one that made you bold. That was the shot that made the conversation shift to a heated, increasingly idiotic debate about billionaires and time-travel tech like you were on a TED talk stage.

“Listen,” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him and serious as a heart attack, “if someone invented a machine that lets you relive the best moment of your life –”

“Oh, here we fucking go,” Sukuna muttered, who is slumped against the couch with a drink in hand and zero patience. And he’s already rubbing his temple like he has a migraine.

“—billionaires shouldn’t be allowed to use it.”

Sukuna gave you a flat look.the kind that screamed you’re an idiot and I am suffering. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve heard, and I talk to Gojo on a regular basis.”

“That’s justice,” you replied.

“You sound like one of those fake-deep Twitter threads with the ‘let that sink in’ at the end.”

You gasped loudly and dramatically, hand to chest. “That’s the meanest things you’ve ever said to me.”

Sukuna smirked and leaned back on the couch, swirling his drink, all lazy and smug. “Not even top five. Cry about it.”

And honestly? Fair.

You narrowed your eyes at him, then shoved at his shoulder. “Smug bastard.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised an eyebrow, all smug and irritating. “That the best you got?”

“You wanna go?” you said, drunk enough to mean it, sober enough to know it was a terrible idea.

“Brat, I’ve been waiting for you to throw hands.”

And just like that, it was on. The argument devolved into some half-playful, half-serious wrestling match that your tequila-soaked logic somehow decided was a good idea. You lunged yourself at him—awkwardly, gracelessly, like a cat trying to fight its reflection. And he caught you. Of course.

Sukuna met your weak-ass attack with a wicked grin and zero effort, catching your wrists mid-swat and easily flipping you onto your back like this was WWE: College Edition.

He was straddling your waist like this was some twisted rom-com where the lead-up was fruit bias and class warfare. He was pinning your hands above your head with one of his stupidly strong hands, face inches from yours. Neither of you moved. His smirk stretched slow and deliberate.

“Aw,” he murmured, looking down at you. “Pinned you already.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your brain screamed.

“We better not fuck,” you said, breathless, mock-serious, heart pounding like you weren’t already halfway there. “That would be crazy.”

Sukuna laughed, sharp and dark. “You’re right. That would be so stupid.”

You stared up at him, drunk on more than just tequila. “So, don’t.”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, the world going mute, “Make me.”

The tension was a slow, burning thing. Suddenly too heavy, too obvious.

And it happened.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. And fuck, maybe he had.

It was desperate, messy, hot—his hands were greedy, large, possessive, fingers digging into your waist as you pulled him onto you. His weight settled over yours, pinning you to the couch, every hard line of muscle pressing into your body.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, breath warm against your lips. “This is a bad idea.”

You nipped at his bottom lip, smirking. “Then stop.”

Sukuna growled.

So obviously, you didn’t

Your soul has left your body.

You were spent. Utterly wrecked. A pleasantly, post-orgasmic disaster of a human being, melted into your couch like cheese. The kind of boneless, mind-melting exhaustion that came after a particularly intense workout—except the only exercise involved had been riding Sukuna like your life depended on it.

Sukuna yanked you back down with a lazy smirk, his fingers tight around your waist. He was against your neck, smug as sin, like he hadn’t just destroyed your entire pelvic floor and sanity in under an hour.

Your brain was short-circuiting. Not even crashing—melting. Like: what were you doing?

What were you doing letting Sukuna Ryomen, heir to a criminally rich, morally grey empire, raw you on a couch your mother had helped you pick out a week ago? That same couch that she said would “last through years of wear and tear”? Oh honey, if only she knew.

You could still feel him inside you (because, he is still inside you), which, frankly, was just rude. Your vagina had zero chill. Not when Sukuna had been whispering things like good girl and so fucking tight into your ear for the last forty-five minutes like he was narrating an erotic audiobook that only your nervous system had access to.

Your breathing was ragged, your skin damp with sweat, your limbs completely useless. The couch cushions were destroyed, one of the pillows had somehow ended up on the floor, and your legs… well. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to use them properly for the next hour. Maybe the next week.

Then there was a moment – still, quiet, charged – and Sukuna, ever the menace, had to go and say,  “Loving daddy’s cock inside you, baby?” 

Oh fuck, his post-sex voice is too sexy to hear. Your vagina responded before your brain did. Your moan was involuntary. Your dignity packed a bag and left.

The air was thick, too warm, and filled with the scent of tequila, sex, and very bad decisions.

You should’ve been freaking out. Should’ve been reconsidering every life choice that led up to this moment. Should’ve been thinking about things like consequences or friendship dynamics or even just the fact that you had quite literally defiled your own couch.

And then, because the universe has a terrible sense of timing –

BANG.

The door slammed open.

You and Sukuna froze mid-regret, your heart doing backflips and your brain buffering like a corrupted YouTube video. Basically, this is the time your soul left your body.

And then…

“Oh, hell yeah.”

Gojo.

Of course it was Gojo.

Standing in your doorway like he was meant to be the comedic third act twist in your sexual coming-of-age story. Sunglasses on at 2AM (maybe it’s already 3AM), stupid grin in full force, and holding a bag of snacks the size of a small child.

Your brain, still swimming in post-orgasmic haze and the last remnants of drunkenness, short-circuited.

Because—oh. That’s why he was late.

He’d gone shopping.

Gojo had spent—what, two hours? Three?—debating the intricate nuances of potato chips, probably standing in the aisle like a philosopher pondering the meaning of life. And in the end? He’d just bought one of everything. Every brand. Every flavor. As if he were assembling a tasting menu for a fucking wine and cheese night—except it was just snacks.

You blinked at him like he was a mirage.

He blinked back, grinning harder, “Did you—” He gestured vaguely at your naked, sweaty, entangled bodies. 

“You guys seriously just fucked?”

Sukuna groaned, voice muffled against your skin. “Get the fuck out.”

Your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head. You wanted to cry. Or vanish. Or time-travel to an hour ago and slap the bottle out of your own hand.

Gojo continued, blissfully ignorant with his shit-eating grin dialed up to maximum wattage. “You could’ve at least waited for me.”

“GOJO.”

“Not to join!” he added, then paused. “Unless—?”

Sukuna finally lifted his head, naked, disheveled, and radiating murder. His voice dropped into something lethal. "You step one foot further, and I will personally make sure you never reproduce.” 

And then he threw the nearest couch pillow at Gojo’s face.

Gojo dodged with the agility of a mad who had absolutely walked in on worse. “Y’know, I knew something was up with you two since high school –” 

He sighed. Sighed, like he was talking about a missed prom date and not your current naked humiliation.

“SATORU.”

“— the sexual tension was like a constant third presence. Like god, but hornier.”

Yeah, you’re most likely dying of humiliation tonight.

“But I never thought you’d actually go and rawdog each other without me even getting a sip of that tequila.”

Your eye twitched. Your entire nervous system sent out one last emergency broadcast before collapsing like a dying star. There was no saving you now. You were gonna have to move cities. Change names. Fake your death and live in the woods.

In a blind, desperate attempt to salvage literally anything – your pride, your humanity, your grandmother’s ghost watching from the afterlife – you grabbed the nearest object and hurled it at him. 

Maybe it was a pillow. Maybe it was your shame. Maybe it was your will to live.

No. No, of course it couldn’t be anything soft or metaphorical.

It was your bra.

The bra that cost more than your phone. The bra hand-stitched by artisans in France who probably didn’t intend for it to be yeeted across the room like a missile of humiliation.

Gojo caught it midair. And fucking whistled. Whistled. 

Sukuna let out a lethal growl above you, like he was two seconds from choosing violence over pulling out. “Drop. It.”

Gojo, being Gojo, did not drop it. No. That would’ve been rational. Instead, he held it up to the light like some deranged pervert on an antique TV show. 

“Huh. Didn’t peg you as a lace kinda girl. Delicate, but slutty. Iconic.”

You lunged at him like a rabid raccoon.

Sukuna yanked you back down before you could inflict justified murder, his grip locking tight around your waist like he knew exactly how many war crimes you were about to commit. “Save your energy, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Oh, now he wants to be cute? Now? After he rawdogged your soul out of your body and left it there, on the floor, vulnerable and exposed like a neglected Sims character?

Gojo cackled, like this was the highlight of this week. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. So! Are we finally admitting that you guys have been feral for each other this whole time?”

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, GOJO."

He wheezed. Laughed like this was the best episode of a reality TV he’d ever seen. You, however, were having a full-blown metaphysical crisis.

And then it hit you. Like your brain finally sobered up enough to whisper, ‘hey dumbass… something’s off…’

You. 

And Sukuna.

Were. 

Still. 

Naked.

Not cute-and-covered-by-the-blanket naked. 

Not tastefully-draped-like-a-renaissance-painting naked.

No.

This was “there’s an entire Gojo eyeball on your titty” naked.

That’s why Sukuna fucking yanked you down so fast. Not to protect your dignity – lol, what dignity – but because your boobs were just out. Just there. Making their unwanted debut to the worst audience in human history. 

Your entire existence condensed into one singular thought: you’re gonna astral project out of this flesh prison and never return.

You buried your face in your hands.

“I’m never drinking again,” you mumbled, voice muffled and soul-dead. The words of a liar. A liar with regrets.

Sukuna, the bastard, didn’t even flinch. This man had seen war (business rejections, most likely). Tax evasion. Eternal damnation. Your naked ass wasn’t gonna rattle him. “I’m never letting you drink again.”

Gojo, now seated in the doorway like he was watching a 2000s rom-com movie, clapped his hands together. “Well! Now that everyone's tits are covered, I vote we unpack all this juicy sexual tension over midnight snacks.”

You made a noise. It might have been a sob. Or a scream.

Then, you locked eyes with Sukuna. Dead serious.

“Kill him first,” you said. “Then me.”

Gojo opened his mouth—

“No, you cannot take a picture,” you snapped.

Gojo shut his mouth. But only for a second.

“I was gonna ask if you guys needed snacks,” he said, fake-offended, “but sure, go ahead and assume the worst.”

Sukuna's eye twitched. Like, visibly. Dangerously. “You have five seconds before I personally rearrange your jaw.”

Gojo held up his hands in surrender—still holding your bra, like it was a white flag for surrender.

You just wanted to die. Or better—rewind time. All the way back to when you said, “just one tequila shot.”

“So, when’s the wedding?” Gojo smirked.

That was it. That was Sukuna’s final nerve snapping. Man went from 0 to murder real quick, pulling out (rude) in a heartbeat and bolting after Gojo around the apartment with the kind of fury that would make Greek gods go ‘damn bro, chill.’

You, meanwhile, scrambled to find a blanket. Any blanket. Any napkin. A curtain. You would’ve accepted being wrapped in your own regret at that point. Still dizzy. Still mildly post-orgasmic. Still spiritually decimated.

You never lived that moment down. 

Ever.

Gojo made sure of it.

And yet – despite the absolute catastrophic level of social humiliation – you really thought that was it. A stupid, drunken slip-up. A one-time tequila-fueled tragedy.

But it wasn’t. Because, of course, it wasn’t.

Because this was you and Sukuna.

Disasters. Walking, breathing, kissing disasters.

And this?

This was the biggest, dumbest, horniest fucking disaster of them all.

It wasn’t just a one-time thing.

It wasn’t just a casual phase.

It lasted three fucking years.

God forbid.

Three years of sneaking glances across rooms like the two of you weren’t regularly naked in each other’s beds. Three years of pretending there wasn’t stupidly cosmic about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. Three years of pretending it was just fucking.

You were in your last year of college. Graduation loomed in like a loaded gun. Sukuna was finishing his postgrad, looking dangerously adult while you were still using dry shampoo as a personality. And instead of prepping for the real world, you were spending every night tangled in sheets, sweat, and denial.

You weren’t even being subtle about it.

Sukuna’s hoodies lived in your wardrobe rent-free. Your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. You ate half his fries every time.

It wasn’t just the sex (though, let’s be real, the sex could summon the dead and cancel student debt). It was everything. The way his hoodies, shirts, pants (heck, all his clothes) lived in your wardrobe rent-free. The way your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. The way you shamelessly ate half his fries every time. The way he memorized your coffee order. The way you always saved him the last dumpling even though you hated sharing. The fact that he punched a guy once for saying your laugh was annoying. You were basically in a relationship.

Just… you know. Without the commitment. Or the honesty. Or the emotional maturity.

But not everything lasts perfectly, right?

Because saying it would make it real.

And if it was real then, it could end. And neither of you were brave enough for that.

You don’t remember exactly when it started to shift.

Maybe when he stayed over just to sleep.

Maybe when you waited for him after class.

Maybe when he threatened his frat brothers for flirting with you.

Maybe when you were too in your feelings, and he was in denial, and the entire relationship had the emotional maturity of a wet paper towel trying to hold a gallon of wine.

It was three fucking years of closeness so intimate it could’ve been called codependency if it weren’t so mutual.

But neither of you said it.

Neither of you dared to.

Not until the night it all went to hell.

Over the stupidest, pettiest, most aggressively idiotic fight in the history of human race. And romance.

Over a fucking LED light.

You blinked out of the memory like you’d just been possessed by a much younger, hotter, dumber version of yourself. Truly, your early twenties needed a warning label.

Only dragged back to the present by the sound of Gojo’s obnoxious laugh and the distant thwack of another golf ball being ruthlessly yeeted into the horizon.

But your mind was still a few tequila shots behind. Still sticky with the memory of hot skin, tangled limbs, and the unforgivable knowledge that Sukuna had once bitten your neck like he was trying to ruin you on purpose. (He did.) That he’d once kissed you so hard you forgot your own name, let alone the fact that you were definitely, definitely supposed to keep things platonic.

You hadn’t thought about that night in years. You’d buried it so deep beneath co-parenting schedules and passive-aggressive text threads that it had fossilized. You’d compartmentalized it like a pro. Filed it under Regrettable But Also Kinda Amazing Decisions That We Pretend Never Happened Because Denial Is a Lifestyle.

But all it took was one look. 

One stupid look from Sukuna and your whole nervous system went, “Hey, remember that time you climbed him like a tree?”

You nearly choked on your own saliva.

Sukuna looked at you, raising a brow. “You good?”

You stared at him. The same eyes. Same smirk. Same stupid, punchable face that you’d once maybe considered kissing in a tequila haze.

You muttered, “I hate you.”

He grinned. “You looked like you were remembering something tragic. Was it my abs?”

You hit him with your golf club. Lightly. (For legal reasons.)

Gojo, watching from the side, completely unaware of your inner spiral, wandered over with the self-satisfied strut of a man who just made par and will never let anyone forget it. “So, what’s the verdict? Are we still pretending you two don’t have wildly unresolved sexual tension or…?”

You glared. “Do you want to die today?”

Gojo just waggled his brows. “I’m just saying, the air’s thick with tension. Like, if I blink, someone’s getting pinned to the nearest flat surface.”

Sukuna, infuriatingly calm, walked past you to grab his water bottle. “Grow up, Gojo.”

That was rich coming from a man who once texted you “wanna come over and fight?” at 2 a.m. and then had the audacity to kiss you like you were air and he was suffocating years ago.

You rubbed your temple. Get it together.

But the memory clung. It had claws. And it wouldn’t let go.

Only the three of you knew. Only the three of you would ever know. You’d made a silent, mutually-assured-destruction type pact after the fact. No one brings it up. No one mentions the couch. No one so much as breathes in the direction of “remember that night?”

And you’d all been doing so well.

Until now.

Until Sukuna looked at you like that.

Until you remembered exactly how he tasted.

Until your body remembered what your brain had worked overtime to erase.

You looked at Sukuna now – older, annoyingly hotter, a single father of a cute, angel-looking gremlin – and your stomach dropped.

Because the worst part wasn’t the memory.

It was the terrifying realization that some part of you... hadn’t actually moved on.

And that? That was the most dangerous thing of all.

It wasn’t normal. None of it was normal. You weren’t normal.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to be.

Sukuna knew. He knew the moment you glitched like a broken Sims out of nowhere, the subtle shift in your posture, the way your lips pressed into a tight line. He’d seen it before, in the way you tried to bury things under layers of sarcasm and nonchalance. 

And that? That was exact thing that made his chest tighten, just a little bit.

You’d always been good at pretending. Hell, you were great at pretending. But Sukuna wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen the cracks in the armor. He’d felt them in the way you’d tense up when he was too close. In the way you still looked at him when you thought no one was paying attention.

Even thought it’s been 12 years, the memory of your lips on his, the desperate heat of it, was all burned into his mind just as much as it was in yours. That last night had fucked him up in ways he couldn’t even begin to untangle. That fucking fight over LED lights. But he wasn’t going to admit that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But now? Now, standing next to you on this golf course, with Gojo prattling on about tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, Sukuna could feel something else — something he wasn’t sure he was ready to confront. 

He’d tried. He’d tried to move on. To tell himself that you were just a chapter in a stupid, messy college romance he could chalk up to a lesson learned. But the way you still looked at him — like you wanted to kill him one minute and kiss him the next — made him wonder if he was really the one who’d moved on. 

You hadn’t said it. You hadn’t admitted it to him, and you definitely hadn’t admitted it to yourself. But Sukuna could feel the pull between you two, like gravity trying to yank him back into orbit. And he fucking hated it.

You weren’t ready to move on, and maybe… maybe neither was he.

Gojo’s voice cut through his thoughts again, loud and obnoxious, but it didn’t help. If anything, it just made the tension worse. And there you were, glaring at him like you wanted to murder him with your golf club. That just made his smirk wider.

He didn’t care what Gojo said. He didn’t care how thick the air felt between them.

He cared that every time you looked at him, he felt something that wasn’t quite hatred. He cared that, despite everything, the memory of that night — the way you fit so perfectly against him — still haunted him.

The worst part?

You were still the one thing that got under his skin.

And that terrified him.

You’re sitting there, waiting outside the school, in his damn car, sunglasses on like you’re trying to hide from the world and also from the fact that your brain’s still stuck in the relapsing and post-golfing haze. The one where you remember way too much of that face – that stupid, stupid face – and the laugh that somehow made you feel things you don’t ever wanna feel again. And don’t even get started on his damn arms. Like, who needs arms to be that distracting in the middle of everything? Seriously, when did he roll up his sleeves? Was there some kind of cosmic mistake? The universe did not need that information. 

And yet, here you are, replaying it in slow motion in your head. Yep, even that night 15 years ago. Even worse, you almost drooled thinking about it. Almost.

It also didn’t need the fact that you almost drooled while thinking about it.

And, God, it’s too quiet. Way too quiet. Normally, you and Sukuna are bantering like two toddlers fighting over the last cookie. You’re both competitive assholes, arguing about dumb shit like whose playlist will play for the ride-back. But today? Nah. You’re both too out of it. Too tame.

You glance sideways at Sukuna, who’s leaning back in his seat too lax. Does he always look like that? But you’ve been staring at him for far too long today, and it’s messing with your internal wiring. You actually almost forgot to argue. Almost.

So, you break the silence first. “I’d rather not get out of the car,” you say, because... why not?

Sukuna looks over at you like you’ve grown an extra head, “What? Did Mrs. Yoshida go up to you the other day?”

The mere mention of her name is enough to spark an internal cringe. You snort but it comes out half-hearted. Like, yeah, you’ve got a serious vendetta against that woman, but even you can’t muster the energy to fully engage. “Yeah. Guess she wanted to show off yet again.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “Show off what? Her death grip on passive aggression?”

That earned him a real laugh from you, one that surprised both of you a little. But it fades just as quickly as it came. You leaned your head back against the seat, eyes closed, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. Like you’ve been holding it since that goddamn golf course.

“She said something about me finally doing the school run for once,” you muttered, your voice low with disbelief. “Like I was doing a cosplay of a present parent.”

Sukuna’s face doesn’t change, but his voice drops into that deep, sarcastic tone. “She would say that. Probably thinks your ovaries are overdue for reactivation or some shit.”

You turned to him slowly. “What does that even mean?”

He smirked. That damn smirk that you swear could put every other man on the planet to shame. “Don’t know. Ask her. I bet she’s got a PowerPoint ready.” Oh, honey, maybe, you’re too down bad after that relapse.

Another snort escaped you, this time more genuine, because honestly? She would. God, the thought of it made your skin crawl, but it’s too funny not to appreciate, “God, I hate her heels. They click like a countdown to emotional damage.”

Sukuna laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes you forget the day’s weirdness for a second. “She probably practices walking in her driveway.”

“Oh absolutely. Full parade route. With flags and a marching band made of guilt.”

That’s it. That’s the sweet spot. You both start laughing, but it’s like a weird patchwork of relief and awkwardness, too. Like you can’t quite shake off the tension from earlier today, but at least now there’s something more normal—something fun—in the air.

And that’s how you found outside the car, now standing in front of the school gates, with Sukuna this time. But standing so goddamn close to you. It made your heart rate do that little skip thing you can’t ever explain. But, no time to be a freak about it.

The bell rings. And of course, who’s the first person you see? Mrs. Goddamn Yoshida. She appeared out of thin air like a mid-tier Bond villain with hair lacquered into a helmet of superiority and lip gloss as weaponized as ever.

“Oh,” she drawls, her voice as sugary sweet as cyanide. “Two school pickups in a week? Someone’s going for Mother of the Month.”

You don’t even blink. Your sunglasses are firmly in place, and you’re already prepping your comeback. “You would know. You still printing the certificates at home?”

Sukuna laughed beside you, a deep, guttural sound that only made Mrs. Yoshida more uncomfortable. He eyes practically twitched. She’s not even hiding the fact that she’s shook that you’re here with Sukuna. The most-coveted bachelor (well, he may be a single dad but technically he’s not yet married) in the country. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but just as she’s about to speak –

“Mom?” 

Riku’s voice rang out like a melody through the tension, and just like that, everything resets. Your brain stutters for half a second as you snap your head around to see Riku, your baby boy (c’mon, he’s 12), running towards you like you’ve just saved his world.

And then, there’s Keiko. Running right behind Riku… but instead of launching themselves into your arms like the sensible kids they are, they both straight up betrayed you. These gremlins ran straight for Sukuna. What you can’t believe was the fact that your son ignored you. He may have called you but no he didn’t even ran towards you. What the fuck was that?

You blink, standing there, totally dumbfounded. Your mouth might even be hanging open a bit. Seriously? They just—what? Your son, the kid you’ve been raising, the one who’s spent years gluing your heart to his every move, just totally... skipped you? And now he’s practically throwing himself at Sukuna?

Your brain scrambles for words, but they’re stuck in some weird loop. "Riku," you manage, but it's more like you're calling him out of instinct than actually knowing what the hell to do with this new development.

But Keiko, of course, isn’t wasting any time either. She’s clinging to Sukuna’s leg like she’s on some sort of mission, because you might probably be jealous of his parenting dynamic with his daughter. You want to tell them both off, but the weirdest thing happens: a tiny part of you feels... left out? Like, what the hell?

Sukuna looks down at the two of them, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, clearly trying not to laugh too hard at your expense. "Guess your son likes me more," he teases, all calm and collected as usual, though you can tell he’s getting a kick out of it.

Riku finally looks up at you, a little sheepish now, like he knows he’s been caught. "Uh, sorry, Mom. Papa told me he’ll bring us to that sushi place today." He scratches his head awkwardly.

OH. So, that’s what we’re doing now.

Bribery. Betrayal. And sushi.

You narrow your eyes, your expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and parental betrayal. “Oh. Papa told you that, huh?” you repeat slowly, the word "Papa" practically dripping with italics and judgment. The way Riku suddenly fidgets? Yeah, he knows he’s in trouble. Good.

Sukuna just shrugs, the cocky bastard, still smirking like this is all part of his grand villain arc. “Can’t help it if I have good taste and your kid has excellent priorities,” he says, which is exactly the kind of smug crap he always pulls when he knows he’s winning.

You cross your arms, sunglasses still on, even though the sun is hiding behind a cloud like it’s also trying to avoid the tension. “Yeah? Next time, how about you bribe your own daughter and leave mine out of it?”

Keiko, ever the daddy’s girl, finally detaches herself from Sukuna’s leg and gives you an innocent look, but it’s not lost on you that she’s got a mischievous glint in her eyes. “No need, mama! I already love daddy a lot.”

You stare at both of them for a second, blinking as you process this betrayal. "You two are unbelievable. Is this why Riku comes home later than he should’ve been for the past month? Your briberies?”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his grin widens like he’s thriving under the betrayal-fueled glare you’re shooting at him.

“Oh, come on,” he says, deadpan, “you make it sound like we’re running some underground snack ring. It was one burger trip. Maybe three. And a boba run.”

You squint at him. “And the churros that Riku brought home last week?”

“That was... spontaneous.”

Keiko, bless her tiny traitorous heart, pipes up like she’s on the witness stand. “And the arcade tokens, Daddy?”

Sukuna blinks. Then shrugs. “Okay, five bribery trips. But who’s counting?”

You’re counting. You are absolutely counting. You’re already adding it to the list in your Notes app. You inhale, deeply. Breathe in patience. Exhale vengeance.

“You do realize,” you say slowly, “that he told his math teacher you’re his second emergency contact now?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “That’s cute. And honestly? Fair. I bring snacks, pick them up, and importantly? Emotional availability.”

You gasp like you’ve just been hit with a flying sandal. “I birthed him.” 

He tilts his head, hand over his heart in mock sympathy. “Yeah, but I took him to watch that new superhero movie twice, and I didn’t complain once. Not even during the post-credit scene.”

Riku nods solemnly. “He even explained the multiverse to me without getting mad.”

You turn to your son like you’re looking at a stranger in your home. “You never let me explain anything without groaning.” 

Riku shrugs with zero guilt. “Your explanations come with a lot of side stories.”

“That’s called context!” you sputter.

Oh, but now this pink-haired bastard is actually laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a smug little puff of air. No. This is a full-on, head-tilted-back, shoulders-shaking, evil-boyfriend-in-a-Kdrama laugh. And the worst part? It's lowkey making you relapse to that 3-year long situationship. Which is exactly what the problem is. You’ve been relapsing since this week fucking started. This shouldn’t have happened. And this all started because he murdered your hedge.

And now, you’re standing there—offended, outnumbered, and tragically out-bribed—and all you can think is: you hate it here.

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your sunglasses like they’ll shield your soul from this level of disrespect.

Sukuna wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “C’mon, don’t be jealous. You’re still the top mom in this cult we’ve built.”

You stare at him. “You literally poached my child with raw fish, sneakers, burgers, gold leaf fries, and Marvel trivia. That’s not parenting. That’s warfare.” 

“And I’m winning,” he says without missing a beat. 

Keiko pats your arm in consolation. “It’s okay, Mama. You still have snacks sometimes at your house.”

“Sometimes,” you echo, wounded. 

Riku’s still awkwardly standing there, clearly feeling the weight of his betrayal. “Uh, Mom, do you still wanna go to that sushi place later?” he asks, his voice full of nervous hope, like he’s waiting for a miracle to save him from your wrath.

You narrow your eyes, looking between your son and Sukuna. “You really think I’m gonna let you off the hook that easily?” You cross your arms again, but this time it’s not as fierce. “I mean, if you wanna bribe me with sushi... I guess I can consider it.”

Sukuna snorts beside you, clearly enjoying the inner battle you’re having with yourself. "See? Told you, bribery always works.”

"Shut up," you mutter, but you can’t help the hint of a smile. Dammit, this is exactly how he got you last time.

Sukuna’s trying to herd the kids toward the car now, like some unholy cross between a playground kingpin and the world’s most chaotic dad. And for one fleeting moment, you catch yourself smiling. Genuinely. The kind that sneaks up on you before you can armor it with sarcasm.

And then—

“I call shotgun!” Riku yells.

“No, I call shotgun!” Keiko yells back.

You’re about to intervene like a responsible adult (because who lets 12-year-olds ride shotgun?!) when Sukuna just shrugs and tosses you the keys. “Guess you’re driving. They’ll keep fighting otherwise.”

You catch them automatically, then freeze. “Wait, I’m driving? In your car?”

He’s already walking to the passenger side. “You’ll be fine. I trust you.”

And there it is again. That weird little glitch in your heart. The one that started on the golf course, peaked somewhere around churros, and now, apparently, comes with keys and unsolicited trust.

You mutter under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat, “Next time I’m bringing veggie chips and trauma bonding. See how he likes that.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re genuinely grinning as you walk toward the school gates. Because no matter how many times you roll your eyes at him, you know that, deep down, you’ll always be this close to falling right back into that stupid pattern of chaos and longing.

And secretly? Secretly you don’t mind the shotgun betrayal. Or the sushi bribes. Or even Sukuna’s dumb laugh that now lives rent-free in your brain.

What you do mind is how easy it is to imagine this being…normal.

And that? That’s the scariest part.

Because the last time things felt normal with Sukuna—it ended with heartbreak, a bruised ego, and a pink LED light flickering like the world’s most ironic heartbreak anthem.

REWIND TO 12 YEARS AGO

It had all started innocently enough—just a stupid school project, both of you in your own little worlds, completely unaware of the mess you'd end up in. You’d been frantically pulling an all-nighter for your thesis on marketing strategies, running on a diet of coffee and panic. The room smelled like burnt ambition and three-day-old coffee.

Sukuna had walked in, uninvited (as usual), plopping himself down on the edge of your bed and looking like he owned the place. You didn’t even glance up from your notes.

"Got any snacks, or is your thesis a full meal by itself?” he'd asked casually, stretching his legs across the floor.

“it’s a five-course meal of existential dread. You should’ve brought dessert,” you muttered, eyes flicking over your outline that still had more question marks than actual points.

He made a dramatic tsk noise. ”Really? That bad? Damn, should’ve brought ice cream. Or a priest.”

You finally looked up, dead-eyed. “Unless the priest knows APA format and has a spare conclusion section in his pocket, I don’t want it.”

“Wow, brat. So ungrateful.” He leaned over to snatch your mug without asking, took a sip, and immediately gagged. “What is this? Battery acid? Motor oil? Regret?”

“It’s coffee,” you said, dryly. “And if you touch my highlighters, I will end you.”

He blinked at you. “Gotchu, babe. No touching the holy trinity: coffee, highlighters, and your rapidly deteriorating sanity.”

You grunted. “What are you even doing here, ‘Kuna? Don’t you have people to terrorize somewhere else?”

He shrugged, picking up a sticky note from your desk and squinting at the words like they personally offended him. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite stress case.”

You gave him a look that screamed I am five seconds away from a breakdown and you’re monologuing in my safe space.But Sukuna? He was already distracted, fiddling with your desk lamp like it held the secrets of the universe.

Before you could ask what the hell he was doing, he suddenly grinned, standing up, and twisting the lamp in a way that made the light flicker dramatically.

“What are you doing with my lamp?” you snapped, but he was already flipping the switch.

“Nah, I’m just making sure you’re not too depressed so we gotta change the mood lighting. You need it. Trust me. This is what creative enlightenment looks like.” He flashed a grin that had you wondering if he’d lost his mind.

“If that’s enlightenment, pretty sure the light’s about to start flickering and lead me to a breakdown.” You were so tired, but you couldn’t help the irritation bubbling up.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He reached for your lamp again, twisting it in the other direction like he was adjusting some fancy futuristic remote control.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” you said, grabbing his wrist before he could do more damage to your perfectly ordinary, functional lamp. “This is my space, my chaos. You can’t just—”

Suddenly, you found yourself flat on your back on the bed, and Sukuna’s weight was pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe.

“Not a bad way to distract you, huh?” he said, his voice low and teasing. Before you could react, his lips were on yours, and that was it. The floodgates opened, your frustrations morphing into something entirely different.

Heat. Hands. Teeth.

And that stupid lamp still casting romantic lighting like you were in some low-budget romcom with a dangerously high body count.

You didn’t even remember who pulled who first. One second you were yelling about thesis formatting and desk territory, and the next, Sukuna was pulling your shirt over your head like it had personally offended him. You should’ve been worried about citations. APA format. Deadline. But somehow his mouth on your neck took priority.

Again.

You made it to the edge of the bed this time before knocking over a pile of highlighters and flashcards. Sukuna didn't even blink.

“Watch the thesis,” you gasped as your laptop nearly flew off the side.

“Babe, the only thing I’m watching is you falling apart under me,” he said, grinning like the devil, hands already sliding down your waist.

You hated that it worked. Hated how your body betrayed you so quickly—how easily you leaned into him, craved him, even when your life was falling apart in bullet points and overdue drafts.

It was frantic. A little sloppy. Neither of you had the brain cells for finesse. Just something rough and grounding to yank you out of the spiral and straight into Sukuna’s orbit—where logic went to die and pleasure took the wheel.

By the time it was over, both of you were breathless and half-covered in dissertation pages and regret.

And that’s when he did it.

He reached over.

And changed the mood lighting again.

Soft pink this time.

You stared at him, chest still heaving, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead. “What the actual hell is wrong with you?”

“What?” he said innocently, blinking like a man who wasn’t still inside you thirty seconds ago. 

“It’s a vibe. I’m curating.”

“You’re curating? This isn’t a Pinterest board, Sukuna. This is my room.”

“And yet,” he said, gesturing dramatically to the lamp, “I made it better.”

You sat up, immediately regretting it when your thigh cramped. “I swear to God, if you touch that lamp one more time—”

“You’ll what? Write a strongly worded thesis about it?”

“Oh my God, I hate you.”

“You say that,” he said, flopping back onto the bed with a grin, “but you let me raw you like a stress-relief squishmallow, so.”

You picked up a pillow and hurled it at his face.

Hard.

Sukuna caught it with one hand, smirking.

“I’m changing it to red next.”

“Touch that switch and I��m putting glitter glue in your shampoo.”

“…Kinky.”

You screamed into another pillow.

And for a second, it was funny. Ridiculous. The kind of scene you'd laugh about in five years over drinks.

But something in the air shifted—too subtle to notice at first. Like a hairline crack in a dam.

Then he said it. The thing that would claw its way into both of your memories and rot there, festering for years.

“You know, if you put half the effort into your actual thesis that you put into pretending to be in love with me when you're bored, you'd be graduating top of our class.”

Silence.

It came so fast, so sharp, it cleaved the air clean in half.

You sat up slowly. Carefully. Like you were disarming a bomb, but oh—too late. It already went off.

“What did you just say?”

Sukuna’s smirk faltered, but only for a second. He leaned back like nothing had happened, like he didn’t just shatter the air between you.

“You heard me.”

“No, no. I heard you, I just… I’m trying to figure out which part of your brain decided that was okay to say to me. After everything. After this.” You gestured wildly at the bed, the thesis pages crumpled under you, your tangled clothes on the floor, his smug, stupid face.

His jaw flexed. “I’m just saying, maybe I’m not the only one who treats this thing like it’s a joke.”

“Oh, you’re unbelievable.” You were up now, gathering your papers with trembling fingers. “You barge in here like you own the place, like I’m some goddamn stop on your rich-boy itinerary when you get bored of your mansion and your endless supply of zero-consequence bullshit—”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, standing up now too. “You think I want to be here every time you have a meltdown? You think this is fun for me? Watching you burn out for a piece of paper you’ll hate in six months? You make me your emotional support punching bag and then call it intimacy.”

“I never asked you to stay.”

“Well maybe I should’ve taken the hint three years ago, huh?” His voice was sharp now. No teasing. No heat. Just glass. “When we started sleeping together and you couldn’t even look me in the eye after.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t the first fight. Not even the worst one.

But it felt… final.

“You want honesty?” you whispered, throat tight. “Fine. You’re a coward, Sukuna. You sit in this little fantasy where nothing matters because you’re scared to actually want something. To want me. So yeah, maybe I pretended a little. Maybe I lied. But at least I felt something.”

That stopped him. For a moment, he just… stood there. Staring at you.

And then he laughed. Hollow. Low.

“You felt something? Great. Real useful. Let me know if you ever figure out what it was, sweetheart. Preferably not when I’m balls-deep and playing with your lighting setup.”

You slapped him.

You didn’t even think—your body just moved, and the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you like something had gone dead in his eyes.

“Wow,” he said quietly. “There it is.”

“Get out.”

“You sure?” He took a step back. “You’ve got, what, one brain cell left and a thesis due tomorrow? Might as well finish what we started.”

“I said get out.” Your voice broke on the last word. Oh god. Not the voice crack. Not in front of him. That was the equivalent of handing him a loaded gun, then tripping and falling onto the bullet yourself. Incredible work. Ten out of ten. Gold medal in Olympic self-sabotage.

He stared for a beat. Just long enough to register it. The voice crack. The heartbreak. The humiliation curdling in your stomach like expired milk.

Then he scoffed. That trademark Sukuna scoff. That “you’re beneath me” noise that made your skin crawl and your heart crumble all at once. Like it wasn’t worth it. Like you weren’t worth it.

Then he left.

No dramatic door slam. No stomping. No cinematic thunder in the background. Just the soft click of the handle as it shut behind him. Quiet. Cold. Like a polite little fuck you from the universe.

You sat there. Alone.

Drowning in a sea of flashcards, energy drink cans, and the pink lightbulb you swore was a good idea when you bought it. You thought it was romantic. Cute. Mood-setting. Turns out it just made heartbreak look like a music video from hell.

Twenty years of friendship.

Three years of blurred lines.

And one second of cruelty you’d never come back from.

And the worst part? The absolute dumbest, most pathetic, most humiliating part?

You still wanted him to walk back in.

Oh god. Oh no. No, no, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—yep. You’re crying. You’re crying in pink LED, like a sad little flamingo.

You wanted him to go slam the door open, with your favorite ice cream on hand (Friday is ice cream nights).

To say he didn’t mean it. To take it all back. To change the fucking light to blue this time, maybe even purple, something less pity-me-Barbie-core, and call it a truce.

But he didn’t. He never did.

Because that’s the thing about Sukuna. 

He didn’t fix the things he broke. He just stepped over the debris in expensive shoes and left before the dust settled. And you? You were always the idiot standing there, broom in one hand, heart in the other, wondering why it still hurt.

You wiped your face with his hoodie sleeve forgotten on the floor sleeve like a Victorian widow who also hadn’t slept in three days. Because your wardrobe is full of his fucking clothes. Oh my god, you’re still in your underwear. And, your thesis stared at you, cursor blinking like it was mocking you.

Fuck, you needed a drink so hard you wanted to forgot this stupid night.

So yeah—after that night, you both did it.

You broke the last, dumb, invisible rule of whatever-the-hell your relationship was.

You slept with other people.

Not out of desire. Not out of revenge. Not even out of rage. No, it was dumber than that.

It was survival.

You hooked up with someone from a rooftop party. What was his name? You don’t know. You don’t care. You laughed too loud, drank warm wine out of a Solo cup, and let some stranger kiss you like it meant something. It didn’t. Because he wasn’t Sukuna. That was the bar. The bar was not Sukuna. You limboed under it like a sad circus clown.

Across somewhere else, he did the same.

In a random ass bedroom in a frat house with lighting that looked like it was allergic to joy, Sukuna let someone run their hands down his back. He didn’t joke. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t whisper dumb things in her ear like he used to do with you. More like earlier.

He just laid there. Face blank. Eyes open.

Because if someone else wanted him—even just for one night—maybe it would drown out the sound of your voice when you’d said: at least I felt something.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

It never fucking works.

Because at the end of it, you both laid there in different places, beside warm strangers who meant absolutely nothing, staring at foreign ceilings that hadn’t heard you fight, cry, or laugh—and realized something ugly: you finally did the one thing you swore you’d never do.

You became strangers.

Strangers with shared ghosts. No one left to haunt but yourselves.

After that night? Radio silence. Nothing.

He didn’t walk over to your apartment anymore.

You didn’t leave the door unlocked. He has his own key to yours.

No Post-it notes on the fridge. No coffee mugs by the bed. No thesis pages tangled with underwear.

Just the hollow silence of absence. The weight of nothing.

And yeah. Gojo noticed.

Because you and Sukuna? You didn’t know how not to touch each other. You were that disgusting duo. PDA central. Couple-core. Fruit-peeling, lap-lounging, casual-hair-touching menaces.

You once made out behind the school bake sale. For charity.

Now? You barely made eye contact. And it’s been what? Three fucking weeks.

And if he walked into a room? You walked out.

Because looking at him was like looking at a memory you weren’t ready to bury.

Because if you looked too long, you might remember.

And remembering was dangerous.

Remembering felt like relapse.

Which—congrats, by the way—is exactly what you’re doing right now.

And now? You’re so disoriented from today (c’mon, two very deeply buried memories in a day flashing you because of that one look Sukuna gave you and sense of normalcy with this co-parenting situation with your son and his daughter being best friends, too?) – picking up the kids today, smiling like you weren’t dying, pretending that the raw fish didn’t taste like regret even as your son beamed up at you? 

So yeah. That Friday night? Alone in your master bedroom, lights off, ceiling staring back at you, while your son sleeps over at Sukuna’s house next door?

That’s when it hit. The full, unbearable weight of your very stupid, very mutual, very emotionally  constipated downfall.

And the worst part? The truly cursed, absolutely unhinged part?

Somewhere, in a dusty, padlocked corner of your ribcage you’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist—

You still fucking loved him.

Even after that LED night.

Even after the single parenting.

Even after everything.

God. You’re such an idiot.

a/n: lol part 2 is coming sometime this May (?) aaaand as much as i wanna say that this is proofread – it's not :') hshdashadsah thanks so much for reading – i appreciate u all so much!!! also taglist is still open <3

[astrolook]

🔆🌞💍Sun As Darakaraka - The Heart Wants What It Already Admires🔆🌞💍

Note: These are just my personal observations and recurring patterns I've noticed over the years from married clients, relatives and friends. Take what resonates with you and leave the rest. Feel free to share in the comments if any of this hits home. This post is based on Vedic astrology.

DK: The planet with the lowest degree in your birth chart that holds your deepest desires for a partner like your soul's "Wanted Ad" scribbled in cosmic ink. It shows the kind of spouse you attract and what your heart secretly craves in relationships.

Sun as DK:

Your partner might just be your twin with a twist.

When the Sun is your Darakaraka, your partner tends to be a lot like you on the outside. Same hobbies, same taste in food, same style or at least similar energy. It’s like they mirror parts of your personality but the way it shows up really depends on what house the Sun is in.

Sun in the 1st house will act super different from Sun in the 12th so it’s not one size fits all.

In general though, Sun as DK means your partner probably takes the lead in the relationship. They might be the one making decisions, handling money or just the one who rules the roost. It can feel like they’re the boss of the relationship sometimes in a good way or not so good depending.

If the Sun has tough aspects like with Saturn or Mars, things can get a little tricky. You might deal with ego clashes, arguments or a partner who’s a bit too controlling. They’ll definitely bring light and energy into your life but too much Sun can burn.

If the Sun’s in a good house or has gentle aspects, most of this softens up and things feel way more balanced.

Real-life patterns I've noticed with people who has Sun as DK

Just because the Sun is your Darakaraka doesn’t mean your marriage will be full of ego clashes or power struggles. It really depends on where the Sun is placed, which sign it’s in, and what aspects it’s making. I’ve seen this in the charts of clients, friends, and even relatives. I always take notes when I read charts, especially to track long-term relationship patterns. Astrology isn’t one-size-fits-all, and I strongly disagree with interpretations that try to make it that way.

Sometimes I see astrologers online sharing overly negative takes that can honestly scare people. That kind of thinking can turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy, and that’s not what astrology should be about. Even my posts about spouse appearance and personality traits are based on general patterns and can shift depending on aspects, signs, and other chart factors.

So today, I wanted to share a few real-life examples to show how Sun as Darakaraka can play out in different ways , not all doom and gloom, and definitely not all the same.

1. Wife with Sun as DK in 12th house Leo Sun was with the North Node and 1st lord Mercury. Her husband is a foreigner and older than her(Saturn rx in 7th). She’s the dominant one in the relationship and earns more than him. She’s the main provider while he’s a stay-at-home dad who takes care of the kids and his career took a backseat after marrying her. Both are super private and share some oddly similar features like a small dorsal hump on their noses, apple-shaped faces, chubby hands, and short wide nails. It’s like a mirrored energy in the way they look and live.

2. Husband with Sun as DK in 8th house Gemini Sun in 8th house Gemini was aspecting Jupiter in the 2nd house. He was married for 21 years but eventually divorced. His wife cheated on him three times. He stayed for the sake of their son but left when their son turned 19. The wife was the dominant one and emotionally abusive. Whenever he asked her anything, she flipped it on him and accused him of cheating. They were both really tall and shared the same grey eyes(some even mistook them for siblings). Both had weak eyesight and wore glasses from a young age.

3. Husband with Sun as DK in 5th house Taurus He was dominant in the relationship and treated his wife like a doormat. They had three kids back to back within five years. They’re still married after 11 years but the wife has major health issues from having three C-sections in such a short time. She told me and my mom that she’s just living for her kids now because she has no way out. He pays for everything and she feels stuck. Both of them have similar crooked teeth right in the middle and both of them likes spicy food.

4. Wife with Sun as DK in 11th house Aquarius Sun in 11th conjunct Venus and Mercury and sextile Mars. She’s been married for five years. Her husband is a foreigner. They’re both athletic types, physically strong, and love working out together. They co-own a gym and also volunteer at animal rescues. They have twins. Even though they’re from different racial backgrounds, the way they smile is super similar. It’s wild how certain expressions and energies can look alike even when people look totally different.

5. Elderly woman in her 70's with Sun as DK in 6th house Pisces Sun was conjunct Jupiter and aspecting Saturn. Her husband was 13 years older. They had three kids and were married for 38 years before he passed away from internal bleeding in his brain. He was super supportive and even back in the 80s, he helped her build her career and both of them worked. He left an inheritance for her and their kids. She was much shorter than him and they looked different physically. But when I asked her some questions to gain more info, I learned they shared the same food allergy to eggplants, both developed diabetes in their 30s, and both dealt with athlete’s foot. Those little shared details stuck with me.

So again, just having Sun as your Darakaraka doesn’t mean you’ll automatically have ego problems or a dominating spouse. The sign, house, and aspects all shape how that energy shows up. These stories aren’t here to scare anyone. I just want to show the wide range of possibilities that exist like from supportive partners to more difficult patterns and everything in between.

Astrology is a tool, not a sentence. It’s here to help us understand patterns and prepare better, not to box us in. Every chart is unique, just like every relationship. And that’s kind of beautiful, don’t you think?

My next post will be about Moon as Darakaraka. Am collecting patterns and my personal experiences from my notes to post and will be out soon!

Wanna go deeper into the layers of your placements? DM me for a complete astrology reading or a 5 year/8 year marriage report or synastry reading🌙💬 and check out my pinned post for pricing + details 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐

[minaaaliyah]

Whispers from the Earth

Nyx is a single mother just trying to hold it all together—working double shifts, raising a bright and curious little girl, and doing her best to outrun a gift she never asked for. A healer by birth, her hands carry the power of generations, but the weight of that legacy became too much. Now, she just wants a quiet life, one paycheck at a time, one prayer at a time, one scraped-together rent payment at a time.

Then there's Smoke.

Quiet. Mysterious. The kind of man who speaks little but carries the weight of his past in the way he moves, the way he watches. No kids, no attachments, no real obligations—but somehow, he commands every room he enters. People are drawn to him like shadows to dusk. But Smoke isn’t just a man—he’s part of something older, something dangerous, something spiritual.

When their worlds collide, sparks fly—but so do the warnings. The spirits have spoken: he’s not safe. And yet, Nyx can’t seem to walk away. Neither can he. Bound by something deeper than attraction—something cosmic—they find themselves drawn into a story neither of them can control.

Together, they must navigate love, lust, legacy, and the supernatural forces rising around them. Because Smoke may be the storm the spirits warned her about… or the only one strong enough to stand beside her in the fire.

Chapter 1- out now Chapter 2- Coming soon Chapter 3- Coming soon Chapter 4- Coming soon Chapter 5- Coming soon Chapter 6- Coming soon chapter 7- Coming soon Chapter 8- Coming soon Chapter 9 - Coming soon Chapter 10- Coming soon

[utilitycaster]

I've been a pretty harsh critic of Dr. Friedman and Polygon's general Critical Role coverage in the past, and while I think her latest article for them critiquing Campaign 3 is a fairly good one, it does in many ways cast an even harsher light on her kid-gloves handling of D20 and WBN. However, I want to talk about these two excerpts, because I think she hits on something I've increasingly noticed in Actual Play:

"This is where Critical Role’s strength — that Exandria often feels like a real, complex world — collided with the needs of a D&D campaign (a clear adversary, clear plans of action, forward momentum)."

and

"But the confused way D&D handles religion and divinity — polytheism as imagined by midwestern American Protestants — turned the question of how to handle this particular cosmic horror into a glue trap, paralyzing the players for dozens of hours of circular existential debates. Gods once mechanized (or digestible) become just another power bloc, and for players used to a system where in the end you are “basically gods,” the line gets blurrier still. And as D&D’s messy cosmology added friction to much of the campaign, D&D’s mechanics also don’t have the necessary friction for the interpersonal beats that make Critical Role compelling."

I agree with both these statements, as someone who, to be clear, enjoys D&D 5e. D&D supports a range of narratives, but all are ultimately a story of gaining power and fighting off or through a series of adversaries; if your characters are not doing that, it raises the question of why you picked a system that gives you few other options. (This is also, I should note, an increasingly loud question when it comes to Worlds Beyond Number; I fell behind for personal reasons after the Coven arc, but Brennan's initial statements about D&D as scaffolding were perhaps too true; almost every interesting mechanic, in a game with minimal combat that has thus far felt primarily focused on how the three protagonists have fundamentally different adversaries, has been homebrewed, to the point where the cosmology and baggage of D&D has felt like a liability rather than an asset).

D&D also has, in part due to such programs as D20, developed a reputation for being world-agnostic, and that ultimately isn't true. D&D does struggle to make the lines between "real divinity", an archfey or similarly powerful entity, and a L20 character feel sharply defined on a mechanical level; once you give a god a stat block, it can be killed (and on a metanarrative level, revealing the gods' statblocks in Downfall serves to make them both immense, yet also more fragile. The hit points are many, but still finite.) There are a number of questions most D&D worlds simply fail to address - and to be clear, this is not a flaw provided you have buy in. A level 2 warlock in D&D is, in most societies, an one-person lethal force unless the entire town swarms them at once, knowing that many of them will lose their lives in the effort; a level 2 warlock PC, however, is almost never, in-world, treated this way, and indeed is framed as an underdog in a harsh world despite usually having the ability to destroy the entire tavern.

D&D has also developed a (not undeserved) reputation as being The Dominant TTRPG put out by a massive corporation, and has developed a (not deserved) reputation as being itself uniquely problematic as a power fantasy, particularly by people who conveniently forget where Pathfinder came from. I've previously covered that, for all people demand non-D&D actual play, the viewership drops precipitously whenever a big AP show that made its name with D&D dares to branch out, and, related to that, I've seen an uptick in people who are excited for D&D to subvert itself. They wanted Campaign 3 to subvert these norms of divinity and heroic fantasy, cheered for it...and ultimately it was unable to do so. I don't think it's accurate to say that D&D's lack of interpersonal mechanics was the problem here, given that Campaigns 1 and 2 (and again, D20) have no such issue; but rather that since D&D's lack of interpersonal/RP mechanics require more effort from the players to initiate, the debates on the nature of divinity in a world and system that could not sustain them sapped any energy for the late-night watch conversations D&D can support when you're not fighting against it.

I think one of the many lessons we can learn from Critical Role Campaign 3 is that if you go up against D&D with an attempt to destroy it from within, your story will instead find itself conforming to the shape of its container, often to its detriment.

[raayllum]

I get that in general a lot of kids shows do utilize the protagonists ('good guys') in ways where they're supposed to be role models, particularly because some do have a "lesson of the week" where the character does bad things, then clearly learns and explains what they should've done instead by the end of the episode.

That has just... never been how TDP has operated, and I don't get how and why people think we're supposed to take what anyone does in the show as being unilaterally good or evil. Particularly in arc 2; any moral simplicity that was hanging on by a thread in arc 1 has been taken out back and shot numerous times by now.

TDP very rarely calls anything Evil or Good, and when it does, it's always filtered through the characters' biases, and rarely does more then 2-3 characters ever have the same opinion on something for the same reasons. Soren and Rayla, who have inverted character arcs, are some of the only characters to ever use the term villain / good guys or bad guys, and are two of the most staunchly black-and-white thinking characters, heavily to their detriment, I might add, in terms of coping with the increasing complexity of their lives. They have cognitive biases. They're not always right, and are frequently wrong. This is true for everyone in the show.

The show refuses to condemn murder, indirectly and directly condemns the expulsion of humans from Xadia routinely (Evrkynd being a city for everyone, Ezran arguing with Karim, who is the most wrong about the most things), and shows a variety of viewpoints on all things.

The show understands that the choices people make—whether the same character trait is a flaw or a strength—as well as 'moral' choices are all circumstantial.

Are you wrong to burn people alive? Mostly yes (2x07, 6x08) but also no (3x09). Are you wrong to kill people? Sometimes yes, sometimes no, sometimes whether it's 'wrong' or 'right' doesn't even factor in. Are you wrong to use dark magic, or use the dangerous Staff of Ziard, or coin someone and condemn them to a 'fate worse than death'? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Is lying or hiding the truth to protect someone wrong? Sometimes yes (1x06, 2x03, 3x03, 5x01, 7x04, 7x06) sometimes no (1x02, 2x03, 6x06, 5x08, 7x08).

Are you doing the right thing?

Do you have no choice? Is that true, or is that just what you think, or how you rationalize it yourself?

When is it right or cowardly to leave (Viren, Lissa, Rayla, Callum, Ezran, the Cosmic Council, the offer made to Karim's troops)? When should you stay? When do you decide to share resources (2x05) to your potential detriment or withhold them in the name of protecting yourself and your own people (Xadia and magic)? At what point(s) do you prioritize your own pain and grief, or someone else's (i.e. the Keeper vs Callum vs Ezran)? At what point is someone too dangerous or 'too far gone' to keep alive (Runaan about Harrow, Ezran about Aaravos)? At what point do you decide someone cannot change? When do you refuse to change (Karim, Terry) who you are no matter what happens, and when do you decide that you must (Ezran, Soren)? When is it wrong to use illusions to trick someone (3x09 and 7x06) and when is it more reasonable (2x03)? When should you be willing to sacrifice others (Rayla with her family, Runaan and Rayla with Callum, Soren with Viren) and when should you refuse? When should you sacrifice yourself, and when it is wrong to? Did you betray them, or did they betray you, or both (usually both)? When should you betray or stay loyal to your family? What is the right thing to do?

The show, tbh, doesn't know, at least 90% of the time. It's not interested in knowing. It's interested in exploring. That's the whole point. At most, it says you should work towards harm reduction, but what constitutes harm, and what peace looks like, is also something that greatly differs for all the characters.

Rayla is willing to sacrifice the love of her life, Ezran is willing to create weapons of mass destruction and wield one, and Callum used a torture spell on someone when he absolutely did not have to. The idea that any of the protagonists are meant to be paragons of unblemished virtue who are always 100% right, or that any of the antagonists do not canonically have a good point of contention with anything that's happened and are always 100% wrong, is reductive to everything the show is and explores, because it is Quite Literally not what the show does, ever tbh.

They literally spelled it out this past season as a core theme; I don't think they needed to have a character directly point it out every time a main character did something that was Kinda Fucked Up or Complicated But Understandable to know that the show knows it was Canonically Fucked Up or Complicated But Understandable.

There is not a single character or action in TDP that is always right, and there is not a singular character or action in TDP that is always wrong. Hell, even narrowing it down to "this is 'right' or 'wrong'" feels counterintuitive because it's so subjective within the narrative.

Every choice the characters make is often well reasoned, aligns with their values and world views, and fits into how they work through problems. Every choice has benefits and consequences, for them or for others. That doesn't mean it's Right for everyone involved. That doesn't mean it's Wrong for everyone involved. That's what makes the show interesting. Everything has nuance. Everything has Complexity. I'm not interested in a simplified version of TDP. I'm interested in the show as is.

I hope you are, too.

[traincat]

To think I almost missed my Sunday question ☹️ just got done with finals and (massive plot twist I'm sure) I still have Johnny on the mind.

So here's another big question that you can feel free to answer in whatever depth you'd like!

How has Johnny and Ben's relationship evolved through the years? The panel that really made me ask this question is the one where Johnny's asking what he can do for Ben to forgive him. (Also when the rest of the family disappears and they start losing their powers). It just got my brain working. (I also always enjoy their interactions in your fics so I was curious abt how you see their relationship being).

Thanks! ✨

Yeah, I definitely think there's a lot of evolution to Ben and Johnny's relationship, and that Johnny specifically is very, very emotionally dependent on Ben. I'm not saying Ben doesn't love Johnny just as fiercely, he's pretty readily demonstrated he would die for Johnny, but that Ben has other relationships he can rely on in that corner, whereas Johnny tends to self-destruct without Ben's presence.

(Fantastic Four #5)

I think there's a perception that Johnny's teasing of Ben, especially in the early days, is cruel or malicious, and I think that's an unkind reading of the situation. Yes, Johnny does make fun of Ben often, but here's the thing (badumpsh): Johnny doesn't tip toe around Ben's condition. Ben is the one who calls himself a monster, who rages in the early days, who is the one who (in early canon) is the most physically impacted by the cosmic rays. (Later canon will explore Johnny's depth of self-control with his powers, in addition to the Reed and Sue's own control of their powers.) Johnny is sixteen, his sister is frequently busy with her boyfriend and their new responsibilities -- he's in pretty close contact with Ben, probably more so than anyone else on the team. He's teasing him and playing practical jokes to get his attention and to take Ben's mind off things.

Ben says it himself in The Thing #23 (during a period where he and Johnny very much are not on good terms): "Nah, I wuz never really mad at ya, kid... sure wanted ta moider ya sometimes... but I still loved ya."

Ben has the least reason to be emotionally close to Johnny. He's not his girlfriend's kid brother, after all. But it's clear from early on that Ben is attached to Johnny and that he does love him, even if wants to "moider" him sometimes. Early canon Johnny is a magnet for trouble. His Strange Tales run is really where that shines. He's easily manipulated by slick criminals. He's targeted by a fake Captain America. He gets tied to sign posts, the rail road tracks, and a porpoise. He absorbs a bomb's explosion to save a town.

(Strange Tales #112) "If anything happens to that kid, I'll... no!! It can't happen!" Fantastic Four makes it clear very early on that as much as they fight, this isn't a purely antagonistic relationship. Ben loves Johnny, he'd just rather walk through Times Square in the buff before he admits it.

As for Ben being Johnny's rock, literally, there's a couple of big examples of Johnny just absolutely going off the deep end without Ben present. Johnny already generally does not tend to do well when the team is not together.

(FF #191)

The incident you outline, where Ben says he never wants to see Johnny again, is probably the best example of this, although I have two others. For background: by total accident, Johnny once messed up once of Reed's attempts to cure Ben of being the Thing. Reed decides that neither he or Johnny will ever tell anybody about this, especially not Ben. Of course, the truth comes out, and at a terrible moment, when an outside force is trying to tear the team apart. Johnny's powers are gone (something that already puts him in a precarious place emotionally), and Sue and Reed have lost custody of their kids.

(Fantastic Four v5 #7) Gonna blanket rec volume 5 on the whole here. It's the last run before corporate took the book off the market over movie rights for three years, and it's a very good, very cohesive story. (I don't like what it does with Sharon Ventura. But I don't like what any Fantastic Four book has ever done with Sharon Ventura, save for Marvel Knights 4's brief cameo.) But Johnny's been through the wringer here already. He's lost his powers, both of his careers, and his sister has lost custody of his niece and nephew. But he only goes totally off the rails and disappears into his "party boy" persona after Ben cuts off contact with him.

(FF v5 #10-11) "Johnny's a mess." Luckily he's got an incredibly handsome and devoted """best friend""" (canon JohnnyWyatt when) and also Spider-Man to drag him out of it, but Johnny reuniting with Ben is definitely a huge part of what drags him out of this state.

(FF v5 #12) "So you love me again, big buddy?" "Maybe."

There's the more recent example, where after Secret Wars (2015), when Reed, Sue, and the kids were assumed dead, we know Ben and Johnny had some kind of huge fight. Ben went to space, Johnny -- spiraled. Hard. Harder than the above example. This sets up a romantic relationship with Medusa which I feel pretty critical about, in part because the writer clearly didn't actually read Medusa's tenure on the team. (She and Johnny were friends! They were actually really good friends!) I believe it could have happened, not just because I'm an annoying canon purist, but because it kind of falls into previously established territory -- Johnny, in an emotionally vulnerable state and with Ben off planet, gets into an ill-advised romantic relationship with a member of the Fantastic Four's social circle. That's basically the exact setup for when he got into a relationship with Alicia. (Which, as I've previously said, was a relationship that, pre-Skrull spy retcon, was about Ben.) So I buy it, because Johnny does not make good romantic decisions when he's spiraling, I just kind of hated the writing surrounding it. Even after Ben came back, Johnny was too hurt by everything else to really recover. Ben's solution to this was to take Johnny on a multiversal wild goose chase to find Sue and Reed (Ben very much believed they were dead and was stalling for time) that went, uh, bad. Also they both lost their powers.

(Marvel 2-in-One (2018) #8) They made up! Off screen. When Sue and Reed returned. Johnny might have been living with Wyatt at this point, it's really unclear. (Tinfoil hat on, I do fully believe Slott originally intended to soft launch canon JohnnyWyatt. If he didn't do it intentionally, he did it unintentionally, because it's very difficult to read the beginning of his run any other way.)

But I think a bigger example of Johnny going off the rails without Ben is when Ben dies. And, very importantly here, Ben dies because he manages to overcome mind control for only long enough to tell Reed to kill him to save Johnny.

(FF #509)

In the aftermath, Johnny goes running, which is pretty typical for him. Rather than disappearing into a party boy persona, though, he takes Johnny Storm off the map entirely, working in an auto shop and avoiding Sue's calls.

(FF #509) "Hey, squirt, you... you know I ain't really here, right? That ya really are just makin' believe?" "...Yeah. But this is how I get through the day."

Johnny's grief is mirrored by Alicia, who has locked herself in her studio to do nothing but sculpt Ben all day.

(FF #509) "She says it helps her pretend Ben's still with us. Isn't that sad?" Yikes.

Ben gets better, of course, and Johnny bounces back, but I do think about it in context of Johnny Storm's Last Stand, where Johnny bodily pushes Ben out of the way (seconds before Ben transforms back into the Thing) so he can take his place defending the Negative Zone gate.

(FF #584 and #600)

I do think this is a case where Johnny can't let Ben die for him again. It's a relationship with such an intense amount of emotion. Yeah, they fight a lot, and the (mutual) prank war has been going on forever, but they will both sacrifice themselves before they let the other put themselves in danger.

(FF #535) And I don't think it's a relationship where you can point to moments that caused that intense loyalty and love for each other. I think it's a slow slide into it, a result of living in each other's pockets for so long. Johnny was young when he met Ben -- for him, Ben is one of the constants in his life, the person he can depend on. When he doesn't have Ben to lean on, he's lost.

For Ben, Johnny's the little brother he never had, the thorn in his side, his partner in crime. He might be able to get along without Johnny's presence in his life, but he wouldn't be happy, as much as he protests otherwise. He goes to incredible, if misguided, lengths in 2-in-1 to try and protect Johnny, largely from himself. I think, for Ben, the depths of Johnny's self-hatred is something he hates thinking about, but he knows about it, and so he does what Johnny did for him in the early days: he picks on him to him to distract him. It's never malicious. It's their dynamic.

(Marvel 2-in-1 #3) "'Cause you're broken."

For some fun, largely overlooked Ben and Johnny content, I really like the brief period where they were on the team with T'Challa and Storm while Reed and Sue were on a second honeymoon.

(FF #545) "Is Ben going to try and fight him?" "Does Wolverine go through a lot of gloves?"

It's very brief, from #544-550 (although I'd read #543 as well for Ben and Johnny content), but it's fun and it's a good look at them on their own when they're both in a relatively good place.

In conclusion, I love them, your honor.

(FF #570)

[tobiasdrake]

"So, we hear you were a general serving the Dark Lord of Wickedness in the Realm of Darkness beyond time and space until... three months ago? What made you want to leave the organization?"

"Look, I was with them through a lot of shit, okay? We conquered worlds beyond measure. My blade drove legions into despair. We crossed the galaxy, laying waste to world after world. But then the Dark Lord got sealed away in a crystal ten thousand years ago by the seven cosmic princesses, and it just wasn't the same after that."

"That does sound rough. Sounds like you stuck it out, though. What changed?"

"Well, we sought out the cosmic princesses in order to bring ruin to their worlds and unseal the Dark Lord. Sounds pretty epic, right?"

"That does sound like quite a mission, yes."

"Yeah. ON PAPER."

"So what happened?"

"Picture this. I've been stalking this thirteen-year-old girl for the past four months. I'm at her middle-school, hiding under the bleachers and watching these kids play a soccer game. Just waiting for the perfect opportunity to cast the Baleful Enchantment and turn the ball into a soccer monster. And I just have this moment like... is this it? Is this really what I'm doing with my life?"

"So you needed a change, then. I get it. That's rough."

"Yeah. After that, I couldn't let it go. I ended up talking to the cosmic princesses about it."

"They gave you some good advice?"

"Fuck no. They're thirteen. They have no idea what they're talking about. But sitting there, listening to them ramble on and thinking about the fact that I needed these pubsecent squirts to give me a pep talk in the first place? That ended up being the kick in the ass I needed to go my own way."

"Very well, Mr. Sinistario. I think I have all I need, and we'd be more than happy to help you find job placement."

[doctorho]

viktor doesn't... pay that much attention to appearances, his or anyone else's. not when it doesn't matter. sure, there's the 'wearing what they see as respectable clothes so they take you seriously' and the 'not going to the dinner table covered in oil stains', but beyond that? he doesn't really care, to be honest.

yes, he's aware that some people put a lot more thought into the way they look, and into what other people think about the way they look. he knows that's a thing. it just happens to be a thing he chooses not to personally get invonved in.

well, it had been.

he honestly hadn't even thought about it much, before. it had just been one of those things that other people did, one of those things he had never really understood. you know, one of those things that made him feel like maybe the rest of the world had had some secret meeting without him where they decided that yes, these are the rules, and no, we won't explain them, you just have to know.

one of those things.

and he had been fine not thinking about it! truly, he had been blissfully unaware of what the current beauty standards were and which traits were seen as good or bad on which year -

and then he'd met you, by some miracle. you know, viktor doesn't meet that many new people, these days, so it does genuinely feel like a miracle when you just... stumble into his life one day. and without even thinking about it, automatically, viktor's brain files you away as beautiful, and he treats that as a passing fact, the same way he treats the color of your eyes. it's just a categorizing trait; this person just is beautiful.

and then, later, when he learns that apparently not everyone thinks that, his brain disagrees, severly. like - are they blind? is this a joke? it's a bad joke, if so, and then he's mad for you.

because he remembers that, ah, right. some people are weird about appearances. they have their menial rules about it that change by the decade.

he's still mad for you, but mentally he's ended that argument with well they're all idiots. because clearly you are an awesome, incredible, beautiful human being and this shouldn't be an argument in the first place.

he tells you this, and then his heart breaks a little when you seem so used to hearing the opposite. when you seem to have accepted what those idiots were saying because you'd just...heard it so often.

when you seem to not-quite-believe that he could really see you as beautiful. that he could really, actually want you. like that.

and it's - it drives him up the wall that this is even a thing. that the negative things you've heard outweigh the positive ones, and apparently by a landslide. that he can't make you see yourself the way he sees you.

because, truly, he thinks you're so beautiful. like, are you kidding? viktor's been skin and bone his whole life, and you're so...soft. he knows it way before he ever touches you; he can see it, and he has a well enough functioning imagination. and he's been thinking about it a lot, lately. what you'd feel like under his fingers. against his body. he has theories about this.

he can tell you're soft, and warm, and sometimes when the sunlight hits you he genuinely thinks you look like you could be straight out of one of those expensive oil paintings people paid a lot of money to see just a glimpse of.

and - yes, okay, maybe some of this was just his hormones talking, but come on. he couldn't not want to touch you. that was just one of those facts of life - the sun rose every morning, and whenever viktor saw you, he had the urge to touch you. to be close to you. to prove to you how much he adored you.

and then when you let him? that - that felt like a miracle. truly and honestly. because - viktor had never considered himself to be especially lucky, just, like, in life in general, but this?

he had to have won some sort of cosmic lottery. to first be lucky enough to meet you and then to be able to do this. to get so close. to touch you like this, to see you like this. it is nothing short of a privilege and he takes it, happily and greedily. and he makes it his personal mission to let you know exactly what he thought about you, and exactly how little you should care about anyone else's opinion. except your own, of course, but only on those days your mind was being kind to you.

so he makes sure you know that he absolutely worships you. okay? you are his personal deity, and he is devoted. he lets you know, any way he knows how, and any opportunity he gets. given half a chance, he will be praising you, telling how gorgeous you are and how lucky he is to have you. telling you how good you look, how good you feel, how good you make him feel. he isn't shy - he tells you, in enough detail to make your cheeks heat up.

and when you're alone, and you have all the time in the world? he shows you, and he doesn't hold back. and then he reminds you, again and again and again.

and you know viktor isn't a liar. he doesn't care about things like this enough to lie about them. so when he tells you that he loves the way you look, the way you feel, the way you are, you believe him.

[iamespecter]

Thinking about Little Nightmares again, specifically the respawn mechanic.

When Six, Mono, the Runaway Kid, or the Raincoat girl enter a new area, there is an eye symbol that appears on the bottom right of your screen, to load your "checkpoint". From a gameplay standpoint, that's a generic mechanic. Nothing really special.

However, when you take into consideration that these children appear as if they woke up from a really bad nightmare JUST right where they last died coincidentally-- coupled with the fact that inside the Signal Tower, there is a massive mound of flesh and eyes that's implied to be an eldritch force beyond the concept of time and space, controlling EVERYTHING-- and the angle of the player's point of view that looks as if we're simply observing these children traverse the environments...

(IT'S ALSO CONFIRMED BY THE DEVS THAT THE PROTAGONISTS HAVE A SEPARATE THOUGHT PATTERN THAN OURS. WE'RE NOT PLAYING AS THEM, WE'RE JUST WATCHING THEM. MAYBE EVEN GUIDING THEM TO THEIR DOOM IF YOU WANNA BE META ABOUT IT.)

The respawn mechanic becomes this absolutely genius, yet subtle implication that time is being rewinded by the Signal Tower, in order to accomodate these children (and the players as a whole) and make them learn from previous mistakes. Simply because they have not fulfilled their purposes just yet.

I love this implication so much that I even wrote a fic about it back in 2021. You can choose not to believe it, but I think it adds to the cosmic and psychological horror of Little Nightmares very well.