#new writter

Homelander

John remembered with an almost painful clarity the day he first saw you. He didn’t usually attend young heroes’ competitions; he considered sitting on a jury to be an unnecessary humiliation. However, public image demanded his presence, and he always did what public image required.

Until he saw you.

You were on stage, with your mother beside you offering silent support, wearing an improvised suit that unintentionally mimicked the colors he himself wore. In that instant, something inside him tightened. It wasn’t just the coincidence of the colors. It was the way your powers manifested: identical to his. Exact. Unmistakable.

Doubt turned into certainty when the presenter compared your abilities to his. A coincidence, they said. A simple genetic chance. But John didn’t believe in coincidences. His paranoia, sharpened by years of lies and control, whispered that this could not be the result of mere chance.

When your victory was announced, he made a decision.

He didn’t enter the dressing room right away. He stood motionless in front of the door for a few seconds. John was not a man who doubted; he took, possessed, claimed. And yet, with you, he felt something different. A strange curiosity. Deep. Almost dangerous.

When he opened the door, he found you still wrapped in the excitement of your victory. Your mother was beside you, leaning toward you. You, on the other hand, were radiant. Your eyes bright, cheeks flushed, wearing that open, pure expression that only children possess.

So innocent.

So genuine.

So different from anything he had ever known.

Your mother was the first to notice him. The stiffness in her shoulders betrayed her shock. John observed her for only a second before turning his attention back to you.

And then you smiled.

Not with rehearsed admiration, but with that pure, childish emotion of someone standing before someone they had idealized. You approached him with clumsy enthusiasm and began speaking to him in a rush, telling him how much you admired him and how long you had wanted to meet him. Your words were fast and disorganized, filled with such absolute sincerity that for a moment, John could only stare at you.

And then you hugged him.

It was a spontaneous, impulsive gesture. Your small arms wrapped around him with complete trust, as if your innocence had decided he was a safe place. John remained still. Time seemed to suspend itself.

In that very moment, he knew.

He would adore you forever.

It didn’t matter what secrets lay behind your existence. The only thing that mattered was the fierce certainty that settled in his chest: he would never allow anyone to take you away from him.

Days later, John no longer needed more proof.

He had investigated on his own. Vought kept secrets the way one keeps weapons. And among them, he found what he was looking for: his semen, extracted years ago, had been stored in the company’s sperm bank. A sample used in a confidential procedure. Why? Nobody knows. Maybe a mistake

The result was you.

You were his. Of his blood. Of his legacy.

He said nothing. He asked no questions.

He simply appeared one morning accompanied by Vought personnel. With only a few curt orders, he integrated you into his world. Your mother had no choice but to accept.

He installed you in the tower, in one of the highest and most protected residences. John officially presented you to the world: you were his daughter. His blood. His legacy. From that moment on, you were rarely separated from him. He kept you constantly by his side, showered you with gifts, and watched you with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the coldness he showed everyone else.

But everything came at a price.

He kept you away from everyone. Especially Ryan. He never allowed his son to get too close to you. He wanted his little girl to remain pure, untouched, completely his.

And for a while, it worked.

Until the public discovered you.

At first, John tolerated the attention. But when he saw how people looked at you with affection, how they cheered for you and sent you gifts, something dark stirred in his chest. Jealousy. He couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else claiming you, even innocently. Because you didn’t belong to the world. You belonged to him. Only him.

John didn’t usually lose control like that.

But that afternoon, when he returned earlier than expected and discovered you had been with Maeve, something inside him broke. He had left you with strict orders that no one was to disturb you. Yet Maeve had spent the entire afternoon with you.

When he opened the door to the room, the atmosphere changed completely. He was covered in blood. Fresh. Dark. Stains splattered across his white suit, marking his hands and part of his face. Blood dripped slowly from his fingers onto the floor.

Maeve stood up immediately. John didn’t raise his voice. He simply took a step toward her and spoke with terrifying calm:

“Stay away from her. If you come near her again, there won’t be a second chance."

Maeve didn’t argue. She gathered her things and left without looking back.

The door closed.

You were looking at him with pure, silent terror. John stood there, soaked in someone else’s blood, watching you with ragged breathing. He wanted to explain that everything he did was for you. But he didn’t.

He remained silent for several long seconds, staring at you with an expression that held no trace of tenderness. Then he spoke, his voice low and sharp:

“I gave you one order. Just one. And you disobeyed it.”

You began to cry, pleading with that broken voice only children have when they’re terrified. John didn’t soften. He took a step toward you and grabbed your arm with force. The pain came quickly. His fingers tightened until they left a dark mark on your skin, a bruise that would form within minutes.

“Don’t cry,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Now you only have me. Only me.”

He didn’t mention your mother. He didn’t need to. The fact that he had returned covered in blood and that no one spoke of her anymore said everything. Your mother no longer existed.

He slowly released your arm. The bruise throbbed. John knelt in front of you, ignoring your sobs, and looked directly into your eyes.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, with absolute possessiveness. “And no one else is going to have you.”

The blood continued to drip from his hands. And you, marked and crying, no longer had anyone else.

Only him.

Clark Kent

If there was one weakness for the Man of Steel, it was you.

From the very moment he first held you in his arms, Clark understood that the entire world had shifted on its axis. It no longer revolved around Metropolis, nor around crises, nor around cries for help from the other side of the planet. It revolved around you. Around your small laugh. Around your hands clutching his shirt. Around the way you searched for his face the moment you heard his voice.

You had grown up on the farm in Smallville, surrounded by the scent of wheat, golden sunrises, and the constant warmth of a home that, to anyone else, would have seemed perfect. Lois raised you with intelligence and firmness; she taught you to think for yourself, to never let anyone intimidate you, and to speak clearly even when the world didn’t want to listen. Clark, on the other hand, loved you in a much quieter and more overwhelming way.

He was always there.

When you were little and ran through the fields, he would watch you even while repairing the fence or helping Martha in the kitchen. If you tripped, he was already at your side before you hit the ground. If the wind blew too hard, he would wrap you in a blanket even when you insisted you weren’t cold. If you got sick, even with just a mild cold, he would stay awake by your side all night, listening to every breath with almost painful attention.

“Clark, she’s fine,” Lois would say tiredly when she saw him enter your room for the third time in the middle of the night. “She’s just sleeping.”

He would nod, but still return to your bed, adjusting your blankets with reverent care, as if even the air itself could hurt you.

Because to Clark, you were never just his daughter.

You were something far more fragile and far more sacred.

The happiest days of his life were almost always the simplest ones. The mornings when you sat on the kitchen counter while he made breakfast. Your small hands stealing pieces of fruit before they were ready. Your endless questions. Your laughter when he pretended not to notice that you had stolen a piece of toast.

“Dad, what if one day I can fly with you?”

Clark would smile, that soft, warm smile the world only ever saw in pieces.

“When you’re older.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I want to do it right.”

And he said it like a solemn promise. As if even something as beautiful as flying with you could become dangerous if he didn’t handle it with enough care.

Sometimes he would carry you out to the porch at dusk and sit with you, watching the horizon while you rested your head on his shoulder. Other nights, when you couldn’t sleep, he would lift you with infinite patience and walk across the farm under a sky full of stars. You would talk to him half-asleep, telling him whatever nonsense came to mind, and Clark would listen as if every word deserved to be kept forever.

He adored you in a way that bordered on devotion.

And at first, when you were a child, it seemed natural.

You reached for his hand everywhere. You wanted him to read you stories, teach you how to ride a bike, and carry you when you pretended to be too tired to walk back home. Lois would smile when she saw the two of you together, though sometimes she watched him with a more difficult expression, as if even then she could sense that there was something excessive in Clark. Something that went beyond simple paternal love.

Because when he held you, he didn’t seem like just a father holding his daughter.

He seemed like a man clinging to the only thing in the world he couldn’t afford to lose. His soul.

Over the years, however, childhood began to fade.

And Clark noticed it before anyone else.

He noticed it in the way you stopped running to the door every time he came home. In how you started spending more time locked in your room. In those afternoons when you preferred going out with friends instead of walking with him around the farm. In your increasingly short answers, in your growing need for space, privacy, and a life that didn’t always revolve around your parents.

It was normal. Lois knew that. She even celebrated it to some extent, because it meant you were growing up.

Clark did not.

Every step you took toward adolescence felt like a loss to him.

He didn’t say much about it. Or at least, not at first. He simply watched you more. Listened more. Paid attention to the smallest changes: a door closed harder than usual, a distracted smile while looking at your phone, any excuse not to have dinner with them. He could hear screams from the other side of the planet, hearts stopping, buildings creaking before they collapsed… and yet, none of those things unsettled him as much as the silence of your room when you chose not to speak to him.

“Clark, you’re suffocating her,” Lois told him one night in a low voice, thinking you were asleep.

He stood still by the sink, his jaw tight.

“I’m just looking after her.”

“No,” Lois said, looking at him directly. “You’re trying to keep her as if she were still eight years old.”

Clark didn’t answer. But the way he lowered his gaze, the almost wounded hardness in his expression, showed something Lois couldn’t fix.

Because she was right.

And that was exactly why it hurt.

So when you insisted on going on a short vacation to the center of Metropolis with just one friend, Clark refused immediately.

He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to discuss it. Didn’t want to consider it.

Metropolis was too big, too loud, too unpredictable. There were dangers on every street, every corner, every unfamiliar face. How could you even think of leaving like that, as if the world were harmless? As if he had no reason to worry?

“Dad, it’s only a few days,” you said, trying to sound calm. “I’m not going to the end of the world.”

“To me, it’s far enough.”

“Clark,” Lois intervened with that firm patience only she could maintain with him, “you can’t keep her locked up here forever.”

He turned his head slightly, looking at her with contained tension.

“I’m not trying to lock her up.”

But even you knew that wasn’t entirely true.

Because Clark did want to keep you. Not in a room, perhaps, or behind visible bars, but inside a space where nothing could touch you without going through him first. A reduced, safe, clean world where you would still look at him with the same trust you had as a child.

In the end, he gave in.

Or at least pretended to.

He let you leave with a smile that was too stiff, a kiss on the forehead, and an absurd list of instructions you repeated from memory with tired resignation. Don’t walk alone at night. Text him when you arrive at the hotel. Don’t go into quiet streets. Don’t trust strangers. Don’t separate from your friend. Don’t…

“Dad,” you murmured, almost embarrassed, “I’ll be fine.”

Clark held your gaze for a second too long.

“I hope so.”

But he didn’t believe it.

Not even a little.

From the moment you left, Metropolis stopped being just the city he swore to protect. It became a living, immense, unbearable threat. Clark continued responding to emergencies, continued smiling for the cameras, continued being Superman to the rest of the world. But a part of him remained fixed on you. On the hotel where you were staying. On the streets you walked. On the heartbeat he would recognize even among millions.

He watched you from afar.

Not in a clumsy or obvious way. He never let you see him. Sometimes he would descend onto a nearby rooftop just to make sure you had entered a café safely. Other times he would listen to your laughter mixed with your friend’s and force himself to stay still, reminding himself that he couldn’t interfere every time someone approached you. But the need remained there, constant and fierce.

He saw you buying ridiculous souvenirs in a tourist shop. He saw you taking photos of the skyline with a genuine smile. He saw you stop in front of a bookstore window, excited about some special edition you would probably end up buying even if it no longer fit in your suitcase. And for a moment, just for a moment, he almost seemed calm.

Because you were happy.

And yet, even while watching you laugh, something tormented him.

You weren’t happy with him.

Not in that way.

You no longer reached for his hand to cross the street. You no longer turned around expecting to find him behind you. That light, carefree joy was given to other spaces, other people, a life that was beginning to exist outside his reach. And Clark resented it in silence, with a sadness so deep it almost felt like anger.

The night of the incident, the air in Metropolis was heavy and humid, as if the city itself sensed something was coming. You and your friend had gone out after dinner. Nothing serious. Nothing particularly reckless. Just two teenagers wanting to stretch their freedom a little longer. Laughing. Walking. Feeling older in a bright, enormous city that promised more than it should.

Clark was already uneasy before he found you.

He had gone too long without hearing your voice up close. Your heart was beating faster than normal. Not from joy, but from fear.

And then he found you.

The alley was half-hidden, far from the illuminated avenues. Your friend lay on the ground, motionless, far too still, and in front of you stood two men. One was holding you roughly while the other smiled with the miserable confidence of someone who believed they had control for a few seconds.

Clark landed without making a sound.

But by the time they saw him, it was already too late.

There was no warning. No speech. No trace of the firm compassion the world adored in Superman.

There was only fury.

Pure, ancient, and irreparable.

The screams didn’t last long. Afterward, only silence remained. A heavy, horrifying silence broken only by your trembling breathing.

When he finally looked up at you, Clark had already crossed a line from which he could never return.

His hands were stained. His chest rose and fell with controlled slowness. And his eyes… his eyes were not those of a hero who had arrived in time.

They were the eyes of a man who had almost lost the only thing he loved more than his own morality.

You took a small step back.

That tiny movement hurt him more than any weapon could have.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t an order spoken harshly, but it didn’t sound like a request either. You were shaking. There were tears in your eyes. And yet, you lifted your gaze.

Clark approached slowly, as if any sudden movement could break you. With trembling hands, he brushed a strand of hair from your face, checking your features, your arms, your shoulders, searching for signs of injury even though he already knew, from the sound of your heartbeat, that you weren’t seriously hurt.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

Then he pulled you into an embrace.

A tight one.

Too tight.

Not like a father comforting his daughter, but like a man desperate to make sure that what had almost been taken from him was still his, tangible, real. His hand sank into your back, holding you against him as he pressed his face into your hair.

“Don’t ever do this to me again,” he whispered.

And that sentence, spoken in a broken voice, was perhaps more terrifying than everything else.

Because he wasn’t talking about danger in general.

He was talking about himself.

About what your absence did to him. About how the simple fact of not feeling you close was enough to unravel him from the inside. About how he had broken his code, his principles, and the entire image the world had of Superman, simply because someone had dared to touch you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you again.

There was relief in his expression, yes, but it was twisted by something deeper. Something possessive. Something almost feverish.

“I told you Metropolis wasn’t safe,” he said, his voice soft but every word carrying unbearable weight. “I told you not to go so far.”

“Dad…” your voice came out weak and broken.

And then something worse happened: his expression softened.

Not because he was any less agitated, but because he seemed convinced of something. As if everything that had happened had confirmed a truth he had been denying for too long.

“It’s over now,” he murmured, stroking your hair with a tenderness that, in that moment, felt almost suffocating. “It’s over. I’m here.”

But it didn’t sound like comfort.

It sounded like a sentence.

Because what Clark had understood that night wasn’t just that the world was dangerous.

It was that letting you go had been a mistake.

A mistake he had no intention of repeating.

After that, there was no real distance between you anymore. Although he tried to maintain some sense of normalcy for Lois’s sake, something in him had changed irreversibly. He began treating you with the same gentleness from your childhood, perhaps even more so. He would bring you breakfast in bed when you stayed home. He would leave books and small gifts on your desk without saying they were from him. He would sit beside you on the porch at night like he used to when you were little, calmly asking how your day had been, even though he already knew the answer.

And yet, beneath all that tenderness was constant surveillance.

If you took too long to reply to a message, he had already noticed. If someone new approached you, he knew their name before you even mentioned it. If you seemed uncomfortable with someone, even for just a second, Clark would become quieter, more attentive, more present.

Closer.

Always closer.

As if he wanted to forcefully rebuild the version of you that once ran to him without hesitation. As if he could shrink you back into the little girl who believed everything was safe as long as he was there.

But you were no longer that little girl.

And perhaps that was what made it even more terrifying.

Because Clark still saw you that way.

His daughter.

His most precious weakness.

The only part of the world he was unwilling to share.

Nolan Grayson

Nolan Grayson adored his daughter from the very moment she was born.

If Mark had been his first attempt at seeing how far his Viltrumite blood could go on Earth, you were something else entirely: a certainty. A living promise. And when, at barely four years old, you manifested your powers for the first time, something inside him settled with a silent and fierce satisfaction. He always remembered it clearly: your small body lifting slightly off the ground, your eyes shining with excitement, and him standing there, watching you with a pride so intense it bordered on devotion.

He adored you.

In a deep, almost unsettling way, though he would never have admitted it out loud.

He was always attentive to you, to your progress, to your strength, to every small sign that confirmed how special you were. He worried about you with an attention he rarely gave Mark. While he usually treated his son with a certain distance, as if he were still waiting for something from him, with you it was different. There was an unusual patience in his voice, a softer firmness in his gestures, and a constant need to watch you and shape you with his own hands.

Debbie noticed, of course.

The difference was too obvious to ignore. Nolan could overlook Mark’s frustrations, his insecurities, or his need for approval, but he never let anything concerning you slip by. If you fell, he was already there. If you trained, he watched you with absolute attention. If you doubted, your voice was the first one he listened to. And although he never stopped fulfilling his role as a father on the surface with both of you, it was impossible not to see that there was something about you that pulled him with greater force.

Perhaps because you were the early proof that his legacy had not been in vain.

Perhaps because in you he saw a cleaner, more promising reflection of himself.

Or perhaps because, quite simply, Nolan had decided very early on that you were his in a sense that went far beyond paternal affection.

Time passed, and the little girl he used to carry in his arms eventually became a woman.

You grew up strong, brilliant, and confident. And although Nolan continued to look at you with the same stern pride as always, he also began to feel something harder to name: a silent discomfort with your independence. You were no longer the little girl who followed him everywhere, who looked at him as if he were invincible. You had grown up. You had formed your own opinions. And although you still cared for him, you no longer orbited around him in the same way.

He didn’t like it.

He tolerated it, because he had no choice, but he didn’t like it.

That was why, when Mark finally gained his powers and began taking his first steps as a hero, Nolan quickly assumed that you would do the same. In his mind, it was natural. Correct. Inevitable. You were his daughter, after all; you had shown your abilities long before Mark, with an ease he would never forget. If his son was destined to rise, then so were you. Perhaps even better than him.

And deep down, that idea awakened a dark and possessive pride in Nolan.

Because it wasn’t just about watching you fly.

It was about watching you take the place he believed belonged to you.

But everything came crashing down one day.

Your eighteenth birthday dinner proceeded with apparent normalcy. Debbie had prepared your favorite meal, Mark joked with his usual clumsiness, and Nolan… Nolan watched you from across the table with that calm, calculating gaze only you knew how to interpret.

He had been looking at you more than usual all night. As if he somehow knew that something was about to change.

When you finished blowing out the candles and the applause died down, Debbie smiled at you warmly.

“So, what are your plans now that you’re officially an adult?” she asked, pouring herself a little more wine.

You hesitated for just a second before answering. You had rehearsed the sentence several times in your head, but even so, saying it out loud made it sound more final than you expected.

“I’ve decided to accept the scholarship at the University of Atlanta.”

The silence that followed was brief but heavy.

Mark looked up, surprised but not particularly alarmed.

“Atlanta… really? That’s pretty far.”

Debbie blinked, processing the information.

“Atlanta,” she repeated, forcing a smile. “It’s a good university. When were you planning on telling us?”

You took a deep breath.

“Also… I’m going to move in with my boyfriend.”

The sound of Nolan’s fork against the plate was barely noticeable, but enough to make everyone go still. He slowly lifted his gaze, and for the first time that night, his expression lost every trace of warmth.

Nolan didn’t say anything at first.

He simply looked at you.

That look he usually reserved for enemies, not his daughter. His eyes, normally serene and controlled, darkened in a subtle but unmistakable way. His jaw tightened, and although he kept his posture relaxed, his fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Debbie was the first to break the silence.

“Your… boyfriend,” she repeated, clearly taken aback. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”

“A few months,” you answered, trying to sound confident. “He’s from Atlanta. That’s why I decided to accept the university there. We’re going to move in together.”

Mark glanced sideways at Nolan, as if expecting his father to say something. But Nolan remained silent, watching you with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavier.

Finally, he spoke.

His voice was low. Too low.

“Move in with him?”

You nodded.

“Yes. We’ve already talked about it. It’s the most practical option.”

Nolan let out a short, humorless laugh. He leaned back in his chair and looked at you directly, completely ignoring the worried glances from Debbie and Mark.

“Practical?” he repeated, as if the word offended him. “You think moving in with some boy on the other side of the country is ‘practical’?”

“Nolan…” Debbie tried to intervene, but he raised a hand without taking his eyes off you.

“No,” he said with dangerous calm. “I want her to explain it to me.”

You swallowed, but held his gaze.

“Dad, I’m eighteen. I can make my own decisions.”

Nolan tilted his head slightly, studying you as if he were seeing you for the first time. There was something in his expression that chilled you from the inside. It wasn’t just disappointment. It was something deeper. More possessive. As if you had just taken something he considered rightfully his.

“Eighteen years old,” he repeated slowly, savoring the words. “And you think that means you can walk away from this family? That you can go live with a stranger?”

“He’s not a stranger,” you replied, though your voice came out weaker than you wanted.

Nolan smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was cold. Almost cruel.

“To me, he is.”

The silence that followed was thick. Debbie looked at her husband with concern while Mark shifted uncomfortably in his chair. But Nolan only had eyes for you.

And in that gaze was something that made you understand, with uncomfortable clarity, that your father wasn’t angry about your independence.

He was angry because you were pulling away from him.

The silence that followed your announcement was broken by your own voice, firm despite the tension hanging in the air.

“Ray is a good man, Dad. You don’t know him, but I do. He’s kind, responsible, and he supports what I want to do. I’m going to go to university, I’m going to study what I’ve always wanted, and I’m going to live a normal life. I’m not going to stay here just because you prefer it.”

Nolan stared at you. His eyes, normally cold and calculating, now burned with something much more dangerous. A muscle tensed in his jaw.

“A normal life?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low. “You think you can have a normal life with some random human? That you can just… leave?”

“Yes,” you answered, not looking away. “Because I’m not a child anymore. And because I want to follow my dreams, even if you don’t like it.”

Nolan let out a brief, humorless laugh. He leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

His tone was no longer that of a father arguing. It was that of someone used to things going his way.

You shook your head, keeping your calm even as you felt the pressure in the room increase.

“I’m going with Raymomd. And I’m going to live my life. Even if you don’t like it.”

That was what finally broke Nolan’s control.

In one swift movement, he slammed his palm down on the table. The impact was brutal. The wooden table split in half with a dry crash, and the floor beneath it cracked violently, sending fissures toward the legs of the chairs. Plates and glasses fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.

Debbie let out a choked scream and pushed her chair back, pale with terror. Mark froze, staring at his father with wide eyes.

But you didn’t.

You looked him directly in the eyes, with pure anger.

Nolan was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he stared at you with a mixture of fury and something much darker. Something possessive. Something that went far beyond paternal concern.

“You’re not leaving,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with contained rage. “You’re not moving in with that boy. You’re not going to Atlanta. You’re not walking away from this family.”

You slowly stood up from your chair, never breaking eye contact.

“I’m going to,” you replied clearly. “And you can’t stop me.”

You turned and walked toward the door.

Nolan shot to his feet so fast that his chair fell backward.

“Don’t you dare walk out of this house!” he shouted, his voice echoing with a force that made the windows rattle. “Get back here right now!”

But you didn’t stop.

You opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, feeling the cool night air hit your face. Behind you, you heard Nolan scream your name with a mixture of anger and desperation you had never heard from him before.

“Come back here! You’re not leaving!”

You ignored his shouts.

You walked down the steps of the house and continued along the driveway, your heart pounding hard in your chest. For the first time in your life, you had openly defied your father.

And although you didn’t look back, you could feel his gaze burning into your back — heavy, furious… and dangerously possessive.

Nolan Grayson wasn’t used to having what he considered his taken away from him.

And certainly not by his own daughter.

Days later, you continued with your plans.

You had spent the last few days avoiding your father as much as possible. Although Nolan hadn’t brought up the subject again in front of the others, his silence was far more dangerous than his shouting. He watched you constantly, with that calculating gaze that followed you even when you thought you were alone. Still, you refused to back down. You had packed your bags, organized your university documents, and that afternoon, you were at Ray’s house, finishing packing the last of your things.

You were carrying a heavy box in your arms when you stepped out the front door.

What you saw outside froze you in place.

Raymond was on his knees in the garden, his face bloodied and his expression dazed. Standing in front of him, dressed in the red and white suit of Omni-Man, was your father. Nolan was holding him by the neck with one hand, as if he weighed nothing. Before you could react, Nolan twisted his wrist with a sharp, brutal motion.

The sound of Ray’s skull cracking was horrifying.

His body fell lifeless to the ground, his head deformed and blood quickly spreading across the grass. Nolan stood over him, unfazed, as if he had just crushed an insect.

You dropped the box.

“Dad…” your voice came out broken, caught between disbelief and rage.

Nolan slowly turned his head toward you. His expression was calm, almost serene, as if he hadn’t just murdered your boyfriend in front of your eyes. Blood stained his glove.

You felt fury rise in your chest. Without thinking, you dropped the box and ran toward him.

“What did you do?!” you screamed, hitting him with all your strength against his chest.

Nolan didn’t move. Your blows did nothing to him. When you tried to hit him again, he acted quickly.

His free hand rose and struck you with an open palm.

The impact was brutal. You felt your nose break with a sharp crack. The pain was immediate and intense. Blood poured down your face as you staggered backward. Before you could fall, Nolan grabbed you tightly, pulling you into an embrace that pinned you against his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a low, almost gentle voice as he held you against him despite your struggles.

The blood from your nose stained his suit. He held the back of your neck with one hand, keeping you trapped in his embrace with a strength that didn’t allow you to escape. His other hand stroked your hair with a sickening tenderness, contrasting sharply with the violence he had just shown.

“Soon it will be just the two of us,” he continued with terrifying calm. “When Earth finally accepts its fate, there will be nothing and no one left to stand between us. No boyfriends. No universities. No normal lives.”

You tried to pull away, but he only held you tighter, ignoring your attempts to free yourself. You could feel how calmly his heart was beating, as if all of this were perfectly natural.

“Just you and me,” he whispered against your hair. “Father and daughter. The way it was always meant to be.”

Blood continued to drip from your broken nose, staining his red suit. Nolan held you even tighter, as if he feared that even now you might slip away from him.

And in that moment, you understood with horror that your father no longer saw Ray as a simple obstacle.

He saw him as the first step toward having you completely to himself

Thragg

Over the years, Thragg stopped being content with watching you through glass and screens.

At first, his visits were scarce. Brief. Calculated with almost surgical precision. He would enter your chambers without making a sound, accompanied only by the weight of his presence, and stop a few steps away to look at you with that silent severity that seemed to fill the entire room. He was never a man given to visible tenderness, especially not with you — not because he loved you any less, but because he considered you far too valuable to be treated with weakness.

The first time he began appearing before you regularly, you were no longer a child crying for a familiar face. You had grown up in discipline, silence, and isolation. The machines had taught you obedience, knowledge, and control; but it was he who began to shape something far more important in you.

Character.

You remember not saying anything the first time you saw him cross the threshold and stand before you, enormous and imposing, with his arms behind his back and that cape falling like a shadow of war. You looked at him without fear. Without hesitation. As if, somewhere inside you, you had always known there was someone on the other side of the walls.

Thragg noticed.

And that pleased him more than he would have ever admitted.

“So you don’t tremble,” was one of the first things he said to you.

His voice was deep, dry, with no trace of warmth. But there was no disapproval in it either. Only observation.

You lifted your chin with a stillness that didn’t entirely match your age.

“I don’t see why I should.”

For a moment, silence stretched between the two of you. And although Thragg’s face barely changed, something in his gaze sharpened with a deep and dark satisfaction.

Because you weren’t just strong.

You were worthy.

From then on, he began visiting you more frequently. No longer as a distant figure lurking in the shadows, but as a constant and rigorous presence. He personally oversaw your training, correcting your posture, your responses, even the way you held your gaze. He taught you the history of Viltrum not as a lesson, but as a heritage. He didn’t speak to you of ruin or loss with sadness, but with a stern devotion that turned every word into a command.

He showed you star maps, records of conquest, names of fallen generals, and worlds brought to their knees under the weight of a race that had once been unstoppable. And you listened in silence, motionless, with such perfect attention that even he found himself watching you longer than necessary.

There was something almost disturbing about the seriousness with which you absorbed everything.

You didn’t interrupt with unnecessary questions. You showed no sentimentality. You weren’t distracted by the weight of blood or the magnitude of what had been destroyed. You listened as if every fragment of the empire belonged to you by right.

As if you understood it.

As if you had been born for it.

That pleased Thragg in a dangerous way.

Little by little, he began taking you out of your chambers. First to internal corridors, then to command chambers, strategy rooms, and hangars where the organized ruins of what had once been the heart of an immense empire still remained. What little remained of Viltrum was not beautiful in a human sense; it was severe, functional, wounded. Metal, silence, and memory. And yet, when you walked beside him through those structures marked by war and decay, Thragg felt something close to pride.

He didn’t allow anyone to walk at his height.

Except you.

The few who still served under his command soon understood your position. Thragg didn’t need to announce it openly. It was enough to see him stop to wait for you. Enough to see how his attention shifted toward you before any commander. Enough to notice the absolute coldness with which he responded when someone spoke to you without permission.

You were his daughter.

The first.

The only one he looked at not as a tool, but as the untouched continuation of something he refused to let die.

On one occasion, while walking through an observation room from which fragments of destroyed fleets could be seen floating in the void, one of his subordinates — too slow, too clumsy — interrupted with a poorly presented report. Thragg barely turned his head to listen. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make any sudden movements. He simply pointed out the mistake with a calm so lethal that the soldier froze instantly.

You didn’t look away.

You watched everything with the same impassive expression you used for anything else. Without horror. Without discomfort. Only attention.

When the man left, trembling with shame, Thragg turned slightly toward you.

“Misplaced compassion weakens judgment,” he said.

You took a second to respond.

“Then it isn’t a virtue. It’s a defect useful only to enemies.”

That time, Thragg did smile.

It was a minimal, brief, almost imperceptible smile. But in someone like him, that was equivalent to immense approval.

“Correct.”

From that moment on, he began showing you more. Not only the structure of the empire, but its logic. The order. The hierarchy. The necessity of strength, purity, and obedience. He wanted you to understand not only what Viltrum had been, but what it needed to become again. And every time he saw you standing beside him, with an impassive face and a steady gaze, the idea became more firmly rooted in his mind.

He wasn’t just introducing you to a legacy.

He was preparing you to inherit it.

There were moments, rare but revealing, when even he seemed to forget his own reserve. Watching you respond harshly to a disrespectful officer, noticing the precision with which you analyzed combat reports, confirming that there was no unnecessary softness in you — Thragg felt a satisfaction so intense that it bordered on obsession.

Because he didn’t see only a daughter.

He saw confirmation.

Proof that something pure still remained in the universe. Something worthy. Something his.

And the more he integrated you into what little remained of the empire, the clearer a truth became — one that no one around you dared to name:

Thragg didn’t just favor you.

Thragg had reserved a place for you that he would never allow anyone else to occupy.

It didn’t matter how many children he had fathered. It didn’t matter how many descendants carried his blood. None had been watched like you. None had been preserved like you. None walked beside him with the same silent closeness that made others fall quiet the moment you entered a room.

You were his fiercest pride.

His favorite daughter.

And in many ways, the only thing he regarded with something close to reverence.

With time, Thragg decided that you were no longer just his daughter. You were a soldier. You needed a position.

He named you general.

It wasn’t an empty title. Thragg placed you in a position of power within the Viltrumite fleet, and to ensure you were prepared, he put Kregg in charge of your training. He was one of his most loyal and competent warriors, someone he trusted enough to leave you under his guidance. Thragg believed that with Kregg by your side, you would be protected and well-trained.

What he didn’t imagine was that Kregg would become attracted to you.

At first, the advances were subtle. Looks that lingered longer than necessary, words that brushed the edges of military respect, small gestures that a normal Viltrumite wouldn’t have noticed. But you noticed them. And instead of rejecting them, you felt curious. You had never experienced anything like it. Viltrumites didn’t speak of romance or affection in that way; for them, relationships were something functional, almost nonexistent. However, the way Kregg looked at you awakened an interest in you that you didn’t know how to handle.

You didn’t see anything wrong with it.

Without Thragg knowing, you began spending more time alone with Kregg. What started as training gradually turned into something more. It wasn’t a romance like those that existed on other planets; it was something clumsy, silent, and filled with tensions that neither of you knew how to name. But for you, it was enough. You liked the way Kregg treated you, as if you were more than just Thragg’s daughter. As if you were someone he could desire.

For weeks, you kept it a secret. You slipped away from his gaze when you could, met with Kregg in secluded areas of the main ship, and allowed his hands to touch you in ways your father would never have permitted. To you, it wasn’t betrayal. It was simply something that belonged to you.

What you didn’t know was that Thragg, although he trusted Kregg, never stopped watching you.

And sooner or later, he would discover what you were doing.

Because even though he had named you general and given you power, Thragg still considered you his absolute possession. And he was not willing to share you with anyone.

Not even with one of his own warriors.

But Thragg didn’t suspect anything at first.

He was satisfied with your progress as a general. He believed Kregg was fulfilling his duty by training you, and that you were fulfilling yours as his daughter. However, as the weeks passed, something began to change in you. You became more reserved, avoided his direct gaze, and kept a distance that hadn’t existed before. Thragg noticed, but attributed it to the weight of your new responsibilities.

Until one day he asked you to come closer.

He wanted to personally check your physical condition, as he used to do when you were little. When you stood in front of him, Thragg observed you carefully. And then he saw it.

The slight swelling in your abdomen.

It wasn’t something that could be mistaken. As a Viltrumite, he immediately recognized what it meant. You were pregnant. And not by just any Viltrumite.

By Kregg.

Something dark and violent ignited inside him. Thragg had planned to repopulate his race, yes, but never like this. He had never imagined that another Viltrumite would dare to touch you, to taint you, to leave his seed inside what he considered exclusively his. The idea of his daughter carrying the child of another filled him with a cold and silent rage.

Without saying a word, he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around you in a firm, almost crushing embrace. His large hands rested on your back, holding you tightly against him. For a moment, the silence was absolute.

“Everything is going to be fine,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and controlled, in stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. “I’m going to fix this.”

You felt his embrace tighten slightly, as if he feared you might slip away. Thragg closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his mind already began mapping out the path he would follow. He would not allow that creature to be born. He would not allow Kregg’s legacy to mix with his blood. He had raised you to be perfect, strong, and loyal only to him. He would not allow anything or anyone to contaminate you.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His expression was serious, almost solemn, but his eyes burned with a dangerous obsession.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he continued, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “After this, everything will return to order. You will only have to continue being a good soldier… and a good daughter. That is all that will be asked of you.”

His voice was calm, almost reassuring, but the words carried an oppressive weight. There was no room for discussion. No room for choice. Thragg had already made his decision.

So he thrust his arm through your stomach, becoming completely covered in your blood.

"You'll recover, don't worry."

Because Thragg was not willing to share you with anyone.

Not even with your own child.

Have I been too violent? I mean, I feel like the warnings might be an understatement.

Soft waves crashing onto the shore merge with the sound of the birds chirping. The pillars for the hammock groan every once in a while as it swings from side to side. The combination of the gentle sea breeze, soothing swaying motion and Jude’s hands on your body pulls you in between the realm of sleep and consciousness.

“You tired?” he asks, calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh of your stomach. Your eyes peer open, blinking away to sleepy feeling as you respond. “No, was just resting my eyes.”

A soft laugh falls from his plump, two toned lips. “You sure?” He teases, pulling away from your hair to press a kiss onto your lips. You sigh into the kiss, pulling him closer by the nape of his neck.

The both of you shift next to each other, you, to get more comfortable beside him, and him to get you partially on top of him.

His right hand shifts below your rear, gripping the back of your thigh, lifting your leg up to throw it over his hip. Now you’re both facing each other, bodies moving in sync as you breathe.

You two do nothing but stare at each other, your eyes grow heavier and heavier by the moment and every time they shut, you force them back open. “Just go to sleep love..” Jude insists, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before you go off to dreamland thinking about nothing but this vacation and your man…

A beat passes. Slowly, everyone's attention turns to Sukuna.

He stays silent. Uraume takes it as their cue to continue. "We can keep it small, ten people at most. Sukuna gets to cook, and his fans get to meet him. Win-win."

The room watches him with bated breath. This is their best idea so far; if he rejects this, they're out of luck.

After what feels like hours, Sukuna finally turns to face Uraume. "I have full control of the menu." He pauses, then adds, "And I want to choose the winners."

The entire room seems to release a breath. Now that he finally agreed to an idea, the hard part is over. All that's left is to figure out details and announce the event.

From there on, the meeting room is the image of controlled chaos. With so many things to figure out and so little time, everyone is moving quickly. Even Sukuna is put to work, much to his dismay, assigned with deciding on a menu and the event type.

The setting sun shines through the windows, casting a warm light on the aftermath of today's work. Papers are still scattered across the table, now filled with notes and tasks. The sounds of pens scratching across paper and clicking keyboards have died down into relaxed jokes.

The room gradually gets empty, until it's just the two of them left. Sukuna leans back with his legs spread under the table. He seems to be lost in thought when Uraume looks up. After a moment, his head jerks up, his brows furrowed. "They're amateurs. Probably can't even hold a knife properly. How am I 'posed to teach a cooking class like that?"

Uraume doesn't even look up this time, still focused on the pile of papers in front of them. "We're choosing two students from a local culinary school." They glance up, commenting dryly, "Try not to suck the life out of them."

Sukuna hums, then grins. "Always a step ahead, huh? Smart cookie."

They don't respond, but Sukuna doesn't miss the faint smile pulling at their lips. Even after nine years, the two of them haven't changed.

When you see the announcement, you're sprawled out on the floor in your friend's dorm. While everyone else is scattered around the room, Shoko sits beside you with her feet on your lap, turning her phone every few minutes to show you another stupid post. Suddenly, she sits up, shoving her phone in your face. "Look! Isn't this that dude you're always drooling over?"

You sit up, confusion painted across your features. "What dude?"

9 Year Anniversary Event: Meet-and-greet cooking class with Michelin Chef Ryomen Sukuna!

The room falls silent. You stare at the screen for a few seconds too long, and Shoko stares at you as if you're malfunctioning. To be fair, you are.

Maki leans forward, peeking over Shoko's shoulder. "A meet and greet? That has to be a scam. I heard he's an asshole in person."

"Yeah," Utahime chimes in, "But he looks better in person. I think you should sign up!"

You glance between them, weighing your options. On one hand, it's a great opportunity. You've been watching Sukuna since your freshman year of high school. You remember binging his videos when you were supposed to be studying algebra. He was only nineteen then, still adventurous enough to try whatever weird combination fans recommended. His thumbnails were what caught your attention, always pictures of the food at weird angles. However, his blunt personality is what kept you watching for so long.

So, there's plenty of reasons to sign up — there's one thing that cancels everything else out. One tiny, irrelevant problem.

You can't cook. Not only that, you're terrible at it.

Shoko clicks on the post and scrolls. She hums contemplatively, then shrugs. "It looks fun. I don't see why not."

Nodding in agreement, Utahime moves to sit on your left. She snatches the pillow under your head, grinning when you swat at her. "You've liked him for a long time, right? As long as you don't faint in front of him, you'll be fine!"

After a moment, Maki speaks up. "Are you going to be upset if you don't win? There's probably thousands of people signing up." Maki cares about all of you, it's just.. subtle.

You purse your lips, mulling it over. She's not wrong; there's no telling how many people will sign up, so it's better to stay realistic.

"Okay," you murmur, glancing over the details. "Yolo, I guess." Mumbling a half-hearted prayer that you aren't selling your soul, you reach for the phone.

Shoko immediately gasps, slamming her phone down. "Yolo? Whenever I say it you act like it's a crime!"

Laughter fills the room. Maki snorts, "Only because you say it whenever that douchebag calls you."

She opens her mouth to speak, glancing around for a moment, then closes it. "It doesn't hurt to be curious. Maybe he wants to get back together."

"Curiousity killed the cat," you tease, plucking the phone from her hands. "I think you're out of lives, missy."

Shoko rolls her eyes, but she's already smirking. "It's nothing serious, okay? I'm just.. gathering information."

"Information about how pathetic he is," Utahime mumbles, peeking over your shoulder.

Maki tosses a pillow at her, sighing loudly. "Can we stop talking about exes? I'm getting a headache."

You chuckle, tossing Shoko's phone onto her lap. "Deal. No more reminiscing tonight."

The dorm settles into a low hum, AC rattling in the window like it's trying to escape. The form sits forgotten on Shoko's phone, confirmation email sitting in your inbox. As you lie there, surrounded by crumbs and laughter, you can't help but smile.

A week later, you get the email.

You're sitting in the library, laptop half open in front of you as you pretend to study. You nearly drop your phone and scream.

Congratulations! You've been selected to participate in Ryomen Sukuna's 9th Anniversary Meet-and-Greet!

You stare at the email for what feels like hours. Is this real? Thousands, maybe more signed up for this. What are the chances that you got picked?

Eventually you close the email and brush it off as a scam. They've gotten more and more realistic lately.

Deep down, you're a little disappointed. But you weren't expecting to win. It's enough to live through the few people that did win.

At least, that's what you thought — until your phone is displaying a call from an unsaved number. You usually don't answer calls like that, but something in your gut told you to answer.

"Hello?"

Uraume's voice comes through the speaker, soft and flat.

"Hi. This is Uraume, Chef Sukuna's manager. We sent an email yesterday and didn't get a response."

You blink, fumbling for words. "I— That was real?"

The line is quiet for a moment, then a soft huff of laughter. "Yes, that was real. You were selected as one of the winners."

"...Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," Uraume reassures. "Ryomen picked the winners himself."

Your heart nearly drops through the floor. Ryomen Sukuna himself picked.. you?

Uraume continues at your silence. "If you're unable to attend—"

"No, no, I can!" You blurt, scrambling to gather your things. "Um, I might need some time to figure out transportation and such."

"Everything is paid for. It's an all-inclusive trip."

"Oh."

The realization sinks like a brick. You're going to meet someone you've admired for nearly ten years. You're meeting Ryomen Sukuna.

And then it really hits you.

You're meeting Ryomen Sukuna.. at a cooking class.

And you're a terrible cook.

"Are you there?"

Uraume's voice brings you out of your thoughts. "I'm here. Um, is there anything else I need to do?"

"No. The rest of the details will be emailed to you. Have a nice day."

The call ends soon after, leaving you in a calm silence. It lasts for a total of five seconds.

You're already frantically tapping at your screen, excitement bubbling in your chest as you all but sprint out of the library. You can't dial the numbers fast enough.

You call Shoko first. She gets less than ten words out before you're cutting her off. "Yes, my buzzy beautiful sunshine nug—"

"Sho, the email wasn't a scam! I actually won!"

"Won? What are you talking about?"

You falter mid step, staring ahead incredulously. "Sho.. the event I signed up for last week."

A beat of silence. Then: a gasp and squeal. "Seriously? Oh, don't forget me when you marry him and get super rich and famous."

You click your tongue and shake your head, smiling. "You're the first one I'm forgetting if that ever happens."

You call Utahime and Maki next. Utahime talks so fast that you have to remind her to breathe, and Maki sighs exasperatedly in the background.

The next two days are a cycle of rereading the email, packing, and questioning your sanity.

You and your friends gather in your dorm the day before you leave, huddled around your suitcase.

"It's a cooking class, not a trip to the Bahamas. Why would I pack a bathing suit?"

Shaking her head, Shoko shoves it into your bag anyway. "You're probably going to some snotty hotel. It's obviously going to have a pool, so you need a bathing suit."

Surprisingly, Maki nods in agreement. "Think of it as a vacation. It's not everyday that your whole trip is paid for." She ignores you even when you glare at her, turning to look at Utahime rummaging through your closet. "What are you looking for?"

She turns, holding out a dress. "An outfit for the event. This is a michelin chef we're talking about. My dear friend, you will turn heads."

When Utahime gets like this, it's best to let her be. Maki sighs, turning to find Shoko elbow deep in her chips. "I dunno. He's not all that— Maki!"

Shoko whines, clutching her arm where Maki pinched her. She pays the girl no mind, snatching the bag of chips. "Don't overthink it. You should worry about being comfortable."

"Don't listen to her," Utahime mumbles, pulling out another mini dress. "You'll get a chance to have fun at some point. Best to be prepared."

You wave her off and shrug. "I guess. Nothing too.. racy. I'm still going to be surrounded by strangers."

Staring down at your suitcase ― packed to the brim with clothes and everything unnecessary. It almost feels bittersweet. You won't be gone for long, but it's still going to fee weird not having your three closest friends around. You'll have to learn new faces and names, get acquainted all over again. It's a little daunting.

Maki, ever the observant one, pulls you from your thoughts. "We'll call every day for updates. Bring back some souvenirs, too."

Utahime pouts, wrapping her arms around you. "Text us when you land, okay?"

You nod, looking around at the mess you'd made in your dorm. "I'm going to miss you guys."

Shoko hums, batting her lashes at you. "You'll miss me the most, right?"

The rest of the night is filled with laughter and comments about your husband waiting for you. And even though you're nervous, afraid of what will greet you tomorrow, it feels a little less scary with them.

The next day goes by in a blur. Airport lines, irritated TSA staff, and overpriced coffee that tastes like dirt.

By the time you land, you're running on spite, two hours of sleep, and a lukewarm red bull.

When the shuttle finally pulls up to the hotel, marble floors and staff that get paid enough to be this nice, one thing is clear.

This is real. You're here, in California, meeting Ryomen Sukuna.

Staff dressed in sleek black and red uniforms greet you with practiced smiles, taking your bags before you can blink. You're escorted to a lounge area where you wait for the other participants.

"Hey," a voice calls out, startling you from your half-asleep state.

A man comes into view, long dark hair and a ridiculously handsome face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Just wanted to introduce myself." He extends his hand, "Geto Suguru."

You sit up, extending your hand to shake his. It's warm, his fingertips slightly calloused from use. You offer your name, sitting a little straighter when he repeats it. "Nice to meet you. Hopefully, we'll run into each other outside of the event."

Before you can respond or ask what he meant, Uraume is stepping into the room behind the last two participants. Once everyone is seated, they introduce themselves. "Good morning. My name is Uraume, but you all probably know me as Sukuna's manager."

A staff member comes around to distribute keycards. "These cards will get you into your rooms. First, we'll let everyone get settled, and then go over details of the event. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask any of the staff members. Also, feel free to make use of all the amenities."

With that, Uraume steps out of the room, leaving the rest of you to converse amongst yourselves.

The man from earlier is nowhere to be found. But, there's plenty of time to figure out what he meant. In the meantime, you may as well get to know the rest of the participants.

A boy with salmon-colored hair approaches you, another with dark, spiky hair trailing behind him. "I'm Yuji!"

His energy is somewhat startling, yet refreshing. You nod, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you introduce yourself. He suddenly turns, pushing the other boy forward. "This is Megumi! Don't mind him, he's just a bit grumpy from jet lag."

Megumi stares at you, offering a tired wave. It seems like that's the most you'll get from him tonight.

The rest of the participants introduce themselves: Satoru, Nobara, Todo, Inumaki, and Nanami. It's a diverse group, for sure.

With introductions out of the way, everyone splits up to find their rooms. When you arrive at your room, the hallway is still full of people gathering their things. Satoru is on your left, and Yuji is across the hall. As if the two of them aren't lively enough, Todo is only a door down.

You glance around, the man from earlier is still nowhere to be found. But, the room beside yours has luggage sitting untouched outside the door. When you peek at the tag, you find a familiar name is scrawled across the paper.

Geto Suguru.

You keep the information in mind.

When you finally step into your room, it smells like citrus and clean linen. It's spacious, to say the least. Floor to ceiling windows, king-sized bed, and a bathroom that looks straight out of a movie. A welcome basket sits on the desk, stuffed with trinkets, snacks, and a schedule for the next few days. A handwritten note is attached with your name on it, stamped with Sukuna's logo.

You drops your bags by the closet door and sink into the plush mattress. The last few days are still catching up to you ― the email, the call from Uraume, the flight, this hotel ― it's exhausting. Everything here is the picture definition of quiet luxury.

Your mind drifts back to the stranger from before, Geto Suguru. You saw his name on the luggage next door, but where did he go? And what did he mean by "see more of each other?"

For now, you decide to drop it. There's still plenty of time to play detective. The first thing on the schedule is right around the corner.

Standing from the bed with a heavy sigh, you reach to open your suitcase. Since it's only the first day, it's better to start with a simple outfit. Just as you're applying finishing touches to your outfit, there's a knock on your door. Satoru's sing-song voice sounds shortly after.

"Princess, it's time to go! They're calling us for the event debrief.. or whatever it's called."

You snort, walking to pull the door open. You find Satoru, Yuji, and a less grumpy looking Megumi standing outside. "Oh, did you guys wait for me?"

Yuji grins. "Yeah, we figured we could all walk down together."

You smile, touched by the gesture. "Thanks. Let's go before we're late."

The four of you make your way downstairs, quickly finding the meeting room. The energy in the room is a weird mix of nerves and excitement, everyone murmuring in anticipation. The table is decorated with small treats and drinks, as well as name tags for each person. When you sit down, you notice Geto's name tag across from you.

Uraume stands at the front of the room, stoic as ever. To your surprise, Suguru is standing beside them, along with Todo. They're both introduced as culinary students that are there for experience.

When you look up again, you catch Suguru watching you. His gaze lingers a moment too long to consider casual, then he looks away.

The debrief continues smoothly with a short presentation covering kitchen etiquette and safety rules.

The rest of the evening moves quickly. Dinner with the participants, a tour of the kitchen, and a reminder to get enough rest. Tomorrow, the real event begins.

When you make it to your room, it feels like you've been awake for days. You fall into the nest of blankets and pillows without bothering to unpack the rest of your suitcase. You can deal with that in the morning.

For now, you sleep.

The next morning moves fast. Breakfast, small talk, and outfit changes feel like a blur. Before you know it, the sun is high in the sky and you're being led into a kitchen that probably costs more than you can comprehend.

The room is decorated with sleek appliances, dark wood, and soft lighting. Stations are set with prepped ingredients and polished utensils, each marked with a name tag. Glancing up, you find Suguru standing in front of your station, a smile stretched across his lips. "Looks like we're station buddies."

You laugh, nodding. "I guess so."

Staff members float through the room, making final adjustments, but your attention is drawn to the banner hanging in the front.

Ryomen Sukuna's 9-year Anniversary

You're barely settled when the door swings open, and in walks the man himself. You imagined this moment over and over in your head, but none of it looked like this. If you thought he looked big on screen, there's no words to describe how he looks in person.

He stops at the front of the room, crossing his arms as he introduces himself. "I'm Ryomen Sukuna, owner of Malevolent Shrine. Thanks for comin', and.. uh, nice to meet you all."

There's something attractive about the casual confidence he exudes, like he owns the room without trying. And he does. All eyes are on him.

"Today's going to be simple," he starts, voice low and rough. "We're going to cook, eat, and you might learn somethin' if you're lucky."

A few chuckles sound throughout the room and Sukuna grins, almost sharp enough to feel dangerous.

He makes his way around the room, learning names and faces. When he reaches your station, he grins again. Only this time, it's slower. Flashing his canines, he extends his hand towards you. "'m sure you know my name by now. Mind telling me yours?"

You blink, slightly flustered from seeing him so close. You give him your name, watching as he tests it on his tongue. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

You thank him, all grins and giggles. Sukuna only smiles, leaning against the counter. "You excited?"

"Of course! I mean, I've been watching you for years."

This time, Sukuna blinks. "Years?"

You nod, glancing away. "Oh.. well, yeah. I still remember your garbage ramen—"

He immediately straightens, his ears tinted pink. "The fuck? Why do you remember that? I was, what— nineteen?"

"It was what made me start watching you."

He looks back at you, tilting his head. Before he can respond, Uraume is getting his attention, gesturing for him to move on.

He sighs, pointing at you. "We're finishin' this later." Sukuna walks off, returning to his spot at the front of the room.

Suguru turns to look at you, grinning as he teases. "Someone got his attention."

At the front of the room, Sukuna speaks up, now standing behind his station. He's already rolled up his sleeves, revealing the black ink curling along his forearms. "Alright, we're making two dishes today. Gyoza and donburi. It's simple enough, so try to make it look good, at least."

Sukuna gestures to the ingredients laid out in front of him. "We'll start with the dough and filling for the gyoza. Watch me first, then I'll come around and see how bad you're screwin' it up."

You glance up, peeking past Suguru to see him separating ingredients.

Leaning forward, you speak loudly enough for him to hear. "You've made this before?"

He shrugs. "Once or twice."

He falls into a rythym: chopping, mixing, portioning the filling and dough. The kitchen is full of motion and soft chatter, broken by the occasional comment from Sukuna.

"That's too thick," he calls across the room.

You're halfway through dicing your vegetables when Suguru turns, examining your work. "You're holding the knife wrong. You could cut your fingers."

He's quick to cover your hands with his own, correcting your grip on the knife. "Like this. And you cut them wrong."

Another voice cuts in, dry and amused. "Cut them wrong? It looks like a massacre," Megumi mumbles from two stations down, prompting Yuji to laugh.

You frown, shielding your station from his view. "It's not wrong. I julienned it. I think."

Sukuna walks past your station, pausing as he eyes the state of your vegetables. He doesn't speak at first, simply nudges you to the side and cuts them for you. He's already walking away before you can thank him, kissing his teeth as he passes Nobara's station.

"Are you even trying? I could've done better with my feet."

Nobara scoffs, smacking the cutting board. "It doesn't matter if they look bad, I'm just going to eat yours!"

Sukuna scowls, walking back to his station. "Spoiled brat."

You mix the rest of the ingredients, dumping them into the bowl. After a few minutes, it starts to resemble dumpling filling.

Sukuna passes by your station again, fulling stopping in his tracks. "..The hell did you do?"

You glance up, only to find him staring at you. He nudges you aside again, plucking a spoon from your drawer. He scoops the filling, bringing it to his mouth.

"Wait, that's raw. Can't you get salmonella?"

Sukuna brushes you off, popping the spoon into his mouth. "It's extra protein, don't worry."

Not even a split second later, his whole face twists. Everything is off. It's crunchy, yet somehow slimy, too salty, and there's a weird aftertaste to it. He pauses for a moment, pressing his lips together. "...fuckin' hell."

You falter, embarrassed by the sudden attention. "I'm the only one that has to eat it, right?"

As if realizing what he said, he immediately backtracks. "It's not bad.. just a little salty."

You're not even looking at him, too embarrassed to comprehend what he's saying. He leans down, catching your gaze with furrowed brows. "Look, it's not bad, seriously. Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, sweetheart. You can use mine, it's not like I really need it."

You nod, glancing at him quickly. "Okay."

He switches your bowls out, then starts walking around the room. You don't realize he's passed your station so many times, so focused on trying to get the next part right. Filling the dumpling wrappers and folding the dough. He's lingering near your station longer than he really needs, practically supervising you.

You're struggling to fold the dough when a warm hand covers yours, guiding your fingers to pinch the gyoza closed. "There you go," Sukuna murmurs, his voice low. "Better than the other three attempts."

He straightens up, brushing past you to return to his station. "Gyoza goes on the trays for steaming. The staff will handle that," Sukuna says, motioning to the side. "Now, grab a clean pan. We're starting the donburi."

At the front, Sukuna tosses rice into his pan. The smell of garlic and soy sauce instantly fill the room. "This is more about taste than appearance. Don't burn it."

Just as you're oiling your pan, Sukuna is passing by your station again. "Let me help you, sweetheart."

He reaches around you, hand brushing your wrist as he tilts the pan just slightly. "Not too much oil. You want it hot, not drowning."

You nod, heart beating a little too fast as he tosses in garlic and diced onions. He doesn't leave right away, either. He lingers, nudging your hand when you start stirring too early.

"Let it sit. It'll burn if you mess with it too much," he murmurs, so close his lips are almost brushing your ear.

In front of you, Suguru clears his throat. "You giving everyone that much help, or just her?"

Sukuna looks up, meeting his gaze head on. "Funny coming from you, student. You shouldn't need my help for something like this."

Suguru smiles, holding his hands up in surrender. "Just making sure you remember the rest of us are here."

Sukuna snorts, finally stepping away from your station. "Step it up, then."

He walks away, but not before sparing you one last glance. He moves throughout the room, giving feedback and barking out orders.

The rest comes together easily enough: sauce, layering flavors, finishing touches. By the time you're plating, the room smells incredible.

You step back, admiring your hard work. Really, it was Sukuna's, but that's neither here nor there.

As everyone starts plating, the room shifts into a quieter chaos. Laughter mixes with the clinking of utensils, and a few stations over, Satoru proudly announces that his food is edible.

You glance over at Suguru, who's already finished arranging his donburi. "Want to trade?"

He smirks. "How big of a risk is it?"

You roll your eyes but pass him your bowl anyway. He takes a bite, brows lifting. "Wait, this is actually good."

You grin. "I told you."

He chuckles, nearly choking on his food. "You're awfully cocky for someone that barely touched anything the whole time."

You try his next, and it's annoyingly perfect. You make a face. "Show off."

He only smiles, nudging your shoulder. "It's talent."

Eventually, people start to pack up, wiping down stations and thanking the staff. Sukuna claps, gathering everyone's attention. "That's it for today. Most of you did well. The rest of you, better luck next time."

The group leaves gradually. You gather your things, pulling your bag over your shoulder when Suguru falls into step beside you.

"I'll walk you back," he says. "Since we're basically neighbors and all."

Before you can answer, a voice halts you both in your tracks.

"Actually," Sukuna starts, eyes flitting to Suguru, "I need her for something."

Suguru pauses, then looks between you two. "You need her?"

"Mhm." Sukuna's expression remains the same, but there's something smug in the way he lifts his brow. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she gets back safe."

Suguru laughs, though there's barely any humor in it. "Alright. She's all yours."

Once he's gone, Sukuna turns to you, all teeth and lazy charm. "It's nothing serious. I just figured I owe you."

You blink, brows furrowing. "Owe me?"

"For being a fan for so long," he explains, leaning closer. "And for putting up with my ramen phase."

You giggle, cheeks warm. "I guess you're not wrong.."

He leans down, voice low. "I'll give you a one-on-one lesson. Just me and you. That is, if you're free tomorrow night."

Your heart nearly leaps from your chest, but you manage a wobbly smile. "I think I can make time. I'll have to check my schedule."

He grins. "Good."

⤿ afterword. ― sorry again for the wait!! :( the last couple days were actual hell 😭 also this won't be the last of chef!sukuna on my blog, i'll try to cook up some drabbles! (get it?) i've had some ideas collecting dust for a min.. be ready. in the meantime, lmk your thoughts on this!

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