#for the 20th chapter in a row | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

misshoneyimhome · 1 month ago

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What's up buttercups ♥️

We’re almost there—the second final chapter of the series. And really, what says true love more than a little cross-checking? Sometimes, a good hit is exactly what it takes to knock sense into our favourite couple 😉

As always, I hope you enjoy the chaos, the emotions, and everything in between. Happy reading, darlings ♥️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language

Word count: 7.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen; Chapter fifteen; Chapter sixteen ; Chapter seventeen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

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Chapter eighteen: Checkmate

“Dearest Toronto,

Did you really think I wouldn’t see it?

That I’d miss the flick of his gaze at the gala? October 20th—mark it, frame it, tattoo it across your chest. The beginning of the greatest performance this city’s seen since 1967.

He touched her waist like they’d rehearsed it. She leaned in like she’d practised the smile. The camera flash caught everything—but so did I. Hidden in the blur of velvet gowns and highball glasses. Just out of sight. Just in reach.

The Queen dressed to impress. The Ice King with his mask of profession. The pose too perfect. The kiss too close. And suddenly, poof—a couple born, headlines drafted, narratives spun tighter than Auston Matthews’ top line.

You didn’t see me then. You never do. But I’ve always been here. Watching. Waiting. Connecting the dots, you tried so hard to keep apart.

Like the physio room kiss—yes, that kiss. Tiled walls. Locker room echo. One jersey sleeve half-off. The air so thick with tension I nearly choked on it through a wall. You think security cameras miss things? I don’t. I see everything.

Or that morning she left his building in a hoodie three sizes too big—for those playing along. You really think that kind of domesticity hides well behind tinted windows?

There’s a pattern here, Toronto. A pulse.

From the first dog walk. Felix leading, Auston trailing, our Queen looking a little too comfortable for someone “new” to his life. No paps, no press. Just one woman—me—with a long lens and an excellent sense of timing. Oh, and my little songbirds of course. They never fail me. Feeding me with just enough content to continue the saga.

Then the first game night. WAG suite. Pink lipstick. One laugh too loud when the Leafs scored. Auston on the ice, but eyes in the crowd. Don’t believe me? Zoom in on Getty Image #374920. Third row. That look? It’s not part of the playbook.

Next one? She meets the team. Post-game hallway banter. Mitch chirping. Nylander watching too closely. A brushed knuckle here. A muttered “you did good” there. The play was still on. But so was something else.

Moving on – The first kiss. In his car after that dinner in Ossington. Fogged windows. Fingers twisted. A moment too raw to be scripted. And yet—they both kept pretending.

Pretending so well it became real. That’s the cruel twist, isn’t it?

They thought they were playing me. Or you. Or maybe just the media. A neat little PR stunt to distract from October losses and career plateaus. One well-timed gala appearance, and suddenly she’s the face in every crowd shot, every recap.

But it was me who made people look at you. Me who whispered into inboxes, stirred the speculation, sharpened the angles. You’re welcome.

Because without me? She’s just a ghost in corporate heels. He’s just a player riding a streak. Together? They’re a story. My story.

You think the photos leaked themselves? You think the sauna scene—the record—just magically found its way onto gossip threads? No, darling. That was surveillance. And not the government kind.

There was the family dinner—hers. The stiff posture at the table. Her mother dissecting Auston like he was under lab glass. The moment she touched his thigh beneath the tablecloth. You think love looks like roses and violins? No. It looks like fear and fire under flickering chandelier light.

His low games. Her first viral photo with another man—Ryan. Coincidence? Maybe. But Auston’s post-game stats dropped harder than his jaw in that parking garage.

The charity event aftermath. Her hands shaking when she thought no one was looking. His fingers brushing hers like they were still on stage. The kiss they shared behind the curtains when the crowd clapped for someone else.

And now? Now the illusion fractures.

Because someone finally asked: what’s real and what’s marketing? Was it ever love—or was it leverage?

Well, let me ask you this:

If the kiss in the tunnel wasn’t real…

If the breakfast with Ema wasn’t real…

If the sauna, the physio room, the car kiss, the hallway breakdown, the post-game tension, the WAG suite laughter, the ice-pack apology, the bruised-knuckle defence, the borrowed hoodie, the crying-in-the-dark honesty—if all of that wasn’t real…

Then why did he punch a man in front of his teammates to protect her?

Why did she keep coming to the rink like her heart had forgotten what fake meant?

You can’t rehearse that kind of reaction.

You can’t PR-spin a bloodied lip and a whispered thank you’s.

And yet, despite it all—they should be thanking me.

I gave them the audience. The stage. The lights. I curated the myth and fed it just enough truth to keep you salivating. They basked in the glow of the fire I started.

And now they’re crying about the burn. Poor unfortunate souls…

Every queen’s gambit leads to one final play.

And this? This is Checkmate.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

Wednesday –

You woke to the sound of chaos—not a fire alarm or sirens, but the insistent, endless thrill of your phone buzzing against the nightstand like it was possessed.

6:41 a.m.

You blinked against the pale morning light; body tangled in sheets you didn’t remember curling into. For a split second, everything was still normal. Quiet. Warm. Then you rolled over, picked up your phone, and saw the screen:

91 unread messages. 84 missed calls. 321 app notifications.

Twitter. Instagram. X. Threads. Slack. Even LinkedIn.

Your heart skipped once. Then twice. Then dropped.

The first text was from Jess.

Jess: Call me. Now.

The second from Maya.

Maya: Um. Holy shit. Are you okay??

The third—

Unknown Number: You’re trending. And not in a good way.

You didn’t have to ask why. Your thumb hovered over Safari, over Instagram. But in the end, it was the Twitter feed—no, X feed now, whatever—that gave you the truth.

#Fakemance

#MatthewsPRGirlfriend

#TheBenchwarmerWasRight

There were screenshots everywhere. Blurry photos. Grainy captures. Comment sections filled with popcorn emojis and armchair analysts combing through your life like it was an unsolved crime.

📸 Gala: You in that outfit. Auston’s hand on your waist. That smile.

📸 WAG Suite: You laughing too hard at something Stephanie said. Auston glancing up at you mid-shift.

📸 Physio Room Rumour: A shot from the side of a hallway. Half a doorframe. Half a jersey. A knowing caption.

“She wasn’t even trying to hide it lmao.”

“He’s definitely in on it. Look at the hand placement.”

“They think we’re blind??”

And then the ones that weren’t supposed to exist.

One of you slipping out of Auston’s condo. Hoodie-draped. Sleep-flattened hair.

One of the sauna, the corner of your leg—pixelated, cropped, and horrifyingly recognisable.

One of the tunnel, the kiss after Utah.

Your stomach twisted so violently you sat straight up.

The captions were merciless.

“Staged? Or the worst PR move in hockey history?”

“I love a fake dating trope as much as the next girl, but this ain’t Wattpad.”

“Hope it was worth it. What a loser.”

Instagram comment sections beneath your last work post had turned toxic overnight. Threads dissected your entire timeline, quoting articles, cross-referencing dates. People had matched your outfits to game days, linked you to Auston’s road schedule, theorised about “strategic PDA” and “media manipulation.”

The most viral thread?

A side-by-side of your gala photo and a still of Auston defending you against Chase. The caption read:

“From fake to fists. You can’t write this shit.”

You stood abruptly, nearly knocking over your water glass. The room blurred. Your breathing went shallow.

This wasn’t a rumour anymore. This wasn’t Benchwarmer snark. This was blood in the water—and you were the headline.

So, naturally, you called in sick.

Voice hoarse. Apology half-mumbled. You didn’t even fake a cough. Just said, “Something’s come up,” and hung up before they could ask questions. You barely made it to the bathroom before the nausea hit.

You sat on the cold tile floor, clutching your phone, watching your own life implode in 144-character bursts. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was certain. And worst of all—someone had seen things they should never have seen.

How did they know about the physio room?

The sauna? The goddamn hallway after the event?

That angle from Auston’s parking garage… how—

Your thoughts spiralled faster than you could control them.

It wasn’t just that the relationship had become complicated. It was that someone had been watching from the start.

Someone who knew where you’d be. When. With whom. Someone who hadn’t just guessed. They’d followed. Your name wasn’t just trending. It was dissected.

Every decision. Every outfit. Every word. Your professionalism was called into question. Your ethics. Your reputation.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes. You blinked them away. Fast. Fierce. You couldn’t cry. Not yet.

Instead, you crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over your head like they could shield you from the noise, and let yourself whisper the one question you were afraid to ask out loud:

“How long have they been there?”

And the even worse one:

“What do they want next?”

Because this wasn’t a ripple anymore. It was a flood. And you were drowning in it.

You almost didn’t show up.

You’d stared at your phone for hours, Jess’s texts unread, the group chat with Aryne, Stephanie, and Estelle hovering like a loaded gun. The last message had been Aryne’s.

Aryne: Some of us are in the lounge before the guys fly out. Thought you might want to say something…

No exclamation mark. No emojis. Just that.

So, you came.

The lounge was quieter than usual—muted televisions droning over SportsCentre highlights, the low hum of conversation trailing off the moment the door clicked shut behind you. You stepped in slowly, every pair of eyes lifting and turning.

Burning.

The room smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and leftover coffee. Light pooled through the skylight above the velvet sofas, casting long shadows on the tile. Sanna sat on the arm of a chair, Stephanie perched upright across from her, Aryne leaning against the counter by the kitchenette. Tessa held her baby tighter than usual, and Estelle didn’t look up at all.

Silence spread like fire.

You opened your mouth, but then closed it again.

But then Stephanie stood with arms crossed, heels clicking against the wooden floor. Her tone was cold. Almost too level. “How long were you going to lie to us?”

Your throat tightened. “I wasn’t lying. I just… didn’t know how to explain. It started out as—”

“A PR stunt,” Tessa cut in, arms folded. “Yeah. We read the blogs.”

Her eyes were sharp, but there was hurt there, too. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just betrayal—sharp-edged and quiet.

“You made us look stupid,” she said flatly. “We defended you. Every time someone said something shitty online. Every time a rumour came up. We backed you.”

Aryne’s jaw was tight. She didn’t speak. Just sipped her water and looked away.

You stepped forward, hands shaking slightly at your sides. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far. I didn’t plan for it to be… whatever it turned into. We both thought it would be short-term. Strategic. Nothing personal.”

��But it did turn personal,” Stephanie said, still standing, still studying you like she was watching something crack open. “Didn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. So, you just nodded.

“It became a mess,” you whispered. “And by then… it was already too late.”

A heavy beat passed before Estelle stood and tucked her phone into her bag. She didn’t say a word as she simply walked out.

Then Aryne. She hesitated just long enough to give you a look—not cruel, not cutting. Just exhausted.

“I liked you,” she murmured. “Still do. But you broke the rule.”

Your brows furrowed. “What rule?”

She gestured around the room. “This. The trust. You don’t fake your way into it. You earn it. And if you don’t… you leave the rest of us exposed.”

Then she followed Estelle out, slow and deliberate.

Tessa leaned back and exhaled through her nose. “You know what hurts the most?”

You waited.

“I wanted you to be different.”

And just like that, one by one, the others drifted off—Sanna with a soft shake of her head, a few awkward murmurs from newer girlfriends you barely knew. Only Stephanie remained.

She studied you for a long moment, expression unreadable, before she said, “The worst part is it’s not even the fake dating. He’s done that tons of times. It’s that you didn’t trust us enough to say something.”

“I didn’t trust myself,” you said quietly. “It all got… so real so fast, and I didn’t want to screw it up.”

Stephanie’s laugh was hollow. “Too late.”

You nodded. “I know.”

She finally turned toward the door but paused just before leaving. “You might win him in the end. That happens in stories like this.”

Then she looked back at you, eyes colder than before.

“But don’t expect all of us to clap when you do.”

And then she was gone.

You were left alone in the lounge, standing in the fading light, the silence settling around you like ash.

It wasn’t the words that broke your heart. It was the absence.

The women you’d once joked with. Sat beside. Shared nail colours and spa drinks and side-line whispers with. You’d been one of them—or at least, it had started to feel that way.

But now? The door had closed.

And for the first time since all this began, you weren’t sure if it would open again.

The Panther’s training rink was empty.

Just the echo of pucks ricocheting off iron and the dull thud of Auston’s stick against the ice. He hadn’t counted how many shots he’d taken—just knew that the more he fired, the less it hurt. Until it didn’t work anymore. Until his breath came fast and hot in his throat and his knuckles ached from clenching the stick too tight.

He was the last one off the ice. By design.

Skates still in, shoulders heavy, jersey sticking to his skin, as he shoved open the door into the locker room expecting silence.

But he didn’t get it.

Waiting just inside the locker room were Mitch, John, William, and Morgan.

No gear. No smiles. No banter.

Just four teammates with crossed arms and tired eyes. There were no jokes. No chirps. Just the heaviness of something none of them wanted to say—but all of them needed to.

Auston slowed, skates echoing against the floor. “If this is about practice, I stayed late to prep for the game. That’s all.”

“It’s not about that,” Mitch said, flat and cold, before William added

“We saw it, man. All of it.”

Morgan gave a low whistle. “You’re trending higher than the team account.”

John didn’t crack a smile. “Is it true?”

Auston’s shoulders twitched. “Which part?”

“That it was fake,” John said, voice even. “That the whole relationship was a stunt.”

Mitch stepped forward. “Because we’ve been out here defending you. To reporters. To the partners. Telling everyone this wasn’t some PR bullshit again. That this time—it was real.”

There was an edge in Mitch’s voice Auston hadn’t heard in a long time. Not since juniors.

“You really let her use you like that?” William said, quieter. But sharper. Like it hurt to ask.

The words stung like a slap, causing Auston to blink. “What?”

“You think we don’t know how this looks?” Morgan asked. “She got headlines. Press. A nice little career glow-up. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

Auston’s chest ignited, breath flaring sharp through his nose.

“You think she used me?” His voice pitched higher. Rough, almost wounded.

Mitch raised his palms. “Look, it looks bad. Especially after today. People think you got played.”

Auston rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?” He took a step forward. “You really think I didn’t know?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, with a breath like a match-strike:

“It was my fucking idea!”

The words dropped like a puck in overtime. No one moved.

He ran a hand through his damp curls, throat tight. “After the gala—I pitched it. I planned it. I asked her to act. Not the other way around.”

John blinked. “You’re saying—”

“I started it,” Auston said. “I needed to clean up the headlines. She was just trying to help. One week. Maybe two. Then… things changed.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you just tell us, man?” Mitch asked confused.

“Because I was fucking embarrassed,” Auston snapped. “Another fake relationship? I just couldn’t. Didn’t know how… cause this time, I lost control. And I didn’t know how to fix it without breaking everything.”

“But,” William let out a long breath. “You’ve done this before. We all have.”

Auston shook his head. “Not like this.”

Then John’s voice cut through. “Because she’s different.”

And Auston didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. He just swallowed; throat thick. “Yeah. She is.”

The room held still. No one sat. Even the fluorescent lights seemed to wait.

Then Morgan crossed his arms tighter. “Then say it.”

Auston blinked. “Say what?”

“That you’re in love with her,” William said almost with a light chuckle.

But Auston looked away.

“Hey, we saw it,” John continued. “How you looked at her. At games. In the hallway. Believe me, it stopped being fake for you a long time ago.”

Mitch nodded. “And it sure as hell wasn’t fake when you threw a punch for her.”

Auston’s voice cracked. “I didn’t think. Chase cornered her. He humiliated her. And I just snapped.”

“No,” John said quietly. “You told the truth.”

Auston’s mouth opened, then closed again. He sat, elbows on knees, head bowed.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said, voice hollow. “It was supposed to be easy. Some PR fix. But then she started showing up. Asking questions, I wasn’t used to answering. Talking to my mom. And… then she wasn’t just part of the plan anymore. She was the plan.”

He paused and swallowed hard.

“She made me feel like more than a headline. More than the ‘Ice King.’ And I didn’t know how to go back.”

There was a moment of silence again.

Then Mitch stepped closer. “Hey, we’re not mad you caught feelings, man.”

“We’re mad you didn’t trust us with it,” Morgan added.

“You’re our captain,” John said. “We cover your blind side. On the ice. And off it, too.”

“And when the story blew up, it looked like you left us behind,” Morgan said. “Like we were just side characters in your next little PR drama.”

Auston looked up, eyes rimmed red. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“We know,” Mitch said, as they all nodded. Like they’d already forgiven him a long time ago.

But then William spoke again. “So… what now?”

Auston exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. She’s not answering. Everyone’s pissed. The media’s killing her.”

He stood. Slow and heavy. “I don’t want it to be like that for her.”

Mitch arched a brow, his voice dry but with a flicker of his usual charm. “So… you are in love with her?”

Auston didn’t answer. Just breathed in hard through his nose.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t need to. Because his silence said it all.

“Damn,” Mitch muttered. “That bad, eh?”

“Like, bad-bad,” William said with a deep chuckle.

“Shit,” Morgan breathed, laughing lightly.

But it was John who held his gaze. Calm and direct. The way former leaders speak to each other when the noise falls away.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said. “We already know.”

Auston blinked, throat closing as he nodded gently.

“But the problem is,” John added, “I’m not sure if she does.”

The hotel room was too quiet.

Muted city lights leaked in through the curtains. The hum of the HVAC unit filled the silence, but it did nothing to drown out the noise in Auston’s head. He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his team sweats, muscles aching from practice, film review, and the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

Dinner with the guys had been quick. Awkward. No one brought up the blogs or the kiss or the fight in the hallway—but he could feel it hovering there, just behind the laughter, between bites of steak and stats talk. A presence. Like smoke.

Now he was back in his room, alone, slippers on his feet, laptop balanced on his thighs as the screen glowed against his tired face.

A video call rang once. Twice. Then connected.

“Hola, mijo.”

Ema’s face filled the screen, soft lighting behind her. She was in the kitchen back in Arizona, cardigan sleeves pushed up, a tea towel draped over one shoulder. Brian stood behind her, arms folded, eyes serious. Bree leaned into frame from the edge, chin propped on her hand, phone forgotten beside her.

“You look tired,” Ema said gently.

Auston ran a hand over his jaw. “I am.”

There was a pause before Brian spoke. “We read everything, son. We saw the video of the punch. And… The comments...”

“Yeah.” Auston looked down at his feet. “I figured.”

“You going to explain it to us,” Ema asked, “or do we have to guess like everyone else?”

He exhaled, long and low. “It just started as a lie,” he admitted. “After the gala. I pitched the whole thing to her. PR clean-up. Nothing real. Just a distraction for the media.”

Ema didn’t say anything. Neither did Brian. But Bree raised her eyebrows. “And now?”

“Now it’s a disaster I can’t walk away from,” Auston muttered.

Ema’s tone was softer. “You care about her.”

“Yeah.”

Bree sat up a little straighter. Her voice was quiet, but clear. “Was any of it real?”

The question hit harder than he expected. Auston blinked, his chest tightening.

“All of it,” he said. “I just didn’t realise how real until I’d already messed it up.”

On screen, Ema moved into view a little more, closer to the camera. “You lied to your team. To the press. To us.”

“I know.”

“And to yourself.”

“Well…” His voice was rough. “Yeah…”

Bree leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “So what now?”

“I don’t know if she’ll talk to me again.”

“Then don’t talk,” Ema said simply. “Show her.”

Auston looked up at the screen. “How?”

Ema smiled faintly. “You’ve always known how to make people watch, mijo. But this time—make her feel it too.”

He swallowed hard. Nodded once.

The video feed flickered slightly as Bree sat back again. “The whole internet knows you’re in love with her,” she said. “Except the one person who actually matters.”

“I don’t have a playbook for this,” Auston said quietly.

“Then stop playing,” Brian said.

Auston stared at them. His family, tired but still showing up, even through a screen.

And for the first time in days, he felt something shift—not clarity, not yet. But a direction. Because maybe it wasn’t about fixing the mess anymore. Maybe it was about proving that even when it started with a lie—what came after didn’t have to be.

Thursday –

The office felt colder than usual. Not in temperature—though the AC was humming, as always—but in the way people looked at you when the lift doors opened, and you stepped out.

Or rather, the way they didn’t.

No one made eye contact. No one greeted you. Not even the usual half-hearted nods from reception or the tight-lipped smile from Lisa, who always offered you a second coffee when hers brewed.

Today? She didn’t even glance up from her screen.

The open-plan layout felt like a minefield—eyes flicking up and away just as fast, hushed whispers trailing behind you as you walked the corridor towards your desk. You kept your shoulders square, your chin lifted, even as your skin burned with awareness.

Your badge didn’t beep right away at the glass security door. It stalled. Finally clicked open on the third try.

Figures.

You made it halfway through the bullpen before a voice called your name.

“Conference room. Now.”

You didn’t need to turn to know it was Mr. Mansion. You just followed.

The door shut behind you with a weighty click. Mr. Mansion stood by the window, arms folded, back rigid. His usually flushed face was pale with controlled fury.

He didn’t offer a seat.

“You’ve put shame on this company.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I didn’t intend—” you started.

“Intent doesn’t matter. Outcome does.” He turned then, eyes blazing behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Your name is trending again. But not for a campaign win. Not for a media scoop. But because of an orchestrated relationship with one of the most high-profile clients we’ve ever represented!”

“It wasn’t supposed to be—”

He cut you off with a raised hand. “It doesn’t matter what it was supposed to be. The optics are disastrous. For you. For him. And most importantly—for us.”

You stood straighter. “I’ve still done my job. I’ve delivered on every brief. Every pitch.”

He laughed, cold and humourless. “Oh, trust me, you’re not being fired. The optics of that would be even worse. No, you’ll keep your title. Keep your badge. But you’re off every major account effective immediately.”

“What?” Your voice cracked.

“You’ll move to a support role. Internal content and copy. Desk-bound.”

“But—”

“And you’ll keep your head down,” he said, voice tightening. “No media. No statements. No further ‘appearances.’ Understood?”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded.

It had all backfired… big time.

He turned back to the window, dismissing you with a flick of his wrist. “Close the door on your way out.”

You walked back through the bullpen like a ghost, numb and weightless. And when you reached your desk, you found a small stack of folders with your name scrawled in pen. A sticky note read: Internal transfer begins Monday. New seat: 4B.

You were being shuffled. Quietly exiled.

And of course—of course—Chase was waiting. Propped against the partition with that smug, unbothered smirk. One foot crossed over the other. A fresh suit. A phone in his hand, already buzzing.

“Rough morning?” he asked innocently.

You didn’t answer. You were too busy holding back tears.

He grinned wider. “I’m doing a piece with The Star this afternoon. They want my ‘perspective on professional boundaries in PR.’ Isn’t that rich?”

You clenched your fists.

“Don’t worry,” he said, tapping his phone. “I’ll make sure your name isn’t technically mentioned. Just enough breadcrumbs for people to know.”

You stared at him. “Why are you doing this?”

He tilted his head. “Because you got the story. And the guy. And then you thought no one would notice.”

He walked away before you could reply. But he was wrong. They had noticed. All of them.

And the cost was just beginning.

The following days you stopped answering texts.

The group chats dulled into silence on your end—threads that once buzzed with hockey and girl gossip, outfit photos, and inside jokes now sat unopened at the top of your screen. Jess messaged you four times a day. Then twice. Then once. Then not at all.

You left her on read every time.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to her. You did. Desperately. But what could you even say?

Sorry I faked a relationship.Sorry it stopped being fake.Sorry it became real and ruined everything.

So instead, you disappeared.

You stopped walking past mirrors. The sight of yourself—drained, dull-eyed, and shadowed by shame—was harder to face than the headlines. You dressed in oversized hoodies and leggings, hair unwashed, makeup untouched. Dishes piled in the sink. Laundry remained in the basket. The curtains stayed drawn.

Your only companions were the muted hum of the fridge and the flicker of late-night sports recaps playing quietly on the television. Because you watched the games.

Of course, you did.

Auston was on the road—two away games, back-to-back in Florida.

And he played like a man possessed.

He didn’t smile when he scored. Didn’t fist bump his linemates. Didn’t even glance toward the bench after a clean assist. Just skated through the motions like they were the only things keeping him standing.

He looked like you felt.

Empty. Cold. Unravelling by inches.

You sat curled up on the sofa, a blanket pulled to your chin, fingers tight around a mug that had long gone cold. The game played on, volume low, Auston’s face flickering across the screen like a ghost.

And in the dark, you whispered the truth you hadn’t said out loud.

“I miss you.”

“Hiding in the dark while he bleeds on the road?

I thought you were stronger than that.

Or has the Queen fallen completely—and it’s only the King still standing?

You’re making this game almost too easy.” – The Benchwarmer”

Jess showed up on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

No warning. No text. Just three sharp knocks on the door until you cracked it open in your hoodie and joggers, your face pale, bare, and puffy from sleep—or crying.

She stood in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, rain still clinging to the ends of her curls.

“You look like shit,” she said flatly.

You simply looked at her. “Thanks. It’s a new fashion trend.”

Jess pushed past you into the flat, boots squeaking slightly on the floor. “You hiding doesn’t make this shit better.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are. You ghosted every person who gave a damn, work from home, and haven’t left your flat in what—four days?”

You sighed. “Jess—”

“No.” She turned on you, arms folded. “Do you even know what people are saying about you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit. You care more than anyone I know.”

You moved past her and sat heavily on the edge of the couch. Jess studied you for a moment, then crossed the room and dropped onto the coffee table in front of you.

“I read the new Benchwarmer post,” Jess then said.

Your stomach knotted. “I thought they’d stopped.”

“They had,” she replied. “Until this morning.”

You looked up, throat tightening. “What did it say?”

Jess hesitated. “Nothing new, technically. But… it felt different. Less snarky, more personal. Like the writer knows you.”

A cold weight settled in your chest. “What do you mean—knows me?”

“I mean they know you,” she said softly. “Your background, your work stuff, family stuff. Little things—memories, habits, insecurities. Stuff that feels… intimate. As if you’d told them yourself.”

You sucked in a breath. “But why would someone do that?”

Jess shrugged. “Maybe jealousy. Maybe resentment. Maybe they think you got something they deserved. Or maybe they just thought it was fun.”

Your thoughts churned, trying to make sense of it. “Still… how would they know about all of it? All the details, like literally everything. Things I’ve only told…well…”

Jess’s gaze drifted around the room, scanning the clutter. But then her eyes paused on your everyday handbag, slouched by the couch. And her expression shifted. Then she stood and crossed the room.

“Wait,” she murmured, reaching into the side zip.

She leaned down, searched the bag for a few minutes before she unzipped the side pouch, and pulled something small and silver from the lining.

“What the fuck is this?”

You blinked. “What?”

Jess held it up. A tiny microphone.

Your blood ran cold.

“I’ve seen this bag everywhere with you,” she said slowly. “Arena. Work. Games. That girls’ night last month.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t put that in there,” you said, throat dry.

“Me neither,” Jess looked at you sharply. “But someone planted it.”

You nodded.

“Fuck,” she said sharply, though her expression remained taut. She set the mic down gently, like it might explode.

You both stared at it.

Jess exhaled. “So, this is bigger than we thought.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Fuck… I need to figure this shit out somehow.”

“Well, you don’t figure it out by spiralling alone,” she said. “You start by remembering who the fuck you are.”

—

Saturday -

You showed up late.

The elevator ride had been silent but suffocating, each floor ding echoing louder than your heartbeat. You could already hear it—muffled roars from the lower bowl, rising in waves that rattled through the concrete foundation of Scotiabank Arena. It wasn’t a game anymore—it was a battlefield.

And you were walking in like an intruder.

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile hiss, revealing the private suite cloaked in blue and white shadows. The hum of anticipation filled the air, thick with tension and unspoken things. You stepped forward, slow and unsure, your breath shallow, nerves scraping raw. The door clicked shut behind you with a soft, unforgiving finality.

And every head turned.

Estelle. Aryne. Stephanie. Sanna. Tessa. Alice.

All seated in a loose row near the glass, drinks forgotten, backs straight. Like queens in a quiet tribunal. Their eyes weren’t on the ice anymore. They were on you.

Judging. Watching. Yet waiting.

You’d dressed your best tonight. The kind of outfit and make-up that felt good. Made you feel good. Confidence even.

You took a few slow steps forward, throat tight, the suite lights suddenly too harsh, your coat suddenly too warm. You offered the smallest smile—a pale, worn-out thing. A peace offering. A white flag.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, voice thin, cracking at the edges.

No one answered at first.

It was Tessa who spoke, bouncing her baby slightly on her lap without looking at you. Her voice was quiet—low and sharp, like a knife slid carefully between ribs. “Better late than never.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Not trusting them to listen.

“I know,” you said softly, humbly. “And… again, I’m really sorry. About everything.”

Tessa shifted the baby to one arm and looked up. Really looked at you. Her eyes weren’t cruel, but they were tired. Tired in the way people get when they’ve defended someone, they wish they hadn’t.

“We know,” she said. “We just need you to suffer a bit more.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You swallowed the apology sitting behind your teeth. You’d already said it enough. Anymore and it would sound rehearsed.

So instead, you stayed silent.

The air between you thickened. A single beat passed. Then another.

Stephanie finally turned slightly; eyes unreadable. Her voice was neutral, almost too smooth. “Come on. The game’s about to begin.”

She gestured to the open seat in the second row near the back, just one step removed from the group. Still close—but not quite with them.

You nodded once and slipped into the chair, legs trembling beneath you. Jess was there right behind you, her coat still on, her hands folded tight in her lap. And as you sat, her arm brushed against yours.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She just reached out and gave your hand a soft squeeze.

A quiet thaw.

Then the puck dropped.

The game started hard—no warmup, no easing into it. Washington came out swinging, aggressive from the first shift. Bodies slammed against boards. Blades carved into the ice like knives. Passes were fast and brutal. The kind of hockey that didn’t breathe. It roared.

The Leafs struggled to settle, their rhythm off. Missed passes. Mistimed hits. Tension coiled tighter with every line change.

And by the end of the second period, they were down by two.

Still, no one in the suite spoke. Not really. They watched in silence. Sipped their drinks, arms folded. Eyes flitting from the ice to the jumbotron to their phones and back again. Every time Auston hit the ice, the suite seemed to collectively hold its breath.

You did too.

He was skating hard. Sharp. Like he had something to prove. Like the only way to outrun the headlines was to leave them in his wake.

And then—third period. 7:12 on the clock.

You felt it before you saw it. Some shift in the air. A ripple of unease, like the ice itself knew what was coming.

Auston picked up speed through the neutral zone, cutting left, weaving through defenders like smoke. The puck stuck to his blade like it belonged there.

Then—

Crack.

The hit came from behind.

Blindside. Elbow high. Shoulder first. Full force into the numbers.

You didn’t process it at first. Just a blur of movement—a shape colliding with Auston, and then…

The sound hit a second later—a sickening crack against the boards that vibrated through the glass and up into your chest.

Then he crumpled. And your heart stopped.

The arena erupted. Screams. Gasps. A thousand voices raised in chaos. Two rows down, someone knocked over a full beer, the cup tumbling and rolling like a forgotten afterthought.

The whistle blew, sharp and urgent, and the ref’s arm shot up. Ten-minute major for game misconduct.

But Auston didn’t get up. He didn’t move at all.

The jumbotron cut to a close-up—his helmet slightly askew, mouthguard half-out. His body twisted in a way that nobody should bend. Motionless.

And then… nothing.

No sound. No movement. The air drained from the building, sucked out in one collective breath that never came back.

It was like someone had muted the world. Everything came in slow motion, like a Hollywood movie in motion.

Even the baby in Tessa’s arms stopped fussing.

You could feel it in your teeth. In your skin. That kind of cold buzz that comes right before grief.

The seconds stretched as trainers ran onto the ice.

Still, he didn’t move.

You felt your blood boiling. Your heart suddenly pounded fast and hard in your chest. Tears were pressing on as it became harder and harder to breathe.

It wasn’t just Auston Matthews, the athlete, the captain, the headline, lying there anymore.

It was him. Yours.

Whether you were ready to admit it or not.

Your fingers dug into the armrest of your seat; knuckles bone white. You couldn’t feel your legs. Couldn’t hear the crowd anymore. Only the blood rushing in your ears, and Jess whispering your name.

“He’s okay,” she said. Barely a whisper. “He’s okay.”

But you couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think.

Your stomach twisted so violently it felt like it might rise in your throat. Panic licked at the edges of your vision. You wanted to scream but you couldn’t.

Then the stretcher came out. They were already strapping him down—neck brace, leg stabilised, arms secured. And then—his glove twitched.

Just once. A breath. A heartbeat. A sign.

But it wasn’t enough.

That was the moment something in you snapped.

You didn’t think, you just moved.

The seat scraped behind you. The door to the suite opened with a hard click, and you stepped through before anyone could stop you.

You didn’t look back. Didn’t see Aryne blink and stare at her drink. Didn’t see Stephanie sit forward, her nails tapping the armrest. Didn’t see the way Tessa leaned into Estelle, murmuring a soft, “Fuck.”

You didn’t see Jess stand a beat later, her eyes locked on the exit.

You just ran. Down the hallway. Past the catering table. Past the press box, the VIP signs, the branded corridors you once walked.

Now, it was just you.

You. And the tunnel. And the sickening fear that you were about to lose someone that mattered most.

The world spun—quietly, slowly—on an axis that had nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with the man in front of you.

The room was too bright. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a soft, relentless hum. The scent of menthol, sweat, and metal filled the space—sharp and sterile, but beneath it… something else. Something aching. Something like heartbreak, hanging thick in the air.

Auston lied on the medical table, half in his gear, half stripped down. His jersey hung off one shoulder, sweat-soaked and wrinkled, clinging to him in patches. One sock was still bunched around his ankle, and a bruise was already blooming ugly and purple across his torso. A shallow cut sliced across his cheekbone, the skin-tight around it from the swelling.

But the real damage wasn’t in the bruises or the ice packs.

It was in his posture.

Rigid. Guarded. Like one wrong breath would crack the armour he was holding together with sheer force of will.

He noticed you the same moment you saw him. But his gaze didn’t soften. His body didn’t ease. He just blinked once, slow and unreadable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and rough, just staring into the ceiling.

You stood in the doorway, still gripping the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the floor. “You’re hurt.”

He scoffed under his breath, jaw tightening. “So?” His eyes flicked toward the wall. “Just, please go. I look like shit.”

“I don’t care,” you said, the words steadier than you felt. “I needed to see for myself. Make sure you’re okay.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t answer for a beat, then said, quieter—but not kinder, “Why do you even care?”

He looked at you now. Sharp and tired. “The deal’s over, right?”

You flinched.

He didn’t apologise.

“Look,” he said again, slightly lifting his hands as if he wanted to express something more. “Just go. This isn’t how I want you to see me. Not like this.” His voice cracked a little. “Beaten up. Pathetic.”

But you stepped forward anyway, shoes soft against the tile. “You think I care about how you look?” You stopped just shy of him. “You’re lying here with a target on your back and a concussion protocol waiting—and you’re worried about how you look?”

“I’m worried about you seeing me like this,” he snapped.

There it was. The edge. The heat beneath everything else.

You stared at him, but then he continued.

“Why did you come down here?” he asked, quieter this time. “Why come now, after ignoring me all week?”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

So instead, you walked closer. Sat down beside him, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Like if you moved too fast, he might shatter.

For a moment, he didn’t move. But then, you reached for his hand. And he didn’t pull away.

You laced your fingers with his, felt the tension in his grip—the way his hand trembled slightly against yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For all of it. Ignoring you. Ryan. Chase. The distance. The fucking mess.”

Silence bloomed thick between you. You felt the tears pressing on, allowed one to roll down your cheek, but held back the flood.

Then he exhaled, the sound sharp and bitter.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “All of it. The lies. The headlines. The way it went so far and out of control.”

You nodded, looking anywhere else but directly at him, as another tear ran down your face . “Me too.”

His jaw clenched. “I’ve been trying not to think about you. Trying to focus. Trying to be the guy everyone still believes I am.”

You looked down at your hands, still threaded together. “And how’s that working out?”

He laughed—just once. A hollow, broken sound. “Terribly.”

His voice dropped. “You’re in everything. The playlist I drive to. The hallway outside the locker room. My apartment. My bed. You’re everywhere.”

He turned his head slightly. “I close my eyes, and I see you. I feel you. I want to kiss you so fucking bad it hurts.”

The words struck something inside you, raw and aching.

“And how do you think I feel?” you asked, barely louder than a breath as your eyes then returned to him. “Watching you get torn apart on every screen, every thread. People thinking, I used you—like it was all just my play.”

He looked at you again. Really looked. And something broke open behind his eyes. Something that had been sealed too tight for too long.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I know. I never meant for it to—”

You stopped. Let the moment stretch. But then, you knew you could keep it in any more. Couldn’t choke it down. You had to say it.

“I never meant to fall in love with you.”

The words rang out between you like a bell in an empty cathedral.

Auston didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “But you did?” he asked, voice catching.

You nodded again. “Yeah.”

His face softened. Just slightly. “Good,” he simply murmured.

You blinked again. “Good?”

“Yeah…” he said with a deep breath. “Because I don’t think I can keep pretending anymore. I’ve been trying to play it cool. Trying to act like I’m still in control of this. But I’m not.”

He looked down. Then back up.

“I’m fucking crazy about you. And I don’t want to make that smaller just because it’s inconvenient.”

Your throat closed. Words were stuck as your mind went 100 miles an hour. All you could do was to give in to instincts. To allow your gut and emotions to guide you. So, you leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t scripted. It was soft, slightly desperate, and it was real.

Your hands sliding into his hair, his finding the back of your neck like muscle memory. The salt on his lips. The heat beneath your skin. The ache in both of you—finally, finally let out.

And when you pulled away, the world stayed still.

Your foreheads rested together; breaths caught between your mouths. His hand intertwined with your hair. Yours clutched the hem of his jersey like letting go would make this moment less real.

It was a moment with no words yet filled with everything unspoken.

You didn’t even hear the footsteps. Didn’t notice the hush that had fallen just outside the doorway.

You just stayed right there—in the warmth of Auston’s touch, in the shaky rhythm of a kiss that had undone everything you were pretending not to feel.

You stayed in the moment. With him.

But they had seen it all. All of them.

Mitch. William. Morgan. John. Stephanie. Aryne. Tessa.

Standing just far enough to be polite, just close enough to witness everything. The way your bodies leaned together like you belonged. The rawness in Auston’s eyes. The way he didn’t flinch when you rested his forehead against his again.

They didn’t need to speak. They didn’t need to guess. Because they saw the truth. And then—of course—Mitch broke the silence with a scoff and a crooked grin.

“Finally.”

A few of them chuckled under their breath. Aryne blinked slowly, like she’d been holding back emotions. William folded his arms, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin or groan. Stephanie didn’t smile—but she didn’t walk away either.

None of them did. They stayed there in the hall. Watching and realising that everything between you and Auston truly was real.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, you didn’t feel like a fraud.

#The Benchwarmer #inexperienced!reader x Auston #auston matthews fanfic #Toronto maple leafs fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl romance #nhl imagines

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orchidyoonkook · 7 months ago

Text

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 9

Title: Sugar Cookies and Devious Confessions

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: Exams season and Solstice? Consider YN locked in, loaded, ready to go, hangry, and sentimental. Jungkook is just along for the ride with a hefty side of acts of service, quality time and physical touch are his love languages. Who'da thunk?

Warnings: T, language, fluff, so much fluff actually, I've surprised myself, semi-sexual conversations, JK is a menace but Reader can keep up...mostly, touch of angst tbh, reader gets hangry and is bad at taking care of herself sometimes, but apologises and makes up for it, mostly just wholesome this time. And fun!

Word Count: 6,675

Release Date: December 8, 2024. 12:30PM

A/N 1: Hiiiiiiiiiiii. It's here, thank you to those who reminded me. I literally would have forgotten for the third week in a row without them. I love you all.

A/N 1.5: Chapter ten will be coming sometime between Dec 20th-30th as it is festive and that's all I will say about it.

Jungkook’s learned many things about you since your friendship started.

From your favourite colours to your favourite brush to paint with. He learned that you are always team morally gray love interest in the books you read in your limited spare time, although that one was learned a little against your will.

He’d wanted to know why you always went for them, and very begrudgingly you admitted you found it appealing when they’d do anything to protect the main character. That they always did what they thought was best or what needed to be done despite their sad backstory, because for some reason, they all had sad backstories.

Every. Single. One of them.

And you claimed it suckered you in every time.

But through all of your time spent together—specifically during midterms—Jungkook learned just how much you ignore all of your basic needs as a human being when it comes to exams season.

How you’ll forget to eat all day in favour of studying, or staying up late to finish your practical exam projects, making absolutely sure they’re up to your impossibly high standards, disregarding sleep.

So it doesn’t surprise him when he turns the corner to the greenhouse cafe to see you, thinner than normal with bags under your eyes, slaving away at something on your computer.

He hates that he can tell you’ve lost weight through your winter clothing.

You look up, briefly smiling in greeting. He can tell just from how long it took you to notice him that you need a break, a good healthy meal and some sleep.

He smiles back, but bypasses you and walks straight into the cafe. You don’t think twice about it, already knowing what he’s doing.

“Hey Vivian,” he says to the barista.

“Hey JK, the regular?” She's restocking some cups and lids to the counter.

“Please, but tag on a hot chocolate for YN and some tarts.” Vivian nods, typing the order into the cashing system, very much used to either of you adding on each other's order to your own at this point.

“Machines ready for you,” she says, already prepping the first drink—his by the looks of it.

Jungkook pays and waits patiently, watching you from the window.

“How long’s she been here?” he asks over the currently frothing milk—that’s for your hot chocolate.

“Since seven. She grabbed a tea and hasn’t moved since.”

It’s almost 1:30 now, and Viv looks at him knowingly. She’s watched you do this to yourself every mid-term and exam season since you started.

“Ah. I see.” He purses his lips.

It’s only a few minutes before the drinks and tarts are ready. Jungkook grabs them and heads out the door, calling a thank you over his shoulder.

“Okay look,” he says to grab your attention as he stands directly in front of you. The act of walking to the front of you alone clearly not enough to gain it.

Looking up, your eyes widen in glee at the treats he carries. You attempt to reach for them but he pulls them back.

“Nuh uh, you need food.”

You look at him confused. “Those are food.”

“No, these are the reward. You need a meal.”

You try to interrupt him. Most likely to say you do eat meals, but instant ramen or a box of mac'n'cheese do not count, and he cuts you off before you can. “A healthy meal, Picasso, something to give your body nourishment and energy. One that fills you up.”

You scowl at him.

“But–”

“No buts,” he cuts you off again. “Healthy food. Full, happy belly food,” he says, gently patting his stomach so not as to spill his drink. “Pack up, we’re going to the cafeteria and getting you some.”

“But–”

“Y/N,” he says sternly, giving you a look that says he will not be budging on this, and that if you refuse, he’s going to throw you over his shoulder to ensure it happens.

It was the voice of a future King, he thinks. Then internally shudders. That’s not who he is with you, but he can admit that sometimes this side of him comes in handy during times like these.

“Fine.” You snip, very clearly not happy about this.

Fortunately, you don’t seem to have any art supplies with you today, just your computer, a notepad and pencil case. You gather them quickly, throwing them into your backpack with an annoyed look because you don’t want to stop, but he’s forcing your hand.

He doesn’t care. You need this, and it’s clear as hell you were not going to do it on your own.

You were so fucking stubborn sometimes.

His mask, hat and baggy shirt combo mixed with some large combat boots and a slight slouch in posture has worked wonders disguising him from the public so far. In fact, he’s pretty sure it intimidates some people seeing as how they nearly jump out of his way. You’ve joked about it before, calling it his ‘scary dog privilege’…whatever that meant.

Jungkook doesn’t mind, though. Despite being four months into the school year, and his speech at the beginning, people still fawn and stare at him. Trying to get his attention, his approval. Anything to get something from him, even if it’s just a look in their direction.

He wonders if it will ever die down, if it'll ever go away. Or if with new freshmen every year, a new horde of people will seek him out.

So, he’s grateful that with this little disguise on, no one bats an eye at him as you two walk the fifteen minutes it takes to get across campus to the cafeteria. He knows you’re more than mentally drained, because you’re not checking over your shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one realizes you’re with him like you usually do.

You enter the main building, luckily the cafeteria on the ground floor, just near the back. Once there, you walk straight to the fridge of premade to-go foods. Grabbing a fruit cup, a chicken caesar salad, and a container of mixed vegetables with dip, you turn to him.

“Is this good enough for you?” you snark.

“Yep, great choices,” he says, ignoring your tone. “Very healthy and nutritious. Plus you nearly have all the food groups.”

“I do have all the food groups,” you say back, deadpan.

Wow…

You really need some sleep, he’s never heard you sound so lifeless. Or mean. You’re only ever truly mean when you’re beyond exhausted, too tired to care.

He’d say your mood and overall vibe is like a mixture of brown and gray, but he knows if he said it out loud you’d make him specify which specific shades of brown and gray, so he keeps the thought to himself. Both not to provoke you and to be polite.

“You’re missing dairy and grain,” he says.

You point to his hands holding the tarts and drink.

“Fair point,” he concedes, and trails you to the register, grabbing a protein shake from a nearby fridge on the way. His card is out and paying before you can reach for your wallet and you accept it, even too worn out to yell at him for buying you something.

Hot chocolate and the occasional bag of tarts you're fine with, because half the time you’re also buying him his coffee and sharing your tarts, so you see it as a fair trade. But anything outside those and you damn near throw a fit, claiming you don’t need him to spend his money on you.

You never want anything from him, so unlike everyone else in his life.

He leads you to a more private booth in the corner, scary dog privilege in full effect as no one dares stand in his way, and you very unceremoniously plop down, sluggishly shucking off your bag and coat.

Definitely a brownish-gray.

You two eat and drink in silence; you, slowly picking away at your food, him, finishing his drink then eating the vegetables from the container you don’t like. It’s a peaceful silence, contented as your mood gradually improves and some colour returns to your face the more you get into your system.

The sight relieves him.

“Sorry,” you say, eyes glued to the table, unable to look at him. And he knows it’s for the way you treated him pre-food.

“No worries,” he replies. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. That's good.”

Jungkook wasn’t going to push, but now that your mood’s improving, he hopes it’s safe to.

“Hey,” you look up at him, the bags under your eyes more evident under the artificial light and his heart breaks a little at the sight. “Promise me you’ll get some sleep tonight?”

A small close lipped smile finds your face, eyes soft, appreciative. The corner of his own lifts to match.

“I promise I’ll try.”

You fall asleep early that night, 9pm.

You don’t know what allows you to, but your exam worries fade and assignment anxiety slips from your mind the heavier your eyes grow. In the back of your head however, a thought slips through your defenses; you know it’s because of the look in Jungkook's eyes when he’d asked you too.

The one of worry—genuine worry—for you.

You hate yourself for causing it. You never want him to have to worry about you, god…he already has so much on his plate, you don’t want to add to it.

But mostly…

But mostly you let yourself succumb to slumber because you don’t want to disappoint him.

He asked you so kindly, and you know he had your best interests at heart when he did. He always does.

You don’t have it in you to deny him that simple favour. To take care of yourself a little better.

So you sleep, just this once. For him. To help relieve him of the stress you caused.

And you know that that thought is what lets you until 10am the next day.

You feel better than you have in weeks.

You have everything you could possibly need to make all the recipes you have planned for today. Eggs, flour, sugar, soju, cutters, extracts, ginger, honey, chocolate chips, food colouring, some fruit concentrates and more are stuffed into the bags that dangle from your now struggling arms. There’s also another much lighter bag filled with a surprise for him that sits near the crook of your elbow.

Jungkook’s not going to know what hit him.

The door clicks open and you watch his eyes nearly leave his skull before he reaches to take them from you.

“Oh wow, you really weren’t kidding were you,” he says as he takes them to the kitchen with ease.

Stupid muscles, you think, but the thought doesn’t hold for too long, glad at having your arm circulation back.

“Solstice cookies are no joke in my house,” you say, following him.

“Clearly.”

He starts taking things out of the bags and you grab the one with the surprise in it before he can get to it.

“Won’t we need that?” he asks.

“Yes, but it’s not for cookies,” you start backing away towards the living room, bag behind your back. “It’s a surprise.”

Jungkook has a goofy grin plastered on his face as he follows you, and you put one on to match.

You stand in front of the coffee table and order him to sit and close his eyes, a sarcastic ‘yes ma’am’ comes from his lips, but he does as told.

You set the contents of the bag on the coffee table; a small fake tree with built in lights, some tiny baubles in a box, a star, a polaroid camera and a custom, empty ornament.

“Okay, open!”

Jungkook opens his eyes and the same goofy grin returns, but this time there’s a sparkle in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

His voice is gentle and lovely when he asks, “What’s all this Picasso?”

“Your very own tree to decorate. We have lights, decorations, even a star for the top,” you say as he leans and picks up the star. “You said you didn’t really celebrate anymore so I wanted to bring some celebration back to you—if you wanted to, that is.”

He twirls the star in his hand, smile never leaving, as he inspects it closer. “Did you make this?”

You turn sheepish. “Ah… yeah. They don’t really sell mini toppers for the mini trees, just the baubles, so that guy’s made from the finest cereal box cardboard and tinfoil on the market.”

He just stares, at the star, at the tree, then to you. You can’t tell if you screwed up or not. Did he hate this?

But then he’s standing and you’re in his arms as he hugs you.

You freeze, unsure of what to do for a second, before you let your arms go around him, hugging him back.

He’s solid, you can feel the strength in him as he breathes, and the weight in his arms as they hold you.

But also warm. So warm your cheeks start to heat to match the rest of your body that seems to be on fire.

It ends before it barely started, and you find yourself missing him the second he’s gone.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head as if not realizing what he’d just done until after he stopped. You want to tell him it was okay, but he says, “thank you,” immediately after, and squats down to open the baubles.

“You’re welcome,” you say as you watch, sitting down on the couch. He looks like a kid, the brightest of smiles on his face as he goes to place the first one, but pauses, and hands it to you.

“You know better than me where to start.”

You giggle, placing the red sphere near the middle, and gesture for him to put on the next one. It continues like this until the box is empty, you then him, then you then him. He places the last ornament and looks to you, star in hand.

“You do it,” you say. You’ve done this a million times with your mum, you doubt he’s done the same.

He carefully grabs the top branch that sticks up, placing the star over it. Your heart swells at how gentle he is with your handmade decoration.

“Now the last step,” you say, as you reach for the camera. This was your favourite tradition with your mother, the yearly solstice picture. You have one from every single year after you were born, and even one with you in your mum’s belly.

“Turn around,” you say, spinning your finger and he does, you follow.

You’re both on the ground in front of the tree, and you lift the camera, leaning into him. Still so warm. He leans right back.

“Say 'Solstice!'” you call out, and smile.

“Solstice,” he says with you as you snap the picture.

You pause for a moment, making sure the image is done capturing before leaning away again.

The image prints out, and you take hold of it, shaking so it develops faster.

“Can you get some scissors, and a permanent marker?” you ask Jungkook. He leaves for only a moment, returning from the kitchen, scissors and marker in hand.

You reach for the empty, custom ornament. It’s a camera, and where the lens would be is a spot for a picture. Cutting the polaroid to fit, you slide it in, and write solstice followed by the year on the back of the ornament. You put it in the middle of the tree, letting the baubles frame it.

You don’t see Jungkook watching you do all of this, a look in his eye that would melt you if you saw.

“And now for the magic,” you say, turning on the built-in lights. The tree twinkles as the little LEDs reflect off baubles, like stars on a clear night winking at one another.

You're too busy looking at the tree when you hear a click. Following the sound you see Jungkook, polaroid camera in hand, lens facing you. The image pops out and he grabs it, placing it on the coffee table beside the tree.

“Aren't you supposed to shake it?” you ask.

He looks purely serene as he responds. “Nah, polaroids have chemicals and dyes layered in them, so if you shake them you can get microbubbles or marks on them.”

You didn’t know that, but it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest that he does. His talent for photography, a result of years of study and practice.

“Oh, good to know,” you say as you take the camera from him, and direct him to look at the tree. You snap a picture to match your own, placing it on the table beside the one he took.

He stays sat there, staring at the tree for a while, the occasional flit towards you before the tree once again.

“It’s perfect,” Jungkook says, breaking the comfortable silence. He clears his throat before adding. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t know what else to say besides that, but you can see the happiness in his eyes. Their glow. Their warmth.

You don’t think you need to say more.

He knows.

Time is quickly passing, and you have five recipes to get through today. So as much as you find yourself not wanting to move, perfectly happy sitting here with him for the rest of the day in this beautiful silence, you can’t. The tree is only the beginning of your day together.

“Cookie time?” you ask.

Jungkook looks to you and takes a deep breath, as if he was also content to stay where you were for the day.

Just you, him and the tree.

“Cookie time.”

“You bitch!” you say as flour flies from his hand to your cheek.

You were three and a half recipes in, having made two easier recipes first to ease him into a more difficult one. Shortbread, maejakgwa, and gingerbread now sit around in tupperware and cooling sheets around the apartment.

But because of that, Jungkook is slowly losing all seriousness as you retrieve the sugar cookie dough from his fridge. It was actually the first thing you’d made, knowing it had to chill for a while beforehand, hence the three and a half.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, all knowing smirk plastered on his face like a neon billboard.

You refuse to sink to his childish levels, and remove the beautifully chilled dough from its refrigerator bowl. Wiping your face with a cloth to clean yourself of the flour, you order him over.

“Come use all your unnecessary muscles to roll this out, quarter inch thick,” holding out the rolling pin to him. The smirk lessons only slightly, but he does as told.

“All my muscles are unnecessary, huh?” he says after a minute of rolling. You’re by the sink washing some dishes as he does and you can all but physically see the egging in his voice.

“Yes.”

“And why’s that?” He asks as he finishes rolling out the dough and begins on his cookie cutter decisions. You’ve learned he’s particular about which one’s he wants to use for which type of cookie.

“Because you have like a million eight foot tall, 450 pound security guards following your every move at all times,” you say, as if this was obvious. In reality, it was a solid team of six guards who were at their tallest 6 '4, and maybe 285 at their heaviest.

Admittedly, they were all really nice guys, having met them numerous times over the months. And you were planning on stealing some of the cookies from today to give them little solstice bags.

Jungkook’s never going to be able to eat them all by himself anyway…you think. And even if he could, he really shouldn’t.

“So, because I have security guards,” he looks at you unbelievingly, “my muscles are unnecessary?”

“Yes. Why have them if you don’t need them?” At this point you’re just teasing him.

“Lots of reasons,” and he starts listing as you continue to clean. “They look nice, but that's obvious.”

“I’m sure your groupies don’t mind that at all,” you sneak in under your breath, referring to his enormous, and rather lewd mouthed female following on social media.

“Hey, you leave my groupies out of this, they’re nice people,” he says, pointing a white powdered finger. You scoff and go back to the dishes mumbling something about how they feed his ego.

“There’s also the fact that I like being strong. I like that I don’t get winded from jogging up the stairs, and I like that I have the ability to help damsels who show up at my place with their arms full of far too many heavy bags.”

You shoot him a glare and he laughs. “You can’t say I’m wrong.”

You also don’t have to acknowledge that comment.

He takes it as a win in your ever ongoing battle of wits. And just to try and even out the playing field a little more, as you are currently winning by a landslide, he adds on a little more to his answer, hopefully one you’re not expecting, and therefore winning by shock factor.

“There’s other reasons too, but those are a lot less PG, to say the least.”

He—

Your hands pause their ministrations for mere seconds before continuing.

How did he say it so…casually!?

Like he didn’t essentially just tell you he likes being strong for bedroom purposes. A topic you’ve never been anywhere near speaking to him about, and he just… brings it up like that? So cryptically as if he wants you to ask for clarification.

And you do want clarification, damn him!

You hate that it makes you curious. Hate. It.

You like knowing things, not to be nosey, but because you like the mental safety it brings. When you and Nel first started having sex you did a deep dive on everything you could, to make sure nothing was a surprise and that you didn’t hurt yourself or him if you tried anything new.

Little did you know half of the research was for nothing. Nel has never been the most sexually adventurous person, whereas you wanted to try out new things, explore, see what you like via trial and error, he was fine with good ole missionary and a handful of other basic positions.

What you two do now works though. And that’s what counts. Compromise. Overcome. Enjoy and respect each other's boundaries.

But it makes you wonder if Jungkook knows anything you don’t.

That reason alone is apparently enough for you to hear, “Like what?” leave your lips before you can stop it. And you internally freak.

What the fuck! You did not just ask him that.

That did not just come out of your mouth.

You did not jus-

“You really wanna know?” he asks, eyeing you over his shoulder with a single quirked brow, like he can’t believe you said it either, but he’ll dish you if you want him too.

How interesting. You don’t remember gaining this level of trust from him, to be honest about something so personal. So private.

You wonder when that happened.

No, you say in your mind. But your head is gingerly nodding yes.

Stop that! You think to your body, betraying you once again.

Jungkook hums before picking up a cutter, a simple circle.

“Well,” he punctuates the word with a cutter punch. “Uhh…there’s a certain level of—” a punch, “—power dynamic I prefer having, and they definitely help with that,” another cutter punch. “I also like being able to lift my partner with relative ease, or carry them if need be. Legs around my hips is a personal favourite.”

Your dishwashing slows as he continues, unable to stop the images that flood your mind thanks to your visual thinking.

Stupid art brain.

A small pool of heat starts to form low in your stomach. Stupid art brain.

After some more circular cutter punches, you think he’s finished and you’re relieved, but then he switches to a spikier one and continues.

“I’ve also learned that finger strength seems to be a fan favourite,” he jokes and you gulp, forcing that thought out of your head as soon as it enters like a slingshot. “And most of my previous partners seemed to enjoy the fact that I could, uhm…well, that I could hold them in place while I did… that is…whatever I wanted to them.”

You ignore the wetness in forming your underwear. This conversation, regardless of who it was with, was not helping you and your complete and utter lack of sex.

Another enormous downside to long distance, your libido and its easily excitable nature due to lack of use. Maybe an appointment with your vibrator is due soon, if you’re this affected by these attempts at sterile descriptions of sexual-like encounters. He isn’t even saying anything expressly dirty. He’s trying to be as respectful and informative in his answers as he can.

Plus, you did this to yourself.

“But if I had to pick, I think there’s a tie for my favourite part about having unnecessary muscles for non PG purposes,” he says, and looks at you with another quirked brow, seeing if he’s allowed to proceed.

You’ve entirely stopped washing the dishes. Too focused on not focusing on the growing need blooming inside you.

Oh yes, you’re penciling it in right now: Vibrator appointment. Tonight. 10:30pm.

Sharp.

Time to accept the consequences of your actions.

“Consider it a potential learning opportunity. Academically speaking, of course,” you say, as a way to make this educational. That’s all this is anyway right? To see if he knows anything you don’t.

Right?

Right.

“If you say so Picasso.” He tears the leftover dough from the neatly cut cookies, and starts laying them on a baking pan. “First, I like that I’m strong enough to flip my partner over whether they’re, uhm...” he struggles for an ‘academic’ sounding word, but settles for, “restrained, or not.”

Heat. Everywhere. There's heat everywhere and you immediately go back to the dishes, changing the flowing water to ice cold and ignoring the throbbing of your core. You’re pretty sure if you slipped your hands down your pants right now, they’d be just as wet as they are cleaning the mixing bowls.

Maybe you should reschedule to 10. Or even 9:30. Hell, why not 9 while you’re thinking about it.

“Secondly, I like the muscles because they help me make great use of walls.”

You nearly drop the bowl in the sink, not having nearly enough time to recover before he’s looking at you again, sugar cookie filled baking pan in hand.

“You ever done something like that?” he asks, sly smirk visible. He’s trying to make light of the situation, make it a joke for the sake of comfortability.

He’s spilling ‘all’ his secrets, why shouldn’t you spill one.

The oven dings, signaling the preheating is complete and it’s ready for use. He comes closer to you, only because the oven is opposite the sink, puts them in and sets the oven’s timer for 12 minutes. Turning back around, he’s not two feet from you.

You force your voice to be as smooth and cool as possible as you face him, your own smirk plastered.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

Yes, yes he would.

“Call your goons in, I have their bags ready.”

“They’re not my goons,” Jungkook says, texting Shen, head of his security detail. “They’re my guards.”

You’re both finishing up cleaning the kitchen, all of the ingredients are put away, the dishes are cleaned, and Jungkook is washing down the counterspace as you write the names of everyone on the little bags filled with the results of your combined labours.

The coffee table is covered in little polaroids from today, all still resting from when they developed. Half of them have some form of baking related mess on them, be it some flour or a small lump of dough.

You look at one he took after throwing more flour on you, your nose is scrunched and it looks like half your face is white with the stuff. It’s cute. There’s another beside it, Jungkook is pretending to lick raw batter from the whisk, eyes wide, tongue outstretched. It’s chaotic.

They’re perfect.

Shen, Dae-Seong, Asa, Rowan, Micah and Hikari are Jungkook’s security detail. They all have shared apartments in the same building. Never too far away. Shen and Asa are stationed on his floor, Mikah and Rowan are on the floor below and Dae-Seong and Hikari are on the one above.

“Guards, goons, same difference,” you say, but you hear knocking not seconds later, no doubt Shen and Asa.

You go and open the door, welcoming them in.

“Hey Y/N,” Asa says, scooping you up for a hug, your feet dangling. Asa’s one of the guards who’s super tall, and he’s always been very affectionate towards you. Come to think of it, a lot of them are.

“Hey Asa, how’s Natalie?” you chuckle, hugging him back lightly. Natalie is his wife, who's still back in the capital.

“She’s good, excited to have me home soon.”

“No doubt, say hi for me.”

“Yeah, will do.”

He sets you down just in time for another knock.

Rowan, Micah, Hikari and Dae-Seong all make their way in too, giving high fives, light hugs or happy greetings to you as they do. Soon, you’re being towered over by men, feeling very small, but never scared as they are always so lovely to you.

You suspect you’re quickly becoming their favourite.

Jungkook they’re used to seeing, they’ve known him for years, protected him for years. They give him shit, a nod or grab him by the neck with their arms as they play wrestle to greet him. No hugs or high fives to be seen with him, only laughter. Mostly at Jungkook.

When they’re around, Jungkook is the most at ease you’ve ever seen him at.

“So what’s up?” Shen asks. He’s the least affectionate out of everyone, stoic even, but that doesn’t surprise you. He’s responsible for the safety of the future monarch, that’s a stressful job.

You look to Jungkook, who’s now sitting on the couch. He signals with a hand that this is all you.

“I don’t know if you all celebrate, but just in case you do, Jungkook and I spent the day baking,” Rowan snorts at that, and you ignore it, motioning for them to follow you to the kitchen. The island carrying their individually labeled goody bags comes into their view.

“And this is just a little thank you for all you do from the jackass in the other room,” you point with a thumb to the wall the couch is on the other side of. The men snicker.

“I heard that,” Jungkook calls.

“You were supposed to,” you call back, then to the group once more, “and it’s also a Happy Solstice from me.”

Rowan and Asa are still laughing at your less than kind words about their charge as you begin to hand them their bags. Each one says thank you as you do, and Asa gives you another hug. He may be 6’4 and god knows how many pounds, but really, he was just a big teddy bear—a lethal one— but cuddly nonetheless.

“We’ve got a decent selection, but feel free to trade,” you say, giving Shen his bag last. He has a thing with going last, you have no idea why, but you respect it. You whisper to him that he has an extra of each cookie, and not to tell the others, including Jungkook. He gives you the absolute smallest of small smiles, followed by a hushed ‘thank you.’

It’s the most tender you’ve ever seen him.

Micah pipes up. “What’s this one?” he asks, holding up a cookie.

“So, we’ve got gingerbread, maejakgwa, sugar cookies, shortbread and that, my dearest Micah,” the mountain of a man blushes at that, and you laugh, “is a yakgwa cookie. Think chewy honey and ginger.”

He pops it into his mouth instantly and you swear if he could, he’d melt into a puddle.

“There’s no way King Pain in the Ass over there made these, they’re way too good,” Hikari says, on his third one. He seems to be trying one of each, seeing which he likes. So far? Apparently it’s all of them.

“Cross my heart,” you say, “it was a gallant team effort.”

“Thanks kid,” he calls to the prince, currently entering the room to see his guards happier than he has in a very long time. He will never admit it out loud, for fear of endless mocking, but the sight warms his heart.

Dae-Seong comes up to you, and very politely asks, “Could I get the recipe you used for the maejakgwa? My wife would love these.”

“Of course, Dae-Seong,” you place a kind hand on his forearm. “Give Minji my best will you?”

The man nods, grateful.

All the recipes today were from your memory, so you get your phone, and start typing it out.

You have him text it to himself from your phone when you’re finished, and use that as your que to grab the camera.

“Everyone,” you call out, and immediately seven pairs of eyes, with seven full mouths beneath them, are looking at you. Jungkook’s eating some from his own stash, or so you hope. “Crowd your favourite royal on the couch please, it’s picture time.” You shake the camera gently in your hand.

“My favourite royal’s back at the pala–” Hikari tries, but a punch to the shoulder from Jungkook has him laughing in favour of completing the sentence.

You love the relationship he has with them. Like brothers.

Quickly, Jungkook is squished between the six men, one on either side and four on the floor in front of him. They tried to fit more on the couch but they're all so big that they couldn’t.

“Everyone needs to smile, and if they don't, I'm taking more until they do,” you say pointedly, eyeing up Shen. He only nods that he understands.

“Say Solstice!”

A chorus of deep voiced ‘solstice's' ring your eyes as you look through the eyepiece and snap the picture. It prints out and you leave it with all the others on the coffee table. You see that everyone is smiling in the picture as it develops.

Perfect. Everything about today has been perfect.

After a few more minutes of chatting, the guards have to get back to their posts, and you’re at the door, wishing everyone a happy break as they leave.

Shen, as usual, hangs back, wanting to be the last to leave. He’s standing beside Jungkook, both watching you as you bid the others farewell.

“I like her,” Shen says to Jungkook quietly.

“Me too,” Jungkook says back.

Shen can see the prince means that in more than one way.

“Keep her around.”

“I'm trying my best to.”

It’s nearing 7:30, you’re both full after ordering dinner in, not wanting to be anywhere near a kitchen until next week, and working on assignments. Jungkook’s editing some photos, and you’re writing part of an essay from your phone, having completely forgotten to bring your computer in all the excitement.

“Hey,” you say, sitting in your spot on the couch. You nudge him with a socked foot, he has headphones on so he can focus.

He doesn’t look to you, but removes a headphone. “Yeah?”

You lock your phone, brain mush for the night. “Can we move movie night to tonight? I have an exam at 8am on Monday and I want to use tomorrow to study.”

You’ve been thinking about it for a while, deciding that today would let you know if you needed to make the switch or not. And given that you’ve spent the day on your feet and partially socializing, you doubt you’ll be able to focus for the rest of the night, exhausted. But the good kind of exhausted.

You’ve been taking better care of yourself since that day with Jungkook. Not drastically, but you’re starting to listen to your body’s signals a little more, and right now it’s telling you you need TV and sleep.

Appointment be damned. You’ll reschedule.

Jungkook hits the space bar and removes his headphones before closing the computer.

“Yeah, of course. But–” he cuts himself off, looking at the tree in front of him. The lights are low in the apartment and it’s dark out, so the tree shines, glowing from within. The picture of you two still sits in the middle, and the now multiple stacks of polaroids sit around its base like presents.

“But?”

“But that means I won’t see you after today. I only have two exams left, Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning, then I’m back at the palace.”

Oh.

Right.

“We don’t have to, I can just study earlier in the d-”

“No! No, it’s okay. It just…it changes a few things,” he bites his lip as he thinks, and places his computer on the coffee table. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes Picasso, please?”

You’re very confused but comply, closing your eyes and waiting. You hear him get up and then him walking, then a door opens. There’s some rummaging before the door closes and his footsteps near again.

The couch dips right beside you.

“Hold out your hands.”

You hold them both out, palms up, and something bumpy and cylindrical is placed in them.

“Okay, open.”

In your hands is a leather rolling brush case, held shut by not only matching leather strings, but a red ribbon and bow.

“Oh,” you didn’t know you were doing gifts. “Jungkook. It’s—it’s beautiful.”

“Open it.”

You untie the ribbon, setting it to the side as you also untie the leather strings, and unroll. The case is filled with brushes from Olliveri and Schultz, the best brush makers in the realm. And a small, very surprised gasp escapes you.

You’ve never once owned any of their products. Their brushes go for $50 at the lowest, for the smallest of brushes.

Exquisite craftsmanship goes into each and every brush, hand carved wooden handles, the best bristles you can buy, and rust resistant ferrule. You’ve always dreamed of having one of their brushes, and now here you are, with a whole set.

They’re the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Jungkook I—I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t possibly acce-”

“Yes you can. You can and you will. Please. I even made sure they put in an extra fan brush cuz it’s your favourite.”

You notice the two brushes on the end, identical.

He remembered.

A lump is forming in your throat, overwhelmed with gratitude.

“I haven’t—I don’t—,” you take a breath, “I didn’t get you a gift, though.”

“Today was gift enough,” he says, and you can see in his eyes he means every word. “I haven't had a solstice like this in…a really long time, and the memories from today are enough, more than enough. I promise.”

You don’t know what to say, you haven’t been at this much of a loss for words since…ever. You can only think of one thing to convey how thankful you are.

Throwing your arms around his shoulders, you squeeze, his arms immediately around your waist.

“Thank you,” you whisper, “I love them.”

Jungkook takes a deep breath too, savouring this moment for as long as he can. The feel of your arms around him, squeezing. The soft curve of your body up against his. His hands on your waist, you’re warmth under his touch, or maybe that was him, he can’t tell. And he doesn’t care.

It’s the first time you’ve ever initiated physical contact that was more than a nudge or playful shove.

“You’re welcome, YN. Happy Solstice.”

Chapter Ten: TBR

A/N 2: Fun fact! The tree and tin foil star are based on what I do irl. I have a dollarstore tree with little baubles and lights, but I made the star from a cereal box and tin foil because there weren't any toppers when I bought it.

A/N 3: As always, Thank you for reading, loves. Xoxo - Yoon <3

<- Back

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macrocest · 2 months ago

Text

Introducing Springcest Fest!

Springcest Fest is a shipcest (fictional incest) bingo event with a special challenge: to include all 3 squares of your bingo in one work.

You can choose from any of three of the 3x3 bingo cards below (they are also on BlueSky).

The pink card was designed by @cassetteinability, the yellow card by @goldenbi, and the white card by @litcest, with help from @rotting-clowns.

The goal is the same as any other bingo: to make a row, column, or diagonal by using each of the prompts, except this time you have to include them all in one work… or if you’re feeling particularly inspired: a full blackout card where you fill every prompt in one work.

This event will run from April 20th to June 20th.

Works do not need to be posted specifically on AO3, they can be posted anywhere. Any type of creation is accepted for this event except those generated by AI. Examples of what you could create: fic, digital art, a painting, a moodboard, a rec post of a book that fits the prompts, a playlist, origami, a sweater, a pie… If you can make it fit the prompt then go for it!

Link to the AO3 Collection: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SpringCest

Macrocest is on Tumblr, Bluesky, and Dreamwidth. Microcest is on Tumblr, Bluesky, and Dreamwidth.

Q: Will it count if I make canonically non-related characters be related in this event? A: Absolutely, you can do that! They do NOT need to be related in canon for it to count in this event. You can make them related in any way that you please (including siblings, parent/child, long lost uncle/aunt, or even pseudocest like step-siblings, godparent/godchild, whatever!) You could even make it incest-roleplay (aka fauxcest) between non-related characters.

Q: Can I use each prompt in a different chapter? A: Yes, as long as they are all in one single work.

Q: I have two different AO3 accounts, could I do two bingo cards? A: Yes, you can do multiple bingo cards!

Q: Could I do two bingo cards? A: Yes, you can do multiple bingo cards!

Q: Can I post the bingo card on social media? A: Absolutely! And if you want you can tag us too!

Q: Can we write NSFW for a prompt? A: Absolutely!

Q: Could I make art? A: YES!!!! PLEASE DO!!!

Q: Is faux-cest allowed? As in people not blood related partaking in roleplay? A: Yes! Faux-cest, pseudo-incest, step-siblings, incest play, implied incest, etc. are allowed.

Q: If I post a link to my work on Tumblr/BlueSky will you reblog my post? A: Yes, we will reblog every work that tags our Tumblr/BlueSky account. Give us 72 hours to have it reblogged before reaching out to us about it. If we still have not reposted it in that time, then please feel free to DM or send us an ask about it.

Q: How should I incorporate the prompts into my work? A: Feel free to use the exact word/phrase in your work, or just use the prompt as a general idea. (Example: if the prompt is ‘not in the swimming pool!’ then you can use that as a quote from one of the characters, or simply write about a scene where something ensues that maybe shouldn’t be done in a swimming pool.)

Q: I don't think I understand this prompt... A: Do not be afraid you will get the prompt “wrong,” they are all up to your interpretation. However, if you really need a clarification or there is a confusing typo, please email us.

Q: What is the word count requirement? A: There are no word count requirements! You can go as short or as long as you would like.

Q: Can I change the spelling in my prompt? A: Yes! You can change the spelling since they are all Americanized, and you may do the in-universe equivalent of the object (e.g. “Family Portrait” instead of “Family Photo”).

Q: One of the prompts says "mom" but my pairing is not with the mom. What should I do? A: Some of the prompts have suggested family members. These are simply suggestions. You can switch these if they do not fit your fandom, but also remember the mentioned family member does not need to be part of the pairing to be a part of the story/prompt. (e.g. "Mom's favorite" could be a brocest main pairing where one brother is jealous of the other being mom's favorite.)

Q: It's past June 2025. Can I still post a fic/art in this collection? A: Yes, you can still submit a work after June 2025.

Q: Can we combine a prompt here with another event? A: Yes! As long as it follows the rules of both/all of the events!

Q: Can I submit the work on AO3 anonymously? A: You can absolutely submit your work anonymously.

Q: When are these works due? A: The due date is June 20th, 2025, however the collection will remain open for works indefinitely. If it’s past that date and you want to post, please do!

Q: Can I mix 2 of the bingo cards? A: Yes, you can mix the prompts into one story and cross off both prompts! However you still need bingo on at least one card to get an official bingo.

Q: Can I write a whole fic with each chapter being about one prompt? A: Yes, you can definitely write one fic where each chapter is a different prompt! It does not need to be a oneshot.

Q: Do reader-insert fics count? A: Yes! We accept reader insert fics!

Q: Do you allow RPF (real person fiction)? A: Yes! We accept RPF works!

Q: I liked a prompt so much I used it for another pairing that's not incest. What should I do? A: If it is pseudocest or fauxcest or has incest themes then it can still be used in this collection. But, if you use a prompt for a non-incest pairing with no incest themes, just add it to our Oops Not Incest collection instead!

Q: I have another question that wasn’t answered here. Is there somewhere else I can ask? A: Any other questions can be asked by sending us an ask on Tumblr, emailing us at [email protected], or tagging us on Bluesky.

Rules:

1. All works/creations need to include (fictional) incest, but every fandom is welcome! 2. Relationships can include more than just the incest pairing, but the incest pairing must feature. 3. NSFW, kinky, Dead Dove and dark content is welcome, but please tag them accordingly. 4. No AI or LLM (Large Language Model/Generative Artificial Intelligence) works allowed.

#shipcest #springcest 2025 #springcest

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youkaigakkou-tl · 3 days ago

Note

hi! im writing a fanfic and i was hoping i could ask you for a bit of help figuring out some dates, if thats okay? 😅 i check the timeline in the wikia often, but it seems october hasnt been updated yet! im aware that the kyoto trip happens in october + the last chapter exactly on seimeis death date, so everything in between happened during october, but do we know exact days where everything (kyoto trip, meiji romance, etc) happens or has it never been mentioned? what abt student haru arc? tysm!

something like this

the only concrete dates we get are

kyoto arc happens in october (possibly spanning a weekend)

parents day (97) happens on the 18th

the first scene of newspaper (117) happens at night on the 20th

circus happens on a monday

126 happens later that week on the 31st

from this its highly likely that meiji actually happens on the 19th, since its unlikely to be the same day as parents day, and in 117, in that night scene on the 20th when hatanaka is texting ibara, they alr have baby 4 and ibara is all cleaned up at their house and not at the miki house still

tofu (114) probably happens chronologically after meiji, though it technically doesnt have to bc it only references meiji in a meta joke

liar vs liar (116) must happen after meiji bc. its about that.

acchan going drinking with haruaki is highly likely to be the same day as the charity sale, jailbreak happens the next morning (at a reasonable waking hour bc renpapa is having a banquet with police chiefs)

circus probably happens sometime between 27-29 (probably even 27-28) because its "a couple days" before 126 and theyre probably in the same week

the rest of the chapters are pretty ambiguous and could technically happen anytime in october

...actually wait ok lets do more maths

an october where 31st is a friday would not work, because the 18th and 19th have to be school days

and thinking about it, the 20th has to be a school day too because in 117 hatanaka was getting home late because of a meeting

and actually, the 2nd scene of 117 happens "the next day" so 21st has to be a school day too. and just within that chapter, its like

hatanaka at night (20) -> the next day, newspaper about hatanaka (21) -> the next day, newspaper abt ebisu and haru (22) -> the next day yayy fixed (23)

wait hold on is this 6 school days in a row hold on this doesnt make sense what the fuck

so like i think dates are just putty and dont make sense and do whatever. sensei sure is doing whatever with her reckless abandon using "the next day"s

#asks

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reiniesainyo · 1 year ago

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IN BETWEEN. charlie bushnell x reader – 01

01 | SPARKS FLY previous | next | masterfile

SYNPOSIS. when a girl's co-star is good to her and now she wants it more than everything in between. (smau)

A/N. this chapter is more like world building (it's where i explain what the fuck i'm doing with the YN okay)

The "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" series at Disney+ has added an unexpected pick to its growing cast.

The new live-action series is based on the hugely successful novels from author Rick Riordan of the same title. We will be seeing YN LN join the series as Rina Velasco, one of the supporting characters of the show.

LN's Rina Velasco is referred to as "the offspring of The Muses, goddesses of the sciences and the arts." Unlike most other demigods, she is born out of the artistic and scientific output of the muses. When the moral ingenuity of humans meets the divine musings of The Muses. Her character is described as a unique allrounder who becomes a mentor figure to our main cast as they embark on their journey.

This will be LN's first on-screen role of her career. LN's experience mostly lies in Broadway, she is known for playing Kim in the Miss Saigon revival on Broadway. LN was nominated for a Tony in 2022 for the same role. She is repped by Salonga/Chien Entertainment and B817 Agency.

Riordan posted on the Meta app, Threads, about this update to the casting saying: "YN was one of the actors we didn't expect to see a tape of but when we saw it, we couldn't help but fall in love with her. She embodies the spirit of Rina so well and is such a kind spirit, we can't wait for you to fall in love with her too! Welcome to the cast, YN!"

The live-action show is based on Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson book series. It tells the fantastical tale of the titular 12-year-old modern demigod (Scobell), who's just coming to terms with his newfound supernatural powers when the sky god Zeus accuses him of stealing his master lightning bolt. With help from his friends Grover (Simhadri) and Annabeth (Jeffries), Percy must embark on an adventure of a lifetime to find it and restore order to Olympus.

Production on the show is now underway in Vancouver. Riordan and Jon Steinberg are writing the pilot with James Bobin directing. Steinberg and his producing partner Dan Shotz are overseeing the series and serve as executive producers alongside Bobin, Rick Riordan, Rebecca Riordan, Bert Salke, Monica Owusu-Breen, Jim Rowe, Anders Engström, Jet Wilkinson, and Gotham Group's Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Jeremy Bell, and D.J. Goldberg. 20th Television is the studio. Salke was formerly the president of Touchstone Television and originally put the show into development.

liked by percyseries, iamcharliebushnell, and 37,789 others thelnarchive the child of the muses @percyseries

percyseries OUR MUSE!

user1 this is literally perfect casting who cried i did ↳ user2 she's so rina coded! thank the gods for the casting directors

iamcharliebushnell only muse in my life ↳ thlnarchive only traveler in my life ↳ user3 the way filming hasn't started and they're already like this ↳ user4 their chemistry is chemistry-ing

user5 roman empire. she is my roman empire.

dior.n.goodjohn i LOVE LOVE LOVE women ↳ thelnarchive HELP i love you

user6 this is so fcking random but i NEED her in a taylor swift music video

A/N i truly hope you guys can forgive the horrible editing in the pictures. the article portion is based on (and has some parts that are directly pulled from) this article from variety ! here's some succint information about rina velasco, the PJO character YN LN plays (and is my childhood OC!) - rina velasco, filipino, 18 years old (year younger than luke) - she's an offspring of the muses, not directly a child or daughter, though she may be referred as such - by her being an offspring of the muses, i mean that she was born in the same way athena's children are born. - but in rina's case she's more like a weird conglomeration of each muse. her birth is a rare event, but her mothers are honored as minor goddesses so she stayed in the apollo cabin (connection to music) - rina operates as a guidance figure for the main trio, especially annabeth - she's also luke's love interest, there's a lot of tragicness and doomed romance stuff with those two - and for the sake of everyone, we pretend like the weird i love you from the books didn't happen !

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armed-teddy-bear · 3 months ago

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Fashion in the Turning (터닝) manhwa

Welcome to my desperate attempts to put Pruelle in a dress to figure out which period the fashion in Turning (manhwa) fits best.

Disclaimer that I am not at all a fashion expert.

This is all on the assumption that the Orr Empire is based on Europe (most likely Western Europe).

Military uniforms

The uniforms read 19th century to me. See for example here the Austria-Hungary 1856 and the USA General Officer (bottom row, right). More matching are these uniforms from the American Civil War (1860s).

Kishiar’s uniforms tend to have frogging (17th-19th). He also wears fringed epaulettes (17th-19th). Cavalry members wear shoulder boards or marks, which are modern (20th century).

Menswear

The menswear usually consists of a white shirt with a dark-colored vest with dark pants, and with either a jacket (dark color) or a longer coat, and usually with a white cravat—however, the cravat has traversed the ages from the 17th to the 19th century, so this doesn’t really clear up anything.

In other cases, we end up with things like this:

X marks the spot? I have no idea what I’m looking at.

Honorable mention: Count Gallon (chapter 38)

A coat with flared sleeves alongside a… robe? A white robe with a high collar. A waistband with a tassel. He either has sleeve ruffles or engageantes, which could date him as far back as the 1770s-1780s (but they were also used in the 19th century).

To be honest I didn’t look too into it, I’ll just assume Count Gallon wears outdated clothes. I just wanted to include him because he looks so out of place.

Womenswear

Apart from the generic “peasant clothes” (white shirt + dark pants / dark skirt with a white apron—you know the type; the “rofan pauper”) or the occasional maid and servant outfits, we’ve had a few instances of noble dresses.

Empress Rosa (Chapter 37)

Tight collar, puffed sleeves with flared cuffs, matching bodice and skirt. A grey shawl (popular 1850-1870). There’s no pattern or embroidery anywhere, which is either a stylistic choice from the manhwa artist or an indication of Rosa’s personality. Her hair is tied tightly in a bun with no headwear.

This particular outfit reminds me of the sportswear of the 1890s (1, 2). (As for why the empress would wear sportswear, I don’t know.)

Dermilla (Chapter 59)

Tight collar, puffed sleeves that might be gigot sleeves, most likely wearing multiple petticoats or a crinoline, and some sort of shawl tied into a bow at the waist… what? Her hair is (mostly) loose, but we should all know not to expect historical hairstyles for important characters anyway.

If anyone can tell me what is happening concerning her chemise/bodice situation, please do tell. It reminds me of jumps (18th century), but the lack of straps confuses me, and jumps usually revealed more décolleté. The lack of buttons or lacing can be explained for stylistic reasons.

Cashmere shawls became popular in Western Europe at the beginning of the 19th century. Perhaps that’s what she’s wearing at the waist?

(To note that we do see a hint of her shoes (not pictured here because I hit the limit) but I couldn’t figure out what they were…)

Background extras

Let’s go one by one.

This lady in pink wears the same kind of sleeve as the empress. She has a pink bodice and skirt, with V-shaped opening at the front that reveals a stomacher. Petticoat with (probably) a crinoline or bustle underneath (hard to tell the exact shape). The white overskirt behind her is most likely a bustle.

Bustles started getting more popular in the 1870s, but by that time, stomachers (18th century) were no longer popular.

Chokers seem to have also been popular in the 18th century (1760s).

Her friend in black has a high collar dress with a black overskirt. This type of hat seems to have become popular in the 19th century (see this hat from the Kyoto Costume Institute).

The older lady in black and gold in the back confuses me even more. Puffed sleeves that flare out slightly at the cuffs, detached but matching bodice and skirt (you can very faintly see a line separating them) with a white petticoat and… it’s not a stomacher, so what is it?

If they do not have bustles, then they at least have overskirts.

This lady has a puffed sleeve and flared cuffs jacket over a white, high-collar shirt. To me this indicates 1880s to early 20th century.

I invite you to take a look at A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.

These two ladies (Kanna’s half-sisters, chapter 38) continue the trend of bustle/crinoline and overskirt. The sister in pink seems to have either pagoda (1860s) or bell sleeves.

TL;DR

I assume that the fashion in Turning (manhwa) is inspired by 1880s to 1900s Western European fashion.

I am basing this conclusion on the high collars and the bustles/overskirts the noble ladies wear. Overall the fashion is a little all over the place and difficult to pin down. I can only assume that the designs weren’t made to fit one era in particular, but rather ‘rofan’ fashion—or at least, that 6초’s designs weren’t restricted to one era only.

If you are more knowledgeable in historical fashion, please do correct me!

#anyway I’ll go draw EverElle now 👍#터닝 #turning #turning novel #turning by kuyu #mine #teddy.txt

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misssparklingpaws · 12 days ago

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Shadow in the Flame

Chapter 35: A Starkmas Feast

December 15th

The tower smelled like cinnamon, clove, and the faint burn of Yelena’s failed attempt at baking cookies.

Aria was in full nesting mode.

The tree had gone up at dawn. Tall, dramatic, and color coordinated, because she was still a Stark even if she was almost eight months pregnant and wearing fuzzy socks with cartoon tamales on them. Bob had tried to help, bless him, but after he put the tree skirt on backwards twice and tangled the lights around himself like a sacrificial garland, she gently exiled him to cocoa duty.

Yelena had wandered in at one point, seen Aria muttering about ornament symmetry and storming off to vacuum pine needles off the floor for the third time, and just backed out of the room whispering, “Nope. Not today.”

Now, the room was glowing in gold light. Wrapped gifts were piled in immaculate towers under the tree. The playlist was old jazz covers of Christmas songs. And Aria was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, folding impossibly tiny socks into a box labeled “Future Tiny Feet: 0-6 months.”

Bob walked in carrying two mugs of cocoa, one for himself, one with extra marshmallows and a candy cane for her and paused in the doorway when he saw her.

She wasn’t talking.

She wasn’t nesting.

She was still.

That alone was enough to make him worry.

“You okay?” he asked gently, crouching beside her and handing over the mug.

Aria blinked, took it, and nodded. But her eyes were glassy.

Then she looked at the tree.

And back at the socks in her lap.

“I was just thinking…” she said softly, voice catching. “Next year there’s going to be a little boy or girl crawling around under that tree. Maybe pulling all the ornaments off the bottom row. Maybe screaming during gift wrap chaos. Maybe… walking.”

Bob’s chest tightened.

She laughed a little wetly. “And I’m going to lose my mind making sure everything’s baby-proofed and labeled and sanitized and still somehow monogrammed.”

He chuckled and brushed her hair back. “And it’ll be chaos. But it’ll be ours.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Tears welled again without fanfare this time and she sniffled, trying to hide it in her cocoa.

“I just never thought I’d get this,” she murmured. “I always thought it’d just be… me. Aunt Aria. Godmother Aria. ‘Your dad’s genius but emotionally repressed friend’ Aria.”

Bob leaned in, kissed her cheek. “You’re going to be Mom Aria.”

She smiled, eyes bright and heart full. “That’s insane.”

He pulled her close, resting a hand over her belly. “But true.”

They sat together, arms around each other on the floor, while the fire crackled and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” played softly overhead.

And under the tree, nestled between ribboned boxes and glittering lights, was a new package wrapped in kraft paper and stenciled stars.

To: Baby

From: Mom & Dad

Do not open until Christmas 2026 — unless you're a genius like your mom. Then go for it.

---

December 20th

“Has anyone seen my 3D-printed snowflake molds?” Aria called from the kitchen, hair up in a bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her belly barely clearing the edge of the island counter.

Yelena peeked around the corner. “Aria, there are six trays of cookies already cooling. And we’re not opening gifts for five more days. Breathe.”

“I am breathing,” Aria said, focused entirely on positioning the cookies by height and theme. “That’s why I’m managing output.”

Bob tried to sneak past her with a box of ornaments. She stopped him with a narrowed look.

“Where are those going?”

Bob froze. “Uh… team tree?”

“That’s the casual tree. These are for the sentimental family heirloom tree. Totally different vibe.”

Bob blinked. “There are two trees?”

“There are four,” Ava muttered from the couch, flipping through a book and drinking her third cup of Aria-mandated cinnamon tea. “And an emergency backup one she ordered online last night.”

John walked by and whispered, “She's nesting so hard she reorganized the kitchen pantry alphabetically and by shelf height.”

“She reprogrammed the Roomba to play ‘Feliz Navidad’ when it moves,” Yelena added.

At that exact moment, the elevator dinged.

“Oh no,” Bob muttered. “Now what?”

Before anyone could speak, the doors opened dramatically to reveal a nine-year-old whirlwind in glitter boots and an oversized hoodie.

“Morgan?” Aria blinked.

“¡HOLA, HERMANA!” Morgan Stark burst into the room, dragging a glittery suitcase, wearing reindeer antlers and a look of pure Stark chaos. “Mom said you were going too hard and I needed to supervise the elves.”

Aria, already hormonal and nesting, teared up on the spot. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t cry,” Morgan said, hugging her around the belly. “You’ll flood the tree. Again.”

Bob took one look at Morgan and mouthed to the team: We’re doomed.

Morgan Stark instantly took over.

She made a holiday to-do list with glitter pens. She told Ava her corner looked too “emotionally distant” and made her hang fairy lights. She handed Yelena a clipboard with “Baby Registry Emergency Backup Plan: Christmas Edition” scrawled across the top.

Yelena blinked. “She’s just like Aria but small.”

“Small doesn’t mean weaker,” Ava muttered, gluing garland under Morgan’s direction.

Meanwhile, Aria was radiant and chaotic. Belly prominent under a warm knit dress, she barked orders like a general in a Hallmark war zone. She was now sorting baby booties into “photo-worthy” and “functional” piles. The nesting was no longer subtle.

“She made me clean the stroller wheels with a toothbrush,” Bob said numbly as Morgan hung mistletoe over the espresso machine.

“Why do you listen to them?” John asked.

Bob just shrugged. “They scare me. In different ways.”

At dinner, the team sat down to an Aria-approved menu. The table centerpiece matched the tree, the tablecloth had the baby’s nickname embroidered on the corner, and Aria had placed a handmade pine-scented candle at every seat.

Morgan climbed into the seat next to her and beamed. “Next year there’ll be a baby in a highchair. Probably screaming. Probably throwing sweet potatoes.”

Aria got misty-eyed again. “I know…”

Bob gently passed her a napkin and gave her hand a squeeze.

“She’s gone full nesting queen,” Yelena said to Ava.

“She’s like a pregnant Christmas-themed general,” Ava replied, completely deadpan. “And I think we’re all enlisted.”

Morgan nodded sagely. “You're all elves now. Accept your fate.”

No one argued.

---

December 24th

The long dining table gleamed with candlelight, holly garlands, and glitter-dusted pinecones. Silver cutlery rested beside forest-green plates, each place setting arranged with mathematical precision. The scent of cinnamon, roasted meat, and cheese wafted through the air like a spell. Somewhere, Ella Fitzgerald sang "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," and Aria Lucía Stark had officially transformed into a nesting goddess.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her cranberry silk dress, her belly softly rounding beneath the fabric. Seven and half months pregnant, glowing (despite refusing to acknowledge it), and wielding her clipboard like a weapon.

“Is the flan set?” she asked, turning to Bob.

“Chilling as we speak,” he said, adjusting his reindeer-print apron and kissing her temple. “Like me. Very chill.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m excited! It’s our first Christmas Eve as couple and almost-parents.”

Aria sighed. “You’re allowed to be annoying tonight.”

The elevator doors chimed, and Pepper Potts stepped out in sleek winter white, followed by Morgan, already dressed in red with sparkly antlers.

“Mom!” Morgan announced, spinning. “I made place cards!”

“And glittered half the kitchen,” Pepper said fondly, pulling Aria into a gentle hug. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Blame hormones” Aria murmured.

Pepper handed her a carefully wrapped gift box. “This is for you. And the baby.”

Aria paused, emotion flashing in her eyes, but nodded and set it carefully aside. “Later. Or I’ll start crying and ruin my mascara.”

“Too late,” Yelena called, stepping into the room in a white suit and carrying a bottle of nonalcoholic cider. “Ava cried twenty minutes ago when she saw the Christmas lights blinking in sync with the music.”

“I was moved,” Ava deadpanned, setting down the bottle.

Soon, John Walker, Alexei, and Bucky filled out the table, the team looking surprisingly presentable.

Dinner began in waves of laughter, passing dishes, and Morgan trying to narrate everyone’s meal like a food critic. Aria sat at the head of the table, flanked by Bob on one side and Pepper on the other, watching her found family with quiet joy.

“Okay, okay,” Morgan announced halfway through the meal, banging her spoon against her cup. “Family toast time!”

Aria blinked. “Morgan.”

“No interruptions. I have thoughts,” the nine-year-old declared, standing dramatically.

Everyone fell into amused silence.

“I just wanna say this year was weird,” Morgan began. “There were too many missions, not enough mac and cheese, and a confusing amount of adult feelings. But now there’s a baby coming. And Bob’s officially, like stark, ours, I guess.”

Bob smiled awkwardly. “Thanks?”

“But mostly,” Morgan continued, “I think this is the first year we all feel like a real team. And even though Aria’s gone full nesting dragon.”

“Excuse me,” Aria interrupted, hand on her chest.

“We love her,” Morgan concluded. “And next year, there’ll be a baby under the tree, and probably Bob crying again, and that’s okay too.”

Laughter echoed around the table. Aria reached for Bob’s hand, squeezing it tightly, her throat thick with emotion.

Pepper leaned in to whisper, “She’s nine and already a menace.”

“Runs in the family,” Aria whispered back, eyes warm.

Bob just whispered, “...I’m not crying.”

He was absolutely crying.

And for once, Aria let it slide.

---

Snow was falling over the city in slow, glittering flakes, like the universe had finally decided to cooperate with Aria’s Pinterest board aesthetic. The fireplace crackled softly in the corner, and stockings, some classic red, some in tactical black (Yelena’s request) hung neatly above the mantle.

Aria padded into the living room in silk pajamas stretched slightly over her bump and a chunky robe wrapped around her shoulders. She blinked blearily at the scene before her: wrapping paper already everywhere, Morgan yelling at Bucky to “hand over the Stark-labeled package or face holiday war,” and Bob standing by the tree holding two mugs of hot cocoa, looking like a domestic golden retriever in plaid flannel.

“Did the war already start?” Aria asked, taking her mug.

“She declared it,” Bob said, pointing at Morgan, who was now arm-wrestling Yelena for the last tamal.

“Fair.”

The team had all crashed at the Tower after dinner, tucked into guest rooms and couches, refusing to miss “Christmas Chaos: Part Two.” Even Ava, still suspicious of American holiday enthusiasm, sat curled in an armchair with a mug, watching the fire with something dangerously close to peace on her face.

Pepper arrived a moment later, perfectly composed as ever, holding a tray of pastries. “I bribed the kitchen staff. Eat them before Morgan finds the cinnamon rolls.”

“I heard that!” Morgan shouted from under the tree, where she was tearing into a gift labeled To: Starkling From: Yelena.

Bob set his cocoa down and passed Aria a small, wrapped box with a blue satin bow. “Yours.”

Aria raised an eyebrow. “You already got me the heated foot massager and that weird singing giraffe baby toy.”

“This one’s better.”

She opened the box slowly, carefully hormones had made her weepy enough already. Inside, folded with tissue paper, was a tiny white onesie that read:

Team Stark-Reynolds – Est. Coming Soon.

Tucked beneath it was a delicate gold chain with a charm: a tiny crescent moon and star.

“Oh,” Aria whispered. “Okay. Okay, now you are trying to make me cry.”

Bob grinned and kissed the top of her head. “Just leaning into it.”

Morgan popped up behind the couch. “Okay, now that the mush is done—what’s the baby’s name?!”

“We don’t know yet,” Bob and Aria said in perfect unison.

“Lies,” Morgan said, squinting. “I bet you know. It’s probably something wild like Galactus Junior.”

“It’s not Galactus Junior,” Aria muttered.

Morgan turned to the others. “Okay, bets. Come on. Ten bucks on a science pun name. Photon. Quark. Newton.”

“Newton’s kind of cute,” Ava admitted.

Yelena leaned forward, mouth full of sweetbread. “I bet it’s something extremely classy, like Aria trying to sound chill but the baby ends up being named after an opera.”

“It’s gonna be something like Octavia Persephone Stark-Reynolds,” John muttered. “Just to make all our names look lazy.”

“Still better than Bob,” Bucky quipped.

“I like Bob,” Bob said, mildly betrayed.

“You are Bob,” Aria said, smiling into her cocoa.

Everyone laughed. The warmth filled the space like a blanket—paper, cocoa, teasing, and love weaving a little cocoon around them. Aria felt her belly shift gently beneath her robe. She placed her hand over it instinctively.

Bob noticed and did the same, thumb brushing the curve of her belly like a promise.

Next year, there’d be a tiny person under the tree. Maybe drooling. Maybe crawling. Maybe launching chaos worthy of a Stark.

But for now?

They had each other.

And a surprisingly aggressive nine-year-old shouting, “Is Sentry Junior off the table or what?!”

---

Stark Tower Rooftop 11:58 PM

The sky shimmered with anticipation. Aria stood at the edge of the rooftop terrace, arms folded against the chill, her bump softly round beneath her thick robe. Bob stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, radiating warmth.

The city below was a sea of lights, the hum of distant parties echoing across the skyline.

“I didn’t think we’d make it to this,” Aria murmured.

Bob leaned in. “Christmas?”

She nodded, tilting her head back so their eyes met. “Us. The baby. The peace.”

His fingers slid down to rest protectively over her belly. “You’re the one who made all of this possible, Aria. You didn’t just survive—you built something.”

She opened her mouth to respond, then.

CRASH.

The rooftop door slammed open, and a little whirlwind in pajamas and fuzzy Stark slippers stormed out.

Morgan.

“I forgot to leave Santa the Oreos!” she wailed, as if the sky had just fallen.

Aria blinked. “Morgan, it’s�� midnight.”

“I know,” she said with absolute authority. “But Santa's needed.”

Bob didn’t even hesitate. “I got you, kid.”

“Wait, you’re seriously” Aria started, but Bob was already scooping Morgan up and jogging to the elevator like a knight on a holy quest.

“WE’RE SAVING CHRISTMAS!” he yelled dramatically as the doors closed.

Aria stood blinking into the silence.

The team—Bucky, Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei—wandered onto the roof, catching the tail end of the drama.

“Where’s golden boy?” Yelena asked, holding a sparkler dangerously close to Ava’s braid.

“Gone,” Aria said flatly. “On a noble Oreo errand.”

A beat.

Bucky snorted. “Of course he is.”

Alexei raised a toast. “He is… girl dad supreme.”

“Swore it was a boy yesterday,” Ava pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter,” John said. “The man just heard 'Santa forgot his cookies' and launched into battle.”

“Girl. Dad. DNA.” Yelena nodded solemnly. “It’s in his marrow.”

Aria rolled her eyes. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who fell for him,” Bucky said casually.

“…I plead the fifth.”

Someone turned on a speaker, soft music blending into the night air. Aria stepped away from the edge, smiling slightly as she imagined Bob and Morgan raiding a 24-hour bodega for the “most Santa-appropriate” cookies.

A few minutes later, the elevator pinged.

Bob returned, windblown, triumphant, carrying Morgan and a pack of Oreos like they were the last relics of an ancient quest.

“Santa has been appeased!” he declared.

The team erupted in applause. Yelena tossed him a sparkler like a medal of honor.

Aria just shook her head—but her eyes were warm, her smirk real.

Bob passed Morgan off to Pepper and came to her side, cheeks flushed from the cold, curls wind-swept. “Sorry. Had to preserve the magic.”

She looked up at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

She leaned against him. “Unfortunately.”

#robert reynolds #thunderbolts #marvel #robert reynolds x oc #robert reynolds x reader #sentry imagine #robert reynolds fanfic #sentry x oc #thunderbolts imagine #sentry x reader #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds fanfic #bob reynolds x oc #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 3 months ago

Text

Damage Gets Done - SAS: Rogue Heroes x OC - Chapter 14

AO3

Summary: After some less-than-welcome command changes, Diana receives a much needed visit from an old friend

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3.4k

Tags: @20th-centu-fairy-girl @6thofapril1917 @dcyllom @footprintsinthesxnd @regseekings @roseszirnheld @hellofanidea

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

July, 1943

Jaspreet Nadar

Cairo, Egypt

Dear Jaspreet

I know I've said it before, but thank you again for watching the flat while I'm away. Buying one in the middle of all this certainly wasn't the best idea I've ever had, but I suppose I just like knowing it's there. I'm also aware that my collection of belongings over there is rather sparse and eclectic - when I was robbing the old man it became something of a hit-and-run situation, and my instincts got the better of me. Feel free to ignore all the taxidermy fish.

Apparently I’m still in the will. I assume it’s some weak attempt at trying to make me forgive him, but that’s not happening. If by some miracle I manage to outlive him, I shall certainly enjoy taking the money.

We're somewhere along the Suez at the moment - not far from home, really. Certainly the closest I'll be for a long while now. Not sure how I'll like Europe - I imagine I'll be cold for the most part.

Little to report back on 'you know who'. He keeps brawling with one of the new recruits, not sure what that's about.

I think often and deeply on what might become of me once this is all over.

Write back soon, or I probably won't receive it for quite some time.

Diana

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The smell of salt filled the air on the banks of the Suez, and Diana could taste it on her tongue as she thumbed the corner of her book, foot dangling over the edge of the wall as her toe brushed against the surface of the water. Withers had been sitting beside her a moment ago, a half-eaten pile of dog treats left in the grass as proof of his disappearance. Fraser must be around here somewhere, then.

To whom could she admit being frightened? The anxiety had tugged at the back of her mind for weeks, the promise of advancing to Europe always lingering on the horizon. Simply by being here, these men had gone further than she ever had. Even now, she was little more than a stone's throw away from the place of her birth in the grand scale of things. She'd only flown once, and it had been the worst night of her life. The ocean seemed the stopping point of her entire world, the thought of sailing away from here to foreign shores secretly terrifying, as if she were an ancient explorer charting the unknown.

Diana Fayed never seemed afraid. But until now, she had always been home.

The others wouldn't understand.

"Come on! You English fucker!"

Her serenity and contemplation swiftly dashed, Diana looked up from her book with a sigh, squinting as she glanced behind her. There was no need to search for the source of the noise. It had scarcely ceased for the last week.

"Look you Scotch cunt, I like a row as much as anyone else-"

"Mornin'," She chirped, thumping her book absent-mindedly against her thigh as she walked past the developing brawl without so much as a glance.

"'Eya, duck," Kershaw grinned, slinging an arm around her shoulder as she stopped beside him. He chuckled along at the sight before them. Diana stared blankly, unimpressed. She glanced over as Dave shook hands with Riley, her brow arching in question. "Bets. Want in?"

She snorted loudly. "Tryna get me in trouble? Nah, you're alright."

"Well, it's not like he'll find out," He shrugged, digging his knuckles against her shoulder in a teasing sort of way. In the month-or-so since Diana had accidentally let slip about kissing Reg, Dave had been little shy of insufferable. She supposed it would have been naive to expect anything else.

"What's this even about at this point?" She sighed.

Pat shrugged. "… You?"

Dave and Diana both turned simultaneously. "What." She asked flatly.

"Well, I mean, it's just a guess. But the whole thing only started after McDiarmid hit on you in that bar back in Cairo."

Her eyes narrowed, gaze slowly returning to the two men in front of them, who were currently being pulled apart to stop them from biting each other's throats out.

"Is that what that was? I just… assumed he was high on something."

Dave let out a bark of laughter, the arm he'd slung around her shoulder tugging her slightly closer. "I wouldn't rule it out!" Diana chuckled, poking an elbow into his side.

"Right, we're running late," She declared, wrapping a hand around one of his fingers and giving it a tug, his arm sliding off her shoulder.

He snorted. "When's that mattered?"

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As the men filed casually into the tent for their briefing, Diana wandered up to Paddy's desk, passing the major without a second glance as she approached and began to wordlessly flip through the files he'd left lying on the table. For as long as she could remember, her father's house had always been littered with military files, left open in the afternoon sun for any prying eye to read. The word 'classified' had never meant much to her.

"Afternoon," Paddy stated pointedly.

Diana hummed, turning the page. "Hey."

"Would ya put that down?" He pressed.

"Almost done."

He stepped closer, arms folded across his chest. "You're not allowed to read those… Maybe y'are, I dunno. What rank are you even s'posed to be?"

She shrugged. "Dunno, I don't pay attention," With a sigh, she tossed the file back onto the desk with a soft thud. "Not like I have anyone to tell all these military secrets to anyway. You think I'd hang around with you lot if I had other friends?"

The faintest of smirks tugged at Paddy's lip, the kind that would have been unnoticeable had she not known him for so long, and he tilted his head towards the rows of chairs, which were now mostly occupied, gesturing for her to sit. Having run out of reasons to protest, Diana obliged, taking the empty seat next to Dave as she scratched at the scar on her arm. A lasting reminder of their last airfield raid and the bullet fragment she'd taken as penance, the skin pulled taught and itched when it got hot - which, out here, was always. Reg was sat behind her, legs outstretched beneath her chair. Reaching out with her foot, she knocked her heel against the toe of his boot and felt him softly kick her back. She resisted the urge to smile.

As Paddy began to speak, any attempt at authority from the man seeming farcical to her, Diana rubbed a hand across the back of her neck, uneven tufts of hair brushing her skin. Each time her hair had begun to grow back in the months since that first chop, she'd pruned it back with a vengeance, cutting slightly shorter each time until she more closely resembled one of those old silent film stars, chic in a way that was simultaneously boyish. Last week she'd gotten drunk and debated the merits of shaving her head. That had struck her as a bit much.

"Yeah, well sardines live in the ocean by Sardinia, Paddy. Looks a lot like a map of Sicily to me, lad," The swell of laughter alerted her to the fact that she'd stopped paying attention, glancing up at the map with a squint.

"Looks like a pig's head," She pointed out flatly, rummaging in her pocket for a cigarette. Finding two, she held one out over her shoulder without sparing Reg a glance, and felt him pluck it from her grip with a muttered 'thanks'.

"That is exactly right - Capo Murro di Porco," Paddy affirmed, and Diana found herself resisting the urge to cringe every time he spoke. She never thought she'd miss the old, infuriating Paddy, who bickered with her like a child and shot gazelles when he got pissed. Then again, there were many things about their time in the desert she was beginning to miss.

David Stirling, you dumb fucking bastard.

Kershaw held up a light, their shoulders bumping together as she leant towards it, a white plume of smoke rising from the tip of her cigarette.

"Whatcha thinkin'?" He uttered.

"Whole thing seems like a plan to get us killed," Diana whispered with a shrug.

"… Same as usual, then?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Because!" Paddy's pitch rose to a yell, quieting the muttering that had begun to fill the tent. Diana and Kershaw leant back in their seats. "Our next mission is utter fucking madness. So we will require the services of mad men."

"Thank you, boss," McDiarmid's distinctive tone rang out from somewhere behind her. "And on that note - I would love to go home, by the way, Sergeant Happy-Face."

"I'll put you on a boat myself, mate," Reg barked back from his seat. Diana rolled her eyes, shooting Dave a glare as she noticed him slip some cash into Riley's hand.

"What?" He shrugged.

"Fuck's sake."

The bickering was rising in volume all over again, the atmosphere growing more tense by the second. She didn't have to turn around to know precisely what Reg was doing - she knew his brow was pinched the way it always did when he was roused to anger, knew his knuckles were clenched and whitened, his shoulders squared and perpetually prepared to throw a punch.

"You're like a wee kettle, boilin' with anger!"

"Shut your mouth!"

A low groan escaped her as the men behind her bolted to their feet, jostling her chair as they fought to restrain Reg and Jock, to keep them from attempting to tear each other's throats out for the second time that afternoon. If she'd slept better the night before, Diana might have been more inclined to tolerate their quarrelling. But as things stood, it was all rather intolerable, the beginnings of a headache blooming in her temple.

With a grunt, she pushed herself to stand, arms swinging casually at her sides as she strolled towards Paddy's desk, arching a brow as she seized his revolver. He tilted his head with a slight nod. Pausing a moment to check the chamber was loaded, Diana tilted the barrel up towards the ceiling, a deafening bang flooding the tent as she pulled the trigger. In an instant, the uproar had ceased, the room falling still. Diana stared up at the smoking hole in the canvas, plucking her cigarette from her lips, a cloud of smoke flooding her nostrils as she inhaled.

"Right then," She muttered, dropping the pistol with a clatter on the table. "Carry on."

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A lawn table sat wonky in the uneven grass at the water's edge, Diana's foot against the crossbeam keeping it from rocking. She tossed a date into her mouth, squinting against the sunlight as it glinted on the water's still surface.

Another fucking Stirling.

It was bad enough that she'd lost the first one - a tolerable one, one she'd actually liked, although it may not have always appeared that way. Now here came another, wanting salutes and order and respect like some fucking toff. Like her father. Like every officer that had ever come into her house and looked down on her for as long as she could fucking remember.

Perhaps she was sulking. She could have gone off with Dave or Pat or Johnny. Or Reg. But instead, she was sitting here, watching a cargo ship trundle past, its bow splitting the blue and sending ripples splashing up against the wall at her feet.

She'd never been allowed to sulk in her youth, back when it was still a quaint folly for children afraid of not getting their way. It was unproductive, and that was one thing her father had never abided by. Any time spent sitting around was time that could have been spent on something more important.

Diana found she rather enjoyed sulking.

Her brow furrowed as she bit down on another date, the honey she'd slathered them with sliding smoothly down her throat as she swallowed, overpowering sweetness a balm against her discontent. The sound of a car pulling up somewhere behind her did not disturb her trance, the hum of engines almost constant and entirely unremarkable in camp.

"Oi!"

She paused, her mind taking a moment to recognise the familiar voice. But once it had, she swivelled in her seat, a grin displacing her irritated scowl as she bolted to her feet, a bubble of laughter escaping her.

Jaspreet's red-painted lips were parted in a grin, bright eyes hidden beneath sunglasses, heels wobbling slightly in the uncut grass. Her dress draped over her shoulders, hanging shapelessly around her in a style that was almost twenty years out of date, but suited her just as well as everything else always seemed to, half-covered by a painted silk robe that rippled with each movement and pooled in the crooks of her elbows as she held out her arms for an embrace. "Holy shit," Diana chuckled, going for a hug without hesitation, squeezing with her forearms to avoid ruining Jaspreet's clothes with the honey that stickied her hands.

"You got my letter?" She asked, eyes squeezed tightly shut, the thick scent of jasmine flowers filling her senses as she breathed in.

"Didn't trust the post to get my reply to you in time," Jaspreet grinned. "Thought I'd be better off coming myself."

"Ah, the joys of unemployment," Diana teased. "C'mon," As she turned back towards the table, she seemed to notice for the first time that there had been two chairs all along, as if even in her irritated search for solitude a part of her had never wanted to be alone. Jaspreet sat down opposite her, painted nails plucking a date from the bowl and tossing it into her mouth. She had sat with her back to the sun, and as she noticed Diana's squint, she took off her sunglasses and slotted them onto her face without a word. There was a silent communication between them as Diana leant forward to receive them, the tinted lenses an appreciated shield against the glare.

"So," Jaspreet began, pausing to lick a smear of honey from her fingertip. "How is it?"

Her chest heaved as she sucked in a long, sharp breath, nodding slowly. "Uh… Yeah… Yunno, you expect - hanging around with a bunch of unwashed men in the desert - that they're gonna smell, but it still surprises you. I mean it is just so-"

"Diana."

She hesitated, brow raised over the rim of her glasses. "… Mhm?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

Diana leant forward, shoving a handful of dates into her mouth all at once. "Oh, God, we don't need to talk about Reg," She shook her head, speaking around the food. "If you tell me you drove all the way here to talk about that, I'm throwing you in the canal."

"I'm just not sure it's a good idea to get all weird about some random guy when you're supposed to be focusing on - y'know - not dying. And he's fucking English at that. At least tell me he's not blonde."

"… Well-"

"You're so predictable," Jaspreet scoffed.

"No- look- it's not weird. We've been doing crazy shit for best part of two years by now, a bit of snogging isn't gonna be the final straw that sends us all for a fucking loop."

"I'm just saying - historically, you haven't handled this kind of thing… all that amazingly."

"You're just saying that 'cause you hated Andrew."

"Damn right."

"Would it help if I said I visited him in the hospital and kinda-sorta lightly tortured him?"

"You fucking what?"

"Doesn't matter," Diana waved a hand dismissively. "You haven't told me about you."

Jaspreet frowned, brow pinched.

"C'mon," Diana urged.

"Fine! Fine!" She threw up a hand in surrender. "I'm fine! … I've got this charity ball thing I'm supposed to be running tomorrow night, raising money for The Red Cross. So it'll be boring but it's for a good cause."

"Aw. You little philanthropist."

"You are such a bitch," Jaspreet chuckled, earning a hearty laugh from Diana. They tittered gradually to quiet, the ghost of her laugh still etched in Jaspreet's smile as she nodded. "But, y'know. I have plans. They're not concrete or anything, but I have them."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," She took a deep breath. "I'm not gonna stay here. Once the war's over, I mean - I'm gonna leave Cairo."

Diana said nothing for a moment, lips pressed tightly together. "Mhm… Yeah, yeah - no, that sounds good… You know where you're gonna go?"

"I was thinking Italy… or Greece, or- somewhere with history, y'know? When I was a kid, my father was financing an archeological dig somewhere outside the city, so he'd take me to visit. I loved just watching them work; just this idea that we were standing on something ancient and important. Might even go back to university and finish a degree this time."

She couldn't pinpoint precisely when, but at some point, listening to Jaspreet, she had begun to smile.

"Good for you. Seriously."

"You think?"

"Absolutely. To see through all this shit and figure out what you want beyond it, I think that's great," Diana nodded, picking absent-mindedly at her fingernails as her gaze fell to her lap.

"… Hey," Jaspreet urged, and the table wobbled on the uneven ground as she reached across it, seizing one of Diana's hands in her own. "You'll get there."

She forced a smile. The prospect of Jaspreet leaving Cairo had knocked the wind out of her for a moment, but frankly, it had been naive even to think it a problem. It was naive to expect she'd live long enough to come back here to see her at all. For some people, the future seemed a given. Hers wasn't. She wasn't sure she'd last the week.

With a somewhat bitter chuckle, she nodded, squeezing her hand affectionately. "You are… much too good to be stuck in one place."

"Right back atcha."

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As the car pulled away, Diana caught Jaspreet's eye in the rearview mirror, offering a limp wave and one final grin of farewell. Hands planted on her hips, she watched the car until it disappeared from sight, and something inside her seemed to deflate, shoulders drooping as she let out a heavy sigh. She scraped a hand through her curls, tugging them out of her face and turning on her heel towards the tents, passing her weight tiredly from foot to foot as she walked.

Reg was coming the other way, weaving between the guylines, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. The smile that creased her cheek was involuntary, but so slight as to be hardly noticeable. He noticed.

"Hey," She stopped, pausing to give her scar another scratch.

"Was just coming to-… There." Reg nodded, pushing one of the mugs into her hands.

"Oh. Thanks," Diana smiled, taking a sip and wincing as she felt the liquid scald her tongue. "Shit," She hissed, clicking her fingers and jabbing a finger at him as another thought suddenly entered her mind. "Hey. Stop all that weird shit with McDiarmid, 'kay?"

He groaned, rolling his eyes. "He's a prick."

"So are you, I don't give a shit. It's annoying and it's loud and it's giving me a fucking headache… And Pat says you're only pissed at him 'cause he hit on me so- I dunno about that, but knock it off anyway."

Reg's mouth opened and shut like an outraged fish. "I- No- That's- Right, yeah, fine."

"Right, good talk," She cracked a grin, nudging his shoulder as she brushed past, continuing her stride. Lifting the mug to her lips, she took another sip, the temperature slightly more bearable. Yet she winced all the same.

"Oi," Diana called. Reg had begun to walk away in the opposite direction, pausing his stride to look back at her. "Did you make this?"

"Nah."

"It tastes like shit."

He frowned down at his own cup, tentatively slurping a mouthful. He grimaced. "Fuck me."

A laugh escaped her at his look of disgust. "Yeah… D'you wanna find a beer?"

Reg nodded, hesitating so as not to look quite so eager.

"Alright. Yeah."

#fic | damage gets done #oc: diana #sas rogue heroes #sas rogue heroes fic #sas rogue heroes oc #sas: rogue heroes #sas: rh #reg seekings x oc #reg seekings #dave kershaw #paddy mayne #pat riley

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hand-picked-star · 10 months ago

Text

The 13th Anniversary Arshi Fiesta

Moodboard : Historical AU

Whispers of the Heart | Chapter 25 ( final)

DISCLAIMER: The story is set in the early 20th century. While I have made efforts to capture the essence of the era, there may be inaccuracies as this is a work of fantasy. I do not own the characters Arnav and Khushi, and this story is purely fictional with no relation to any real individuals, living or dead. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

WARNING: 18+, MATURE CONTENT.

Final Chapter

Three years later.

It was the eve of Diwali, the festival of lights. The Rajput haveli was a vision of grandeur and festivity this evening. The entire estate was adorned with intricate decorations. Strings of twinkling fairy lights draped over every window and doorway and vibrant rangoli patterns were meticulously crafted at the entrance. Rows of gleaming diyas, their soft flickering flames casting a warm, golden glow, lined the pathways and courtyards, creating a serene and enchanting ambience. The air was filled with the scent of freshly made sweets and the sounds of laughter and celebration, as the household came alive with the spirit of joy and togetherness.

Arnav and Khushi had been celebrating their Dewalis with the Rajput family instead of their own Haveli, which they had finally managed to build according to their own taste. It was especially Khushi's touch that could be seen in every corner of the new Raizada state. Though they had a beautiful house of their own, they very much enjoyed spending their Dewalis with the Rajputs. Because, all of their near and dear ones were here and with Mahindar and Manorama's advancing age, they wanted to celebrate the festivals surrounded by all of their children.

"Oh shit."

Arnav hurriedly entered the room and locked the door behind him. Khushi was in the midst of getting ready. was adjusting a delicate gold necklace around her neck. She had styled her dark hair elegantly in loose waves that had gone perfectly with the stunning deep red sari, she had worn. Her eyes sparkled with a hint of concern as she looked up from her reflection.

"What happened?"

"The string of my trousers just snapped. Did you bring a spare?" Arnav replied, noticing how gorgeous she looked.

"Let me see."

As Khushi proceeded to see Arnav's broken trouser string, a mischievous smile appeared on his lips.

"Aren't you a bit too eager to see my treasures, Mrs. Raizada?"

Rolling her eyes at his antics, she said, "Take it off."

"As you wish."

Arnav grabbed her waist, gently placing her on the desk in her room. The old desk was not that big, leaving her back pressed against the wall. He moved to stand between her legs, gently pushing them apart.

"What are you doing?" she whispered yelled as his hands slid up her thighs. He wrapped one of his hands around her waist, pulling her a little closer, while he put the other hand against the wall, above her head.

"Nothing, just testing how sturdy the desk is," he said leaning closer to her. A playful smirk curled on the corners of his lips.

"Arnav, everyone is waiting for us downstairs."

"A few more minutes won't hurt them," he said, capturing her lips in a teasing kiss while his hands gathered her saree around her waist. He touched her in between her legs, finding her already eager for him.

"Ap aise nahi kar sakte," she whispered, biting her lips.

"Kyun nahi kar sakta? Biwi ho tum meri, my legally wedded wife." A soft whimper escaped her lips, as he pushed his fingers in between her nether lips. "And look at you," he murmured, "....already so ready for me. The idea of us on this desk excites you, huh?"

Khushi swatted his shoulder lightly and smiled, her eyes full of mirth. "Shut up."

"Make me."

In the past few years, so much had changed. What hadn't was the undeniable pull between them. Despite the upheavals in many aspects of their lives, there they were, still wrapped up in their own little world.

He looked devastatingly handsome, as always-nothing special in that. But the navy blue kurta he wore today made his eyes stand out even more, and they were now focused on Khushi, brimming with mirth.

Khushi clutched his collars and pulled him close as she fused their lips together, successfully wiping off the teasing grin on his face. Meanwhile, Arnav got rid of his trousers and entered her in a swift motion. Both of them moaned softly, their pleasure barely contained. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him closer. Her back arched slightly while she adjusted to him. His lips travelled down her neck alternately sucking and kissing her soft supple skin. Her head fell back, eyes fluttered shut.

"Don't leave marks. It would be very awkward in front of the relatives." The desk beneath her creaked softly as he began to move.

"Shhh... I won't... at least not where everyone can see." He whispered, lightly sucking behind her ear.

Their rhythm grew frantic. They tried desperately to muffle their moans, as he pounded repeatedly into her. He then realized they were making lots of noises.

"Shit, your bangles.''

"Huh..?" When Arnav saw his wife completely blissed out and lost in the sensation. He just shrugged his shoulder and went back to his previous activities. Soon, their moans mingled in each other's necks as they finished together.

Both were breathing heavily. Khushi cradled her face against his shoulder, her fingers gently playing with his hair. While Arnav tried to catch his breath by resting his head on her neck. A sudden knock on the door startled them. Instead of pushing him away, Khushi clutched his neck even tighter, holding him close. Akash Bhai's voice came through the door.

"Khushi?"

Regaining her composure, Khushi answered in a shaky voice, "Haan, Bhai?" Her body froze in place.

"Where's Arnav? Hasn't he come yet? Bareilly wale Fufaji usko kabse dhoond rahe hain."

"Hume nahi pata, Bhai. Humne unko nahi dekha."

Khushi noticed her husband's shoulders shaking lightly. She cast a glare at his shoulders as if willing them to stop.

"Theek hain, main dekhta hoon. Tum jaldi tayaar hoke niche aao."

As Akash Bhai's footsteps faded, Arnav couldn't hold back his laughter any longer. He looked back at his wife, his amusement contagious. Khushi tried to give him a stern look but ended up laughing along with him, playfully swatting his chest. Arnav gazed at her affectionately before capturing her lips with his.

As much as he loved to kiss her whimpering lips, he loved kissing her smiling ones even more.

After freshening up, Arnav headed downstairs. As soon as he reached the bottom, two little bodies collided with him, and he effortlessly scooped them up into his arms. Three-year-old Akansha, a spitting image of Anjali as a child, brought back memories of his sister's younger days, while five-year-old Ajit, a perfect blend of Akash and Payal. They grinned up at him. Arnav settled into a nearby lounge chair, both children comfortably perched on his lap.

Little Akansha said in her baby voice, "Mamaji, thank you for the gift. Ma said me to thank you." She placed a tiny kiss on his cheek.

Not to be outdone, little Ajit mimicked her. "Ha, Mamaji, thank you."

Akansha quickly turned to him, frowning. "Arre, buddhu, wo sirf mere Mamaji hain. Tumhare nehi."

"He isn't your Mamaji either," Khushi chided little Akansha lovingly. "Remember what I told you? When you go to our house, you'll call him Mamaji. But when we come here, you have to call him Fufaji."

Arnav scrunched his nose in response, "Don't confuse the children, Khushi." Then, turning back to them, he added, "Why don't both of you just call me Uncle, okay?"

Both of them nodded and sprinted off to play in the courtyard.

Meanwhile, two pairs of brown eyes eagerly awaited their turn on his lap. As soon as it was vacant, they climbed onto each of his thighs. A sweet, confused voice asked, "Daddy, do we need to call you that too?"

"Oh, no, I've worked too hard for you to ever call me that."

"Well, your daddy was very close to being called 'Uncle' by my children once upon a time," Khushi said, lightly touching the little girl's nose.

Arnav cast her a mock glare and mouthed soundlessly, "How dare you?" In response, Khushi just laughed.

While little Ayushi snuggled against her father's neck, little Kush played with his toy, absorbed in his own world. Roma Chachi had remarked aptly that Khushi had indeed given birth to their own reflections, as the three-year-old twins were perfect mirrors of their parents.

While little Ayushi was a bit clingy and voiced her need for attention, little Kush was more reserved. Arnav saw himself in Kush more and more as the days went by. Though Kush didn't seek attention outwardly, inside he was just as eager for snuggles and cuddles as his sister. Even if he pretended otherwise, he desired the same affection. So, Arnav made sure to give both children equal attention. And in some cases, he made an extra effort to give affection to Kush while he was still open to it. Because, As Kush grew up, Arnav knew his little boy might not appreciate his father hugging him as much as his daughter might. It's just a man-code.

Arnav pulled little Ayushi closer, planting a kiss on her head, while he affectionately rubbed his son's back. Khushi watched them with a soft smile, her heart swelling with warmth and tenderness. It had been three years since their birth, and Khushi had been pestering Arnav for another child, but he kept refusing. Their birth had traumatized him enough. Arnav till date clearly remembered and almost felt the panic that he had gone through that night.

He had arranged for the best midwife in the area and had called a trained nurse from the missionary hospital for the delivery. The doctor had come as well and assured him that everything was alright and that the birth would proceed naturally. And there he was, pacing in front of the room where Khushi had been for two hours-two hours of listening to her whimpering and screaming in pain. Arnav was just minutes away from asking Hariprakash to fetch the doctor again when a deafening cry of a newborn pierced the air.

A joyous shout of Roma Chachi came from inside, "It's a boy!"

A few moments later, Roma Chachi emerged from the room with a little crying bundle and approached Arnav. But at the same time, another scream from Khushi nearly stopped his heartbeat. Roma Chachi tried to pass the baby to Arnav, but he grabbed her upper arms and asked urgently, "What's happening inside? How's Khushi?"

A hushed whisper circulated among the women in the room who had come to assist with the birth, noting Mr. Raizada's reluctance to take the baby in his arms. Roma Chachi looked around, guessing how the situation must appear, and spoke to Arnav in a hushed voice.

"Take your son, Arnav. Khushi will be alright."

Chastised by his mother-in-law, Arnav looked at the baby, who had stopped crying and was now gazing at him with wide eyes. He took the baby in his arms and sat on a sofa in the corridor. The baby's little body squirmed in the palm of his hand. Father and son stared at each other for quite some time. An overwhelming sense of protectiveness washed over him, though he couldn't exactly name the other emotions coursing through him. He just kissed the baby boy's forehead lightly and spoke softly as if the baby would clearly understand his words, "I'm not mad at you. I'm just scared."

A little while later, Anjali took the baby from Arnav while Khushi's screams continued to echo from the room, driving him to the brink of madness. He asked Hariprakash to fetch the doctor and also asked Anjali to go inside and see what was happening. Suddenly, the screaming stopped, and Arnav's heart pounded at the sudden silence. Roma Chachi emerged with another bundle, her face radiant with a brilliant smile. "There was another baby-a girl. It's a little Khushi."

Arnav placed his hand on the baby's head and asked, "How's she?"

"She will be okay, Arnav," Roma Chachi reassured him and transferred the baby to Arnav. He felt her snuggle into him as he placed a soft kiss on her crown. Since then, Little Ayushi never missed a chance to snuggle into her father's arm.

When everybody went home and the babies were settled with Anjali and Payal in the next room. Roma Chachi decided to sleep in the room, attached to where Khushi was. She was sleeping soundly after giving birth. The doctor said she had lost a lot of blood. Although the bleeding had stopped, she had become very weak. She looked pale, alarmingly pale actually and her breathing was shallow. Fear gripped Arnav's heart despite everybody's reassurance.

He spent the night holding her hand and sitting on the floor near her head, counting her breaths. He didn't know when he fell asleep, his head resting near their joined hands. But he woke up to Khushi's gentle fingers lightly gliding through his hair. When he opened his eyes, she urged him to lie down beside her on the bed. He obliged, and she didn't waste any time snuggling into his chest, her arm draped across his belly.

"Will you be angry with me for the rest of your life if I leave this world before you?"

Arnav's heart dropped at her question. "Don't ask me questions like that."

"Answer me, please."

He pressed his lips to her forehead. "I can never be angry at you."

"Good, I don't want you to be angry at me at all."

"Then don't even think of leaving."

Khushi tilted her head to look at him and smiled tiredly. Arnav placed a soft kiss on her dry lips. "I felt like I would never see you again, or our babies..... I was so scared."

Arnav gulped down the lump in his throat and didn't say anything in response, only pulled her closer to his body.

She had been quiet for a while, and Arnav thought she had fallen asleep when she spoke again."We have two babies now," she said almost disbelievingly.

"Yes, we do. We didn't even know how to raise one."

"Shhh, we'll manage," she said dreamily. "One baby is for you, one baby is for me. Did you hold them?"

"Yes, I did."

"I haven't yet. I guess I had fainted at the end," she said sadly.

"Why don't you get some sleep and gather some energy, Mommy?" he said lovingly. "If they're to be like you, we'll have a lot on our hands."

"What are you saying? I was a very quiet kid."

"Sure, you were," he whispered against her forehead.

"You were no better, mister. I know all the stories from your childhood, so you can't deny it. At least I didn't get stuck in a patila."

Laughing, Arnav gathered her in his arms even tighter, and both of them fell asleep like that.

"Bhaiya, Bhabi, come quickly! Roma Aunty is calling you," Amelia's voice called out across the courtyard to the little bubble of the family of four, who were just chatting.

Over the years, Amelia blossomed into the remarkable young lady she was destined to be. As the cloud of melancholy gradually lifted, it revealed her true essence—a kind, compassionate, and fun-loving individual, fiercely protective of those she loved.

"Let's go Mrs.Raizada."

He extended his hand toward his wife.

Khushi looked up at his extended hand, recalling a time when he had reached out in much the same way to guide a little girl out of the darkness.

Khushi scooped up Kush in her arms as Arnav held Ayushi. Hand in hand with their children nestled in their arms, they joined the rest of the family. The warmth of the burning diyas cast a golden glow over them.

In the end, as they embraced the spirit of the festival, they realized they found their perfect piece of forever in each other's arms, in each other's eyes, knowing that this was where they were always meant to be.

----------THE END----------

@featheredclover @arshifiesta @phuljari @msbhagirathi @jalebi-weds-bluetooth @chutkiandchotte

#ipkknd #arnav singh raizada #khushi kumari gupta #arshi #ipk 13th anniversary fiesta #13 years of ipkknd #whispers of the heart

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yourlocaltreesimp · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 1 — Caged Birdie

Synopsis: Labrynna is changing, and it’s dearest knight is out of both enforce the new laws and nip any resistance in the bud. Yet the people are hungry, and there’s a robin hood about.

Warnings n’ such: Use of Y/n once, really long and boring preamble, I made up a law system

Beginning (you’re here!) 𖦹 Next Chapter 𖦹 Fic masterlist

The clack of a typewriter edits and adds to the existing report. It’s author is tired. It’s 1:43 am, and this is their 19th such report in this hour alone. They’ve lost count of how many they’ve edited or added in this shift alone. This person, this lone face, doesn’t matter. And that is no insult to their individual character. It is simply because they sit in the 4th row of 10, all typing away, all on criminal reports. Day after day why sit their shifts and write. They hardly take a break, lest the piles of reports grow too large and their pay be cut.

And one room over, another 40 or so file just new reports.

These people struggle. That is what matters. They work and toil, for at least 40 hours (though it’s usually more) a week. And still, despite working so tirelessly, and for the crown no less, they each struggle to make ends meet. The struggle for rent. For food. For utilities. For medication. For the others around them tugged below the poverty line.

This is what matters.

This is where the story begins, though the beginnings began a while before.

𖦹

Date: 5th of April, XXXX

Case Number : 3057

Case status: Ongoing — Priority.

Reporting Officer: Sir. Raven

Suspect/Perpetrator: F/N L/N

Summary of events: Dating back to December, Suspect has been witnessed conspiring, aiding the escape of, and quartering of known convicted criminals. There have been up to 10 confirmed reports; including the smuggling of at least 12 convicted individuals; suspected subornation to perjury, with more incidents and individuals suspected to be involved.

The Suspect has broken into dungeons, trespassed, threatened the lives of at least two three guards and damaged castle property on at least two occasions, suspected to have encouraged false witness reports and testimony and could abe associated with at least two similar incidents of aiding the escape of convicted/imprisoned individuals.

Evidence found belonging to the suspect, the continued reoffence, external efforts to aid the suspect’s escape, resistance and force to evade arrest, and the premeditated nature of the crimes committed render them under §9000 in Labrynna’s criminal code; Crimes against the crown, including but not limited to:

-High Treason

-Treason

-Obstruction of Justice, Including tampering with crime scenes/evidence, and assault of a Knight.

-Knowingly submitting (or encouraging others to submit) false testimony.

-Conspiracy of any sort, Including conspiracy against both individuals related and unrelated to the Monarchy.

As such, this case has been classified as a priority under the the Crown of Labrynna by Queen Ambi personally.

Incidents:

12th December, XXXX. Suspect caught trespassing onto Castle property. Notebook along with other possessions were confiscated and set to be burned, while suspect was let off with a fine of 2,500 Rupees. Items confiscated would later be submitted as evidence related to this investigation as the suspect reoffends.

Grounds for trespassing §5068— Dropped.

20th December, XXXX. Suspect caught again trespassing on Castle property, breaking into the gallows, damaging castle integrity/property, and releasing one prisoner [Iree, Jacobi] before being caught by the knight on guard for that night [Sir. Tighk]. Suspect fled the scene along with the convict and failed to be apprehended. Further investigation into the Suspect’s belongings and personal notebook revealed that they had not only made a map of the castle but listed the names of 3 other prisoners they had intended on aiding in the escape of that night.

Resistance to arrest § 3999 — Sustained.

Trespassing §5068 — Sustained.

Damage of Labrynna property §5989 —Sustained.

Accomplice to the escape of a convicted individual §7998 — Sustained.

Conspiracy §9001 — Sustained.

Grounds for treason §9900— Pending. Sustained.

21st to 30th December, XXXX. Suspect witnessed smuggling criminal and his known immediate family [Wife and Daughter] to an unknown location, though we suspect this is their operation base. Reports last until the 30th were they were reportedly seen near the Fairy’s woods. Any pursuit efforts following that report were ceased in the interest of safety.

3rd of February. XXXX. Suspect broke into and released another prisoner from the gallows, [Fieal, Ralph] and in the following persuit, suspect threw a rock at a knight in training’s head [Nairt, John], knocking him out in the process. During their continued escape, while almost detained, suspect broke two containment cells in the dungeons and released the 12 total prisoners. A riot ensued, injuring at least 5 other knights. Suspect escaped in the ensuing chaos, with guards only able to detain one of the released prisoners.

Assault §3340 — Dropped.

Resistance to arrest § 3999 — Sustained.

Trespassing §5068— Sustained.

Damage of Labrynna property §5989– Sustained. 3 counts.

Accomplice to the escape of a convicted individual §7998 — Sustained. 13 Counts.

Conspiracy §9001 — Sustained.

Assault of officer imposing the law §9383— Sustained. 6 Counts.

Grounds for treason §9900 — Dropped.

Conspiracy against the Crown §9990 — Sustained.

5th February to 15th March, XXXX. Suspect again witnessed aiding the continued harboring of criminals, stopping at what villagers in the town said was their previous residence. Reportedly, the apartment has been somewhat abandoned, unvisited for months at a time, with timeframes varying from account to account. Testimonies vary intensely in both large details [Landlord, who rents the apartment, etc.] and smaller details [Who visits regularly, at what intervals, etc.] One prisoner, [Laij, Norman] from the prior riot was captured, the remaining managing to escape, alerted by the prisoner to flee before they could return to the residence. More witness accounts have been provided to subsequent whereabouts, but reports offer conflicting information and cannot be confirmed and taken into evidence.

Subornation to Perjury §9533 — Pending.

5th April, XXXX. Reporting officer sent to evaluate the scene of the fight between the released prisoner and pursuing officers at what is currently believed to be the suspect’s place of residence. Shelf stable food stores, blankets, notebooks, and other personal items were found, supporting the leading theory that the house acted as an area of refuge or base of operations to the conspirators. Items were taken and surrendered to evidence. While wrapping up the investigation, the suspect broke into the scene and attacked reporting officer, beating them several times over the head with a metal lamp stand until they were rendered unconscious. A jewellery bag and the suspect’s personal diary were stolen from the personal items meant to be surrendered to evidence. Reporting Officer was not found for several hours was eventually sent to Med Observation for two days to recover from the sustained injuries.

Trespassing on a crime scene §5908 — Sustained.

Assault of officer imposing the law §9383 — Sustained.

Grounds for treason §9900 — Dropped.

High treason §9999 — Pending.

Total charges:

Resistance to arrest § 3999 — 2 Counts.

Trespassing §5068 — 2 Counts.

Trespassing on a crime scene §5908 — 1 Count.

Damage of Labrynna property §5989 — 4 Counts.

Accomplice to the escape of a convicted individual §7998 — 14 Counts.

Grounds for treason §9900 — 2 Counts.

Assault of officer imposing the law §9383 — 7 Counts.

Conspiracy §9001 — 2 counts.

Subornation to Perjury §9533 — 1 Count. (Pending)

Conspiracy against the Crown §9990 — 1 Count.

High treason §9999 — 1 Count. (Pending)

𖦹

Troubled hands shake as they struggle to form words, the nurse’s fountain pen leaves gaps and spots in the words. The man writing doesn’t complain. Half because he’s too troubled in the moment to cause a fuss, and half because that’s simply not the toe of person that he is.

Tired eyes mull over the paper and the pen as his mind feels over each and every word. The sentences still feel like they don’t make sense, but getting beaten over the head does tend to jumble things up a bit, doesn’t it?

7th of April, XXXX

By this time tomorrow I should hopefully be out of here. I can’t actually believe that some trainees try to skive here on purpose. It’s horrible, and I mean that as no insult to our nurses, but by the three do I want to leave. There’s always something going on, someone talking, someone hovering around.

I am grateful they are doing their jobs. I truly am. But between the inability to see out of my right eye due it only seeing stars and every light source magnifying my pain, I find myself without much to do but lay here. Basking in the beautiful pain of 24 hour lights and constant background chatter.

By the Goddesses— how tired I am. Of course physically, it’s not like i’m getting much sleep, but worse yet is that this case just won’t quit pestering me. From my waking hours to my dream I lay here, thinking. Thinking of the suspect, the details of their image, their cadence, their known mannerisms and every little bit leading up to being beaten with a lamp stand. (They’ll really need to add that to the Knights in training curriculum.) “It’ll be a simple case” I was told. “A novice criminal. Someone who fancies themselves a martyr.” Well wasn’t that just bullshit? I would say excuse my language if it weren’t for the fact that it were true.

And— If anything— I’m a little impressed.

For a novice criminal, (and i’m really beginning to question the validity of that claim) the whole ordeal is relatively well planned. Maps. Several Diaries. Conflicting witness reports and statements. The records of their existence being so sparse to the point where they should exist. Din- even the people they broke out were from small and sympathetic enough crimes that the general public would fancy them more of a folk hero than the crook they actually were.

For a “novice” or some attention seeking conspirator, I must concede that this is the singular most frustrating case I’ve ever had the misfortune of agreeing to take.

We’ve been humiliated; because it’s either the conspiracy is everywhere we turn, or the people —unprompted and unradicalised— have decided of their own volition to aid them. Someone the Queen herself has condemned. Quite honestly, I don’t even know what’s worse at this point.

Sure, people are unhappy. But there is always discourse among the public, especially when the quaint way of life is challenged. But so wide spread? So violent as to aid in the release of actual criminals? I’d like to say that Labrynna’s citizens are better than this, but I am not so sure anymore.

Change was needed, and I will continue to serve Queen Ambi, especially to ensure the safety of the land and the people I’ve come to love so deeply. I took an oath to defend the people, the common people. The new orders are strict, but order is needed to push change. People are begging on every street, not caring if they’re splashed with mud and manure if it means they might get the extra money. All the while petty theft takes more and more out of circulation from those who need it. As much as I personally hat to admit that Nayru is right, with more money and less crime, Labrynna will surely flourish. Surely.

Still— I find myself continually reminded of the words they spat at me before I blacked out. Their voice was so cold. I’ve been insulted many of times taking cases. The venn diagram of belligerent and mouthy to cocky criminal is effectively a circle. But their words were calm. Solemn. Like they were cursing them upon my blood, “You call yourself one of us, and yet throw the sick and starving in jail for the crime of existing?” —Or something along those lines. A metal lamp stand to the head does more damage than you’d come to expect, given the fact I am still in this forsaken medical ward.

It’s Infuriating, how vigilante justice knows nothing of actual laws. I find myself angry with them on such the assumption in their words. That we, the knights, are careless. We don’t just throw people into jail. These are criminals. People who threaten the livelihoods of good citizens, who threaten the integrity of Labrynna’s values. People who steal from bakers until they’re nearly out of business. People who pocket goods from merchants. People who stuff their bags with potions— surely to resell at marked price when the apothecaries run out of stock. People that we take an oath to stop.

The knights are not careless. Not as they think.

I can sympathize with those who commit crimes of necessity. Life is no easy balance. But the greed of these people is remarkable, and such behaviour is exactly what we are ordered to snuff out. If everyone steals bread from the baker than he has nothing to sell. And he, too, will be turned out onto the streets. It’s a vicious cycle, wheels within wheels, fire within fire.

And they’re one to talk with all the jewellery bags and food and drink when so many people line the streets begging. You want to help? Then get rid of the problem at the root and stop attacking the people helping by the book. There’s a way of doing things, and this disorder is what topples empires, let alone quaint peaceful kingdoms.

Maybe it’s good that they’re getting charged with high treason. Though, I feel guilty taking such joy in it, however small. But perhaps seeing them hung will finally remind those radical of the public that there is a way we can actually help one another over creating more chaos and hunger.

That’s not right. That’s not why I became a knight. All this “brotherhood” stuff they’re trying to foster in us is getting to me. Or, at least, the ones who let the power get to their heads are rubbing off on me. Maybe that’s what they meant. Maybe they’re right.

I wonder what they meant, though. Really meant.

Someone with the forethought and the rhetorical appeal to win over such a wide amount and variety of people makes me question how carefully chosen those words were, and what exactly they were meant to mean to me.

Because if it isn’t a coincidence, and their attack was planned and was meant for me specifically, what message were they trying to send?

Perhaps I am simply too concussed, but this conspirator, criminal as it may be, is intriguing. The people hardly ever rally behind someone so unanimously, especially while unprompted. The power such an individual holds threatens the throne, or perhaps just the one who sits upon it, and that power isn’t so freely offered. At least, not from the people of Labrynna. They’re honest, hard working people, but they don’t just take orders from anyone. There isn’t much I can see from them, our person of the hour, myself, but perhaps I'm yet to look hard enough. Perhaps there is someone there deserving of that power, someone who the people feel represents them. But starving people are people who elect butcherous dictators.

It’s just such a shame they took the route they did. If that was who they are, benevolent, for the people, one of them, then perhaps in some alternative life we could’ve been friends. It seems we share many morals, in that sense. But my loyalty of my country and its people surpasses such fickle fantasies.

-S.R

Raven is not easily troubled. He’s been a knight for quite some time and has worked on many a disturbing case.

Perhaps, If I were more honest with you, I’d say he is not easily troubled to the outside.

Because in those many disturbing cases, he found himself disturbed. Disturbed by the evil and malice so many cary within their hearts to harm another person.

But that’s why he joined.

Not for some self righteous wanting. But because, at his core, Raven cared deeply. So deeply about everyone and every thing it was given to him what he had to do.

And yet, you.

You confound him.

More than however many years as a knight, more than blinding violence, more than any screaming words.

You would begin to change something about how he thought. Originally, this was just about you, but as time passed-

Ah.

It’d seem I’m getting ahead of myself.

I suppose you’ll just have to see.

#legend of zelda #sir raven #sir raven x reader #we’re in for a long run #buckle up kiddos #for my darling wife

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binding-vows-in-silence-crept · 2 months ago

Text

to live or not to live, that is the question: Chapter 1

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen Characters: Gojo Satoru, Itadori Yuuji, Megumi Fushiguro, Kugisaki Nobara Genre: Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst Rating: Teen (for swearing) Category: Gen https://archiveofourown.org/works/64415398/chapters/165385138 Itadori Yuuji decided how he wanted to die at fifteen years old. At sixteen, he is ready to face it. In a different age, a different decade, Gojo Satoru had held the life of another soon-to-be-dead 16-year-old determined to shoulder the world. History repeats itself in bad poetry. However, Amanai Riko is not Itadori Yuuji and Itadori Yuuji is not Amanai Riko and maybe that is a good thing. Once everything is over, Gojo Satoru can only hope that he will not end up with the corpse of another child in his arms. OR Alternate summary: Itadori Yuuji is sentenced for execution. His friends won't let him angst about it. Featuring lots of hugs, lots of love, a beach episode, a birthday party and a choice.

The day Itadori Yuji takes his final breath will be a day not too warm, nor too cold. The kind of day that condemned men on death-row can only dream of. Cherry blossom petals – as pink as his hair, pirouetting on a lazy, indolent breeze. The scent of flowers and the promise of an approaching summer wafting through the forests and shrubs, past Tengen’s barrier and into the barren classrooms of Jujutsu High. The sky will be a beautiful baby blue, clear and cloudless. Spring will end, and with it, Itadori Yuji. But unlike the season, he will not be back the next year, or the year after that, nor the year after. Never again.

Spring is a good season to die, Yuji decides.

The execution date – debated, pondered over, scheduled and finally set in stone – is 21st March, despite only nineteen of Sukuna’s twenty fingers churning in his stomach, listless and leaden. Miraculously, there have been no sightings nor traces of the twentieth finger. As if it has vanished from existence at the eleventh hour.

This is, of course, ridiculous because the very reason that Yuji is being executed is because it is impossible for Sukuna’s fingers to vanish from existence.

Yuji strongly suspects where it is. Or rather, who has it. The Higher Ups know, because they always know, or maybe because the location of the final finger is little less than an open secret to everyone involved with the individuals in question.

Gojo Satoru only smiles guilelessly when pressed for progress.

Yuji is grateful – the extra months bought for him are a gift. But stalling does not work forever, and the undercurrent of impatience is a palpable living entity beneath the noses of all the ancient old men. Ages in numbers Yuji will never catch up with.

Ryouman Sukuna is nothing with a single finger , one of the higher ups had proclaimed. Yuji thinks of the King of Curses toying, provoking, teasing the special grade curse with all the ease of an alley cat playing with its food, before ripping out Yuji’s heart and leaving it thumping against unforgiving, concrete asphalt. It is wiser to have the vessel eliminated along with the nineteen fingers. Nineteen fingers in hand are worth more than the one in the bush, or so the saying goes.

The originally decided execution date had been 15th March. The Ides of March . Never let it be said that the higher ups did not appreciate theatre. Or poetry.

“No,” Satoru Gojo had announced loudly, his voice cutting through the room; the tribunal’s collective eyes snapping to him. Loud silence. No one dared interrupt and not for the first time, Yuji marvelled at how much space his sensei took up. A creature larger than life, effortlessly commanding attention and respect from everyone in the room. “Yuji-kun’s birthday is on 20th March. Let the kid celebrate his 17th year. Another week won’t hurt.”

The uncomfortable reminder of Yuji’s age and youth had the old men fidgeting nervously, looking away. Or maybe it was the weight of his teacher’s sharp smile and piercing blue eyes raking over everyone one by one, glowing angry and haunted and luminescent in the dim, indoor lighting. Satoru Gojo’s fury is a rare beast to witness, and it was strangely heartwarming to see it bare its fangs for him .

There are arguments, but in the end, it is a futile endeavor, as impossible as touching stars to refuse a request from Gojo Satoru.

This is a good death, he thinks. A proper death. More than he deserves, really. There are far worse, far less noble, far more painful, far less dignified ways to go in this world. (Junpei screaming wide-eyed and afraid before transforming into –)

Perhaps not a death his grandfather wanted for him. But a death he has chosen.

Sensei will be kind about it. Yuji is not afraid of pain, but it is comforting to know that his last moments will be swift and sans suffering.

Itadori Yuji decided how he wanted to die at fifteen years old. At sixteen, he is ready to face it.

---

Within Yuji’s mind, Ryōmen Sukuna remains uncharacteristically silent.

—

oOo

—

Itadori Yuji doesn’t have many plans for the last week of his life. He does, however, know for certain that arguing with Kugisaki Nobara is not one of them.

This is irrelevant because Kugisaki Nobara does not care about plans or intentions. Especially those concocted by people named Itadori Yuji

“A cheesecake is not real cake!” She yells.

“Who cares if it is not real cake!” Yuji yells back. “I want to eat cheesecake on my birthday, what’s wrong with that? ”

Your shift ends in an hour , Cashier Hinaka thinks, counting bills behind the counter of the small bakery. She has lost count of the money thrice, owing to all the shouting coming from table seven.

“Cheesecake is pie.” Kugisaki informs him, matter-of-fact, like a priest explaining sacred ancient commandments to a child. “Nobody eats pie on their birthday.”

The bakery is empty because it is 3:00 am. The three shouting kids–or rather, two shouting kids, the third one seems to be playing some game on his phone – are not disturbing any customers. This is tragic, because Cashier Hinaka cannot remove the kids from the premises for disturbing staff. Her brother smirks at her from the kitchen.

“It’s my birthday! I can eat whatever I want! Besides, who says cheesecake isn’t real cake anyways ? It has cake in the name!”

“A strawberry has berry in its name! That does not make it a berry.”

“How did we get to strawberries – we were just talking about cake–”

Cashier Hinaka wonders if she can file noise-cancelling headphones as a business expense.

“You are a menace to society! I bet you eat pineapple on pizza too!”

“So what if I eat pineapple on pizza? You shouldn’t be gatekeeping pizza. Also, excuse me, but I am a menace to society! That's why I am being executed!”

Hinaka is very out of touch with modern generation slang. The kitchen continues to snicker at her suffering. She had thought her brother was getting the short end of the stick when he had been assigned dish-washing duty.

“Guys,” Fushiguro Megumi and Cashier Hinaka’s personal savior interrupts, finally looking up from his phone. The Snake onscreen dive-bombs into its own tail and dies violently with a loud splat. “You two idiots! You realize that you can get both cheesecake and cake for your birthday right? And buy whatever you want to eat in the week preceding it?”

“We… can do that?”

Fushiguro shrugs, then goes back to playing Snake. “Gojo-sensei’s credit card won’t mind.”

The two idiots blink. The concept of buying multiple desserts for a special occasion is novel to both Itadori Yuji, raised in expensive Tokyo and supported only by an elderly grandfather’s frugal pension and Kugisaki Nobara, raised in the rural countryside too isolated to find any bakeries or fast food chains within easy access.

They both look at Fushiguro, (raised and spoiled rotten by a teenager with too much money and no qualms about spending it) as if he has hung the stars in the sky and told them the secrets of the universe.

“You are a genius Fushiguro,” Itadori Yuji states. It would be more of a compliment if it was said by anyone other than Itadori Yuji. Then, he wraps himself around Fushiguro like a silken scarf and nuzzles against his cheeks.

Fushiguro does not pull away, and endures the assault with the stoic stillness of a warrior who knows how to pick his battles.

Cashier Hinaka sighs in relief for the blessed silence and thanks her guardian angel.

Kugisaki snaps a photo with a grin.

----

It strikes Yuji that this is the last chance he may have to eat cheesecake. Or cake. Or pineapple on pizza. Or anything really. Suddenly, he has the incomprehensible urge to drive by every single fast food restaurant he knows to try out their entire menu. Memorize the tastes and textures and sounds and… Does he remember what the first bite of a McDonalds burger taste like? This feels like important information he ought to know. Ought to remember. He will never eat another burger after all.

Belatedly, he realizes he is still clinging onto Fushiguro. Fushiguro, who is pointedly not returning his hug. Who is pointedly playing Snake on his phone. Who is pointedly making no attempts to remove him.

He will never share barely-tolerated hugs with him again. He will never have another dumb argument with Nobara again.

Yuji can admit that he is prone to wishful imaginings of the future. But his daydreams have never been tinged with melancholy, like the one he has now. Perhaps it is a symptom of realizing one’s mortality.

Both his friends, twenty five years-old, shopping together. It is a familiar enough sight for the teenage version of them too, thanks to Kugisaki. Except not familiar at all. His own absence is glaring in his vision.

He wonders who will be around to carry Kugisaki’s plethora of shopping bags. Maybe Fushiguro. Odds are 50/50 on him indulging her whims, or leaving them behind for some poor cashier to find. It depends on the weather, his mood, and how much Gojo-sensei has annoyed him that day.

His friends, thirty years old. Laughing and watching movies together. Maybe they’ve got partners. Maybe they’ve got kids. Maybe they’re planning on kids. It is hard for Yuji to imagine what the thirty-year old versions of his friends will do in their spare time. Jujutsu? What do thirty-year old people even do as a hobby?

His friends, fifty. This is even harder to imagine. Wrinkles and grey hair. They kneel under a warm kotatsu table, playing mahjong in a candlelit, old-fashioned lounge. Happy reminiscing about their lost childhood friend.

Their friend who will never grow older in their memories. Who will be pink-haired, forever etched with a baby face and clear skin.

Yuji pinches his cheeks and wonders if there is a procedure to grow wrinkles in two days.

Fushiguro shifts, as if sensing his roiling, storm-brewn thoughts. He puts an arm around Yuji, who wonders if Sukuna has somehow escaped and overturned the cosmic order of the world. Because Fushiguro is hugging him back . A little awkwardly, with one arm. Then he remains in the awkward pseudo-one-armed-hugging position while playing Snake with one thumb.

Yuji breathes.

… This is okay. He can be content with the image of his two favourite people in the world talking about him decades after he is gone. Hopefully with fond memories, even as he becomes a blip in their infinite, ever-expanding lives. Maybe Fushiguro will play Snake at fifty too.

Never maturing. Never aging. Forever sixteen in their heads.

“Say, Itadori-kun,” Kugisaki calls out, snapping him out of the spinning thoughts in his head. “What do you want to do for your birthday anyways?”

Oh right. Forever seventeen. He keeps forgetting.

---

Ryōmen Sukuna’s silence is louder and says more than his annoying, bloodthirsty chatter ever did.

---

Gojo-sensei does as Gojo-senseis tend to do in their natural habitat. He teleports to Yuji’s dorm and perches on his window-sill like a canary in the middle of the night and nearly scares Sukuna out of him.

“I’m taking a week off!” Sensei says cheerfully, with the backdrop of Jujutsu High’s rippling, endless grasslands and the backdrop noise of Yuji’s racing heartbeat. The moon hiding behind his head casts a white rim light on his white hair. His dark violet uniform blackens most of outside . From Yuji’s bed in the darkened room, he almost looks like a floating head.

This visual would not be flattering on anybody except Gojo Satoru. Gojo Satoru, on account of being Gojo Satoru, pulls it off.

A moment of calm after he finally processes the floating head and his heartbeat slows down. Another moment where he processes what has been said. Then his heartbeat races even faster.

“A–A week?” Yuji squeaks out, desperately trying to convince his own heart that it is running a marathon, not a sprint. Despite Sensei’s reputation as lazy and irresponsible, it is a well known fact about the jujutsu world that Gojo Satoru never takes a day off. Something about single-handedly shifting the balance of the war against curses and humans. Something about endless cajoling, bribes and deals and job benefits and stipends. Something about unbreakable terms of contract and stipulations and clan politics. They went over the topic with a substitute teacher in Jujutsu-history when Kugisaki had asked why Gojo-sensei was so rarely around to teach them actual theory.

“A week!!” Gojo-sensei speaks in exclamation marks, as if he has not broken a dozen terms of service and doomed all of jujutsu society to a week of pain and misery and death.

“But…But why?”

“Because you are going to die!” Sensei says, not answering, with all the tact and sensitivity of a bulldozer hurtling face-first into a pregnant woman. Or those Hollow Purples he had demonstrated to Yuji in one of his practicals. The man’s abilities are an apt metaphor for his personality.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“They want to detain you! Tie you up in a chair and lock you in a room for the week. Something about being dangerous and a flight risk I don’t know! I didn’t pay attention” Sensei is still speaking in exclamation points and not answering the question. His smile is a little scary. Yuji thinks if he removed his blindfold, his eyes would be glowing a terrifying ocean blue, like they do when he is mad.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Yuji asks, partially because he is genuinely curious and partially because he would like to avoid thinking about the ramifications of that statement.

“Mmm!” Sensei hums in exclamation marks too and continues to not-answer. “Do you really want to spend your last days in that room Yuji-kun?”

They both know what he means by ‘that room.’

Yuji thinks about the dark, candle-lit cell he had first awoken in, surrounded by walls and towers of talisman. The scent of incense, salt, grief and terror. Cruel, coarse rope lashing red wrists rubbed raw behind his back.

“I won’t resist,” he says, which is also not an answer.

“Mmm, I’m sure you won’t.”

Yuji has no idea what his teacher wants from him, or why he has shown up at his window at midnight to tell him about his vacation plans and his future prison or why he keeps waiting patiently and looking at him with that blindfolded teacher-gaze of his, like how he looks when he is waiting for Yuji to figure out a lesson by himself. Yuji resists the urge to say I don’t know like a child.

“What does that have to do with –” Yuji starts to repeat for the third time before he gets it. “... Oh. ”

Sensei’s scary smile morphs into a more genuine one. He makes a finger gun with two hands and points them both at him, “Bingo!”

“You don’t need to do that for me, Sensei.” Yuji says, earnest and wide-eyed. Arguing against himself spawns a lump in his throat suspiciously shaped like fear, but he does not stop. “I’ll be okay.”

Sensei laughs like that is the funniest joke he has ever heard. “For you? I do nothing for other people. Only myself,” he says, like a liar. “Besides, when they heard that I was volunteering for guard duty, the old geezers quickly changed their minds and were all ‘ sukuna’s vessel has demonstrated exemplary control so far’ and ‘ such extreme restraint is not necessary’ and ‘ Gojo Satoru you’re so awesome’”

“Really?”

“ Eh. Maybe they didn’t say that last one. But they were all thinking it!”

Yuji blinks, “So… you’re taking a vacation because you feel like it?”

“Yep!” Sensei says, continuing to talk in exclamation points. At least he gave him an answer that time.

Yuji thinks about Sensei’s fierce protectiveness at the tribunal. The bristling and sharp smiles and predatory, luminescent blue eyes. Thinks about bits and pieces of jujutsu gossip, muttered secrets through Shoko and the second-years and thinks about his latest lesson in jujutsu history. Thinks about how maybe Sensei is the only one strong enough to execute certain people (certain people like him ), even when he doesn’t want to.

…Atleast he gave an answer that time. Even if it wasn’t a truthful one.

“People will die…” he says half-heartedly. Wondering if maybe his teacher came to him so Yuji could dissuade him against his vacation idea. That does not sound like Gojo-sensei at all.

He still has many questions for the man. What do you plan on doing with a vacation? Why at this time? Is it my fault? Will you regret executing me? He thinks he can figure out the answer to half of them.

Gojo-sensei pulls both legs over the window sill and invites himself over into his dorm. Effortlessly navigates through the pitch black dark until he is leaning over Yuji’s head, nose-to-nose. Sensei is not in the habit of respecting other people’s personal space, especially for someone hoarding an infinite amount of it for himself.

He ruffles his hair, then drapes himself around Yuji’s shoulders like an affectionate cat. Sensei is all about physical touch, just like Yuji, who melts in the embrace.

His teacher makes a thumbs up gesture with the hand not around Yuji’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry your soon-to-be-executed head about it Yuji-kun! I have many very competent students covering for me you know! On account of how great of a teacher I am! Students who are not scheduled to be executed. Well, most of them anyways! The world will be fiiinee without me for a bit.”

…And… Yuji, despite popular opinion, is not actually dumb and he can see what his teacher is trying to do and…

“Okay,”

He lets him do it anyway. Just this once.

Gojo-sensei grins wide-toothed. “We are going to give Yuji-kun the best last days of his life!”

More exclamation points. One statement. Yuji had not asked a question that time, and yet all of the ones in his head have been truthfully answered.

---

Ryōmen Sukuna does what Ryōmen Sukunas tend not to do in their unnatural habitat. He lays still and sleeping and dormant. This development continues to be as reassuring as it ever was. Which is to say not at all.

—

Seconds go by with the tortuous, gliding pace of a garden snail, lingering on each tick for too long a moment, waiting for a beat, a sign, a pin-drop, before reluctantly moving on to the next instant. Minutes are quicker, but still too slow. Hours whittle away, weathered and faded, while days upon days disappear into oblivion, Seconds too soon, and days too fast.

Time is one of those things. Too short and too long. Viscous and unyielding when watched and a katana through butter if not lavished with attention.

Itadori Yuji wonders where it all went.

15th March comes and Yuji’s lifespan slips into the negatives. Like a child who has had his final exams postponed, Yuji is pathetically grateful for the days his teacher stole.

#i already posted this on my main blog #but #i kind of want to create another one focused specifically on jjk #hence #jjk #gojo satoru #itadori yuuji #fushiguro megumi #fanfiction

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