#LEAST I CAN DO IS DRAW Y'ALL SOMETHING | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

court-jobi · 28 days ago

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Hi! What are headcannons for izuku and wife reader in bed?

Oooo more headcanons for anon, comin' right up~ 18+ only, babes-- SFW here if you fancy!

A/N: Y'all are sending me the most darling asks! Due to board meetings and theatre prep I'm still working through this week's requests, on top of some long-awaited fics I can't wait to share... but I have a three day weekend ahead of me! thank you so much for all the inspo! keep em coming if there's something special you'd like to see~

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x Fem!reader

SPICY MARRIED HEADCANONS!

Your Izuku is a fairly traditional man who's set on claiming you as a life partner first before getting fully intimate with you. The very night you proposed to one another ((#whenaskingfeelsright)) tested that restraint out of pure excitement for the future with you. His chest could have burst-- but also settled with such deep love, he's truly never slept better.

His mind might have rushed a million miles an hour with plans of your life together at the tip of his tongue, but the amorous dial was tuned down only by his lightning-sure concern for the concussion you were nursing that night... You wanted more from him, through lingering hands trying to draw him close and coax him into the bath with you...

"I don' think that's smart right now, love," Izuku purred down to you over the edge of the bathtub he drew for you, "want it as I might. I think we need to keep you nice and relaxed and calm while you recover for a bit. Is that ok?" "I am calm," you mumbled against his neck, laying a little kiss there. "I am relaxed. N'so are you. Yer so r'laxing." "M'sorry, baby, but I have to take care of you. All of you- including this big brain of yours," Izuku kissed it for good measure. "But believe me.. I want nothing more than for my beautiful wife-to-be to feel better enough to show her how much I wanna love on her..."

And love on you he can. Well.

It's not that you haven't tested the waters together. The day your makeouts turned heated -when you'd started grinding atop his thigh in a shallow attempt to get off, he'd been so flustered. It's clear from that early interaction; Izuku hadn't had a wealth of experience till you dated.

But once he realized he could bring these sounds out of you, make you melt into him, by his hand alone...

"Like... J-just touching you? That- this feels good? Yeah.. y-yeah, I can do that.. Tell me what feels good, love. Tell me just like this, m'listening.."

VERY vocal- very, very vocal. Not necessarily in volume, but in range. Izuku's voice flips at every little sensation, often. Every little graze of his cock will have him squirming in his seat. You can barely brush a hand or blow a quick rush of air along his tummy, and he will shudder involuntarily. He'd be so flighty and hyper aware of it at first-- at least until you assure him you're addicted to the sounds he makes, and that you love knowing how real those sounds are, hearing him moan with his whole chest- all for you.

Wanted low to no lights on at first... then you tried setting some mood with some smokey blue or purple ambient light, letting it bathe you both in just a bit of hue. Turns out, Izuku loved the change instead of cowering for the lightswitch: not simply for how ethereal it made you look, but how his insecurities just melted away in the light. Turns out, he was pinpointing every single one of his scars with cruel precision; and that's not how you view him at all. You helped him see light was nothing to fear-- he just needed the right filter of your love to let him see himself better.

And when you finally were gifted that private night all to yourselves after your getaway drive from the excitable venue space

-when you were settling onto your knees on the wedding suite's bed with exploring hands and barely any clothes

-when you asked Izuku ever so gently if he wanted to go to sleep or go to bed, he learned just how much he'd been missing out on:

You mean he can run his hands all the way up and down your bare back? He can scoop you up into his arms and just play with your tits? He can kiss every inch of you with nothing in the way-- and you LET him? He only ever wanted this with you, and has his dream fulfilled.

Loves anything praise. Whispering into his ear, raking through his hair with loving hands, pulling when you want him to look at you. He'll praise you endlessly too, especially when he's particularly lovesick for you.

"you're so warm... I've never felt this warm in my life. Oh God, mmmmmng, ugh y're just perfect, mmmmmng baby, b-babybslowdownicantbreathe NNNNG!!"

Izuku is gone over you. Slotting himself against you and shoving himself into the heat of you is a homecoming for him. He'll push and thrust with every breath he can manage, lost in every sensation while begging for more, begging for praise, begging for your touch like it's life-giving. Missionary is his die-hard favorite, but Lotus a very close second- for the views alone.

Morning sex? Izuku is down. Post-brunch playtime? Izuku is already having his 'second breakfast'. Naptime cuddles turn a bit more on the frisky side? Guess who's fault that is. Jumping to dessert before dinner? Guess who again. Izuku Midoriya holds no set 'spicy hours'; whatever his wife wants, his wife gets.

(personal take) but I'd think with how hard that man works, how much thought he puts into everything he does, how he ties such a great deal of his personal commitment and worth into his pursuits... it would be extremely hard to get Izuku out of 'work mode' and into a spicy headspace very easily.

He can't get turned on with just a single look at you. You're a sight for sore eyes at the end of the day- no doubt in mind about that! But he's gonna take some TLC before he's ready to jump into bed.

But give him a backrub, a hand massage, or the space to vent out all his leftover feelings and frustrations. Izuku will feel free, once it's all off his chest... then he'll look to you expectantly, ready and waiting for some beloved cockwarming. His chin will lift, some bidden tears may form at his lash line, and he'll look to you to relieve the rest.

"M'head's too full, honey. C'you make it stop? Please..?" "I just want you. Just want you." "Don' wanna talk about it anymore. Day's done. But this-- this, I want. This, I can do. I-I can be... I can be 'me' here.. right? You still love me like this?" "No one can settle me like you, sweet girl. Nothing comes close, feeling like this. Oh baby, please-- please can I have you? I'll be so gentle, I promise, please?"

When you're away for work (after your intimate life has been established), he truly thinks he's sore outta luck whenever he can't be with you in person... but you have other ideas to the first time you call him after the first four-day stretch of radio silence due to top-secret meetings... when he stretches while getting up from his seat and moans over the phone by accident...

"Careful how much noise you're making, sweetie," you have to tease him- just a little, "that does things to a girl."

"W-what?!"

"You heard me."

He's buffering. Chucking low, which only makes it worse.

"I do miss you," he offers shyly.

"I miss you too," you answer wistfully. "So much, my love."

"What have you got left? Two weeks?"

"Three, hun."

He hums a little agitated again, and you re-settle in your seat,

"'Zuku, what'd I just say?"

He's laughing incredulously now.

"Aw c'mon, you're turned on just hearing me stretch? I can't even complain how much I miss you?!"

"Nope. Not allowed.. unless you're trying to start somethin'~ "

He's quiet for a beat- off his guard. Izuku is scared to say something else, bc the soft noise in his throat is beating at him to come out. Had you been in front of him, you might have been able to see that shift.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"Goodness, you're trouble..."

"You miss having trouble around~"

This makes him sigh, knowing all to well. "You know I do..."

"How much, teach?"

The formal petname both alarms and pleases him, you're sure about that. It's the first affectionate nickname you'd called him... but knowing he'd have to face his class of twenty with a straight face, the fact that you're sighing that title now gives him thoughts. Dirty thoughts.

"Don't call me that..."

"Awww why not?"

"Because my students call me that! And I have to be there in an hour and run them through evac drills today, and they're gonna be callin' after me, nonstop.."

"mmm so you're busy?"

...it's a trap... But Izuku falls straight into it.

You see it now, 13 hours away: Izuku, testing the accuracy of the clock on the wall with the one on his watch. Izuku ,sliding his morning coffee back onto the counter. Izuku, with the glow of morning sun still climbing through your windows in the front room, walking to make himself comfortable, calculating the riskiest wager and clearing his voice from away from the speakerphone.

You're rewarded for your soft voice that drips with desire; he's sat in his oversized papasan chair you two normally double up in for a nap- you can hear the creaks from the receiver, where he takes a knee before turning into it, already sinking his hand onto his partially unzipped fly.

He'll talk about anything and everything relating to you in order to make these next three weeks fly by faster. Anything to get you on a plane back home. Anything to get you back in bed.

"Not too busy for my pretty girl."

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lightseoul · 29 days ago

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so i finally did it, y'all—i commissioned the wonderful @zestivivi to draw my first-ever °˖✧ self-ship art °˖✧

and i couldn't help it upon seeing the draft; i had to write a drabble to give it a bit of a backstory and to really just treat myself, so here it is!

(the pic is under the cut, if you're not in the mood to read and just wanna take a peek at it!)

CALL ME YOUR FAVORITE, CALL ME THE WORST (k. bakugou x reader)

“—and so i told eijirou he could go to hell if he asked me to cover for him tonight,” bakugou finishes, just as you twist your key one last time, effectively unlocking the door.

you toss him a chastising look as you push it open, trying to ignore the hammering in your chest as you do so. “don’t talk to your best friend like that, katsuki.”

at that, he scoffs, trailing behind you and entering through the doorway. “correction, you’re my best friend. and he’s used to it.”

despite yourself, a smile manages to creep into your face, which bakugou unfortunately catches sight of. the man only smirks to himself before gesturing to his trainers, “where do i put these?”

“beside my birks, please,” you sing-song, although your voice comes out a bit wobbly.

fucking nerves.

dropping your bag on the counter, you quickly shuffle through your kitchen and toward your dining area slash living room slash bedroom, scanning the space for any spot you’ve missed before bakugou could see them.

you’re just about to conclude that this place is as tidy as it can get when you sense the pro-hero walk up beside you, and you look at him to see his eyes darting across the area in inspection, a pensive expression on his face.

“what’re you thinking?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. you immediately regret it, though, bracing yourself for constructive feedback that you know will sting nonetheless.

it’s not every day you get to show your new place that’s your very own to anybody, let alone to your famously (notoriously) pedantic boyfriend.

“it's really clean,” he starts, pausing to think for a moment. he eventually turns to face you, that smirk from before now back on his face, “it’s very you. i like it.”

you feel a warmth wash over you, and you don’t fight the grin that’s invading your features. “aww, thanks, babe!”

he waves you off with a hand, resuming his thorough survey of your unit. “‘s nice how you displayed your books here, and that your guitar is easy to reach for. and your decorations are just abo—”

you glance back at the man from where you were hurriedly pouring him a cold glass of water, “just about what, kats?”

to that, bakugou doesn’t say anything. he seems frozen, eyes fixed on what you think is your entertainment area.

you pad toward the spot beside him, and you follow his line of vision.

directly right to your dynamight figurines.

almost instantly, your stomach drops as if you just got hit by a metaphorical tsunami of scalding humiliation. your feet move before your brain can catch up, and in a matter of seconds, you find yourself planted right in front of bakugou, obscuring his view of his mini-me’s.

at least, you tried to. the tall man only continues to effortlessly stare at them through the space above your head.

“so what do you want for dinner?” you manage to croak out, desperate to change the subject and bones threatening to give out in embarrassment.

“…is that a funko pop of all might and… me?”

the ground can swallow you up just about now, thanks.

for a beat, you debate as to whether or not to joke or lie your way out of this one, but one look at the inexplicable expression on your boyfriend’s face has you ultimately decided against it.

“…yes?”

now, in the split second of choosing to tell the truth, you came up with the expectations of him snorting in response, or maybe shooting you a confused look that reads ‘what the fuck’ or something similar, but you certainly didn’t predict him to laugh.

as in, drop his head back and howl laugh.

immediately, you feel yourself flame in shame as you watch the pro-hero bend slightly over and clutch his stomach in mirth, what you think are tears now pooling in the corners of his clenched eyes.

you can’t help but frown, “quit laughing at me, you jerk!”

that only makes him bark out another loud one, and just when you think he’s about to finish, he wheezes: “and you’ve got a nendoroid of me, too!”

that’s it.

you spin on your heel, turning your back on your jackass of a boyfriend, and you’re about to scoop the figurines into your arms and throw them into the abyss at the back of your closet when you feel something tug at your wrist, pulling you and your entire body back.

and before you can even comprehend what’s happening, bakugou’s invading your space and leaning toward you, planting his forehead right at the crook of your neck.

“wha—”

you’re cut off by bakugou snuggling into you, and you can feel him shake in laughter before the chuckles finally escape him and you’re both left in comfortable silence.

you hope he’s not hearing the thunderous ruckus your heart is making right now despite yourself.

a few moments pass with neither of you moving or saying anything before you finally decide to speak up.

“if you think this’ll make up for you laughing so blatantly at me, you’ve got another thing coming for you, mister.”

at that, bakugou snorts, retorting without missing a beat. “i wasn’t laughing at you, dumbass.”

you roll your eyes, although you don’t make any move to push him away. “sure, you weren’t.”

“i’m serious. it just caught me off guard.”

“and then you started laughing at me.”

from where he’s slotted right by your neck, bakugou huffs, and you stop yourself from shivering at the feeling of his breath against your skin.

“i was just laughing at how everything’s turned out, alright?”

instinctively, your eyebrows furrow in question, “what do you mean?”

he sighs, the puff of air he lets out tickling your flesh again, “i just think it’s fucking funny how i grew up with a shit ton of all might merch, and now i have my own merch displayed right beside him, in my girlfriend’s new home, no less.”

and, before you can even feign offense at his comment, he beats you to it.

“i’m just fucking happy, okay? just let me have this.”

you don’t know what else to say at his sudden confession, and so you only manage a nod, moving your head just enough for him to feel the gesture. slowly, you allow yourself to relax your shoulders and lean toward bakugou, who snuggles even closer to you in return.

“they’re quite expensive, you know,” you offer after a few seconds of silence. “and yours are especially hard to come by.”

you can practically hear the grin on his face when he quips, “what, am i your favorite hero, or something?”

“no,” you immediately retort, deadpan. “all might is. explains why i only have one figurine of him and a gazillion of you in here.”

at that, bakugou lets out a genuine laugh, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s sporting that boyish grin and disarming eye smile that really nobody else has the honor of witnessing.

nobody except you.

you hesitantly bring your right hand up, unable to resist the urge to gently cradle the back of his head. upon the split second of contact, however, bakugou stiffens, and you’ve half a mind to withdraw and pull away when he does so.

but all the apprehension evaporates from your system when almost immediately after, he nestles closer into you.

you feel yourself flush at the motion, failing to stop the smile that takes over your lips.

and, if you didn’t know any better, you’d bet your expensive ass dynamight figurines he’s blushing, too.

bonus:

you’re in the middle of feeding yourself a spoonful of chicken curry when you decide you finally have enough. placing the serving firmly on your platter, you shift to face bakugou, who’s at your right and eating beside you.

more of side-eyeing you than eating in the past thirty minutes since dinner arrived, really.

you pull your lips in a tight line, “spit it out, kats.”

at that, he tosses you a disgusted look, before quickly swallowing the mouthful of cabbage he was just munching on. “why the fuck should i do that?”

you roll your eyes, “not the food, dummy. you’ve got something you want to say.”

“i do not.”

you only give him a knowing stare.

bakugou huffs, putting down his own spoon after a pregnant pause, “fine.”

it takes him a moment to finally do so, and when he does you almost choke.

“…so who the fuck is akaashi and why do you also have one of him?”

for context, here's my entertainment area LMAO i really took self-indulgence to another level, huh (sorry not sorry) title is from the song call me by shinedown (credits to @creativepromptsforwriting for the idea)

anyway, thank you so much again to @/zestivivi for turning my vision into reality and then some <3 thank you for being so easy to work with and receptive to my requests, particularly to make the character look just like me! 'til the next one, for sure :,)

#pls do not save or repost the artwork nor my pictures; thank you!#DJKJKJJKD i'm literally so obsessed #like!!!! i was quaking in anticipation waiting for the final product fr and they did NOT play it's so pretty #my heart sings every time i see it i'm not even kidding....#AREN'T WE SO CUTE (say yes)#katsuzee #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou drabble #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #self ship art

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deadsnakey · 3 months ago

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𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐘!𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 𝐱 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐱 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

ˋ°•*⁀➷fluff ೀ Headcanons. . .ᐟ 0.7k wordsᥫ᭡┈─★

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ it probably started with Theo and Matty being dared to kiss each other in truth or dare, sparked their bisexual awakening and then make out in a broom closet while drunk asf at a party a month later.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ from then on out, they started kissing just for fun resulting in feelings developing, then you came into the picture and y'all were really good friends and then confessed feelings to each other and now y'all are dating!!!

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ yeah y'all are like THE trio, being friends and while dating.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ They both wealthy asf, meaning theyre always getting you anything you want.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ Also meaning they spoil each other a lot too, sometimes ending up in them bickering lol.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ You definitely have scary guard dogs privileges.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ Very gentle and sweet, to you and each other only though.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ No one dares to fuck with you, but if they think they can get away with it when they arent with you, they are completely wrong. Theyll always find out.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ They both are really smart, so if you ever need help with anything especially school wise theyll gladly help you. Youre passing with all As almost because of these two.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ Lovesss late night baking. Like 1 or 2 am baking with you, its always so fun and filled with lots of laughter tbh and when they cant sleep and youre also up its a great activity to get tired out.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ If you have any hobbies like, painting, drawing, a sport, games, fashion, literally anything, theyll always encourage you and support it. Definitely loves your art if you do anything with creativity.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ Its obvious i think that theyd show you off but are also possessive and overprotective of you, especially at parties or in front of groups they know might try sum with you.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ Mattheo is a whore for scalp scratches, theodore is a whore for kisses.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ They both slutty whores for your attention.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ i think mattheo had to get used to being gentle or at least less aggressive since he didn't grow up with gentle or nurturing treatment. you and Theo had to kindly talk to him and let him know when he's hurting you because its never intentional; he doesn't know his own strength.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ but once he does start getting used to being more gentle he doesn't have to think anymore to be less aggressive; it comes more naturally now.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ i think Theo and mattheo love to team up on you just randomly.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ teasing you; especially in public. they even gang up on you to tickle you and bonus points when you're sleepy. they think you're so cute when you're sleepy.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ in love with your laugh, giggles, smile, voice, allat.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ dates are always fun for everyone, planned out and everything. if by chance at some point someone isn't haven't too much fun or sum that will immediately be rearranged.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ if you're more introverted, have anxiety, etc. they are more then understanding especially Theo, if your social battery is getting far too low just say the word and they will happily leave and go somewhere where you're more comfortable.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ these two are very playful, Mattheo is more shameless about it and wanna see you flustered, Theodore just likes seeing you get shy lol.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ do not even try to insult yourself in front of them, they will scold you and dog cuddle pile on you for hoursss, girlie good luck escaping.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ if you cook, they eat yo shit like fiends who don't get fed at home. cookies? ten minutes record and shoved down their throats. chocolate chip brownies? devoured, shit doesn't stand a chance. they definitely greedy and refuse to share with anyone but you. they're constantly asking if you can bake them something and especially on a bad day.

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rafesfavgirl · 7 months ago

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with a broken heart — r. cameron

part 1. something a little more lighthearted to make up for breaking y'alls hearts :)

series: every few lifetimes

❝ i was grinning like i'm winning i was hitting my marks 'cause i can do it with a broken heart ❞

pairing: ex-bf!rafe x fem!reader

context: after getting your heart broken, you pack your bags and leave the obx, only to come face to face with rafe again, eight years later.

words: 2.4k+

warnings: rafe and reader are aged up (26/27), old flames, FLUFF

"now remember, this client's a big prospect," your boss says as you follow him out of the office car and into the building you were scoping out today. "i guarantee if you can close this deal, you'll be well on your way to becoming the next junior partner."

"hank, are you serious?" you stop in your tracks and he looks at you.

when you first left the outer banks for new york, you went to nyu without a clue on what you wanted to do with the rest of your life. somewhere along the way, you graduated magna cum laude and pursued law school at columbia. your first year, hank took you on as an intern, and by the time you graduated, you had a job lined up for you at one of the biggest real estate agencies in the world. and though you knew how well you did your job, becoming junior partner as a second-year associate was way beyond where you thought you'd be—it was nothing short of a dream come true.

"don't think what you've done for this company has been lost on me, y/n," he tells you. "you're an asset. i knew it since that first summer i took you on as an intern."

a smile comes across your lips. "well, i can't disappoint," you say. "let's close this fucking deal."

"that's what i like to hear, come on," he continues leading you through the building, until the two of you reached a tall guy with a buzzcut wearing a navy blue suit scoping out the place.

"mr. cameron," you don't miss the familiar name when you and your boss stop behind him, your breath hitching when the guy turns around to greet you both. "this is-"

"y/n," your name rolls off rafe's tongue the same way it always did, your heart beating so hard you feared it'd jump out of your chest.

hank's eyes shift between the two of you, as he shakes rafe's hand. "you two know each other?"

"yeah," rafe nods, his eyes set on you—he couldn't believe that you were actually standing in front of him. a part of him thought that when you left the obx he'd never see you again. "we uh— we went to high school together."

"well that's wonderful," hank smiles. "no need for the awkward introduction then."

except— it was awkward. you didn't just go to high school together. you fell in love in high school. and two months before you chose to go to nyu, rafe broke your heart.

"y/n here will be the one walking you through the contract, and hopefully setting you up with one of our best architects," hank explains to him, while you continue trying to process the fact that he was actually here.

what were the odds that he was the client you needed to win over in order to make junior partner?

—

"so, does that all sound good to you?" you finish going over the contract for the building and look at rafe.

the two of you hovered over a table in the empty space that you'd spread out all the documents on.

"yeah, y/n, it all sounds great." the smile he throws your way makes your stomach turn in the worst way—making you realize that the piece of your heart that never stopped beating for him still existed. "where do i sign?"

"uh— right here," you pick up your pen to draw x's on all the lines he had to sign on, before holding it out to him.

he takes it from you, and you watch as he leans over to sign on each and everyone of them, your eyes trailing over how well his suit fit him.

he must hit the gym at least four times a week, you thought. he's grown quite a bit since you last saw him.

"there you go," rafe hands the pen back out to you, and you take it from him with a smile.

"thank you," you say. "you won't regret it."

"oh, i know," he nods, eyes scanning over your face. "i'd never regret anything that involves you."

you feel the heat rise on your cheeks, but you keep it professional, gathering the files on the table back into your folder. "well then, i'll leave you with the contacts of our architects and if you have any further questions, you can reach out to hank or any of the other executives."

"yeah, okay," he replies, hiding his disappointment in the fact that you didn't tell him to contact you with any questions he may have.

"it was a pleasure doing business with you, mr. cameron," you hold out a hand to him for a handshake and he stares at it for a second, before reluctantly placing his hand in yours.

"it sure was," he smiles. "but you know you can just call me rafe, don't you?"

"this is how i address all my clients," you tell him. "it's just the professional thing to do."

"yeah, yeah, i get it," he nods. "guess i'm just not used to it coming from you."

you crack a smile at his somewhat nervous stance—you weren't used to seeing him this way. "it was nice to see you again, rafe. good luck with everything."

"yeah," he grins. "you too."

you turn to walk away, while rafe stays back, scratching the back of his head in contemplation before calling out to you. "hey y/n?"

"yeah?" you ask, stopping to look at him again.

"you got any plans tonight?"

"rafe, i-"

"oh, come on," he cuts you off, slowly closing the distance between you two. "there's no reason we can't be friends, right?"

wrong—there were many reasons. one being that you spent years piecing yourself back together after he decided to give up on you.

"let's catch up," he persists, his blue eyes locking with yours. "get a drink with me tonight."

despite your head screaming no, you agree. "one drink," you say, causing a smile to spread across his face. "ten o'clock. meet me at the bar on fifth."

—

the second you walk into the bar, rafe rises from his stool at the counter and waves you over. he had gotten there 30 minutes early to make sure you weren't left waiting for him—you'd done enough of that.

"hey," he seems nervous when you reach him, wiping his hands on his slacks before reluctantly wrapping his arms around you in a hug.

you resist the urge to giggle—it was kinda entertaining to see this six-foot-two tall man get nervous around you—and briefly return his hug.

"have you been here long?" you ask, taking off your jacket and taking a seat in the empty stool beside him.

"nah, just about five minutes or so," he lies, shrugging and giving you a lopsided smile, as the bartender walks up to greet you both.

"anything i can get you?" she asks, eyes lingering on rafe for a little longer than you.

"just a glass of whiskey for me," rafe tells her. "neat."

"and i'll just have a glass of pinot noir," you say, when the girl turns to look at you. "thank you."

"and you can just put it on this," rafe reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, and you cut in. "rafe, you don't have to-"

"nonsense," he shakes his head at you and slides his black amex across to the bartender. "i invited you out. it's on me."

the bartender picks up his card, and gives him a smile. "rafe cameron. i'll remember that."

subtly, rafe rolls his eyes and you hold back a snicker. "please don't."

the bartender huffs as her eyes shifts between the two of you, but walks away without another word to get your drinks and charge rafe's card.

you kink a brow at him. "you get bartenders flirting with you a lot?"

"i guess it happens every now and then," he shrugs.

"it's definitely the buzz," you tell him, as a different bartender brings over your drinks and hands rafe back his card.

"thank you," he briefly acknowledges him, before turning his attention back on you, an amused smile on his face. "you think?"

"yeah," you nod, bringing your wine glass up to take a sip. "it makes you look older— more mature. it suits you."

he cracks a smile, a small chuckle slipping out from between his lips. "and being a lawyer suits you."

"you really think so?"

"yeah," he nodded, taking a sip of his whiskey. "you looked so cute all dressed up in your little suit," those words make the heat rise on your cheeks, and you hide it with your wine glass. "i've never seen you more in your element. what made you choose law?"

"well…" you trail off, wondering whether or not you should tell him the truth. oh, fuck it. "after we broke up, i found out got into nyu. i was so… mad and hurt over you ending it that i packed my bags and i left, without looking back. during the summers, i stayed here and worked internships with the school just so i'd have an excuse not to go home."

he listened intently, a look of indifference falling across his features. a part of him was hurt at hearing that he'd broken your heart so badly you felt the need to leave, but the other part was proud. you really did that. figured your shit out and made a life for yourself—just like he always knew you would.

"after my second year, i worked an internship with a property management company in brooklyn. we scoped out places all around the city, and i don't know… i kinda just fell in love with it. seeing how happy people got when we'd found them the right apartment or the right space for them to start their business just made me feel really good. so i declared real estate as my major junior year and decided on law school," you continued.

"doll, that's amazing," he smiled, blue eyes twinkling. "which law school did you go to?"

"columbia," you reply, his eyes only widening in amazement. no words could describe the amount of pride in his chest right now. "but enough about me. what about you?"

"oh— uh…" he started and set his whiskey down on the bar. "after you left, i went to rehab. went in and out of that place for about two or three years… i mean, you knew how bad it was— wasn't easy."

you frown upon hearing his struggles with rehab and relapsing, but nod along as he continues.

"been clean for about four years now though," he shrugs, as if it wasn't some big accomplishment.

"rafe, that's amazing," you tell him, setting your glass down on the bar. "good for you."

"i had to," he nodded. "not only for me, but for dad, too. he was starting to talk business and expanding the company, and i just… i couldn't let him down. especially not after i let you down."

you glance down, no longer being able to meet his eyes. you knew that your past together had to come up at one point, you just weren't ready for it. mainly because even after all this time, there was still that little piece of your heart that never stopped belonging to him. it would always be his. "rafe…"

"i hope i'm not being too forward when i ask you this but…" his hand reaches out to touch yours, and you look up at him. "are you seeing anyone?"

"no, i'm not," you shake your head. "after we broke up, i didn't really date much. and even when i did, nothing ever really stuck."

that was enough to have a smile crack across his his, eyes brighter than you'd seen them in a really long time. "guess that makes two of us."

"guess so," you shrug, thoughts running through your mind a hundred times a minute as you try to find a way to change the subject. you weren't ready for where this conversation was about to go. at least, not yet. "but, uh— tell me about cameron development, how's that going?"

he chuckles at your eagerness to change the subject, as you sipped on your wine, but goes with it. he'd break you down again. eventually.

—

after finishing your drinks at the bar, rafe offered to walk you home since your apartment was only about a block or two away, assuring you that he'd just get a cab back to his hotel afterward.

and while a part of you screamed at you to say no, that little piece of your heart that still beat for him won over, and you agreed.

"well, this is me," you say, stopping in front of your apartment complex and looking at him. "it was really nice to see you, rafe."

"so that's it?" he asks, catching you off guard. "this just ends here?"

he takes a step towards you, making your heart pitter-patter, as his eyes scanned your face.

"rafe-"

"don't you ever wonder…" he cuts you off, his gaze lingering on your lips for just a moment before his eyes shifted to meet yours. "what we could've been? what we could be?"

"i-"

"i know i fucked shit up with you, a'ight?" he said, hand coming up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

the gesture threatens to make your eyes flutter close at the feeling of his familiar touch, but you keep your composure.

"i was young and i was stupid, and i thought you deserved better," he continued. "but y/n, there isn't a day that has gone by in the last eight years that you haven't crossed my mind. i think about you all the time, just hoping for the day you'd finally come back to the banks."

your breath hitches at his confession, that tiny piece of your heart that held onto him, growing three sizes.

"i know i don't deserve a second chance, i know that," he told you. "but i'm not the guy i was back in high school. i'm clean now, and i've turned my life around. i can be that guy for you now. the one you needed me to be all those years ago."

"okay," you whisper.

"what?" he musn't have heard you right.

"i'd be lying to myself if i said i haven't thought about you either, rafe," you say.

a small chuckle falls from his lips, which spread into a smile. "seriously?"

you nod. "come pick me up at seven tomorrow. let's give it a chance."

part 3 coming soon!!

i'm rooting for them tbh

reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated <33

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tags: @chiaraanatra @ijustwanttoreadlols @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesgiirl @solanathascientst @10ava01 @werewhatkilledthedinosaurs @void21 @groovycass @azrielsgirll @rroslitas @crvptidgf @star-girl-05 @redhead1180 @shadyshadyy @prettypimpcess12 @emotionsmgcbabe @outerbankspov @letmeintourheart @gublerstylesobrien1238

#rafe cameron #rafe #obx #rafe obx #outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron fic #rafe fic #rafe fluff #cute rafe #obx fic

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504py · 13 days ago

Text

No Compromises

Yandere Canada/Reader – You reunite with an old college friend, though he's nothing like you remember.

⚠️ Yandere content, kidnapping, self-harm, stalking, possible emetophobia (descriptions of gagging and the feeling of illness), no use of Y/N, gender-neutral reader.

IM BACK YAWL 😭😭 just a bit of a filler post and another apology for being away for so long!!! i tried to get this out by halloween but i kept adding more shit LOL

while this is much more aligned with his 2p version, i had no idea if it counts as such since here i portray his 1p and 2p version as the same guy 😭😭 so that's up in the air!

also u may notice the lack of a [oneshot] tag... thats cuz i have a prequel wip for this, but figured i'll just finish and post it if the people desire it LMAO. pls lemme know if y'all do!! anyways so sorry again and i hope u enjoy!!! thanks so much to everyone for sticking around and enjoying what i do 🩵🩵🩵

┊͙✧˖*°࿐

The light drag of a cigarette is the first thing you process when you finally come to your senses.

A man stands before you, singular lightbulb leering ominously above a head of overgrown blond hair, the bright light reflecting in his glasses making you unable to see much of his features. His tall, slender figure is highlighted by the stark overhead shadows that are being cast on his baggy clothing. He exhales, smoke billowing and resting heavily in the dusty, stale air.

"Hey." He says, the friendly, casual tone of his voice making you blink faster in the hopes of gaining more lucidity. His tongue pokes at his cheek as he drops the cigarette to the cemented floor and stomps on it. The gritty sound feels like boiling water in your audio-sensitive drugged up state.

"Are the ropes too tight?" He asks with a quirk of his head, you squint, thinking you'll be able to catch a glimpse of his face, but the dark shadows and your pupils trying desperately to adjust to the lighting in the dim room make the task much too difficult. You didn't even notice you were bound 'till you tugged your wrists at the mention of the word 'rope.'

The mystery man straightens his posture and takes a few steps closer to you. His sneakers are downtrodden. The lacing is asymmetrical, any recognizable color or branding rubbed off, and the hem of his loose jeans caked in what seems to be mud.

"Come on, you can speak, can't you? It's not like I taped up your mouth." The tone of voice he uses here is almost playful, yet too vague. You didn't know if it was condescending, comforting, or cheerful.

"I... I'm... Ropes are okay..." You respond mindlessly, your voice coming out in a hoarse croak. God, it feels like your head could loll off your neck at any moment.

"Poor thing. You sound parched– Tell ya what, I'll give you some water if you kiss me." Even if his face is still hazy, you can make out the glint of a smile. His canines are pointy.

He draws closer, and crouches in front of your seated figure. He's a lot taller than you thought, seeing him up close. You see the indent of a pointed dimple by the edge of his sharp lip corners when he turns his cheek to you. There's a few moles on his pale skin. He smells like tobacco, rust, and rainwater. Smells a bit like something syrupy and moldy, but maybe that's just the room.

You shudder away from his close proximity, and he laughs nervously.

"Aw, I thought that'd work." He chuckles, before facing you fully, still crouching.

You can finally see his face. What you thought were dark brown eyes turned out to be a dull shade of purple, just with his pupils as fully blown as they can go. The stare is creepy, but at least his droopy outer eye corners and straight blond eyelashes soften their impression. His nose is well-structured and pointy, reddish at the tip. His sharp lip corners seem to always point upwards, and were pink like they had just been kissed and bitten. If it weren't for this moment, you'd have thought he was an attractive man with a somewhat docile-looking face. His cheeks are flushed, he tilts his head in wonder, a few pieces of his hair falling over his face.

"Merde, you're really pretty up close. I can't believe you're in front of me right now. I missed you so, so much." He giggles, cold hand reaching out to carefully grasp your chin to try and steady your bobbing head.

He swoons, "So, so pretty." then presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. The action makes him exhale a shuddered, moaning breath. Whatever is in your system prevents you from reacting too much besides a weak jerk of your body.

"I should get you out of this shitty room, but I wanted to be prepared in case you reacted more violently. I didn't wanna have to drag you around. Don't wanna rough my baby up." He says with a small smile, as if the thought secretly brings him some amusement. Maybe his otherwise comforting smile just comes off as sinister at a time like this.

"You're reacting so much better than I thought you would, though. You're being so, so good, you know?" He coos like you're a pet, taking his hand off your chin and his blunt fingernails gently scratching at the top of your scalp.

Your throat hurts. You swallow dryly. "Who are you?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, and his smile drops slightly. He takes in a deep breath and sighs, cigarette-stained air blowing over your face.

He squints at you. "You really don't remember me?" He says quietly.

You shake your head. His light eyebrows knit in what looks like an expression of heartbreak.

He tries to jog your memory. "Come on, college sweethearts?"

"...I didn't date anyone in college."

His lips part in shock, the wrinkles between his eyebrows deepening.

"It's Mattie. Come on now." He pleads, desperation dripping from every word. The higher, more pathetic register his voice shifts into begins to jog your memory.

The sound of that nickname makes your eyes widen and forces your shoulders to press against the back of the chair. His identity makes things a million times worse.

"...M-Matthew Williams? No, no, c'mon, we never dated. Don't be like this."

"We had something special, though. I missed you. You missed me too, didn't you? You even remembered my full name." Matthew's gentle voice raises, as if trying to convince you of his feelings, trying to justify this situation.

"Th-There must've been a better way to get in contact with me without tying me up."

He shakes his head, frown almost a pout. "I did try! But you'd always blow me off to hang out with your other friends, a-and– and I just couldn't watch when I found out you were starting to see someone else." Resting on his knees and looking up at you, he grasps your bound hands on your lap. The position reminds you of prayer. Worship.

"I love you. Always have. A-And I know I'm different from how I used to be, but maybe you'll like this newer version of me more. You did say you liked a more assertive partner, didn't you?" His head tilts while he nods, like he's trying to convince you of everything he's saying.

His crazed eyes quickly scan your expression for any validation. "Yeah, yeah... I-I was a doormat back then, so that's probably why you didn't return my feelings." He laughs bitterly, and the sight is almost irritatingly funny to you. He's comparing his former pitiful self to the way he is now, as if he had changed. "But I'm different now. I'm not a coward anymore. I'll take care of you, and I'll do it well, I promise. I'll make you so happy."

"Please, Mattie, j-just let me go, and I'll give you a chance–"

He gasps. "You used my nickname." A disgustingly lovestruck grin spreads on his pale freckled face. He presses your bound hands against his flat chest. His heart is beating wildly against his ribcage.

"Feel my heartbeat. It's all for you. It only beats for you. I promise I can make you feel the same way for me. Just let me."

"...Do I even have any other choice? You kidnapped me."

Matthew's smile falters, eyes drooping, and he looks just as pathetic as he did all those years ago. He frowns flimsily. "I-I'm sorry. But I'll be good to you. Really. I'll be so good for you."

You shut your eyes and lean your head back. Your whole body hurts. Weighing out your options, you make a decision. If this Matthew is just as pathetic as the one you remember, then maybe you have a chance to escape if you butter him up enough.

"Fine. Untie me first."

Matthew's eyes widen. "R-Really? If you fight back, though, I'll have to use force, so, please, just... Don't run."

"I get it."

Eagerly, he brings out a knife and cuts through the rope. He rubs and massages your wrists for you when you're freed from your restraints. Dusts your clothes off for you, too. Though, you're wondering if what you think is a needlessly thoughtful action is just an excuse for him to feel you up.

"Let's get out of this basement, yeah? It's much better upstairs. Promise." He says, gently holding onto your hand. His are covered in bruises and small wounds. Butterflies are taking flight like fighter jets in his stomach.

When you stand up, Matthew pauses for a bit, violet eyes raking over your figure.

"Sorry, I just–" He starts, before cutting himself off by quickly stepping closer to you and encasing your body in a hug. He trembles and lets out a shaky breath, tightening his hold.

"I missed you so much," His voice cracks, "So happy you're here. Really. I feel like I'm on top of the world having you all to myself. You're all mine, finally."

Matthew takes in a sharp, obstructed breath. "Ugh, I–" He pulls away and his voice sounds all wet. He's crying. If you weren't so woozy, you would have scolded him when he wipes his face with his dirty jacket sleeve. Even now, you care about him, and maybe that's why he's fallen so helplessly in love with you.

He feels like he's shriveling into himself when all he does is simply breathe and what comes out is a sniffle. It's shameful, to boast about being a changed, stronger man, only to fall apart with a hug.

Wordlessly, he gulps his insecurities down his scratchy throat and grabs your wrist, taking you up the dusty wooden steps and leaving the basement. He does this with such little care it surprises you a little. It forces you to come to your senses in order to not stumble over your own heavy feet.

The actual interior of the house is much less industrial-looking than what you'd assumed from the basement. Rustic is the first word to pop into your mind to describe this place. Cottagecore, like the trendy people say, but... with a whole lot less of that trendy factor. It definitely is comfortable, which is a relief considering the storm outside.

Oh.

Looking out the window makes you realize something dreadful. You were never scared of the dark, pitch-darkness, even, but the vantablack surroundings beyond the glass begins to shroud you in a shadow of realization; there is a total absence of light. There are no lights, there are no houses nearby, there is nothing. You were in the middle of nowhere. You glance down to Matthew's battered sneakers and mud-caked jeans, and wonder how much trouble they went through to get you here.

He senses your staring, and looks to you, following your gaze and flushing.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. This is no outfit for a reunion as important as this." He laughs sheepishly, weakly. He had managed to swallow his tears, with the only evidence left behind being his reddish waterline and nostrils.

"I'll, uh, I'll go change– Just sit down anywhere you'd like. Those drugs will take a bit to leave your system. I'll fix you something up to wash it down as soon as I'm back, sweetie." Matthew stays for a moment, gnawing on his lip like he's weighing something out in his mind, before deciding to just go for it. He leans in to quickly place a kiss to your temple, and despite his attempt at nonchalance, he lets out a thin, shaky breath, before scampering off into what you assume is his bedroom.

Still nauseated, you hobble over to the couch and collapse onto it with more grace than you expected. You spare only a few seconds before forcing yourself back up, making the most of your time alone to examine the area without the pressure of Matthew watching you.

You scan the room quickly, making note of any possible exits. There are only two in this living room. The window, and the lone door against the other side of the room. Nearing and examining the window, you quickly find that it has a keyed lock, and rush over to the door.

Keyed, padlocked, deadbolted. God, he really went through the trouble of installing multiple of these. You could only imagine what his keyring looked like. You wonder if you could nab it.

A long-fingered hand clamps over your shoulder, digging into your collarbones and pulling you back. It's over so quickly you don't even have time to complain and yell about the pain.

"What do you wanna eat?" Matthew asks sweetly. His voice, though recognizable, is different from the way you remember it. His signature softspoken-ness is still there, but it's hoarse, slightly deeper. Maybe it's because he started smoking, but no cigarette can be owed the credit of the subtle confidence in his tone– Maybe not confidence, but some sort of certainty.

Your irises tremble slightly at the startle as you return his stare, before gulping and answering. "...Anything's fine."

"Pancakes it is." He shrugs, a small smile on his lips. As he walks to the quaint kitchen, he pulls a black hair tie off of his bony wrist and begins tidying his wavy, honey blond locks into a low ponytail. His hair's grown so much since you last saw him, and you can't help but think it suits him well.

It's not just his hair, the rest of him has grown, too. Matthew's gained a few inches of height, though he looks slimmer than before. You're unsure if he lost weight, or if his height just makes him look thinner than he actually is. He's aware of it, that he looks slightly worse for wear, but he couldn't help but lose his appetite being away from you for so long. He'll gain it back eventually to look good for you. I have to, he tells himself.

Now that he's rid of his jacket and clad in just a loose, plain graphic shirt, you get a better look of the wounds on his arms. It's mostly around his knuckles and palms, maybe he's clumsy, maybe he does a lot of physical labor, those are strangers to you, but you're familiar with the thin scars on the inside of his wrists. They're faded and old now, thank god, but you remember the long teary nights in college you'd spend trying to convince him not to hurt himself just because you couldn't spend time with him that week. You made him promise he wouldn't do it anymore, and judging by the lack of fresh wounds, he's kept his word. Though those memories make your head throb, you feel slightly proud.

You wobble over to the couch, deciding to take a seat to try and soothe the nausea bubbling about inside you. You remember those red plaid pajamas he's wearing, too. Always wore them whenever you came over. You wince as another wave of pain ripples through your skull, and you wonder if he's purposefully dressed himself like that to remind him of his most favorite time in his life, one that he thought was yours too.

That smell of butter, vanilla, and syrup doesn't help. While your stomach does respond to the smell, you can't help but think of Matthew first before the food. He always smelled faintly of maple syrup, along with hints of lavender and men's shower gel. His old apartment reeked of it. You never thought such an innocuous scent could bring you so much irritation.

Matthew glances behind him, finding your zoned out, furrow-browed stare.

"Your head hurting real bad?" He calls out from behind his back, focusing on the current stack of pancakes he was building by the stove.

"Yeah," You say under your breath. You're not sure why you even bothered responding if you knew you were gonna answer so silently. A part of you felt it rude had you just been unresponsive, but good god, forget the formalities, he'd kidnapped you!

After a few more moments of head-clutching silence, Matthew arrives, sitting on the couch and placing a plate of pancakes on the wooden coffee table in front of you.

"Come on now, you should eat. You've been knocked out for a while, you're about to miss lunch and dinner." He says lightly, a faint sternness in his voice, like he were speaking to a child. You scoff feebly.

"Nah, I... I don't really feel like eating." Despite the apparent hunger pangs in your stomach, you feel terribly sick in the throat, like you were constantly on the verge of retching. As much as you wanted to down the food he's prepared for you, just the thought of eating makes you gag.

He lets out a small laugh. "Want me to feed you?" Scooting closer, he leans down and tilts his head to get a better look at your pallid, gloomy face, heavy with queasiness. You're still so beautiful, he thinks.

You shake your head adamantly at that, immediately regretting it at the dull pain that amounts from the action. "No, no, I'm alright, Mattie," You bite your tongue when you realize you've called him by that stupid nickname again. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

He can't help the cheesy expression on his face and the way his heart flutters at the nickname. "It'll get worse if you don't eat." He pouts. "Come on, at least five bites." He picks up a fork, already slicing a small bit for you, and holding it up to your mouth.

You look at it with a small frown and wince in your expression, and his eyes darken.

"I'll tell you where one of the keys are if you eat."

Those words grab your attention immediately, and haplessly, you take a bite of the pancake he offers you. Matthew lets out an airy giggle.

"I remember you used to complain so much about this. Whenever I tried to feed you." He says with a pointy, wistful smile. "You've changed a lot over the years. Still so in love with you, though." His gaze is heartbreakingly warm.

You look at him, heart stopping in your chest for a moment at how sincerely he's looking at you. His heart does the same, but just at the mere action of you meeting his eyes, acknowledging his existence.

"You too." You say simply, despite your thoughts being so much more than those two words imply. When his cheeks redden and his lips gape, you quickly correct yourself. "Uh, that you've changed. Not that I love you." He huffs a dry chuckle.

"Figured, but I wanted to believe it." Matthew cuts up another piece of the pancake and offers it to you. You bite, and his blush only darkens. While you're chewing, he speaks again.

"You're not wearing that bracelet I made you anymore." He makes a sad face.

You swallow, "It's in my apartment. Felt too bad to throw it away." The light returns to his lavender eyes and he grins warmingly at you.

The bracelet is simple, a thin twist bracelet made with red thread, all entwined together with love. Matthew gave it to you during a morning class, blushing and stuttering. He made one for himself, too, like the red string of fate, he giggled when he said this, lovingly looking at the matching bracelets around your wrists. Now that your vision was less foggy, you can now see that what you thought was a wound was actually that same bracelet around his wrist. The color has faded slightly, more dull with dirt and age, while yours is still as vibrant as the day he gave it to you. It's a shame he didn't nab it when abducting you.

"You still care about me." He grins, almond eyes sparkling with mirth.

"To my own detriment." You smile emptily at him, taking the fork from his grasp and quickly eating the rest of what you owe him.

"The key?" You remind him, and he seems like a lost puppy for a moment, before it hits him, his pointy-fanged grin widening. He chuffs bashfully, as if a secret of his had been revealed, before he answers, awfully joyous; "Oh, I was lying." He laughs almost childishly.

A feeling of cold dread and shame drips from your head and down your shoulders. Of course, why did you assume so easily that he'd just hand that to you on a silver platter? At the same time, of course you would, he's Matthew Williams, the same man who gave you his coat and paid your bus fare the first time you two met. He insisted you kept it, said it suited you better and he's got hundreds more like it anyways. You did, you kept using it over the years even when you graduated. You used it this morning, maybe that's why it was so easy for him to recognize you. Your gullibility strikes you with chagrin and you can only retaliate by pushing back.

"What? We made a deal. Why would you lie to me?"

Matthew's usually docile expression falls, and suddenly you feel like you genuinely have no idea who this man is anymore, and you regret thinking that you could just walk all over him and out that door like you did all those years ago.

"Do you think you have any control over this situation, sweetie?" He crawls closer, palms dipping the couch cushions. "Did you really think I'd guard you so loosely? After all these years?" The collar of his shirt hangs from his neck as he leans down, collarbones prominent. "Did you think I'd let you leave me again? Stupid." He spits, though it seems like the final insult was more directed towards himself than you.

You scoot back until your back hits the armrest, and before you can try and slide off the couch, a lithe arm cages you in.

"It tore me up, ripped me to shreds and I came back a different person, but the only thing that stayed, that didn't change, was my love for you– No, my love for you is what broke me in the first place. Please, god, just soothe me a little." Matthew's voice crescendos until it cracks, hysterical expression making you relive the hell that was your college days together.

"Just love me a little." He whimpers weakly, before pressing a desperate kiss to your lips, moaning in surprise as if he wasn't the one to kiss you first. It's short, brief, like it zaps him, too much for his poor racing heart to handle. The bright smile returns to his face when he pulls away, breathless. It stays despite the horrified look on your face.

"Why are you so disgusted? You already tasted plenty of me in those pancakes. You looked so cute eating up my spit." He teases, his glee evident in his voice, the loose strands of his hair tickling your face. The realization of what you had just consumed, what now sits heavily in the pit of your stomach, was something of his, makes you dizzy with abhorrence. You try to push him off, but he slams your shoulder back into the cushions, hands vice-like and heavy against your skin.

Matthew is panting, and when he catches his breath, his eyes widen and his irises shake. You can see his pupils contract and dilate. "I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry– Didn't mean to– Ah, merde." He whimpers, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. He's already reduced to a groveling mess, and you've barely said anything. "Please love me, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I love you!" He cries, and you hate that you really do feel sorry for him.

You hate him, hate the shit he keeps putting you through, hate how soft his voice is, hate how pathetic he is, hate how reliant he is on you, hate seeing his tears. You hate how he still manages to pull pity from you despite everything he's put you through.

With a shriek through gritted teeth, you fist his shirt and yank him down, this kiss is intended, and definitely felt like, more akin to an act of harm over love, but poor Matthew can't tell the difference.

He melts into it with a loving sigh despite his bleeding lips.

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twistedwonderlandimaginesblog · 1 year ago

Note

Really happy that requests are open again! I love what y'all do!

May I ask for a Azul, Malleus, Deuce, and Jamil finding out that the MC is secretly a princess/prince back in their own world? The MC wasn't hiding it, it's just they did not give off the air of a royal heir.

Azul Ashengrotto:

Azul, in all honesty, is completely bamboozled as to what royalty would want to do with him. Surely you weren’t the naïve type of royal who thought the world was your oyster and would only offer up pearls? He, of all people, was not one that many would align themselves with willingly which made it more difficult to draw a conclusion on your relationship with him. In the end, it’s Azul once more avoiding his feelings and shushing the fears of you leaving him; now he can convince himself that you’re bound by royal duty and that you would never consider staying with him regardless of your relationship status.

Deuce Spade:

Deuce feels the need to apologize for every single time he’s spoken out of turn, and wonders if he should start referring to you as ‘your highness’ as a sign of respect. It does change the relationship between you because he doesn’t know the proper way to act, and it upsets you when he suddenly gets stiff and impersonal despite how close you are. You don’t want your royalty from another realm to change who you are to him and you say as such, with Deuce sheepishly admitting he still saw you as ‘you’ but he didn’t want to offend you by saying something too immature or foolish.

Jamil Viper:

Jamil couldn’t help but wonder if it was a way out. He’d never want to leave his family behind but the other half of him, the part that wants a life different than being a servant for an eternity, wondered if he could be with you. Or, since he was certainly not royal here or in your own world, you might designate him the same position in your life in hopes of remaining together. He doesn’t know which fate is better for his sanity but he tried not to think about it, preferring to think of you as you are before the big royal reveal unless you wanted to be treated otherwise.

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus is quite curious on how a royal marriage across realms might work, knowing that such knowledge must be out there somewhere. He can’t say that he isn’t surprised by this turn of events however, wondering if royalty was a bit different in your homeworld. It at least opens up an entire new branch of conversations for you to have on your moonlit walks through the nearby ruins, Malleus full of curiosity for your families history as well as necessary customers (and perhaps even a question or two about proper courting rituals while he’s at it).

#Twisted Wonderland #Disney Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Disney TWST #TWST Imagines #TWST x Reader #Twisted Wonderland x Reader #Azul Ashengrotto #Azul Ashengrotto x Reader #Deuce Spade x Reader #Deuce Spade #Jamil Viper x Reader #Jamil Viper #Malleus Draconia #Malleus Draconia x Reader

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 5 months ago

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Could you please do 14 with art from the comfort prompts? Maybe handjobs while he has his back to the reader if things get spicy 🤭🤭

Anyways, your fics never fail to amaze me! Always look forward to reading them💗💗

I'm getting the sense y'all would like me to write #14 from the comfort prompts with Art Donaldson 🤔

Also thanks, nonnies!!

Warnings: Fluff, handyj's, subby Art Donaldson, praise kink, smattering of dirty talk, established relationship

"In here!" You called out. You listened as Art's footsteps grew closer, and your brows furrowed as you heard him slow just outside.

"It's okay, you can open the door."

Art seemed a little perplexed by how dim the bathroom was, but as he spotted the candles you'd put around your jacuzzi tub and the glass of wine on the side table, it all seemed to fall into place.

"How was your—What are you doing?" You laughed as Art began to strip off.

"What does it look like?"

Your eyes drifted down over his muscled chest, lip drawing between your teeth as he shoved his pants and underwear down around his ankles before kicking them off. You grinned, scooching back against the tub as Art climbed in in front of you. He groaned as he settled in, cradled against you.

"Comfortable?" You teased, brushing your lips against his temple.

"Very."

You curled your arms around his shoulders, closing your eyes as you savored the peace of his body pressed against yours.

"How was practice?"

The question hung in the air for a few moments. Art shifted a little, raising his hands and trailing gently over your bent knees.

"...Art?" You pressed.

"I don't wanna talk about practice."

It wasn't the answer you were hoping for. It wasn't Art's first career slump, likely wouldn't be the last—but you knew better than to remind him of that.

"I wanna talk about you," He added, tipping his head back to get a look at you. "Feel like I've barely seen you the last few days."

"We've been busy."

He craned his neck, pressing a kiss to your jaw. "Tell me about your day."

"It was fine, boring. The usual."

"What's the usual?"

"Art."

"Please?" He urged again, taking your hands in his and intertwining your fingers. He raised one to his lips before resting it over his heart. "I've missed your voice."

You smiled as he snuggled closer, the water swirling around the two of you.

"Well...I woke up around seven. You'd already left, obviously."

"Mm."

"I had breakfast, got dressed, sat down at my desk and worked all day."

"You stop for lunch at least?"

"I didn't have time."

"Baby."

"I know, I know," You sighed. "Things just kept coming up and before I knew it, it was 6:30."

"Explains the wine."

"Yes it does." You untangled one of your hands to reach up, gently combing through his hair. "Want some?"

"Not right now."

"...You're too wound up, you know."

Art sighed heavily, head flopping back against your shoulder again. You took in his closed eyes, his slightly pinched expression.

"You are," You insisted, lowering your hand from his hair. You trailed your nails over his shoulder, down past your joined hands on his chest. "I know you need something to get you going on the court, but having your gut all tight like this makes you all..." You slid your hand beneath the water, trailing along his inner thigh. "Stiff. And not in the fun way."

Art smiled, huffing a laugh. "Is that so?"

"Mhm. You need to relax."

"Any suggestions on how I might do that?"

"Well, I'm no tennis coach..." You curled your fingers around his shaft, smiling as he pulled a stunned breath in. "So my ideas may be a little...Rudimentary."

You stroked him gently, shushing him softly as he whined, pushing up into your touch. You grasped him a little more firmly, moving in long, even strokes as you felt him hardening in your touch. Art turned his head, mouthing at your jaw and neck, anything that he could reach.

"That's it," You murmured, watching a blush spread across his neck as you swiped your thumb across the head of his cock. "Fuck, you're so beautiful Art." You twisted your wrist as he whimpered, and bit your lip as his teeth grazed your skin. "You've been working so hard...You just need someone to take care of you a little, hmm?"

The water sloshed around your legs as Art's hips rolled up into your hand. You could feel his hot breath pushing against your neck, his tongue flickering out to catch a droplet of sweat sliding down your skin.

You were so hot, so slick as his skin shifted and almost seemed to stick against yours. His legs knocked against yours as he reached down, curling his fingers around your forearm. You watched his hips judder, his back arching as he spilled across his abs. You smiled, smearing it into his skin as he sagged back against you. His heart pounded beneath your joined hands, his thumb skating along yours.

"We should get out of the tub," He mumbled.

"Because we're going to get pruney and we're sitting in jizz water?"

Art laughed, tipping his head back to nip at your jaw.

"And because I'd like to return the favor."

#Art Donaldson x Reader #Art Donaldson x You #Art Donaldson/Reader #Art Donaldson/You #Art Donaldson fic #Art Donaldson imagine #asks #replies #requests #anon #x 3 lol

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stellar-constellations · 4 months ago

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Fan art by Gemmist (Glamorous)

Everybody stop what you're doing and look at Andrew Graves x Yandere reader: Star Patient's very first fan art(s)!

THIS IS ART! LITERALLY ART! ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS! ABSOLUTELY STELLAR! OUT OF THIS WORLD! I GENUINELY CANNOT PUT INTO WORDS HOW GORGEOUS THIS IS. I HAVE LITERALLY BEEN FANGIRLING ABOUT THIS FOR AT LEAST 30 MINUTES NOW

I asked permission to upload this because THIS IS SOMETHING EVERY ANDREW GRAVES FAN, NO, EVERY SINGLE TCOAAL FAN EVER, NEEDS TO SEE!

THE DETAILS. THE ART STYLE! EVEN ANDREW'S HAIR, DO Y'ALL UNDERSTAND HOW HARD IT IS TO DRAW ANDREW'S HAIR SO ACCURATELY?! DO Y'ALL SEE THE COLOR PALETTE IS JUST LIKE THE GAME'S ARTSTYLE, AND THAT EVEN THE BLUSH AND THE ART EFFECTS/ANIME EFFECTS (WHATEVER THOSE FLOWERS AND LINES ARE CALLED) ARE LITERALLY MATCHING THE GAME TOO?!

I died and reappeared and died again.

Gemmist is going places. Gemmist is why I exist. I used to be nervous about being a TCOAAL fan due to the controversy and how far the game's ideas clash with my personal opinions, but seeing this art literally, I'm not even exaggerating or lying, has given me a newfound appreciation for being a TCOAAL fan. I am now a EXTREMELY PROUD TCOAAL fan because my work has inspired Gemmist to bless the world with this. I cried after seeing this because I realized that maybe I'm not so insignificant to the world, maybe my writing is actually something others can enjoy; and this masterpiece and art blessed by Gemmist is living proof why. I enjoy being a TCOAAL fan, and I am so BLESSED to say that I have Gemmist as a fan and star in my galaxy, and I am SO PROUD to say I am now a Gemmist fan.

Gemmist, I genuinely wish you the best in life. I wish that all your dreams come true, whether you wanna be a artist or make fan art or write or LITERALLY ANYTHING, I want you to be happy in life the way you've made me happy.

Everyone scroll back up and pay attention to the detail of this. Pay attention to the style. Pay attention to everything. Gemmist asked me what I believe (Y/N) would look like, and I gave an SMALL answer saying "I believe twin buns, and pastel purple scrubs, and a star hair clip" AND THEY DELIEVERED. THEY SERVED. THEY EVEN ADDED A STETHOSCOPE AROUND THE NECK LIKE REAL NURSES. THEY EVEN DREW 2, TWO, DOS DIFFERENT HAIRSTYLES!

This is Gemmist's Tumblr, follow it, memorize it into your brains: https://www.tumblr.com/gemmist.

Proof of me fangirlling to my friends (blurred out for their own privacy):

Thank you Gemmist, for giving me permission to upload this, and thank you for creating this masterlist. It will also be uploaded on Wattpad, Quotev, and AO3 (I think AO3 does pictures??). Again, this is their Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/gemmist

Just a reminder to everyone, I'm not accepting requests. My number one priority is myself. My second priority is Star Patient at the moment, and third is answering questions/ taking in feedback for my series along with listening to plot ideas. You can send in potential series plots, and requests, but don't expect them to be done anytime soon (I also don't do any requests that's been done by other accounts).

#stellar constellations #andrew graves x reader #tcoaal andrew #andrew tcoaal #andrew graves #andy graves x reader #andy graves #andy and leyley #the coffin of andy and leyley #tcoaal #fanart #praise them #tcoaal fanart

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bokettochild · 2 days ago

Text

Little Soldier Boy, Come Marching Home

I apparently had some Uncle Aflon brainrot (could y'all tell?) and it spawned this monster!

Not sure if I'm actually going to make a story about this, I mean a proper one, but this refused to let my brain rest until I wrote at least this much, so I figured I'd share it for the folks who kept sending me Aflon asks :)

(Yes I am very aware that the title is from a song, I'd recommend listening to the Reinaeiry cover on YouTube, because it's also rotted my brain since I listened to it and I think it suits Aflon and Legend quite well T-T)

The first time he held Link, it was standing on the edge of the wood, away from the eyes of all the kingdom and under a veil of darkness. The forest chattered and whispered behind him, bringing to mind whispers of thieving Kolkiri and fae, and it had made him hold the babe in his arms all the tighter.

His sister-in-law was watching him closely, hands hovering, wary, like she didn’t trust him to hold the child quite right, ready every second to take the positively tiny bundle back from him and tuck that red and fitful face back against her own breast, hushing and cooing softly herself as she’d been when he’d arrived there. She didn’t though, although whether that was due to his own skill or some sort of restraint from the woman, he wasn’t certain.

“What’s the little ‘us name then?” He’d asked, pushing down the swaddling of rough fabric, far too rough for so small a thing, but lined carefully with far finer where no eyes could see. The child within trembled, cold air drawing a wavering wail from a tiny mouth. There wasn’t much to see anyways, he was a baby, same as anyone had ever had. Far smaller than Aflon had ever seen before though; so small he almost could hold him in one hand alone, but by all other means the tiny creature wasn’t much to look at.

Despite that though, Loretta’s dark gaze hadn’t lifted once from the infant, usually stern features awash with pure adoration as one trailing hand lifted the blanket back up to shield the babe once more. “Link.”

“Like the hero?” The dead one?

“Like the star,” her hands lingered so close to the face of her child, and in answer, the tiny one stilled, quieting as though some spell was laid over him. “Like the boy who brought hope to dark countries when Hyrule was at her worst.”

“Sir Raven’s squire.”

She’d nodded. “The same.”

And the child was just, well, a child; a tiny wee thing that felt so fragile to hands accustomed to the sword, and Aflon had shaken his head with a sigh, turning to Loretta with the question that had plagued him since he’d been given his riding orders this morning with the command to meet her here. “Why me?”

Those had been the words to make her draw back, pain welling up behind dark violet eyes that avoided his own. “There’s no one else I can ask.”

“He’s your son.”

“Which is the same as a sentence of death,” she’d hissed, tone harsh as her blade, “you know as well as I how Hyrule sees its crown. You took a vow the same as any other knight.”

He had.

“That child,” her child, “stands no chance, no matter what I do, if I keep him with me.”

Aflon had shifted, sparing the bundle in his arms a glance one more before murmuring, “his chances are pretty slim regardless, ‘Etta. Babes this small-”

“I know,” She’d run a finger along a tiny cheek, face pinching into something bordering on gentle, on sweet, something no one would describe the woman as save with her steads, “But it’s the best I can give him.”

He’d felt the weight of those words, the weight of their expectation, and all the more so when the Queen of all Hyrule had lifted violet eyes to hold his own and given him her final command. “Protect him, Aflon. He’s not just your prince, he’s your nephew, and I swear on hell’s ashes if you fail him, I will flay you.” Typically, he’d have assumed her words to be in jest, but the fire behind her eyes, a furious and dangerous love the likes of which he’s only heard tell of a mother for her babe, had made him take the words to heart.

“I won’t fail you, your grace.”

“No,” she’d stepped closer, pulled his arms down just a bit further so she could duck her head and press a kiss to a tiny cheek, “don’t fail him. All else doesn’t matter-”

“The princess-”

“I will mind the princess,” Loretta’s eyes had darkened, “and failing that, the Impa sent is a good one. Your priority is him,” and both of them had turned to the child, a child so tiny he almost weighed nothing, but yet lay so heavy in his arms with duty set beside him. “He needs you.”

And he did. He hadn’t seen it then, hadn’t felt it, but even a man made in blood and battle knows the worth of life. And so, somehow, he’d managed.

He’d carried his little charge back to the closest village and taken a room, managing to ignore the curious and lingering gazes of the locals at a young knight in full armor with a tiny baby in his arms.

In truth, he hadn’t been sure where to go from there. Loretta had entrusted him with her child, which meant all other missions, whatever they might be, were out of the question. His duty as a knight, as a soldier, was now changed, which, all considered, wasn’t the worst fate in the world. Still, he’d mused, staring at the tiny creature that slept more than he stirred, it’s not exactly the life he’d imagined for himself.

They’d always been knights, or so his own father had taught himself and his brother. The men in their family take up the sword and the women the plow and reigns of a rancher. Their older sister already is married with her own farm, and goodness knows Banzetta himself, though king consort, still carries his blade as the second in command to their warrior queen. For himself, Aflon has never imagined anything else than to serve as his forefathers, perhaps to marry, although there’s no woman who’s caught his eye as of yet, or at least none he’d be keen to stay beside for all his life. He can’t continue traveling Hyrule though, not with a tiny child in his care, not when the world out there is still so dangerous and dark.

For days, he’d stayed at the inn. He’d had no direction or clue, but he’d done his best to mind the tiny princeling in his care, although his attempts must have been very poorly indeed because it wasn’t long at all before two of the local village women had been knocking down his door and scolding him left right and sideways.

Without the women of Kakariko, Aflon could say for a certainty that neither he nor Link would have made it through that winter. They had though. The ladies of Kakariko nursed his precious nephew alongside their own children, taught himself how to change and clean a child, how to swaddle them up tight against the cold, how to burp and soothe them. He’d listened with care, listened like they were marching orders from a commanding officer, and he’d taken them all to heart, employing every bit of skill imparted to best fulfill his duty to the child in his care.

Thankful as he was for those women, the many mothers of Kakariko, young and old both, there was still, despite their care, a fear that gripped him each time one of them took up Link in their arms. The babe was a prince of Hyrule, and were that known it would be easy to stage some incident to see that the bad omen that was a royal son was no more. The women of the village would laugh, saying that anxiety for a child was normal, but they had no conception how deeply his fear ran each time one of them held the boy, each time he had to turn his back on his helpless charge for even the smallest of moments.

Come spring, he’d settled, bought a piece of land with the money he’d saved over the years and made a home for himself. As it happened, an old orchard had been up for sale, just close enough to the village to keep in touch with those who’d shown them kindness, but with enough distance that he no longer felt the need to be on the defense at all times against neighbors who might seek to harm the boy in his care.

They’d asked, some of the village folk, if the baby was his. For lack of a better response, he’d said Link was his brother’s. No one questioned it. Why would they? He was a stranger to them, and though chatter would sound on street corners wondering what had happened to lead him, ‘a clueless young man who hasn’t the faintest on how to mind a babe’ to have care of Link, but they’d never asked him anything more, just gone on offering advice.

That was fine though. That was better than them all assuming he was the father, because it felt wrong to allow such a misconception. He couldn’t say why, but when a parent still lives and wants their child, there’s no right for another to claim them as their own. Besides, he couldn’t be a father.

As it was, some days he felt he was doing a terrible job of being an uncle.

And he hadn’t thought of himself as such at first, but somewhere amid long nights sitting up, just watching labored breaths from a body almost too frail to take them, somewhere amid whispered words with doctors who’d told him to let go already, with midwives who’d urged him to keep fighting as long as his little one did, somewhere along the line of spending every day forever in the presence of the child, there’d come a day when he’d stopped worrying about his charge, and where he’d started fretting about his nephew.

Maybe it was those moments of clarity and wakefulness when big bright eyes would stay up at him, so curious. When floppy little ears would follow the sounds of his voice, or tiny hands would cling fast to an offered finger, toothless jaws working at its tip with little coos and warbles. He couldn’t say. But somewhere in that first winter he’d gone from a knight with a charge to an uncle with a nephew, and he’d never wanted to go back.

Sure, it was hard some days. Link was a sickly baby from the start, and he grew slowly. He was bright though, so very bright, like a star as his mother had said, and with every passing day those eyes so like the queen’s own had filled up with their own constellations of joy and smiles, tiny hands clapping, little feet stumbling.

Despite all concerns and doubts, his little Link beat the odds.

The child was his sunshine. He’d never been a very social man, so the company of a single boy wasn’t bad at all in his opinion. Granted, with just the two of them it had raised concerns when Link hadn’t learned to speak when he should, and for a time he’d wondered if perhaps it was for a lack of him having used words enough for the little one to know them, but in time he’d accepted that words weren’t to be had, and while some village folk would murmur that a changeling might have been traded for his precious bundle, stolen by jealous kolkiri in vengeance for their own lost little one, he’d never minded too much. He’d learned to speak with his hands from the village elder, and so Link had as well, and by that means they’d gotten along quite well until the wee one had made up his mind to try for actual sounds.

His old friends from the army were company at times, stopping in between missions and runs, catching a drink or a place to stay. He used to worry about exposing Link to the life he’d known among them, but in front of the child they’d all minded well, many even offering help and kindness he’d never dare to ask for. Some had children of their own, they said, others younger siblings. Regardless of the reason though, not a man would enter his home as didn’t have a kind word for his nephew, and while worry still brewed up within to see Loretta’s child among men sworn to prevent his existence, not a one had ever guessed at the truth.

And then everything had changed when Link turned eight.

He’d been talking by then. Belated though it was, words would come to him at times, although he’d prefer his hands over his tongue. Despite the murmurs of locals though, the boy was bright, sitting up more often than not with whatever book Aflon could find for him and positively devouring anything inside of them, big violet eyes near glittering in delight at the world painted for his eager mind, at the discoveries and worlds and words and stories- heavens did his little star love the stories! He had ever so much to say about what he read, and a smile brighter than the sun itself, and small though he still was, weak though he’d likely always be, Aflon adored the boy that ran to his arms at every day’s end and shared home and heart with him.

He’d had doubts, in the beginning, that he could settle to a quiet life, but it never felt quiet with Link so eagerly learning about it beside him, indeed, it felt like he’d only just learned what it was to be alive for himself!

And every day was a new adventure, teaching his nephew something new or finding himself taught some lesson or fact. Every night was settling down before the fire and holding firm against the plea of “one more page!” before smothering his precious Link in mustachioed kisses and tucking him in tight against the chill of the night. Sometimes they were disturbed with guests and his efforts would be in vain, but nine times out of ten when that did happen, Captain Bertram or Major Wilkins would take the lad back to bed and recount enough stories to finally have him dozing off against them, ready to be tucked back in again upon their departure.

He wouldn’t have changed that life for the world though.

Yet, the world seemed to have other plans.

Link had startled awake in the middle of a storm one night, tearfully insisting that something was wrong, that there was danger, that Zelda, the sister he didn’t know was his even then, was in danger and that she’d told him so herself.

To another man, it might have been nothing, just a bad dream, but Aflon had himself woken before to the sound of startled cries sounding through an army camp. He could remember when the queen would awake from a vision while traveling with himself and his brother, and many a time, Banzetta had recounted to him when it happened that he hadn’t seen. It was in their blood, the people of Hyrule would say, that those of the royal line would sometimes be given visions, often of future events and or trouble brewing beyond even the eyes of the Sheikah. That was how all the prophecies surrounding his own family had come about, how the reappearance of a hero had been foretold.

So, upon hearing such strange words from the mouth of his nephew, rather than beg him return to bed or otherwise ignore it, Aflon had taken it to heart. After all, he’d been reminded, looking down at the tear-stained face at his bedside, Link may be his nephew, but he was also still Loretta’s son; still born with the blood of the crown, a prince of Hyrule.

So, although Loretta had told him to leave Zelda’s care to herself long ago, back when she and Banzetta were still alive and before some mission had gone awry and the both were lost forever- despite the fact that the Impa chosen by the sheikah had, indeed, never once failed in her duties, he’d still chosen to attend to the fears of his nephew and brave the storm, just in case. He’d chosen to risk it, even if it did mean he’d strayed from his orders.

He wishes every day that he hadn’t.

If only he’d done as Loretta said and minded Link first and foremost, maybe nothing would have changed. If only he’d promised that in the morning they would go together- although, looking back, he knows the princess would have been dead by that time if he had.

He’s long come to grips with the fact that whatever he had done, there would have been no happy ending, but even so, he still hates himself that he had allowed what happened next.

Rather than tell him to go home, rather than protect him, shield him from the world his mother never wanted him to know, Aflon had looked into the terrified eyes of his nephew, down in the depths of the castle sewers where the boy had followed him against his orders, he’d used his final breaths to push a sword and shield into hands too small to hold them, bidding the child go to save Zelda. He’d known he was dying, he’d known Link was scared, but at that little obedient nod, he’d also known something more:

His death would leave Link the last of their bloodline, and a prophecy given to a queen long ago had once said that it would be the last of them that would face Ganon when next he emerged. Looking at eyes the same as Loretta’s own, albeit far kinder, he’d found himself reminded of those words, and sickeningly certain that he was witnessing the birth of that hero. His little Link who wanted to be a farmer, who didn’t know how to fight and who was still so tiny, so young, was going to become the Hero of Hyrule.

Though he’d been bleeding out as they spoke, he’s rather certain it was heartbreak that had been his undoing, not the wound in his side, and he’d drawn his final breath to the sound of sniffled tears.

Yet, it seemed his eyes had only just closed before they were opening again, pain gone and so too his young charge. At first, he’d thought perhaps he’d struck his head somehow and dreamed the whole thing, but both sword and shield were gone as well, although when he reached the end of the sewer system the prison was quiet, empty of any princess, and when he’d turned back and returned to the outside world, not only was it daylight, but it was spring.

It had been a late autumn storm that he’d traveled through to reach the castle.

He’d thought, hoped, that it was some trick, but when he’d hurried along back towards town, to the house, everyone he passed seemed to think nothing at all of the fact that they were plowing fields and making ready for a planting. They were preparing for a new year of work, as though the winter itself wasn’t supposed to be coming, as though it had already happened! And there were still bits of snow lying about. There was a dampness to the ground of a fresh fallen rain. The world itself seemed insistent it tell him that he was wrong. But if he was, then where had the time gone, and what had happened? Where was Link and why was his side unmarred as though never an ax had plowed through it?

His feet had all but flown down the paths, paying little or no mind to those he passed or the startled shouts they sent his way. His goal had been set; his destination desperately darted towards.

The house looked entirely normal when he’d finally reached it. The orchard was beginning to brighten, not yet blooming, still expecting another snap of cold before the season truly sprung, but they were well along to blossoming. The path was clear, nothing and no one on it, and when he’d come to the door, he’d found it locked up tight. As it should be, as he’d left it, as he’d taught Link to leave it. He still had his key with him even though his sword was missing, and though his hands trembled he’d still managed to fish it out and, with some struggle, had gotten it into the lock.

The house looked the same as it had when he left. Clean as a whistle because a soldier’s training still lingered with him even after eight years and that expectation was one that he’d taught Link to hold himself to as well. Their beds were made sloppily, as though the boy had tried to do it for him after he’d left and maybe given up after, or else simply been unable to see, from his height, how crookedly the blankets had been lain. Most notably though, Aflon had noted, there wasn’t much in the way of dust. There wasn’t much in the way of dirt. The only difference that he found was that the pot, which he kept by the door for spare rupees, was empty.

His breath had evened some at that. A clean house meant someone had minded it, and missing rupees were nothing if it meant Link hadn’t been left to starve in the unidentified period of time where Aflon had been absent.

Or so he had thought.

It was two days later, two days he’d spent searching the whole neighborhood, quite at the end of his rope in fear as Link hadn’t been seen at all in that time, when at last he’d laid eyes on his nephew.

Or rather, when he’d met the hero.

Because the wary creature that entered the cottage door and froze, hand on a sword and dark eyes so large in a thin face, was not his nephew. Because his nephew would have run to him with maybe a few tears or a cheer, jumping into his arms with a hug rather than start and draw a blade the moment Aflon made a motion towards him.

Link didn’t fear him.

The boy who came to him in Link’s stead did.

When he voiced his worries to the women who’d helped to mind the lad over the years, some would say perhaps he’d been taken, changed for a changeling by the forest children, at last getting their hands on a hero to replace their own. Others just shook their heads and sighed, unwilling to explain why.

He’d known though that the child in his home wasn’t a changeling though. No, because that child had eyes every bit as much like the late queen. Eyes that knew war, and battle, that bore the burden of a kingdom which dragged on too small shoulders, eyes that Knew, that Looked, and eyes that Saw people for what they were, not simply what they’d claim to be. There was no doubt, looking at that boy, that he was Loretta’s son.

But he wasn’t Aflon’s nephew.

Link was bright and bubbly, quieter by nature but prone to prattling when the mood took him. The silent little thing that lived in his house, wary like a rabbit hunted and hidden, was a stark contrast. Link liked to travel with him, going to town for any errands and skip-tripping along the path at his side, getting distracted by small creatures and ever full of questions.

Not only did the hero avoid going out of the house when he could, preferring instead to stay inside behind a locked-up door and shuttered windows, but when he did go out, the lad was ever scanning the world, ever watching the sky and the path as though expecting an attack from one or the other. He didn’t stray off towards sudden changes, curious ears cocked, he put a hand to his shoulder and looked for a blade.

The child that came back to him held the manner and look of an old knight, not a child too young to even be a page, and it disturbed him. He tried though. This was Loretta’s son, the prince of Hyrule, and as he’d later learned, the boy had indeed become the country’s hero. Not that the boy had told him that himself. No, the child in his home didn’t speak, tongue faltering and sounds stuttering before hands would lift to answer questions in as few words as possible.

Two of his fingers were crooked, Aflon realized, watching him, heart aching. Two fingers and, in those first days, he’d favor one leg over the other.

He wanted to help, but the boy was wary of touch, starting and panicking as a first reaction if he didn’t see it coming and wincing even when he could. He kept a wide space between himself and anyone, a swords-distance, Aflon realized after a spell, although as for the blade he carried, well, that had disappeared after the first few weeks. It wasn’t the sword he’d handed to his nephew though. The sword that the hero held was unfamiliar to him; radiant, beautiful, masterfully forged so that his own blade paled in comparison. His was absent, and the one time he had asked what happened to it, he’d just watched violet eyes fall and shoulders hunch, and immediately changed the subject.

It was hard. His nephew looked the same as Loretta’s child, same face, same form, same stature, although time had made her changes too. The boy was scrawny, and though he had hoped his lost rupees meant his charge was still fed even with him gone, he’d come to doubt that.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it when, at learning of his own return, one of the neighbors down the road had invited them both for dinner, and the hero child had only stared at his own plate, stirring the food around but not eating. He’d dismissed it at first, but soon it became abundantly clear that the hero would not eat food he couldn’t watch being prepared, not unless it was a meal offered by Aflon himself, and, to his own surprise, Dolly, the village elder’s wife.

Somehow, both she, Dolly, and Sahasralah, the elder, were the only ones who seemed unaffected by how his charge had changed. In fact, more than once, Aflon would find himself watching, wistful, as the two would speak with or even handle the hero with not a thing done to show fear in response. Simple acceptance met their motions, their words, and at times he’d almost been tempted to ask if maybe the boy that wore Link’s face wanted to stay with them instead, as he seemed so much more at peace in their home.

He didn’t though. He’d sworn a vow, a vow to do his duty to his prince, to his queen, and though he wasn’t certain if Loretta’s spirit would haunt him if he failed that, he wasn’t exactly keen to find out.

He couldn’t leave her son with strangers, with people she didn’t know or trust. Still, as the days passed, house silent as a crypt and the boy inside nearly the corpse it housed, he’d found the temptation growing daily.

At night as he’d blow out the lamps, now knowing full well not to approach his charge in the dark and sometimes fearing to even look at him (because what looked back was a slip of a shade with eyes glinting red like a rabbit’s in the low light of the hearth and by all means hardly human) he’d fight his own mind on the matter. Stay or leave, linger with what wasn’t any longer what he’d sword to protect, the child that wasn’t his nephew but was a hero.

Loretta said to protect him, he’d remind himself as he lay beneath the blankets. Yet, small hands knew the touch of blood, and the boy who’d wandered in at his door knew a blade like knights four times his age still hadn’t learned. Lying there at night, he’d wonder to himself, what was there left to protect the boy from? Loretta’s child already had seen everything she wanted to shield him from, so what was even the point, when there was no more innocence to shield?

It was that thinking, after weeks, months, that had led to him gathering up clothing and books, toys left behind because the person who would leave with him wasn’t a child but a young soldier, so what did they matter? He’d packed things up, watched the hero slip to his side to help, dutifully but silently gathering Link’s clothes and folding them up with the same careful effort Link always did, ending with the same misshapen result, and tucking them away like they would do every summer for the trip back to his own childhood home.

He’d locked the door tight that summer. Shut up the shutters and minded that nothing was left untended, no mess within or without. Long ears had cocked sideways, big eyes watching, curious, but nothing was said with scarred hands holding their bags while he prepared the house for their departure.

Most summers, he’d take Link down to Lon-Lon so the boy could stay with his grandparents and Aflon could attend to the heavier tasks of their orchard without worrying over minding the lad or leaving him feeling alone. This year though, after Mother had ushered the boy within the ranch house, shooting him a startled stare over his shoulder, he’d not gone back to the cottage.

Aflon Lon had, instead, taken to the road.

Guilt ate at him, but he’d known there was no going back.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t return to the house. It wasn’t home without the laughter of his nephew, without bright eyes and brighter smiles. It wasn’t home without a presence at his side working away at the trees, muttering and talking at times to the birds who’d stop to watch them in their labor. It wasn’t home without Link, and Link- or at least the boy he knew, was gone.

So, he’d wandered Hyrule. He hadn’t traveled in a long while, but it was easy to take up again, to wander the roads by day and make camp at night. He stopped in old haunts he used to visit as a knight to see how they had changed, and he’d thought nothing of his wanderings. After all, it was summer; the summers were always free for him to do what he wanted. It was when autumn had begun to show her colors that guilt had well and truly began to build up inside of him.

Link would be waiting at the gates of Lon-Lon, watching the road for his uncle to come and bring him home. He knew it wouldn’t be the same eager stare, ears crooked and head rested on folded arms as the boy would perch on the rungs of the fence, leaning his whole weight against it and keeping eyes and ears on the road. The hero child would likely sit with more wariness, but despite all changes there was no doubt in Aflon’s mind that he’d wait all the same.

The difference though, the real one, was that this time, Aflon couldn’t come back. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t go back to that house, that child, he couldn’t live like that forever, with the shade of what should have been.

Mother and Father though, they could handle a soldier boy. They’d handled Banzetta after his first battles, they’d know how to work with Loretta, and if they could manage the parents of his own charge, he was sure theft were the best suited to handling a young hero. Not only that, but they were safe, they were good, and they’d never hurt Link for the circumstances of his birth. They would be better to him than Aflon could be, and given time, he was sure the hero would settle there again, into a life with a knight, a lady, a history of heroes all around him on the walls and swords ready for his hands; the life he’d taken on, but one Aflon couldn’t watch lived.

As for himself, he’d wander. He’d travel, he’d embrace the world he’d had to forsake for a small bundle. By winter, he’d gone further south than he’d ever strayed, gone where word of the hero didn’t reach, where peace and simplicity beckoned. He’d meant to resist, but an evening in a bar with a pretty woman at his side had changed that.

“Here alone, stranger?” She’d asked, voice thick with a drawl and gaze bold as she’d settled beside him.

He’d never been a bold man, quiet by nature, so he’d nodded.

She hadn’t been dissuaded, motioning to the barkeep for a round for them both before striking up chatter, asking where he was from? What brought him here? Where was he going? And his answer of course had been that he was from central Hyrule, seeking his fate and unsure where he’d find it.

“D’ya have a family?” She’d asked, honest and friendly. “Can’t be easy for them not knowing where you are.”

And he’d hesitated, just a moment, before offering a stilted smile and answering “just my parents and a sister.”

A sister who’d left, he told her, to marry a man from across the border, who visited at times but was busy with a farm and a family of her own, much like his own parents were even in their older age. He’d said nothing of a nephew, just the same as he’d left out the dead older brother and sister-in-law.

He’d lingered in that town for a few more days, and she’d been at the pub each night, coming to join him when he entered and striking up chatter until they were both looking forwards to the evening when they’d happen upon each other. Somehow though, that had turned to arranged meetings, to wandering, to talking, to a kiss that left him speechless and a courtship that left him stumbling and eager like he hadn’t been since he was just a boy.

He’d wondered how she hadn’t had a fella before he’d come, but he’d thanked the heavens for it too, especially when he’d proposed, when they’d taken a home together, when they’d made the choice to live life together.

It was easy to forget, for a while, in that early bliss, in the whirlwind of emotions, what he’d left behind to find it. He was reminded though when their own little one was born, when a little boy had been laid in his arms and he’d started when blue shone back at him rather than violet.

Liza would laugh and tease him, calling him a worrywart when he fussed. She’d say it was like he’d never held a child before; he was so cautious. She’d remind him to relax, when she found him sitting up and watching the wee one slumber, because he was healthy, he was fine, they needn’t worry so much because while babies need care, they won’t break if you breathed wrong.

Aflon couldn’t help himself though.

He was used to looking for signs of trouble, for any hint of illness. He’d started when their boy had started babbling, started talking, at only two years old. Liza had said that was normal, that they wouldn’t stay babies forever, that it was part of growing up. Still, he’d found himself signing more than speaking with the boy, and more times than he could count, the wrong name had slipped to his lips.

Their son had dark hair like his mother, blue eyes like Aflon himself, but it always startled him to see them. It was supposed to be strawberry blonde, with starlit skies veiled beneath. He expected a slip of a child who was quiet but eager, not a loud little thing that ran and darted and climbed and made him panic because Link was fragile! …except this wasn’t Link, and his son was strong, like him, like Liza. His son was bold, loud, like a little boy was supposed to be, not timid and wary like the boy he’d left behind.

It never stopped catching him off guard though. Their little Rusl didn’t care anything for books, or reading, or sitting still. He was always off with other children of the village; he was always climbing trees and ‘sword fighting’ other young ones with twigs they’d find on the roadside.

He was a normal boy, all told, but somehow that was more jarring, in so many ways, than if he hadn’t been. Because Aflon had never dealt with a normal boy, he realized. Even Before, his Link hadn’t been normal, he just hadn’t known to see it.

It was strange, how often Rusl would stare, watching people without those hesitant little falters that Link always had when someone met his eyes. He didn’t pay attention to the little details, didn’t care to watch the sky or the sun. He didn’t care about stars or tiny creatures or pouring over books the same size as himself for hours.

The one thing that the two boys did have in common though, was a love for stories of heroes.

Link used to bury his little button nose in the volumes of history that told of the Hero of the Four Sword, the Hero of the Skies: the chosen hero. Rusl didn’t read much, but one day he’d come back to their home with Liza after errands, and he’d had nothing on his mind except some story he’d heard about the Hero of Legends.

Aflon had paused in making dinner, frowning because he’d never heard of that hero before, because Link never spoke of that title.

“Who is the Hero of Legend?” He’d asked, turning to the dirt streaked four-year-old at the door.

“He’s who killed Ganon and saved Princess Zelda!” Had been his answer. “He’s so cool, I wish he’d come to our village so I could meet him!”

He hadn’t realized, until Liza had darted across the kitchen and scooped up the pot, that their meal had boiled over, or that it’d burned his hand when it did.

Rusl and his friends would talk about Link, pretend to be Link, say they wanted to be heroes like him, be knights, be brave. He’d be in the village and stories would sound, gossip between neighbors recounting the latest exploits of the Hero of Legend. He’d killed Ganon twice, he’d traveled the world, he’d saved Labrynna from a witch, he’d fought some tyrant down in Holodrum. Everyone had a different rumor that they’d heard, everyone a different thought on what the hero might be like. Despite all they’d chatter about though, all he could see in his own mind was a boy with heavy eyes and crooked fingers that trembled when he used them to talk.

Aflon had gone home that day, after hearing all the chatter, all the stories, all the news that had come down to them from some merchant who’d strayed to town, and he’d told Liza he was taking a trip.

“Just for a few days,” he’d said, wrapping arms around her and trying to smile, even though he’d known she’d see past it. “Just to see how my parents are doing.” He’d left out the part about his old house, about the child he’d raised inside it. He knew it was wrong, felt guilt eat away each time his mind turned there, but he’d never let slip about the boy he’d raised before meeting her, the child he’d left behind.

Link, as he’d known him, was gone, why speak of what wasn’t there any longer? Why drag everything he’d tried to leave behind into the perfection he’d stumbled himself into?

Still, he needed to know, needed to see, and maybe, just maybe, he’d wanted to see Loretta’s boy again, just to assure himself that he was alright, because try as he might, much as he wished, worry still plagued his heart for the little soldier boy he’d left at Lon-Lon.

He’d stopped by the house first, if only out of curiosity for what had become of it. It had been years, had the village elders sold it? Left it be? He didn’t know, so he’d taken the road around Kakariko, hood up as he passed old neighbors, boots stumbling some on a path he knew better than that back to his own wife and child.

The cottage hadn’t changed a bit. Standing on the path, apple trees shivering in a slight breeze, he’d almost felt a decade younger, almost tricked himself into thinking he’d need only open the old wood door, the door whose key still sat heavy in his pocket, and a bright little face would whip around to meet him, gap-toothed grin his welcome home as feet would pit-patter across the worn-out floors. Maybe it was that image that tricked his feet into walking, following a path altered only by shade of trees grown taller in his absence, their fruit hanging heavy but not yet ready to be plucked.

It’d be cider making season soon, he’d mused to himself, hand digging through his pocket for a key he couldn’t name why he still carried. Absently, he wondered if the old press was still down in the basement, if Link- because it must be Link- had minded to keep it oiled and tended, or if he’d left off using it. After all, the former knight chuckled, the boy couldn’t even turn the handle fully on his own, now could he?

His mind had been so caught in his thoughts he hadn’t been minding his surroundings, pushing the door open after a moment’s struggle (the key stuck more than it once used to) and moving to enter his old home. He hadn’t expected to be immediately whacked over the head, nor, when he’d picked himself up again, to find himself face to… face(?) with a masked figure.

“We aren’t open!” The purple clad individual had declared, mallet in hand, and a small creature with wings- which could in no ways be considered a bird- fluttering about at his shoulders, squawking and hissing something terrible. “And if you thought you could break in, you’re dead wrong!”

Aflon had blinked, slowly, and then started, gaze flying about the house briefly.

It wasn’t changed, not really. Pictures were all taken down and boxes were tucked against the walls, but the couch, the rocking chair, the china-cabinet, it was all still there, still in the same places, now with new stains and scuffs, but he could recognize them all the same. Really, the only major difference was the desk near the door scattered over with glittering items and objects, little price tags set before them in poor mimicry of a shop.

He wasn’t sure if the purple clad figure was meant to be here or not, but given that the house still technically belonged to him, he’d been more than slightly caught off guard.

“I’m not here for a shop, I- who are you?”

“Who are you?” The apparent merchant had demanded in answer, face shielded behind a hood that looked like it was meant to resemble a very, very odd face. “And why are you here?” Their voice was trembling slightly, but they stood firm despite.

“I live- or, well…” he’d paused, picking himself up and dusting himself off, “I used to live here. This was my house- still is actually, I’ve just been away.”

Despite not being able to see the merchant’s eyes, he could feel the apprehension in their gaze, weighty as it was as they looked up at him, one hand on their hip and the other holding fast to their oversized mallet. “You must have the wrong house; this one belongs to Mister Hero.”

Oh.

“You mean Link?”

“You know him?” Their head cocked on one side, hood following with a flap of long ear-like attachments.

Aflon had nodded briefly. “Do you?”

“Of course!” And suddenly the mallet was gone, the figure gesturing about with a cheery chirp now entering their tone. “He’s my housemate! Lets me stay here, keep up the shop while he’s gone and all that lovely sort of thing. Didn’t realize he had a landlord himself though! So terribly sorry if he’s been stiffing you on rent, he’s been out of town for forever now, you see.”

He’d nodded. He hadn’t known what better to do.

The stranger had introduced themselves as Ravio, offered to show him their wares, but when asked about Link had firmly insisted that he knew nothing more than that the hero was off on some mission for the crown or something and that he was just keeping the house in order for him.

It had been all Aflon needed to hear though. Link was still alive, apparently having embraced his role as the hero, and it seemed he wasn’t alone. He must have left the farm at some time, but seeing as he was approaching fifteen it made sense. He’d been rather eager for his freedom at that age too.

The kid would be fine, he’d told himself, walking back to Liza and Rusl. Link didn’t need him; he was getting along fine.

Somehow, even with the whole trip home to convince himself of that, it hadn’t worked. In fact, now he couldn’t stop thinking about it, slipping more with Rusl, drifting off at home. Liza wouldn’t let him in the kitchen anymore, insisting that he was too prone to forgetting what he’d been doing, too likely to hurt himself because he wasn’t paying attention. She’d begged him to see a doctor, or talk to her, but he’d waved it off, saying he was just tired, just thinking, he was fine; he just needed to rest. He knew she didn’t believe him, but she’d stopped asking at least.

If only he could stop himself thinking as easily.

But as the months and seasons passed, more worry had grown, more thoughts.

Link is turning sixteen this winter. Sixteen years since he’d stood on the edge of the wood with the queen of Hyrule and taken her child in his arms, promising to guard him. Only eight of those years were spent keeping that promise, only half, and he’d startled when he’d realized it. Even now, he’s left wondering, as he braves a storm so like that night that robbed him of his precious nephew, has Link changed? What is he like now? Did he ever grow into those too-big ears of his? Did he learn to look men in the eyes when he spoke to them, to steady his voice and hold himself with surety and not simply just skill?

His boy will be becoming a man, and he doesn’t know what that man looks like.

Or rather, he didn’t.

Because when he comes home, drenched to the bone but with a fresh kill in hand, ready for dinner, ready for him to show Rusl how to skin and prepare it, he finds his house full of strangers, his wide smiling and telling him that they’re travelers, more boys than men, and they need a place to stay but the inn is so far. Of course he greets them, of course he looks at men in armor and offers a smile like he would to his old brothers in arms, welcomes them to his home.

He didn’t realize, until just now, how much he missed hosting people fresh off the path he once used to follow, how much he missed their stories or sharing a smoke or a drink with men like himself once in a while, not just farming folk (nice as they are).

He’s midway to offering the a warm welcome when his eyes stray to the fire and he finds himself freezing.

Great violet eyes, shaded heavy under strawberry blonde, plastered down by dampness and the storm that howls just outside the door, stare up at him.

His breath catches.

It’s Loretta’s face, freckled and fine, fae-like features and faint traces of scars, upturned nose and steady jaw, but the galaxies that gaze out from violet pools aren’t the queen, even if everything else about the figure at his fire is. No, those stars are all Link, all his nephew, and the weight of that stare, not sure and stern like his sister-in-law but yet also not startled and wide like that day eight years back when he’d first met the hero.

In the same breath, it’s the dead queen and the young hero that sits before him. It’s Loretta with accusing eyes, fire burning in their depths as his own words ring in his head, sounding a promise, a vow to do as she’d said, to guard and guide her son, to protect him, no matter what. Yet it’s Link, it’s that little boy with eyes that know a demon’s smile and remember him bathed in his own blood.

If his heart had failed him when he’d first put a sword in the hands of his nephew, it’s ache is a thousand times worse as he stares at the result of that action, even as it refuses to cease in an endless flutter inside him as shock touches the face of the little soldier boy he’d left behind eight years ago, but who’s somehow, some way, found his way back before Aflon’s fire, staring up at him with the same startled gaze that shook and broke his world so long ago.

His knees hit the floor even as Liza cries out in concern, hands fluttering about him, but he can’t lift his eyes to look at her. Instead, he’s trapped in an endless expanse of dying stars.

“Link.”

Long ears, still too big for his nephew, turn his way at the sound of his voice, the answer coming out breathless and disbelieving. “Uncle?”

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #uncle aflon #Ketto writes #don't come for me I just had a bunch of headcannons #and brainrot #blame the asks #I needed to get it out of my system

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