#pro rumple

[rumbelle-scream]

rumbelle haters really deceived themselves saying Bobby was fed up with OUAT coz of rumbelle 😭 BOBBY??? Mr. i-prefer-to-kiss-my-onscreen-wife??? EM-IS-MY-BESTIE CARLYLE? they were spreading fake news in 2023 😭 they got hurt or smth?

#rip to y'all #not me tho #robert carlyle captain our captain

(it was also a belle-anti who said it 😂 they hated her being a series regular)

[katethetank]

Ok I’ve never written anything before, and I’m obsessed with Steddie content. So without further adieu, here’s a modern day Steddie story where Eddie comes to terms with the hard truth that his husband’s snuggles might be more popular than his world famous band. This kind of got away from me and ended up way longer than I thought it would. Oops.

Content warnings: idk, TikTok I guess?! It’s fluffy and sweet, illusions to smut at the end

Eddie Munson was a notoriously private person. Corroded Coffin was the biggest metal/alt band in the world, and despite the fame, he managed to keep his personal life just that - personal.

There of course had been rumors over the last few years of who he was married to. Among the chunky metal rings that always adorned his fingers, fans couldn’t help but notice the simple silver band on his left ring finger. Paparazzi would occasionally catch him out in public with various women, leading his fans to speculate wildly who his mystery wife was.

But as soon as the rumors got started, they were quickly shut down. He was photographed once stumbling out of a club in New York with SNL star Robin Buckley on his arm. Social media went absolutely rabid and Robin made sure to clear things up the following Saturday on Weekend Update, announcing that she was in fact, a raging lesbian.

Not too long after that, Eddie was photographed clinking wine glasses with accomplished journalist Nancy Wheeler at a romantic rooftop restaurant in LA. When rumors started swirling around them of a secret affair, Nancy’s husband (and Rolling Stone photographer) Jonathan Byers put a stop to it by posting a picture of all three of them on his socials explaining that they were long time friends and out celebrating Nancy’s nomination for a Pulitzer.

Again the rumor mill started churning when Eddie was spotted giving a piggyback ride to pro skateboarder Max Mayfield after one of her competitions. Accusations of him “robbing the cradle” had her immediately posting a video on TikTok telling everyone off, fake gagging, and saying that Eddie was like her big brother. She then pulled Eddie into the frame asking, “Would you losers seriously believe I’d be into this ugly mug?” before promptly shoving his face away. Eddie was only a little offended.

Max’s video kind of blew up though, with everyone demanding more of Eddie’s presence on the app. Reluctantly he started his own account, his first video of him backstage at his sold out Madison Square Garden show, simply flashing the devil horns, sticking out his tongue, and greeting, “Hey assholes!”

It effectively broke the internet.

He was verified within a matter of hours, and had millions of followers within the first day.

Now all he had to do was figure out what the hell he was going to post. He didn’t want to share too much of his private life, but scrolling through the comments, he could see how much his fans truly loved seeing just that brief candid moment from him. So he started sharing bits and pieces behind the scenes at his shows, shots of the guys hanging out on the tour bus, and one lazy morning, a glimpse of his sleep-rumpled self in bed and his birds nest of bed head.

The comments on that last one exploded.

Everyone wanted to know who he was sharing that bed with, asking for a peek at his wife, if she was also famous. Who was he married to for god’s sake?!

He refused to take the bait.

One afternoon he set up his living room for a TikTok live, planning on just strumming his guitar, answering questions about the new album that was coming out, maybe taking some requests for songs to play. While he was glancing at the comments and plucking away at his acoustic, he didn’t hear the front door open, or the footsteps coming towards the room. He startled when he heard, “Babe, I’m home! I got you some more Honeycombs!”

Eddie froze. And the comments went absolutely fucking wild.

“Wait, was that a dude?!”

“Did some guy just call him babe???”

“SPOUSE REVEAL?!?!”

“OMG IS HE GAY???? I LOVE THIS FOR US!!”

“Oh I am so invested in this! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈”

“Honeycombs?! Really?!”

Eddie scrambled to set his guitar down, quickly thanked everyone for tuning in, and cut off the live stream.

Steve stepped into the room with a questioning look on his face. “Babe?… what’s wrong?”

Eddie glanced at him sheepishly mumbling, “We may have just spilled the beans on a live stream.”

“You were doing a live stream? What happened? And wait, what beans?”

Sighing heavily and running a hand through his hair, Eddie stood up and walked over to Steve, wrapping his arms around his waist. “I was doing a TikTok live, playing some songs and talking about the new record. I didn’t hear you come in, and when you shouted that you were home, it was apparently loud enough for everyone to hear. So I shut it down fast before the comments got even more out of control. I didn’t know what to say!”

Steve leaned in and gave Eddie a peck on the nose, hugged him tight, and asked, “Well… how bad were the comments? Do you think people are gonna freak out?”

“Freak out? In a good way, maybe. They all seemed pretty surprised to hear a guy’s voice and were asking for a spouse reveal.”

Steve furrowed his brows and thought about it for a few moments. “What if we did?”

“Did what?”

“A spouse reveal. I gotta admit, it’s been pretty annoying having everyone assume you’re sleeping with our friends! I don’t really like the idea of being in the public eye, but what if we just did a quick video or something to put the rumors to bed for good?”

Admittedly it was a pretty good idea. Eddie liked being able to share parts of his life with his fans, and Steve was the biggest part of his life. It would be nice to show him off for a moment and finally tell the world who put that ring on his finger.

“Yeah. Yeah, ok! Let’s do it!”

Eddie grabbed his phone, opened TikTok, and got comfy on the couch. Steve sat down next to him, cuddled into his side. He started the video with the camera just on himself, took a deep breath, and hit record.

“Hey guys! Sorry to dip out of my live stream so suddenly. I was a little thrown off with that interruption, but thought it would be best to come on here and clear the air. Yes, I’m married. Yes, my spouse is a man. Yes, my favorite cereal is Honeycombs, don’t come at me for that! And this is Steve.”

He tilted his phone so both his and Steve’s faces were in the frame. Steve smiled brightly and did a little finger wave. “Hey everybody!”

Eddie giggled and turned to kiss Steve on the cheek. Even after years of being together, Eddie’s affections still made him blush. Steve turned at looked at Eddie with stars in his eyes and whispered, “I love you babe.”

“I love you too sweetheart.”

They shared a brief kiss before Eddie ended the video and immediately posted it.

He effectively broke the internet again.

Millions of likes and comments flooded in, a huge wave of love and support from his fans. And of course, more questions.

“Shut up, they are so fucking cute I’m gonna puke”

“I’m so sad that the married rumors are true, but omg his husband is crazy hot! Good for him!”

“His name is Steve?! Why is that so adorable?!”

“Find yourself a man who looks at you like Steve looks at Eddie!”

“Who is this Steve?! TELL! ME! EVERYTHING!”

“We demand more Steve!”

“Ok I need more details immediately”

The demand for more Steve content did not stop. Eddie still wanted to keep his private life as private as possible, but Steve had no problem with popping up in a few videos here and there. Rolling his eyes in the background at Eddie’s antics, hands on his hips while scolding the band for being late to an interview, painting Eddie’s nails backstage before a show. Just little glimpses of Steve being Steve. His fans ate that shit up.

One night Eddie was left to his own devices while Steve was out having a “girls night” with Robin, Nancy, Max, and El. Why he wasn’t invited too he will never know. Not that he was jealous or anything. Totally not jealous. He decided to set up another TikTok live while he screwed around on his guitar. About an hour in, the front door flew open and in stumbled a very flushed, very giggly, very drunk Steve.

“BABE! I SAW ARIANA GRANDE TONIGHT!”

Eddie started laughing as Steve made his way into the living room, glancing at how the comments went absolutely apeshit again.

“Stevie, sweetheart, sit down before you hurt yourself.”

Steve took the guitar out of Eddie’s hands and plopped down in his lap. “Babe, seriously! I saw Ariana Grande! Me and the girls went to some club and Nancy got us into the VIP section, and there she was! Just! Sitting there looking all cool and famous! Babe, it was awesome!”

Chuckling, Eddie wrapped his arms around Steve, kissed him on his temple, and pointed at his phone set up on a tripod. “Stevie, you interrupted my live stream again. Say hi to everyone!”

Steve turned his head towards the phone, eyebrows raising up, and smiled dopily. “Oh! Hi guys! Did you hear?? I saw Ariana Grande!” He then quickly snapped his drunken gaze back towards Eddie. “OH MY GOD! Babe! Do you think she’s on here?! Can you message her?!” He turned back to the phone shouting, “Ariana! I’m Steve! We should hang out! Eddie, tell her we should hang out!”

Eddie started cackling and patted Steve’s head like a puppy. “Ok big boy, you’ve clearly had enough. Sorry guys, I’m gonna have to cut the stream short and put this one to bed. And uh, yeah. Ariana Grande, if you’re into hanging out with preppy former jocks who like to snuggle while they’re wasted, let me know I guess. Goodnight!”

Eddie looked down at Steve, who had tucked himself into Eddie’s chest while he was talking, and gave a little kiss on his head before ending the live stream.

“Hmmm… sleepy.”

“I know you’re sleepy sweetheart, let’s get you into jammies and tuck you in.”

The next morning Eddie awoke to a hungover Steve groaning into his neck, and a message on TikTok from none other than Ariana Grande.

“What the fuck?!”

“Hng… too loud.”

“Sweetheart. Stevie. Wake up!”

“No.” Steve pulled the covers over his face.

“Honey, seriously, you need to wake up. You’ve gotta see this.”

“Eds, I don’t wanna see shit, I wanna sleep.”

“Stevie, do you remember coming home last night and telling everyone on TikTok that you want to hang out with Ariana Grande?”

Steve flipped the covers back off and gave him an incredulous look. “I did not.”

“Yeah princess, you did. You stumbled in talking about how you saw her at a club and wanted to hang out with her. And guess the fuck what.”

“…….what?”

Eddie turned his phone for Steve to see the message.

“What the?… ‘Hey Eddie! I caught your livestream last night and my answer is yes! Steve seems like an absolute doll, I’d love to hang out with him’”

Steve looked at him with wide eyes and just stared for few beats.

“SHE WANTS TO HANG OUT WITH ME?!”

His volume made both men wince, Steve immediately grabbing his throbbing head and groaning.

“Yes, sweetheart, apparently babbling drunk gay men are her thing. So, when should I tell her you’re free?”

The following Wednesday, Steve was a nervous wreck. He had cleaned the house from top to bottom, prepped a gorgeous charcuterie board, had wine chilling in the fridge, and checked his hair about 30 times.

“Stevie, darling, sweetheart. You’ve got to calm down.”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN?! Eddie, Ariana fucking Grande is coming to our house! How is this even happening? What if we don’t have anything in common? What if she thinks I’m an awkward idiot? I don’t wanna screw this up!”

Eddie wrapped Steve up in his arms and gave him a tight squeeze. “You won’t screw anything up. Everyone loves you Stevie. Just be you, and she’ll love you too. And if you’re freaking out, I’m a phone call away, alright? I should only be at the studio for a few hours and then I’ll be home before you know it. You two will have a great time! Ok?!”

Steve let out a long suffering sigh. “Ok.”

The doorbell rang and Eddie took his hand, walking with Steve to go greet their guest of honor. As soon as the door opened, Ariana Grande herself was standing there with a huge smile on her face. “Steve! Oh my god, it’s so nice to meet you!” She immediately gave Steve a hug and barley even acknowledged Eddie standing there.

“Ok. Well. I guess I’m not needed here. Have fun you two! Don’t do anything I would do!” Steve laughed and gave him a quick peck before leading his guest into the house.

After a few hours of polishing some tracks on the new album, Eddie headed back home. He hadn’t heard from Steve the whole time he was out, and hoped that everything went smoothly with his new friend. Or whatever the hell this was.

Opening his front door, he was greeted with the sounds of giggles, clinking glass, and… are they watching Twilight?!

He pulled out his phone and started recording as he walked into the living room. “Here I am, coming home after hours of slaving away on our new album to find THIS.” He flipped the camera around to a view of Steve and apparently his new best friend, snuggled under a blanket, wine glasses in hand, a few empty bottles on the table, surrounded by a mess of crumbs, giggling at blue-tinted vampires playing baseball.

He flipped the camera back to himself, sulking “I think I’ve been replaced.”

Internet: broken.

“Did they just become best friends?!”

“Awwwww I want Steve Snuggles!”

“Living for this!!!!”

“#stevesnuggles”

“Wait, did he make her a charcuterie board??”

In the weeks that followed, #stevesnuggles took over social media. Everyone and their mother was gushing about Eddie’s adorable husband, wanting to see more of him, and his snuggles. Eddie couldn’t blame them, really. The man is adorable. But he still wanted to keep sort of a lid on their private life, so he limited most of his posts to just Corroded Coffin content. Anticipation for the new album was amping up, a tour was being planned, and the buzz was buzzing.

Unfortunately with all of the work leading up to the release, Eddie wasn’t getting enough of his daily allotment of Steve Time. He was looking forward to the weekend when his schedule was clear so he could finally have some quality time with his husband and soak up all of those famous snuggles.

Life had other plans, though. Friday afternoon he got a text from Steve saying that it was his turn to host girls night. Again, why was Eddie not invited to these things?? Not that he was jealous. Of course not. That would be crazy. He resigned himself to the fact that tonight, he’d have to share his husband.

When he stepped into their home, he immediately recognized the honking laughter of a tipsy Robin, Nancy’s adorable giggle, but there were several other voices he couldn’t decipher. Thinking ahead, he once again pulled out his phone and started recording.

“HONEY, I’M HO- the fuck?!”

It took him a moment to register what he was seeing. He flipped the camera around to focus on the absurd cuddle puddle on the floor. In a pile of what must have been every blanket and pillow in the house, was the obvious collection of Steve, Nancy, Robin, and apparently now Ariana. But then…

“Sweetheart, why are Rhianna and Taylor Swift on our living room floor?”

Steve just looked up at him pie-eyed and sweetly stated, “Girls night!” to which the bizzare collection of women shouted, “Hi Eddie!”

How many times can you break the internet before it stays broken?

“WHAT. THE FUCK.”

“Ummmmm best girls night ever?”

“How do I get an invite??”

“So Steve is just a magnet for powerful women then. Got it.”

“#STEVESNUGGLES OMG!!!”

Steve snuggles indeed. Eddie was so used to being in the limelight, it was a strange adjustment to have his once under the radar husband be in such high demand. Every time he posted a TikTok of the band, the comments were flooded with requests for more Steve. He did sometimes cave and give the people what they wanted. Quick videos of Steve cooking them dinner while dancing to his god forsaken pop music, sneak peeks of some of their new songs with Steve singing along, and ok, one thirst trap of him working out in their home gym. Eddie was a just a man after all, and his husband was hot.

The album was finally released and sales were through the roof. Corroded Coffin had never sold so many copies before and someone from the label insisted that their TikTok presence had everything to do with it. Was it actually them, or the love for Steve? Who’s to say. Either way, their concerts across the country were sold out in a matter of minutes and the band couldn’t wait to kick off their next tour.

The first show was in LA and Eddie had planned to do a quick TikTok before they took the stage. He started in the hallway backstage, welcoming everyone to the start of the tour, and made his way into the green room. “Alright everyone, let’s check in quick with the band and make sure these dickheads are ready to go! BOYS! ARE WE - Steve?! What the hell?”

He flipped the camera around to the view of Steve happily scrolling on his phone on one of the couches. With Dua Lipa cuddled up on one side of him and Lady goddamn Gaga on the other. What the fuck is his life?

“Babe! Hi! The girls were in town and came by to check out the show!”

“I’m sorry… THE GIRLS?! How do you even know them?!”

Steve raised an eyebrow at him like he was an idiot and said, “Lipa was on SNL and she had Robin get us connected. And Jon did a photo shoot with Stef and…basically the same thing.”

Stef?! Who the fuck is Stef? Wait right… Lada Gaga is a stage name.

Eddie flipped the camera back on himself and just. Stared. “I…I don’t know what the fuck is happening.”

Queue the comments.

“Ok is he like best friends with EVERY icon?!”

“Steve IS the icon! 💅”

“What’s a girl gotta do to get some #stevesnuggles in here?!”

“Omfg Eddie’s never gonna get his own #stevesnuggles now is he?”

“SHARE THE WEALTH”

“I can’t believe this app is free”

From there on the tour went off without a hitch and fans in every city were rabid for the new album. And of course Steve. Goddamnit. He’d occasionally see people in the crowd with “#stevesnuggles” t-shirts, or hear chants of “We want Steve!” Yeah, Eddie gets it. He wants Steve too. For himself.

Eddie took to posting a lot of videos from backstage with the band, sound checks, screwing around with the crew. And of course to appease the masses, some of Steve in his element. Putting on Gareth’s eyeliner, helping Jeff pick out his stage clothes, and rubbing Eddie’s shoulders after a grueling show. Just Steve mother henning everyone.

When they made it to New York, they had an appearance on SNL a few days before their concert. They got to catch up with Robin, meet the cast, and get a feel for what went into producing the show. Eddie hadn’t heard who the host was, not that it probably mattered much since they’d only see them at the end-of-show sign off.

He was in the middle of doing a livestream behind the scenes, walking the legendary halls of Studio 8H when he popped into his dressing room to show off the digs. “And here we have my office for the night…. Uh. Stevie? What? The fuck?” He turned the camera around to see Steve snuggled up with… goddamn Beyoncé.

“Hey babe! Did you meet Bee yet? She’s hosting tonight!”

No the fuck he didn’t meet “Bee!” And sorry, his husband is already on a nickname basis with this Queen?! Who the hell did he marry??

Goodbye internet.

“HOLY. SHIT.”

“Seriously, gay men have all the luck.”

“Two absolute queens, omg”

“BEYONCÉ GETS #STEVESNUGGLES OMG!!!”

“Eddie, your husband belongs to Bee now, my condolences”

“Don’t tell Jay Z”

The show went well even though Eddie was visibly shook by his husband’s new friend. Seriously, what is his life?! How much further was this going to go? He was relieved when the tour finally ended and they could go back to their bubble of domestic bliss. That is, until the next girls night probably!

Once they were back home and settled into their routine, he realized he needed to make some more content now that things have calmed down. Privacy was always important to him, but after a night of taking his husband apart over and over, he smirked and had an idea.

Quietly grabbing his phone off the nightstand, he started recording. Steve with his chaotic sex hair, neck covered in hickies, and curled up sound asleep on Eddie’s chest. A chest that was decorated in tattoos and nipple piercings, as well as fresh scratch marks. Eddie smirked at the camera, winked and whispered “hashtag Steve snuggles.”

RIP internet.

[andypantsx3]

balm — todoroki shouto x reader

summary: you help rub down your boyfriend's muscles after a grueling shift. and then a little more.

contents: established relationship, pro hero au, gn pronouns + afab reader (reader has breasts + vagina), emotional intimacy, aged up characters, nsft, riding, nipple play; mndi please! (2.2k)

You find Shouto face down in bed when you get home, handsome and adorably sleep-rumpled.

He's stretched out on his stomach in only his underwear, his hero uniform discarded unceremoniously across the chair in the corner. His bare back and broad shoulders span nearly the entire width of the bed, and one long leg is bent at the knee. One of your pillows looks like it's being suffocated between his bicep and face, bulging from being bunched up so tightly.

You smile, stomach fluttering with the sight of your pro hero boyfriend the way it always does.

Shouto blinks sleepily over his shoulder at you as you set your work bag and keys down on the dresser, his hair ruffled and face pillow-creased. He looks simultaneously like a model laid out for a magazine spread and a baby kitten awoken from a nap.

You are immediately drawn to him like a magnet, leaning down to kiss him. He makes a low noise in his throat like he's pleased, leaning up to give you easier access.

"Rough shift?" you ask when you separate, petting a hand through that split-toned mop of hair.

Shouto nods, long eyelashes fluttering. "I was pulled into a rescue effort. It took a long time. But all is well."

You let your fingers trail from his hair down to his back, tracing lightly over a shoulder blade. Shouto makes a sleepy noise of appreciation, rolling it out in a way that lets you know he's a little sore.

"Can I do anything?" you ask.

Shouto shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. He looks almost like he might fall asleep again right there. But your eyes are drawn to the jar of tiger balm he keeps on his bedside, its fiery orange logo all the more vibrant in the glow from the setting sun.

You reach for it, holding it out to him. "How about I do this?"

Shouto's mouth finds your wrist, a soft, warm press of lips. "You do not have to, love."

Oh yes you do. Taking care of Shouto is like a physical compulsion for you now. You might not be a pro hero or armed with a powerful quirk, but you want to protect him and care for him in every single small way you can think of.

You shed your coat, dumping it on the floor, and roll up your sleeves, nudging Shouto into a move comfortable position. He moves with you, the muscle in his back shifting prettily in the golden evening light.

You settle next to him, uncapping the tiger balm and smearing it across your fingers. A low groan escapes Shouto when you work it into the backs of his calves with firm strokes.

"Feels good?" you ask, kneading circles with your thumbs.

His reply is muffled in the pillow, but the tone is appreciative. You knead harder, smiling when all of his muscles tighten and flex, and another lower, longer moan escapes him.

"That's it, love," he says, syllables dragging out deliciously.

It's easy to lose time focusing on your ministrations, working the balm carefully and precisely into every muscle. Shouto is the most beautiful man on earth, the only man whose outside accurately reflects the loveliness of who he is inside. You love touching him, looking at him, feeling him firm and sweet beneath your hands.

You work your way up the backs of his thighs, and then climb onto them to reach his back. You work the balm into his waist, then shift forward to sit on his lower back to reach his shoulders, thumbs searching out any knots in the muscle.

You laugh when you notice Shouto is practically a puddle under your touch. His long eyelashes fan the tops of his cheekbones, and his mouth is slack in relief. You can't help but lean down and leave a kiss on his shoulder.

The kiss seems to rouse him. He shifts underneath you then, rolling his body between your thighs. You suddenly find yourself seated on his stomach, instead of his back.

Mismatched eyes flick up to yours, and one long-fingered hand finds your thigh, securing you against him.

Like this you can see even more muscle, the way his bicep tightens with the movement, firm pectorals, and the hint of his abs before they disappear beneath your spread thighs. You find yourself a little winded.

You dip your fingers back into the pot of tiger balm, then cap it and set it back on the nightstand. Shouto watches you quietly as you lean forward rub it over his shoulders, and the tops of his arms where his biceps begin. You're working it into the divots of his arm muscle when a set of elegant fingers gather up the hem of your shirt, rolling it up over your breasts.

You stop and peer down at your boyfriend, but he just stares back innocently, fingers still tangled in your hemline.

"Excuse me sir, I'm in the middle of treatment," you say, raising an eyebrow.

The tips of Shouto's fingers slide beneath one cup of your bra in reply. You shudder when they pass over your nipple, thighs reflexively tightening on his waist.

"It is working. I find I am feeling much better," Shouto intones. His voice is a low rumble when it leaves him, and it feels like it shoots right to your core.

His thumb slowly pets over your nipple again, a little more firmly. A whoosh of breath escapes you.

Shouto's other hand slowly presses at your lower back, guiding you to lean down closer to him. You abandon his arms, pressing your hands into the mattress at either side of his head so you don't fall onto him.

Like this, your chest is in his face, clearly what Shouto was aiming for. His fingers abandon your nipple to grasp the middle of your bra, pulling it up and over your breasts to band across the top of your chest like a harness, pinning your shirt up.

You shudder and gasp when he bends forward, his mouth finding your right breast. His lips close soft and hot over the same nipple, and it sends sparks streaking down your veins.

"Oh!" you gasp. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to be making you feel good."

"Mmm," Shouto hums into your breast, a delicious vibration. "You are."

His tongue flicks across your nipple, and his arm shifts more firmly over your back, pulling you even closer to him. He sucks a little, then swirls his tongue in a way that makes you feel suddenly lightheaded, teasing you the way he knows you like.

You feel your hips start to rock back and forth on Shouto's waist, thighs spreading a little wider to feel more of him between them. Shouto's hand guides you back and forth, as his mouth moves to your other breast, drawing out a gasp from you.

"Shouto—ah!" you say when his other hand finds your other nipple, smearing in the wetness his mouth left behind, pinching softly.

You feel something stiff nudge the back of your thigh as you move back and forth on him, and Shouto's hips cant, pressing him into you harder.

"Always make me feel good, love," he says, leaning up to catch your mouth.

You kiss him back eagerly, opening your mouth to him. His tongue tangles with yours, teasing like he had your nipple. You muffle a moan when the hand at your back presses you down on him more firmly and the hand at your nipple slides down to press against the front of your pants instead, touching you through the fabric.

You shift into his hand, chasing the delicious friction, indirect though it is.

"Take your pants off, love, I want to feel you," Shouto commands gently.

You obey immediately, leaning back to unbutton your work slacks. Shouto holds you steady while you maneuver them off clumsily, still perched over his waist. He's freed himself from his underwear too by the time you're done, his cock flush and full and as insultingly pretty as the rest of him.

He guides you down onto him, sliding home embarrassingly easily with how eager you are for him. He feels incredible inside you, thick and firm and delicious.

His hips lift as his hands pull you down harder onto him, and the feeling is enough to make your eyes almost roll back in your head.

"I want you to ride me, pet," he says, tone low and intimate.

You nod, cheeks flushing with the pet name he only deploys when he's deep inside you like this. Your hips move, sliding you up and down on him. The pad of his thumb presses to your clit, gentle but firm, drawing tight little circles the way he knows you like.

You move over him, panting with the instant, inescapable pleasure. Shouto knows exactly what you like and how you like it, and everything he does is designed to work you up to your peak embarrassingly fast. His thumb moves over you, unrelenting, and his hips buck and flex beneath you, driving himself a little deeper, a little harder with each thrust.

He leans up to take your nipple in his mouth again, sucking delicately. It shoots heat right down all your veins, settling in your core, mixing with the pleasure of what he's doing to your clit, what his cock is doing inside of you.

"So good for me, pet," Shouto says.

You feel yourself flutter around him with the praise, grinding down on him harder. Shouto alternates between praising you and driving you wild with his mouth, and within minutes you're riding him almost mindlessly, nearly delirious with the feeling of him.

"That's right, love," Shouto says, tone soft and pleased. "Let go for me, pet. Let me make you feel as good as you make me feel."

His thumb nudges you more firmly, and he sucks a nipple harder, tongue teasing over the tip. Everything about him is too good to be true, you think wildly, from the way his cock slides all the way inside you to the way his eyelashes flutter as he sucks you. He's beautiful, he's gorgeous, he is diligent and sweet and delicious.

He gives a hard thrust, no longer content with your pace, driving himself up and into you in a way that makes your blood turn to lava. Combined with the feeling of his thumb on your clit, with his mouth on your nipples, with his arm clamped tightly around your back, pinning you to him—it's all too much.

Another sharp, short thrust from him throws you right out over the edge. You arch into him, crying out his name. Shouto grinds up into you, taking the reigns as your hips stutter, fucking you through it. He gasps against your breast, driving himself into you.

He takes your waist in both hands, moving you up and down on him with his strength alone. The way his biceps cord and flex, and the easy athleticism he moves you with lights up another spark inside you, and a wild noise escapes you when slide right into a climax again—immediately on the back of your last one.

It makes the room fuzz and blur, your blood scorch like fire in your veins, and you shout Shouto's name.

He thrusts into you faster, harder, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows, growing pink-cheeked with the effort. And then his hips stutter, pace faltering. There's the flood of him inside you, sweet and hot.

You collapse onto him, sweat slicking your lower stomach to his.

Shouto pants into your hair, his fingers coming up to pet through the damp strands.

"Thank you, love," he says, mouth finding your ear. He sucks the lobe aimlessly, teeth scraping over the shell.

"I was supposed to be treating overworked muscles but I think I've made the problem worse," you sigh, shifting. You can feel him growing softer within you, but you're careful not to move enough to dislodge him, enjoying the intimacy of him still joined to you.

"A sacrifice well worth it," Shouto says, mouth mapping the skin behind your ear.

You smile, shifting your face into his neck. He smells like sweat and tiger balm—salt and camphor and menthol. You love it.

"I'll just have to find other ways to loosen you up," you say. Shouto twitches inside you tellingly, and you laugh, harder when he nips your ear in reproach.

"Perhaps a shower," he says. "And dinner. And then we will see who loosens who."

You grin into your boyfriend's neck, helpless affection pooling in your heart.

"The right kind of sex could be considered a balm for the soul. Among other things," you say, and Shouto huffs a tiny laugh into your hair.

"Then we must work it in thoroughly, for best effect," he says.

You smile and hum your agreement, knowing you will. You will always take your best care of Shouto, after all.

[mangostarjam]

one night (fruit) stand — bnha, todoroki shouto x gn!reader, fluff, "love" as a pet name, fruit puns sorry, pro heroes, aged up, no quirks mentioned for reader, 2.2k words

written for andie's pretty boy summer collab!

"This is for you."

The low, measured tone is a welcome respite from the joyful chaos of the farmer's market, but you balk as you look up from a basket of oranges — straight into the eyes of your one night stand.

"Wait," you say. Your brow wrinkles. The man — tall, ridiculously handsome, way out of your league — merely blinks his dichromatic eyes and lowers his hand slightly. He sets the cold can of milk tea on the table and reaches up to tilt his bucket hat a little further up his head, revealing a shock of red and white hair that looks vaguely familiar. But that's not the only thing — "You have the same bucket hat as one of our regulars. But he said it was exclusive."

"I do have the hat," the hottest guy in the world says. "I'm Todoroki Shouto. Do you remember me?"

You feel the flush burn in your cheeks and up the back of your neck as hazy memories from last night leap unbidden to your mind. There was the warm buzz of alcohol in your veins — the intimate, cozy izakaya — a flash of a charming smile and mesmerizing dichromatic eyes — your quietly giddy giggling as you twined your arms around a smooth neck to stretch up on tiptoes for a kiss — stumbling into a door, tripping over shoes in the genkan, wrapping your legs around a trim waist as your partner groaned into your mouth —

Of course you fucking remember Todoroki Shouto. That was the best night of your entire life, and he was the cause of it. But why is he standing at your farmer's market stall looking like the world's hottest model for bucket hats?

You left his beautifully rumpled bed this morning way before dawn, yanking your clothes back on and mourning the loss of his strong body curled up around your own, positive you'd never see him again. You know for a fact that he doesn't have your number or any contact info.

But now he's here. At your farmer's market stall. Wearing a disconcertingly familiar bucket hat.

Maybe it's one of those new trends? You don't keep up with heroes and wouldn't recognize their branding if it smacked you in the face, but at the very least you know that when a hero starts rising in the rankings, their merch starts popping up more and more often. The hat looks like it could be one of those — it's a solid black with orange on the inside (that clashes terribly with Shouto's hair, except he still looks unfairly good), a thin line of orange along the edge, and an embroidered�� grenade… patch centered in the middle.

Why anyone would walk around wearing a grenade bucket hat, you don't know, but if it's hero merch then it makes more sense. So Shouto must be a fan of this rising hero — a huge fan, to get an exclusive hat like this, but — wait, he's staring at you and gosh, his blue and gray eyes are so gorgeous and when his lips quirk in that little lopsided smile your heart feels dangerously like it'll leap out of your chest.

"I take it you remember me," he says, still in that even tone but with an edge of laughter this time.

Your face heats even more and your hands clench around the basket of oranges. "Sorry, sorry," you clear your throat. "I just… wasn't expecting you."

Shouto nudges the can of milk tea closer to you. "I wanted to see you again," he says carefully. You glance at the can and blink. It's your favorite drink to pick up from vending machines. Did that come up last night?

"And you came here to… give me a drink?"

He nods. A light breeze ruffles the collar of his shirt. His smile tugs a little bit higher on his handsome face.

Well, then. That smile is dangerous.

Shouto waits patiently as you get called to deliver the basket of oranges you're clutching for dear life. He hovers at the side of your stall, looking woefully out of place in his bucket hat and crisp, clean clothes. You can feel a streak of dirt along your cheek and your clothes are all dusty, but every time you glance back at him, he's looking at you steadily and completely unabashedly.

It's embarrassing, but you can't deny the little thrill that shoots to your toes every time you meet his gaze. "Todoroki-san, you really don't need to wait here," you say, slipping back to him during another lull in customers. "Thank you for the milk tea, though! It's my favorite."

Shouto blinks slowly as he observes you. The scrutiny does nothing to help your nerves — it takes two tries to pop the can open, and Shouto looks endlessly amused the whole time. "I would like to wait for you," he says. A pause. You bring the can up to your lips for a sip. "And you may call me Shouto. I appreciated the way you said it last night."

You choke on your drink.

The way you said it last night — gasping into his ear, moaning into his steadily fraying kisses — oh, jeez. "Ah, fuck," you blurt out, eyes widening with horror at the stray flecks of tea you've splattered on his shirt.

"It is alright," Shouto says. He pats at the small spots delicately with his sleeve and then seems to deem it unimportant. You blink as he looks up at you from beneath messy bangs. "Are you feeling… well?"

What a question. What a look. Does he know how lethally attractive he is? You take a very careful sip of your drink. "I'm… sore."

Shouto hums in response and carefully begins rolling up the sleeves of his button up. You watch, mesmerized, as the corded muscles of his forearms and biceps flex with the sure movement. You take a slow sip of your drink with wide eyes as he finishes and sets his hands on his hips. "Let me help."

Jeez, the shoulders on this guy. You can't help staring at the breadth of him as he comes around the table and into your space. A breeze of minty cool air washes over you with the movement and suddenly your brain catches what he's said.

"W-wait, Todoroki-san," you yelp, setting your can down and reaching for him. He continues bending for the large crate by your feet, hefting it up with barely any effort at all, and you're caught standing there holding onto the edge of his shirt. "Todoroki-san, you don't need to help!"

"Call me Shouto," he says. You gape up at him uselessly. "I would not want you to injure yourself because I made you sore."

"I — you — Todoroki-san," you huff, tugging even harder on his shirt. Shouto pouts and moves to bring the crate to the small truck parked behind your stall. You're forced to follow him, wary of accidentally messing up his shirt even more, though you feel a little dazed with his pout etching itself into your brain.

"This goes here?" Shouto asks. You nod wordlessly, still processing the cutest fucking pout you've ever seen on a grown man. "Would you like to hold my hand instead, love?"

Whoa, what?

Shouto sets the crate in place and dusts off his hands before reaching down to very gently detach your death grip on his shirt. You should get your hearing checked. You're clearly hearing things, because the hottest man you've seen in your entire life couldn't have possibly just called you 'love'.

"Love?" you repeat.

Shouto's lithe fingers squeeze around yours briefly. "Would you prefer a different pet name? I recall you mentioning that you liked that one."

You snap your jaw shut. "I… did…" you say slowly. But you said that to your regular, the other bucket hat wearer, the guy who always came wearing a face mask for pollen and dark sunglasses and that exact same bucket hat that you've… never seen anywhere else…

Several things fall into place at once. You stare up at Shouto with slowly mounting horror.

"Todoroki-san, are you… Helpless Produce Guy?"

Shouto laughs. Oh. Oh, you're so stupid. That's the laugh that's plagued your dreams every day for months as you've nursed your silly crush on the worst grocery shopper you've known. "So that is what you call me."

"I've never met someone more hopeless about buying fruit and vegetables," you say blankly. "I remember teaching you how to choose carrots the other day. I can't believe this. I've been teaching you how to pick watermelon for ages and I never knew your name or face. Just that bucket hat."

"Oi, Icyhot," a rough voice suddenly speaks up from behind the two of you, and you spin around to find yourself face to face with a spiky blonde guy who is undoubtedly a hero if the huge, bulky muscles are any indication. He's wearing a face mask and sunglasses, but he's got several reusable tote bags stuffed to the brim with leafy greens and potatoes and apples hanging off his arms.

"If you don't finish flirting with your new partner soon, I'm not gonna teach you how to make my famous curry recipe," the newcomer says. Shouto seems unfazed, simply tugging you closer with your intertwined hands. "Didn'tcha say you wanted to impress 'em?"

"I believe they are impressed," Shouto says evenly, glancing down at you with the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips. "I am helping because they are sore."

It's just the slightest emphasis on "sore", but it makes you itch to kiss that stupidly handsome smug smile off his face. "I'm fine," you say.

"Gross," the other man says decisively. You snort as he spins around and stomps off to look at a particularly enticing basket of celery stalks.

"Sorry, Todoroki-san, I promise I don't call you 'Helpless Produce Guy' that often," you say.

Shouto squeezes your hand. Warmth tingles up your arm and melts your heart into giddy mush. "I don't forgive you." You gape at him. He tugs you a little closer. "I will not forgive you until you agree to call me by my name."

Is he serious? The slight wrinkle in his brow makes you think… yes.

"That's… I don't know if I can," you blush.

Shouto hums. "Then you may call me your 'boyfriend' until I can remind you how to say my name."

Holy moly. This guy.

"Alright, boyfriend," you cannot say it without ducking your head. Almost immediately, his long fingers tip your chin back up. "Are you secretly a five star gourmet chef and you've just been acting like you've never seen a basket of strawberries before?"

Shouto cracks a tiny grin that pierces your heart. "I assure you, the produce help was invaluable. However, I frequent your stall the most because I find you… lovely."

Oh, dear.

"I do not wish for our relationship to remain limited to your stall at the farmer's market," he continues, as if he isn't blowing your mind with every word out of his perfect mouth. "Hence, why I could not help but approach you when I realized we were both at that izakaya last night."

"And you… knew it was me. Even though I didn't have my work apron."

"You were telling your friends about Helpless Produce Guy," Shouto says drily. "I had a feeling I knew the subject — but yes, I would recognize you anywhere."

"Jeez, Shouto," you breathe. Those dichromatic eyes widen a fraction before narrowing as you take a step closer to him. "I didn't realize… where are your sunglasses and mask?"

He pats the front pocket of his button down assuredly. "I am prepared."

You cast a quick glance around. Your coworkers are handling the stall well, and fruits are practically flying off the shelves as Shouto's friend gives a lecture to a captive audience about the importance of fresh fruits and vegetables in a healthy diet. The two of you are tucked out of view, mostly hidden behind the truck.

"And this…" you gesture between the two of you with your free hand. "We're… dating?"

Shouto nods solemnly, but there's a sparkle in his eyes. "Yes, my love. You make my heart beat berry fast."

Your lips twitch before you can help it. "No."

"I think we make a good pear," he says. "I find you very a-peel-ing."

You burst into giggles and Shouto tugs you into his firm chest. The sturdy, steadily increasing heartbeat beneath your ear isn't quite loud enough to drown out your own rapidly leaping pulse.

"If you were a fruit you'd be a fineapple," he says into your ear. You shudder lightly at the low, even tone but snort at his deadpan delivery, soft as it is. "Is this okay? You said once that you liked these puns."

"I do," you nod. "And I'd love to date you. Since you have a peach of my heart."

"Good," he murmurs. You tip your head up to look at him and beam at the gentle blush rising on his cheeks. Shouto leans down to press a careful kiss to your lips, drawing back after a moment with a shaky breath. "I was running out of lines."

"Don't you mean you were running out of limes?" you snicker.

Shouto stares. And then, still with that soft, deadpan tone — "Every day with you will be mangonificent."

[doumadono]

I'm excited to share this incredible artwork created for me by the super kind and talented @explosion-island ♡ It features Bakugo alongside my two MHA OCs - Ayame (his wife) and Mikka (their teenage daughter). I love how Bakugo is dressed formally but with a slight messy touch - his tie not perfectly tied, combat boots instead of patent leather shoes, and his tuxedo slightly rumpled. It perfectly captures his personality - he's just being himself. In my little AU, he's already the number two pro hero, and his daughter attends U.A., aspiring to be a hero like her dad ♡

I want to express my gratitude once again to the artist for creating this beautiful drawing for my birthday. It was truly one of the sweetest gifts I've ever received!

[heartofjasmina]

Pro!hero Katsuki and his sleepy gf! Who just wants to nap. On him specifically. Can't get any work done without you curling up beside him, demanding he take a little siesta with you. And how is he supposed to resist when you look all rumpled and adorable. So he ends up trying to type with one hand while you're drooling on his chest and wrapped around his body like a squishy boa constrictor.

[princessbrunette]

kinktober : oct 25th

modern!anakin x virginity loss

god, he’d be so sweet on you.

always telling you that ‘it’s okay’ and that he ‘can wait’ even though you can feel his hard on pressing against your ass when you sit on his lap every time the two of you make out. he wanted to be careful, make you comfortable, find out what really makes you tick.

you’d been building slowly towards sex, starting with him rubbing you over your panties until you came one evening when he was sleeping at your house, a stuffed animal from your childhood digging into his spine as he crams himself into your bed, hand down your pyjama shorts cooing sweet nothings at you as you made a mess inside your cotton panties. it was the first time he’d touched you intimately at all, the movie the two of you were previously watching still playing on the screen, the only thing illuminating the room. “you feel that, pretty girl? can you tell me how it is? need t’hear some words, yeah?”

the next few times were strictly him still getting you off — dry humping with you on his lap, his back leaning up against the tree of an empty field one your picnic date. your sundress was bunched up around your waist, short gasps falling into his parted lips as you grind your pantie-clad crotch against the hard-on in his basketball shorts, whimpering and digging your nails into the material of his black tshirt. his snakebite piercing skims your lips when he talks. “its okay beautiful, make yourself feel good — know you need it.” a big warm hand stroking your clammy back.

you then graduated to riding his thigh a week later in his living room, anakin manspreading on his arm chair having placed his playstation controller to the side to attend to you when you’d given him the needy eyes and sweet pout telling him you were ‘thinking about last time’ in that innocent voice of yours. he’d talked you out of your panties this time, your skirt rumpled on the floor as you hump his sweatpants covered leg, naked from the waist down as he coaches you through it, more and more vocal each time he gets you off. “my needy girl, aren’t you? m’gonna have a problem on my hands if you can’t control yourself like this, aren’t I? what’s gonna happen when i’m not here for you to hump like a little puppy dog?” he tests the waters with his teasing, a giant grin on his face— noting the way you collapse against him with a pornographic moan when he does so.

the same evening, you couldn’t bare to blue-ball him any longer and begged him to let you give him a handjob atleast. it didn’t take much convincing, and not long after he’d calmed you from your orgasm, you were quickly pushing him towards his as you perch on his leg, staring at him with wide submissive eyes, listening to his every direction as you pump your wet hand up and down his shaft. he’d learnt by now how much praise effects you, and now he was gathering that you needed it just as much when you weren’t the one being pleased, rather doing the pleasing. “am i doing okay, ani?” you’d politely enquire, the hand that was resting on his own head would come down to stroke your cheek lazily, eyes on your hand. “yeah baby, my best girl. you wanna twist your hand a little for me? yeah just like that. maybe spit on it a little more. fuck, good fucking girl.” you really liked how he spoke when he felt good.

you’d come to him only two days later, shy and polite as ever asking to suck him off. “i read about how to do it good in cosmo.” you tell him proudly, albeit slightly naively as you flop down on your stomach on your bed, kicking your feet behind you as you converse with him casually. he chuckles from where he lounged against your headboard. “oh yeah? you a pro now?”

you nod with a happy ‘mhm’ which he finds adorable as he tilts his head a little, regarding you curiously. “my love, you’ve seen how big it is. i don’t know if you’re ready for that in your mouth. might choke.” he bites back another chuckle and you shake your head urgently, scrambling up on the bed to kneel right beside where he sat with wide eyes, ready to convince him.

“no way, my gag reflex is pretty good! i swear!” you plead and his gaze darkens just a touch, focused on your lips now.

“lets see. open up.” he lifts his hand, tapping your bottom lip with his two fingers. you don’t question it, welcoming his fingers into your mouth until they’re pushing deeper and your brows are furrowing, watery eyes fighting the urge to roll back as you stare at him. he’s grinning now, feeling his dick chub up a little in his sweatpants. “uh-huh.” he proves as you gag a little.

you grasp his wrist, blinking away your tears as you press a kiss to the tips of his stiffened fingers when he pulls them out, holding his hand there as you stare up at him desperately. “let me try, please?”

and how can he say no when you ask so nicely? of course, he lets you suck and lick on him to your hearts content, being the perfect teacher until he’s giving you the first real taste you’ve ever had of him.

a week later, he finally gets to finger you — properly.

you’re snuggled into him, open mouth panting into his neck as he scissors two fingers inside you. “oh god, ani.” you sob as if it hurts and he shushes you, puckered lips pressing to your temple and spare hand rubbing your back.

“baby, y’keep begging me to fuck you but you can’t even take these fingers. you want it or not, hm?” he cooes gently as if he isn’t ever so slightly humiliating you.

“m’trying!” you hiccup.

“and you’re doing so good for me.”

finally, after a few weeks of combining all that you’ve learnt from anakin — you can’t wait any longer, and neither can he. with you laid out naked before him, he caresses your cheek.

“is it gonna hurt, do you think?” you ask, and he scratches behind your ear.

“it shouldnt, you’re so good at taking my fingers now aren’t you? think i got you nice and ready.” he explains as you nuzzle into his palm for comfort.

his tip nudges at your entrance and you’re already mewling. “you ready for me, pretty? you gonna tell me if you wanna stop?”

“yes ani, please!” your manicure digs into his tattooed shoulders.

he’s so good with you, hissing through his teeth when he gets all the way in, kissing away your shocked expression at how deep he feels. he has the patience of a saint, hands stroking your skin and soothing you until your hips are writhing against his, begging for him to fuck you. “look at you, you proud of yourself, sweet girl? getting fucked by your boyfriend, just like you wanted. gonna take it nice and slow, yeah?” he huffs, practicing self restraint.

it’s not often you can make someone cum the first time you fuck them, let alone cum as hard as anakin makes you — but by the time he’s done, your legs are shaking and you’re limp, only able to be scooped up into his arms and held, his hoarse voice shushing your weak whimpers as you jerk from the aftershocks.

“did so good. so good.”

[projectbluearcadia]

[ NSFW | Minors DNI ]

Wordcount - 806

The Price for Cuddles

Con: Men are ready for sex at the drop of a hat.

Pro: Men are ready for sex at the drop of a hat.

CW: Slightly implied somno, some light thigh smacking

Coming into his room with a pillow in hand, the whites of my eyes lined with telltale red threads, my hair rumpled and messy from tossing around.

"Again?" is the question on his lips, a playful smile written on his face. "Can't you sleep without me for one night?"

"Apparently not," I grumble, and Lucifer beckons me closer to him as he flaps his blanket up as an offering. Only too happily, I accept such an offer and settle next to him, where he kisses my cheek.

"And what position would the spoiled princess like tonight?" he teases, and I glare at him for the stupid nickname.

"Just spoon me, Dickus." He chuckles before he humors me, laying down on his side and patting the spot next to him, reaching his other arm out. I smile a little at the sight before I settle myself into his arms, and Lucifer hugs me tight to his body, kissing the back of my head.

"Better?" he murmurs, and I close my eyes as I lean into the touch.

"Better," I agree, and I start to drift in and out of consciousness as his warmth and security leaks into my system, telling it to relax and shut down.

Lucifer's system, however, disagrees.

His lips tickle my neck, and I already know what's coming as he plants lazy kisses on the skin, one of his hands drifting to wrap around my breast. Something behind me steadily gets harder against my lower back, and I softly groan.

"What?" he whispers in amusement. "Go to sleep, darling." Even as he's saying that, his other hand slips into my pajamas, his fingers rubbing me over my panties.

"You expect me to sleep when that thing is poking at me?" I snort, and Lucifer lightly bites my ear.

"Yes; it's just something hard pressing against you, honey," he chuckles, even as he grinds against me. "Something that might slip between your legs in a few minutes." His fingers drift inside my underwear, and I let out a soft moan.

"Why are you always horny when I want to cuddle?" I half-complain.

"Oh, please, like you're some kind of saint. You're already getting soaked."

"Am not," I object, only for Lucifer to bring his shiny fingers up to eye level.

"Oh really?" I mewl as his fingers push their way into my mouth. "And I suppose this is just water? Why don't you suck it off my fingers and tell me how it tastes?" Despite the fact that I hate the taste, I close my lips around his fingers and suck them wantonly, squeezing my legs together eagerly as he obligingly thrusts them back and forth before taking them out. "Well?"

"Blegh. Is the taste."

"That's what I thought." Lucifer pecked my neck, slowly grinding his hard-on against me. "Now would you like to take back what you said?"

"Fine..."

"No, I want you to say, 'I'm sorry, sir; I'm horny and I need you.'"

"You're a little shit," I manage to groan before I gasp as his hand lightly smacks my thigh. "I'm sorry, sir." He has me trained way too well, I swear to...

"Mhm. And?" He lightly teethes my neck, his other hand straying under my button-down pajamas to palm my breast, gently squeezing it like a ripe peach he was trying to separate from the pit. Pleasant prickles flicker through the skin, leaving me sighing.

"Fuck me," I whine, and he smacks my thigh a little harder. "I'm sorry."

"No, honey, that's not what I told you to say."

"You enjoy this way too much," I groan, which of course earns me another light smack. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Mm..." Lucifer kisses the back of my ear, and I softly yelp as he flicks my nipple. "You're adorable." He nips my earlobe. "You know I'll give you exactly what you want if you're good."

"I'm horny, and I need you inside me," I groan in defeat, and Lucifer chuckles, licking up my neck.

"That's right, you do need it," he rasps, and I can feel him smirking against my skin as his hand eagerly pulls down my waistband. Frickin' hell, him and his way of getting sex out of me... I'm not complaining, but it's sooo unfair...

"I'm going to be sore again," I grumble as I turn around and finish taking off my pants for him, and Lucifer grins before he kisses me. "You're such a dick; you know I have to walk around town with Simeon tomorrow."

"If I'm such a dick," he whispers against my lips, "then why don't you tell me to stop like I fucking taught you?"

"You tempted me!" I protest, and he kisses me again, his fingers briefly circling my sensitive bud before opening me up.

And, of course, his smug reply: "That's not my problem."

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

Post hoc ergo propter hoc

A con of being friends with the White House Press Secretary, Jyn finds, is that the good-natured hazing in front of the rest of the press room goes on for far too long. Another is that Leia will absolutely not take no for an answer on the “mandatory tour”, even though she clearly doesn’t have time for it, going by the four aides that immediately besiege her as soon as they step out of the press room.

Jyn is sure there will be pros as well, but she hasn’t found any so far.

“Leia, Draven wants you in his office in half an hour about the HUD thing,” says the last of the aides, jogging to keep up with them.

“Thank you, Kate,” Leia says without stopping, her arm still firmly linked with Jyn’s. “I’m just going to finish the tour for Miss Erso here. She’s my latest charge, she took over for Hal.”

“Oh!” The aide smiles brightly and shakes her hand. “Congratulations, ma’am,” she says and disappears down a corridor.

“Four people have called me ma’am today.”

“Get used to it. This is the White House, it’s like a reflex.”  Leia stops to delegate some more important press secretary business in the next office over – Jyn gathers it’s the Communications Office – then returns to scoop her up again and drag her down another hallway.

“You haven’t shown me a thing, Leia.”

“Well, that was Kleya Marki’s office, and down there’s the mess, that’s always important –“

Jyn has a sudden realization followed by a horrible, sinking feeling. “Leia, please tell me we’re not –“

Too late. Leia has spotted her prey at the end of the corridor, and pulls her towards him, smiling brightly and heels unmistakably loud on the polished floor.

“Cassian!”

Oh God. “Leia, come on, he’s busy. It’s my first day, he can –“

“Nonsense, he just looks busy. He always looks busy.” She grabs Jyn by the sleeve and drags her further down the hall. “Cassian, meet the new Post correspondent!”

Jyn stumbles along, feeling like an absolute fool for falling for Leia’s whole spiel and letting herself be dazzled by the West Wing of it all – and for knowing the guy she was stupidly, wildly in love with in college and then left without a word now worked in this building, and still putting off preparing what the fuck she would do when she actually met him again until, well… right now.

The man who has stopped at the end of the hall is in a fairly rumpled suit, carrying a stack of files and looks achingly familiar even from afar. For half a breath, she’s standing in some Yale hallway and is about to run to catch up with him and probably do something silly like try and tackle the papers out of his hands – and then she’s back in the West Wing and they’re all ten years older and successful, serious people again. And she’s back to wondering if he still knows her name. Or if he hates her. And which would be worse.

After a beat, he turns around and walks towards them, with a spooked look on his face like he, too, briefly tripped over ten years of baggage – or, of course, like he’s trying to place someone who looks vaguely familiar. Then something, probably the lawyer in him, takes over, and he fixes an easy, warm smile on his face. She always liked his smile. He looks older, and even more tired than he used to – naturally, he’s Deputy Chief of Staff to the president – but still, he looks good. His hair looks as soft as she remembers, which is a deeply unhelpful thought.

“Jyn.”

She feels stupidly relieved. “You do remember me.”

An offended frown pulls at his eyes. She always did like those, too. They’re such a nice brown, it doesn’t translate on pictures.

“Of course I remember you.”

(To be fair, it probably is insulting to assume he’d forget a girlfriend he had for seven months, but still. He’s busy, and at least it would mean he couldn't hate her for disappearing overnight and never picking up the phone again.) Jyn opens her mouth, closes it again, feels herself blush.

“He keeps your Baba O’Reily piece on his bookshelf, you know,” Leia says with a grin, still holding on to Jyn’s jacket like she’s scared she’ll try and make a run for it. The thought has occurred to her.

“Very funny, Leia,” Cassian says curtly and makes a vague gesture down the hallway. “I… I’d love to – I have the Secretary of Labor waiting, so –“

“It’s fine, I know you’re –”

“We should catch up, though,” he says absent-mindedly, sorting through his stack of files before adding, with a quick look up at her: “Off the record.”

“Right.”

“Maybe just come by my office before you leave, if you’re free,” he says, fiddling with the files that are starting to slip. “I’ll be here, and uh, marginally less busy.”

“Okay, yeah. Sure.”

“Great. Um - congratulations, Jyn, on the – I have to go.”

“Yeah.”

Leia watches him dart off, smirking. “So, you two are really over that whole thing, huh?”

[keep reading on Ao3!]

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

He could be quiet, Oliver reasons, glancing at the charcoal smudge of Elio’s lashes where they lie upon his Bottichelli cheekbones. The rhythmic rise of his shoulders as he breathes deep and even. Just knock one out into a tissue - or whichever item of clothing he finds on the hardwood floor - then settle in for a few more hours of sleep.

THE ESSENCE OF PLEASURE (IS SPONTANEITY)

The ethereal glow of moonlight still swathes their Manhattan apartment when Oliver jerks awake at some ungodly hour, hard and disorientated from a particularly vivid dream. Elio’s sprawled on his stomach beside him. Slender arms secreted under his mountainous pillows. Nose buried so thoroughly in the striped material that his occasional snuffling snores are barely audible over the yowling tomcat in the communal courtyard, below.

Ever the perfectionist, his exhausted boyfriend has been burning the candle at both ends: taking full advantage of Juilliard's sound-proof practice rooms to cram for his upcoming assessments. Keeping him fed and functional is an uphill battle - Pro and Annella’s sage advice notwithstanding - so Oliver hopes he’ll rest for a good while longer, yet. In all honesty, he wishes the same for himself, but his erection shows no sign of flagging, and the pressure of the sheets alone is a marked distraction at his aching groin. 

He should get up, really. 

Satisfy his carnal urges in the bathroom across the hall. 

But the bed is comfortable, despite its age, the ill-fitting window lets in a draft, and for his sins, the familiar musk of Elio’s skin - the underlying hints of Marlboro cigarettes, bergamot shower gel, and Oliver’s own Drakkar Noir - throws a fierce accelerant on the molten core of his arousal.  

Discretion might be the better part of valour, but where there’s a will, there’s most certainly a way: as evidenced by his maestro’s miraculous presence at all. And he could be quiet, Oliver reasons, glancing at the charcoal smudge of Elio’s lashes where they lie upon his Bottichelli cheekbones. The rhythmic rise of his shoulders as he breathes deep and even. Just knock one out into a tissue - or whichever item of clothing he finds on the hardwood floor - then settle in for a few more hours of sleep. 

The lingering aroma of spent passion hangs enticingly in the air, and flicking his left nipple between thumb and forefinger, Oliver’s thoughts wander to the frenzied smacks of their bodies the night before. The whispered words of encouragement as he thrust inside him. Harder. Faster. Più profondo! The eventual pleas for mercy when it was Elio’s nipples he took between his teeth; working the sensitive peaks until they were red and puffy.

He can hear them still - those phantom cries ringing out like a tefillah - and Oliver’s heart trips over itself as he throws caution to the wind. 

Eases the rumpled bedding from his bobbing manhood. 

Gathers the slippery beads of excitement to ease his way.

A vehicle pauses on the street outside. A muffled rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird rising from its tinny speakers. Oliver closes his eyes on the guitar solo - wriggles to make himself comfortable - and focusing on his sensitive tip, pretends it’s Elio’s whip-smart mouth stretching to accommodate his glans. Unsurprisingly, the mental picture zips a molten trail up his spine, so Oliver proceeds to jerk his cock in earnest; swallowing the raspy groans that choke his tinder-dry throat. 

Imagination turns to need - already, this bears the hallmarks of his fastest orgasm in years - and fumbling blindly over the side of the mattress, he forces his fretful hips immobile as he snags a pair of cotton boxers from amidst tomorrow’s discarded laundry. Elio’s, he discovers, thanks to a surreptitious sniff; the unadulterated scent a powerful aphrodisiac as he brings it to his face.

Just like clockwork, his strokes grow frenetic. The tightness of his scrotum building exponentially as a blazing fire rages at the centre of his being. Beyond his control, the tense muscles of his thighs tremble with urgency - no less violent than the stuttering of his lungs - and the garbled syllables trapped beneath his ribs emerge via stifled whimpers until -

A pointy chin digs into his shoulder.

Blunt nails skim the fading scar on his side.

A second, unabashed palm encloses his fist.

He didn’t hear the tell-tale signs of Elio stirring: the unsubtle creak of their worn-out box springs as he shuffled to close the scant distance between them. Or maybe he did, Oliver debates, while Elio presses a soft, barely-there kiss to his jaw. Airy and teasing, and nowhere near enough. Maybe he’d simply deemed it part of the fantasy. But the shock - the livewire sensation of Elio pulling rank on his pleasure - strikes a deliberate chord, and with a strangled whimper Oliver’s shoved past the thin grey line labelled just about there to right fucking now; his climax exploding like a supernova as bright white orbs dance behind his eyelids. 

It’s devastating in its intensity, yet Elio giggles with clear delight as liquid heat coats their still-moving knuckles. “Better now?” he asks, voice gravelly over his thundering pulse, and Oliver barely has the wherewithal to nod when the other man wriggles southwards, seemingly intent on licking the pearly streaks from his heaving midsection. 

***

Happy Valentine's Day, Peaches... remember when I went through that phase of shameless Oliver wank fics? Well, I figured these two idiots deserved a happy ending ❤️

[moonbeamwritings]

how easy you are to need

← PART 2 | PART 4 →

wc: 1.9k

pairing: dabi x pro-hero gn!reader

warnings: angst

Some nights, you come home from long shifts to an empty apartment, the smell of cigarette smoke and reheated takeout lingering in the air. Dabi’s come and gone, and you’re left to trace his presence through your apartment like footprints in freshly fallen snow. You find whispers, hints of him in the half-empty coffee mug he leaves on the counter or in the rumpled sheets on your bed, the dents in your pillows. You find his ghost in your laundry hamper (he’s the only one who wears your old, oversized U.A. hoodie anymore) and in the unsigned notes he leaves tucked beneath your strawberry fridge magnet, right smack in the center of the door so you can’t miss them.

I’ll see you tonight.

You need to buy groceries.

Don’t wait up.

Sometimes, you find nothing at all; no traces of him, no messages left on blue sticky notes. Untouched, pristine snow. Those nights, you wonder if every chance encounter and every visit has been little more than a dream. A cruel joke played by someone who relishes in watching your morality, your sanity, waver. It takes you longer to drift to sleep during nights like those. Your bedroom is much too quiet in the absence of his soft breathing. Your bed feels cold. Lonely.

But on some nights, like this one, you come home to find Dabi’s long, dark coat hung up on the rack, his shoes tucked neatly next to yours. You come home to find him resting on your couch with his arms splayed across the back and his feet propped up on your coffee table; the soft sound of the TV filling the air. He’s in your U.A. hoodie like always, with damp hair that you’re certain smells just like your coconut shampoo. He makes himself at home, worming his way into your spaces with practiced, shameless ease. You smile when you see him. You like nights like these the most.

“’Bout time you showed up, little hero. I was about to start watching the news.”

“Aw, you were worried about me?” You tease, shucking off your coat and toeing out of your shoes. You don’t miss the light scoff and click of Dabi’s tongue from the living room. “I missed my train. Did you eat?”

“Brought pizza. It’s still warm.”

Sure enough, a box of pizza rests atop your counter, a plate and napkin already laid out beside it. You open it to find that it’s loaded with your favorite toppings, a few pieces already missing. You glance out into the living room as the familiar sting of domesticity strikes your ribs.

Around a mouth full of pizza, you tell him, “’hank ooo.”

Without looking away from the TV, Dabi tells you not to talk with your mouth full.

You scarf down another few slices before you join him on the couch, stretching across his lap like a cat to try and grab the remote. He holds it high above your head, waggling it down at you.

“Ah, ah, I don’t think so, sweetheart. I was here first. And we’re watching...” He watches as the contestants on the cheesy late-night game show start to run across an oil-slicked surface, slipping and sliding all over it in an attempt to reach the finish line. “... whatever this is.”

“But I worked all day,” you whine, slumping onto his chest like dead weight. Some of your hair gets in Dabi’s mouth and he sputters, craning his neck to see over your head. “And this is stupid, anyway. I bet you’re not even paying attention to what’s going on!” Childishly, you mutter, “This isn’t fair.”

When he realizes you’ve completely blocked the screen, and stolen his attention, he curls his arm around your back and noses at your hair. It smells fresh, and he figures you must’ve showered at your agency. Absently, he wonders if you did it thinking he’d be home. “Life’s not fair, doll. We’ve been over this.”

The warmth of his chest stirs exhaustion in your limbs, and you wrap your arms around his neck, eyelids drooping. You let them slip closed as you nuzzle closer to Dabi, mumbling a complaint against the curve of his jaw. “Can’t believe you’d bully a poor, sleepy soul like me. That’s cruel, even for you.”

He sticks a finger into your side, and you jump a bit. “You know what you signed up for, keepin’ a villain like me around. I can be as mean as I want.” He hunches close to mumble into your ear, pressing a kiss to the shell of it only once he’s told you, “Even to you, my little hero.”

You mumble, “meanie,” into the crook of his neck, and fall silent. It settles between you for a few moments, only to be broken by the host announcing the next challenge. But Dabi can still feel the pout you press into his skin, and his eyes roll with a groan. “Fiineee, I’ll change the channel if it’ll get you to drop the damn pout.” A hand rubs up and down your back. “What do you wanna watch?”

Perking up, you turn to fix your eyes on the TV, shuffling to sit properly in Dabi’s lap. You keep one arm curled around his neck as you instruct him to the channel you’re thinking of. It’s one that airs reruns of silly, mindless soap operas. Perfect for when you’re feeling tired and inattentive after a long day at work.

“Ugh, this is the shit you like? Seriously, what are you? Eighty-five?”

“It’s perfect late-night TV, Dabi. You just don’t get it.” You snuggle closer. “Now shh, just watch.” 

Your head comes to rest on Dabi’s shoulder, and he obliges. Fine, Dabi thinks petulantly. He won’t tell you how stupid the dialogue is or about how much he hates soap operas. He won’t tell you that he’d rather be watching literally anything else. Instead, his warm palm follows a mindless path along the expanse of your back, delicate fingers tracing shapes and patterns between your shoulders blades and down the curve of your spine. 

You don’t speak for almost an entire episode, and usually Dabi can’t seem to get you to stop talking, so the absence of your voice plants seeds of unease in his lungs. He tries to ignore the shift of your brows, pulling together despite the joyful reunion happening between the couple onscreen. Though he can’t see it, he can picture the look on your face. He imagines it’s the same expression you made in your bedroom the night he came to get patched up. The crease between your brows, the far away look in your eyes. He resists the urge to smooth it away with the pad of his thumb. You talk too much, Dabi knows. But you think too damn much, too.

Finally, the silence breaks. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different?”

Dabi’s hand stills on the small of your back, the other grips the remote. The planted seeds start to bloom, turning his veins to thick, immovable stems as his lungs crowd with leaves. It takes all of his remaining strength to choke out, “What do you mean?”

“Like, if we were normal?” There’s a certain sheepishness in your voice that you can’t bite back. Dabi wonders if this is what you’ve been thinking about for the last twenty minutes, with your face hidden beneath his chin.

“If we weren’t...” He pauses for a moment, voice softer than before, “... us?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause, and then, “Sometimes.”

“What do you think about?”

“I like to think I’d try to love you properly, then.” He tells you. You pull your face away enough to watch his mouth curl into a bittersweet smile, almost like he’s imagining something familiar. Like he’s revisiting a thought for the millionth time. “I’d take you out to nice dinners and bring you flowers once a week.”

The TV fades into white noise as your heart hammers in your chest, anticipation pulling your muscles taught. Unconsciously, your fist curls into the hood of his sweatshirt. “I’d have an apartment with a comfy couch and a proper oven, and you’d spend weekends with me there. You’d teach me how to make your famous lasagna, and you’d get mad when I weasel out of doing any of the work. We’d eat breakfast together and go on walks...” 

A beat of silence follows as if he’s struggling to find the words. Your eyes don’t move from his face, following the slope of his nose before stopping to get lost in the emotion swirling in the deep seas of his eyes. His own refuse to move from the TV, but his scarred fingers migrate to curl through your hair, around the back of your neck. “... and I’d tell you about my piece of shit dad, and I’d blame him for everything. We’d argue, and I’d leave, but I’d always come back. And when I do, you’d look at me with that cute little annoyed expression you know I love. Pretend to be mad for a bit, but you’d kiss me and we’d work on it. Together.”

The chuckle he offers you is mirthless. “Even then you’d be too good for me.”

Tears collect at your waterline, a lump of emotion swelling in your throat, and for a moment, you feel as if you can’t breathe. A hopeful, twinkling tune plays to signal the ending credits as Dabi confesses, “But I think we’d be happy. In our normal little life.”

You imagine a life without stab wounds and blood, without quirks and expectations. You imagine meeting Dabi by chance, maybe on the train or on the street on your way to work. The universe would bring you together somehow, even then; you’re certain of it. He’d still push your buttons, and you’d still pretend to hate it. Every night you’d fall asleep with him, and every morning you’d wake up just the same, his nose against your neck and his slow, even breath fanning over your collar bones.

You’re lucky enough to catch glimpses of it now, but it’s a life you both know is far away, unattainable. On nights like these, you try to clasp it in your hands — that sense of normalcy — what with your head on his shoulder and your favorite pizza sitting on the counter. The scent of your body wash clinging to Dabi’s skin and his hand in your hair. But come morning, that dream will have escaped your grasp like sand slipping from your palms, and you will once again be confronted by the confines of your own reality. Despite it all, you’re falling in love with him, you know that much, but this love will never be that one. The one you both dream of.

A tear slips down your cheek, and you’re quick to swipe it away. Dabi feels its warmth for only a second before it’s gone. The arm resting around his shoulders presses closer, the fingers gripping his sweatshirt curling even tighter as you collect yourself. Your head falls back to his shoulder as if you hadn’t asked the question at all, but you’re certain Dabi can hear the sadness in your voice, can feel the shudders in your breath when you admit, “I think so, too.”

[natsuki-bakery]

⁎˚ ఎ Golden Wind Agere ໒ ˚⁎

its the melone asker... can you maybe write a tiny ficlet with the hcs you made? It could be reader insert or if that's much, with a regresser prosciutto? ^^

Melone hadn’t anticipated this turn of events. In the middle of their mission, Prosciutto, the always composed, ruthlessly efficient Prosciutto, had suddenly slipped into a vulnerable, childlike state. It wasn’t something Melone had seen before, and considering how close-knit the members of La Squadra Esecuzioni were, that was saying something

They were holed up in a small, abandoned villa on the outskirts of Naples, hiding from Passione’s enforcers. The mission had taken its toll on all of them, but it seemed the stress had cracked something inside Prosciutto. And now, the once fearsome assassin was sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, looking small and uncertain, his usual fierce expression replaced with wide, searching eyes.

Melone sighed softly, kneeling beside his regressed comrade, his voice softened, taking on a rare gentleness as he spoke, "Hey there Prosciutto, sweetheart, is everything's okay ?"

Prosciutto’s gaze lifted, eyes round like a child’s, and Melone could see the confusion there. His heart, twisted as it was, clenched. He wasn’t used to this. He didn’t want to be used to this, but he couldn’t just leave Prosciutto to flounder in this vulnerable state

He reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand on Prosciutto’s shoulder. The touch was light, careful not to startle him. Prosciutto’s normally immaculate suit was rumpled, his usually slicked-back hair slightly disheveled. The whole scene was surreal

"It’s okay, Prosciutto.." Melone said softly, trying to inject some warmth into his words. "You’re safe, I’m here"

Prosciutto blinked, a frown pulling at his lips as though trying to remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. Melone had seen this before in other people, those who regressed into childlike states under stress or trauma. But seeing Prosciutto, *the* Prosciutto, like this was disconcerting

Melone glanced around the dusty villa, spotting an old, moth-eaten armchair in the corner. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the cold, hard floor. He stood and gently tugged Prosciutto’s hand. "Come on, little one, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable" he urged

Prosciutto followed without resistance, letting Melone guide him to the chair. Once Prosciutto was seated, Melone crouched in front of him, his sharp eyes studying the man before him. Prosciutto’s gaze wandered around the room, unfocused, as if seeing everything for the first time

"You’re okay" Melone repeated, though he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Prosciutto or himself. He ran a hand through his own purple hair, trying to think of what to do next. This wasn’t something his training with La Squadra had prepared him for. Torture, murder, espionage, those were things he could handle. But this? This was different.

He noticed that Prosciutto was fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, a nervous habit that was entirely out of character for the man who usually radiated unshakeable confidence. Melone decided to keep talking, hoping his voice would provide some comfort

"Do you remember the time we took that job in Florence ?" Melone began, his tone light, as if sharing a story over drinks. "It was just you, me, and Pesci. We had to trail that politician through the city for three days straight. You were so annoyed with Pesci, but he was just trying to keep up with you. You handled it like a pro, though. You always do"

Prosciutto’s fidgeting slowed as he listened, his gaze finally settling on Melone’s face. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and Melone felt a tiny spark of hope. Maybe this could work

"Remember how you let Pesci order the wine ? And he ended up getting us that cheap stuff because he couldn’t read the label properly ?" Melone chuckled softly. "You were so annoyed, but you didn’t say anything because you didn’t want to hurt his feelings. That’s you, Prosciutto—always thinking of the team..."

Prosciutto’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Melone’s heart ached at the sight. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I’ve got your back, Prosciutto. Always have, always will" he vowed. "You’re not alone..."

Prosciutto’s hand reached out slowly, hesitantly, and Melone met it halfway, clasping it in his own. The touch was tentative, but it was a start. Melone squeezed gently, grounding Prosciutto in the present.

For a while, they stayed like that, Melone’s hand holding Prosciutto’s as he spoke in low, soothing tones. He talked about their past missions, the antics of the team, even the time Illuso had accidentally destroyed half of their hideout because of a misplaced stand attack. Anything to bring Prosciutto back to himself.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Prosciutto’s tense shoulders began to relax. His eyes regained some of their sharpness, though the vulnerability remained. Melone didn’t let go of his hand, didn’t move from his spot in front of the chair.

"Melone…" Prosciutto’s voice was quiet, almost fragile, but it was his voice.

"I’m here," Melone replied, his thumb brushing over Prosciutto’s knuckles. "You’re okay, sunshine.."

Prosciutto nodded slowly, the haze of regression lifting, though not completely gone. But that was alright. Melone would stay with him for as long as it took. In the end, Melone wasn’t just the twisted stand user La Squadra knew him to be. He was something more, a caretaker in the shadows, a guardian of those who had always guarded him.

If you're in the basic criteria , are DSMP fans, vivziep0p fans , h0tel/h3lluva b0ss fans, Owl h0use fans, St4r butterfly fans, Ghibli fans, ddlg/abdl blogs, nsfw/k!nk blogs, anti-agere blogs, or anti Christians/Christianity blogs : just dont interact !

[ouatsnark]

need another debunking, saw this quote from a sq that reads "Hook's only appeal for Emma is the fact that he's into her, not anything about who he is as a person or how he connects to her- because she's only ever been interested in him romantically when he's done something nice or good for her. It's a weird, unbalanced, and borderline unhealthy dynamic because when someone is only interested in you because you follow her around and tell her you love her, it turns Emma into nothing more than a pr

"-- a prize for Hook and Hook into a person who has no worth beyond Emma. Yeah like? Emma's entire pro-Hook statement in 3b was "He brought me to Storybrooke so I trust him" and then he was able to move her enough to gain her favor by selling his home to help her out. Their relationship pretty much runs solely on Hook being present and dedicated to her, and her thanking him with kisses & stuff. She doesn't really seem to care about Hook as a person, who he is or what“ - continued quote from SQer

I think Hook appeals to Emma, at first, because she’s physically attracted to him. Obviously whomever wrote this has not felt an attraction that’s sparked just from meeting someone. It happens! Sometimes affection grows the more you get to know someone but sometimes true love just hits you like a freight train. I think it hit Emma and Hook but neither realized it until their first kiss and Emma buried it back behind her walls to keep herself from being hurt.

And to believe she doesn’t connect to him on a deeper level, as a person, is to completely disregard all of their interactions. Emma and Hooks’ trip up the beanstalk shows them connecting over the shared pain of abandonment. Emma saw herself in Hook and you see that in the speech she gives him at the end of season 2 when she tells him he can be a part of something bigger than himself. She’s offering him a chance the way Henry offered her one. This is to say that they do share things in common. The fact that Emma has taken the time to learn about Killian (like she knows about what happened between him and Rumple) and that she is trying to help him overcome his past proves that she very much loves him. She sees the best in him and encourages him on his journey. She loves him despite his failures and rejoices in his achievements.

As for Emma only being interested in Hook when he’s done something nice to her… um… no and also so what? She was interested in Hook from day one but her walls had to come down first. Every one around them saw that they had a connection, including Regina! Besides, what do they want? For Emma to be interested in him for sitting around and doing nothing? How is an attraction going to grow into something deeper if he stays away, says nothing to her and worse does absolutely nothing for her? The complaint here is petty and makes no sense, really.

First off, Hook had already gained her favor BEFORE she finds out that he sold his home to save her and her family. She was already trusting in him with care of her son for pity’s sake. That is not an honor to take lightly. While on their journey to the past, she’d also come to know him better. She saw a softer side. A side of him that genuinely cares for her and genuinely doesn’t want to be the man she met in the past! That was his whole purpose for waiting to drop that bomb.

Furthermore, in order for there to be a relationship both parties must be present. Hook and Emma were present and dedicated to each other. It went both ways. This was not one sided. And to say that their first two kisses were “thank you” is a gross simplification for what transpired. Their first kiss really stopped being a “thank you” the moment the challenges were issued about which one wouldn’t be able to handle it. And the second one? She’d gone looking for him because she wanted to share with him that they were in the book now and that everything had gone back to normal. She was seeking him out to spend more time with him. And sure why wouldn’t she kiss a man she’d gotten to know better, that she’d enjoyed spending time with, that she’d seen another side to, after learning he’d put her needs above his own?

“But Hook isn’t motivated by “what Emma wants” or “what Emma needs,” he’s motivated by “what Hook needs, which is Emma.” And while the show is great at depicting that with Rumple as something selfish and twisted, it paints Hook as some deep romantic for it, that all he does he does out of love!! But he doesn’t do it out of love for anyone but himself. Emma talked about him bringing her back to Storybrooke in 3b like it was some magnificent thing he’d done, but he did it because he’s obsessed and has one trajectory, and that is getting Emma. He’s a pirate and he cares about treasure and right now that treasure is Emma, because she’s a goal and an object and not a person. “ - more BS from SQer

I am going to throw Killian’s lines about “risk” and “loot” back into this because there is no way he does everything he did if it wasn’t for love. There are plenty of other women in the enchanted forest. No amount of treasure is worth your life. Also, the fact that Killian leads a rescue mission for Neal, steps aside for Neal, and then ultimately gives his life for Emma arguable goes against this notion. If you’re going to make this claim like OP did you need a little more than “trust my head canon bro, it’s legit canon.” No, not it’s not.

“We’re never given any indication that he cares about her, just that he cares about winning her over, and that’s where the issue lies.” - SQer doing what they do and lying

No indication that he cares about her? Well he “won her over” so to speak. So… Why is he still around? Oh maybe it’s because it was proven they are true love and he does in fact care about her? That’s why he knows her more than anyone else. He was the only one in season 5 who knew Emma wasn’t trying to destroy light magic because that isn’t who she is. He also spent a lot of energy trying to help Emma patch things with her parents for a man who apparently reached his end goal… He also knows her entire story and puts a lot of effort into her mental well being.

But somehow this all turned into a negative because it is Hook doing it…

“Love isn’t sacrifice, trading away all you are for the expectation of reciprocation." - SQer missing the irony that their queen is doing good only to get her happy ending and not to make anything up to her victims

It was never shown or said that Killian did things expecting a reward. In fact he often shied away from praise because he didn’t feel like he deserved it even when he did. So his actions and his words are in direct contrast with that outlandish statement.

And are we just going to ignore the fact that Killian did in fact die for Emma knowing that he’d never see her again and therefore never receive anything for doing so? Cause, you know, he’d be… dead…? During their final goodbye he even made her promise not to build her walls again and go on with her life because he loved her and wanted her to be happy. He wasn’t getting anything out of that either because, again, he’s dead! He walked into that light fully expecting he would never see Emma again and therefore never get his happy ending.

“Sorry for all the long asks but i feel like this needs a debunking and just another follow up, they never see hook trading his ship as a sacrifice cause it's a ship but it's literally his home?? he had nothing else left?” - Anon

No worries! It was a good ask. That fandom loves to put a bunch of fancy words and opinions together but they literally have to twist canon and ignore so many details to hate this character and what is really aggravating is that you could say all of this about Regina and the relationships she had because in the end it was always about her own happy ending.

[depressedstressedlemonzest]

Here's the line for the customer service rating. Are you enjoying your stay here? With me?

Trying so hard to seem like he doesn't care.

But you can tell by the set of his lips and the way hes avoiding her gaze that he does.

He doesnt want to be the reason her life is ruined in a way she didnt ask for.

Oh yeah, right there with you. I had big dreams when I was younger to travel all over the world.

Thanks adulthood, capitalism, the crashing economy, and reality for crushing those dreams.

Same.

Same. Moved 20 minutes out of it. Which honestly feels alot farther than it is. Pros and cons to that.

He wants to know how bad he fucked up by turning gaston into a rose.

*ya done fucked up A-ARON"

That tentative glance at her.

Still trying to play it cool.

Rumple "play what cool" stiltskin.

You can tell by the look on her face that She's been waiting to shit talk gaston since she met him. But everyone just ADORES that asshat.

I like this shot too.

We KNOW BABE. that's why you took the first opportunity to get the fuck outta there.

Try to contain your glee bebe.

You can tell he is practically vibrating with excitement and joy of hearing that.

Next part of the scene in the next post because I can only add so many pics lol

[personality-corner]

Rumplestiltskin / Mr. Gold

INTJ

I was debating between this and INFJ, and while I think an argument can be made for INFJ, I am very confident in my typing, especially after typing out my argument.

Dominant Ni (Introverted Intuition) / Inferior Se (Extroverted Sensing)

Rumplestiltskin has the ability to predict the outcomes of any situation and does everything he can to react accordingly. The majority of Rumple’s actions stem from a worry of what might happen in the future, usually not really considering how his actions are affecting the world around him in the moment. The first big example of this was when he injured himself, in fear of leaving his son fatherless, not really considering how his cowardice would affect his wife right now. As he develops more as a character, and delves into his dark one identity, we see more and more of his Ni at work. He is able to guide Regina from a hurt yet innocent women to an evil queen who murders anyone who stands in her way. He is the one who creates the dark curse in the first place, and is able to cultivate deals in which he is promised a good and safe life. His inferior Se, while lacking when it comes to his obsession with the future, is able to pick up on things many others aren’t.

Auxiliary Te (Extroverted Thinking) / Tertiary Fi (Introverted Feeling)

Rumple knows exactly how systems of magic work and does everything he can to manipulate it to his advantage. He knows that all magic comes with a price, and is able to weigh the pros and cons to determine which prices he is willing to pay. He is very adherent to contracts and deals, always complying to his side of the deal, and becoming extremely angry with those who don’t uphold their side of the bargain. Despite his shady morals, he does abide by them very closely and does what he can to protect those he cares about, which mainly consists of Belle, Baelfire and sometimes Henry, and rarely anyone else. While he is very protective over those he loves, his protectiveness is often extreme, and costs him many of the positive relationships he has with others.

[cannedcrow]

Hermit's Hold - Scarian/Hermitcraft Gold Rush AU - Part IV

A/N: Been a while! I recently got the zest to write again and finally found the inspiration to continue this story. I'm very excited about continuing my various fics (Arbitrary Darkness and Flower Frost) so if anyone's still interested, stay tuned! This one might get spicy soon ;)

Read on AO3!

~ Fic inspired by @gritties. Please reblog if you enjoy! <3 ~

When Grian awoke, it was to a headache and an offensive sunbeam shining on his face. He rolled over groggily, propping himself up on one elbow and observing his surroundings.

He, Etho, Bdubs and Scar had eventually gone to sleep in the small apartment that Bdubs and Etho inhabited above the bar. They'd insisted their guests take the beds, and Bdubs was still snoring on the floor next to the bed, half-blanketed by his mossy cape. Etho was slumped over a small table, flanked by his tumbler and the whiskey bottle, which, he noted, was significantly less full than it'd been when Grian had gone to sleep. Scar and Doc had vanished, leaving only disturbed blankets as evidence of their presence. With a final glance at Bdubs and Etho - he decided to let them sleep - he dressed and hurried downstairs.

He found Scar and Doc in the stables, leant on the divider and talking in severe undertones. They looked up when Grian entered, Doc's face a mask of anger. He hadn't yet seen Doc be anything but pleasant, and he hoped he was never the recipient of the scowl that twisted Doc's already frightening face.

"The horses are gone," Scar declared flatly. He showed no signs of the previous night's drinks and Grian immediately felt aware of his own scruffy hair and rumpled clothes.

"Gone? Elderberry?" Grian exclaimed in panic, "But-"

Doc's gaze lingered on Grian for a moment before he looked away.

"Whoever took them is new in town I think. Or they are very foolish," he growled, a mirthless smile twisting his face.

"We'll find them," Scar comforted Grian, his reassuring smile not hiding the stern anger in his eyes, and Grian wasn't sure whether he meant the horses or the thief. Somehow, he couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the perpetrator.

Scar and Doc disappeared, bidding farewell to Etho & Bdubs before reassuring Grian that they didn't need his assistance. Etho shook his head as he helped Grian saddle a rented mule.

He inquired, but all Etho said was "What a fool."

Scar was gone most of that day and the next. And the next.

Grian continued work on the shop, trying not to worry about their fate. If anyone can handle themselves, it's those two, he reassured himself.

He joined a group of other camp members on the second day for lunch and was welcomed with open arms. The three were detonators, as evidenced by their charred clothing and soot-smudged faces. He recognised one as the pianist at the bar, a slight, blond-haired man with warm red eyes and a perpetual fanged grin. He announced himself as Tango, and introduced his companions - Mumbo, whom he took an immediate liking to, was another English man, tall and slim with an impressive black moustache and bizarrely well-groomed appearance, and Impulse, a stocky, broad-chested man with a friendly face and burn scars riddling his arms.

Impulse tossed a handful of redstone into the campfire Grian was starting and it immediately blazed red and grew in size. Tango laughed and poked at the eggs in their skillet. Impulse smiled too. "Old redstoner's trick, that," he informed, accepting a plate from Tango. Mumbo passed one to Grian and winced, earning chuckles from the other two as he pulled up his sleeve and rubbed his bandaged arm.

"What happened?" Grian inquired, looking at Mumbo's annoyed expression.

"I uh- misstepped while we were excavating today," the man replied begrudgingly.

"Poor guy didn't time his pulses quite right and got blasted," Tango snickered, as though this explained everything.

"I see," Grian said, not seeing.

"Redstone is tricky," Impulse helped, "That's why only the pros do it, right Mumbo?"

Mumbo scowled.

The three of them amused themselves by telling Grian horror stories of their experiences in detonation and showed off various scars, evidently enjoying his horrified expression. One of their number, it transpired, was absent - a maniacal man called Zedaph who it seemed had been experimenting with using creepers for controlled demolitions (this idea utterly horrified Grian) and was currently recovering after losing a few fingers.

As they finished their meal, he nonchalantly ventured, "Does Scar often disappear for days at a time?"

"Oh, yeah," Impulse said, wiping his mouth on his arm, "Funny guy, him. Great company though, and he looks after his own well enough."

"They're businessmen through and through, those two," Mumbo continued, "No clue what they get up to. Business stuff. What happened that's got you wondering?"

Grian recounted the other day, and the three looked flabbergasted.

"They stole your horses?"

"Well, it can't be too uncommon around here, right?" Grian replied, bemused at their shock.

"Well sure, but not from them. Fool to cross those two, if ya ask me," Impulse said, shaking his head.

"I wouldn't try it," Tango agreed with a dark chuckle.

Grian joined the trio for meals several more times, happy for their warm, comfortable company. They were always laughing and telling stories, sharing their food and even letting him taste their preferred drink - a strong, deep red whiskey that tasted like sharp fire which made him cough and was apparently infused with redstone powder.

When Scar did return, it was late into the night. Half asleep, Grian heard the thud of hooves and jingling of tack before the cabin door creaked open. Jellie leapt lightly off the bed and trotted up to him with a meow of greeting, and Grian watched through cracked eyelids as Scar stripped off a stained shirt and discarded it. The fiery glow of the hearth settled on a hard-muscled chest and the strong features of Scar, handsome despite the patchwork of dirt and scars marring his unshaven face. He looked exhausted but satisfied. He withdrew a flask and picked up Jellie, crooning to her softly as Grian let himself fall asleep again, feathers prickling with the sensation that somehow he were being examined.

When Grian awoke, Scar was already up and brewing coffee. He grinned at Grian with that familiar lopsided smile, surrounded by a white beard of shaving foam. "Morning, buddy! how've ya been?"

Grian yawned and stretched, the last night mostly forgotten.

"You're back! I was getting worried," he replied, returning the smile and accepting a cup of coffee, "That beard suits you by the way."

"Back and better than ever. And I've got your friend back," Scar said breezily, leading him outside, to where Elderberry was tied.

She whinnied a greeting and Grian buried his face in her warm neck.

"Thank you," he breathed, "What happened?"

Scar waved his hand as though the question was absurd, "We played detectives, found the thief and got em back."

"Just like that eh?"

"Well, we had to rough him up a little to make a point," Scar grinned at his reflection as he shaved, and Grian decided not to press the issue.

Normalcy resumed again in the camp, and Grian fell into the comfortable rhythm of work again. The store was gaining shape steadily, and they began frequenting town more often to transport inventory in readiness to stock. As a side project, he began to expand Lynxholding, adding a few feet to the large room to give space for himself and Scar, as he'd wholly committed to his home there. They frequently enjoyed the company of the demolitions crew when they came down the mountain, and Zedaph returned, another English man - to Grian's delight - with windswept blond hair and a badly singed white coat, who proudly showed off a bandaged hand with too few fingers.

A few weeks passed in peace before anything of interest happened. Grian had been preparing to make a midday meal when he spotted a crowd of miners near the river, huddled around a strange man whom it appeared had come down the mountain. He was gaunt and thin, clothes tattered, his blond hair touselled and plastered to his head by sweat, and his small yellow wings were dull, one held close to his body and stiff with dried blood and mud. His brown eyes were haunted and empty, one marred by a nasty bruise.

The miners flooded him with questions but he didn't say a word, only staring blankly at the ground, shrinking as though he hoped to sink into the ground. The crowd parted as Scar arrived, evidently fetched by one of the miners. He handed the man a waterskin and put an arm around his shoulder.

"Come on my friend, let's get you patched up," he soothed. The man followed dutifully as Scar led him away gently, addressing the others as he went, "And you fellas clear off. I'll look after our friend."

Grian returned to his meal, considering the encounter. He reflected on Scar's oddly gentle and comforting nature, stark relative to his intimidating person. The blond man had seemed so shaken and diminutive, utterly lost. What on earth had happened to him? Had he been separated from a hunting party and set on by Indians? Perhaps he'd run into a bear - God knows how he'd gotten away. People didn't often travel up Donner Pass - those mountains were treacherous and cruel, utterly unfazed by human exploration. He suddenly recalled Etho's story and shuddered.

In the evening he returned to their cabin to find Scar watching over the man as he slept fitfully in the bed.

"Evening. How's he doing? Has he even spoken?"

"He's not talking. God knows what's shaken him up so badly," Scar sighed, "I'm gonna try an' take him up to town tomorrow to see a real doctor. Think you can stay with Tango and them for the night? They came down a few hours ago."

"Oh - of course," Grian agreed, "Do - do you know him? You seem really worried."

"No, not at all. We have to look after each other though. It's a rough place. You can't get along without help," He scratched Jellie's chin and chuckled, "Speaking of which, sorry to have to kick you out buddy."

Grian gathered his things to leave, "No worries mate - I'll see you then. Wake me if anything changes, alright?"

Scar nodded, "Sleep well!"

Grian looked back as he left, and as the door swung closed, he frowned at seeing Scar watch the sleeping man, his face cold and expressionless.

The mysterious man died in the night, evidently succumbing to his injuries. They'd never even learnt his name, and they buried him shortly outside camp. Scar was rather reserved as they headed out to town accompanied by the demolitions crew. Grian assumed he was grieving over being unable to save the stranger, and the ride passed mostly in silence.

Upon entering the familiar, comforting cool of Easy E's however, their number perked up immediately. The wrecking crew split off to see some familiar faces while Scar and Grian found Doc at the bar talking to Ren, whose ears pricked as he greeted them with his cheerful, wolfish grin.

"Hey there my guys!" He slapped Scar on the back and presented a clawed hand to Grian, "I don't think we've met. I'm Ren!"

"Grian. I'm shocked we've not had a chance to meet yet seeing you're a pal of these two,"

"I've been doggedly ignoring you," Ren replied, roaring with laughter at his own joke as Doc shook his head.

"My god, that was terrible," he smiled as Scar laughed.

Doc ordered a round of drinks for their party, and Etho obligingly poured a stream of Canadian whiskey along their row of glasses.

"So, how's our shop coming?" He asked Grian, who enthusiastically reported the progress to a delighted Doc.

"Oh! That reminds me, I've been meaning to see Joe about some materials - we'll need canvas and furs for the shop - and of course, to give you something better to sleep on G," Scar nudged Grian jovially.

"Think he's here," Ren replied, looking around before hollering, "Hey - Joe!"

The man who approached sported a thick moustache and a beautiful beaverskin hat, and cordially shook hands with the three in turn.

"Howdy!" He waved away Doc's offer of a drink, "Nah, Tennessee whiskey is the only kind to drink," He had a surprisingly gentle voice with a slight Southern accent.

Etho leant on the bar to listen in with a nod to Joe.

Scar animatedly talked to Joe about various pelts and pricing as Grian sipped his drink, half listening. They seemed to reach a conclusion, and Grian was suddenly struck by a realisation.

"You were the trapper who went up on Donner Pass with Etho, right?" He blurted.

Joe raised his eyebrows, glancing at Etho before returning his gaze to Grian, "Good god, that affair. Didn't think Etho talked about it much. I certainly don't."

Grian flushed with embarrassment at his faux pas and immediately ventured, "Sorry to spring on you like that - Etho told us weeks back and I just realised he mentioned you."

Etho's mask twitched with what looked like an apologetic smile, "Came up in conversation so I thought I should tell them,"

"Well, nothing wrong with that. Nasty business though ... I do my best not to think of it myself."

"You believe it then? The wendigoo?" Scar interjected with interest, evidently listening.

"Wendigo," Etho corrected, rolling his eyes.

"I didn't see it, but I've been trapping a long time from Canada through to California, and I've never heard a beast make the sounds we heard that night," Joe said somberly, and paused before continuing, "... and I never heard a voice like that from any man. I didn't need to see anything to know every one of us was watched by God to have been able to get down that mountain. Etho's no liar, whatever else he may be."

"You ... you heard it then," Etho said quietly, eyes on the bar.

"Heard that thing call Antonio through the trees? A hunter's instinct is well tuned to sounds in the forest. I'll never forget the things I heard."

The two men seemed in their own world at that moment, and none of their party interrupted.

Joe sipped his drink and continued, "That Indian fella guiding us - you saw how he was. He knew exactly what was going on and knew to scarper. Gotta trust the Natives, they've lived here longer'n any of us and anyone would be a fool to disregard them," He shook his head, "I've never been near the pass since."

They're not joking about this, Grian realised suddenly, brow furrowing.

"Well," Doc chuckled, breaking the tension, "I never needed another excuse not to wander around these mountains.”

The group laughed, and Joe smiled. Tango wandered over just then and greeted everyone enthusiastically, before nonchalantly bringing up the strange man in camp.

"Stranger, eh?" Ren asked curiously, "What, some new prospector?"

"Far from it," Tango informed, "Some guy none of us had ever seen comes stumbling down the mountain into camp. Could've been dead already, the look of him. Didn't say a word to any of us and died that night. Pretty tragic."

Doc raised an eyebrow and glanced at Scar, who shrugged, "I tried my best to help the guy and we were gonna bring him into town the next day for a real doctor. Guess he was just too injured."

Scar swirled his glass, looking more annoyed than anything.

"Shame," Doc said, tapping his glass for a refill.

"What do you reckon happened to him?" Ren asked.

"Who knows," Doc replied unconcernedly, "Could have been anything. Wandered off drunk and got himself mauled by a bear most like. It happens more than you would think."

Tango frowned. "Honestly, looked like he'd been in a bar fight more than anything - those bruises? How'd he end up going anyway?"

"Just snuffed it that night," Scar replied plainly, "Shock? Dunno. He went to sleep and didn't wake up."

Scar didn't seem interested in continuing the conversation. The topic shifted as Tango took the opportunity to launch into a story about Zedaph's latest psychotic experiment, insisting they had to hear it from the man himself and leading them to the table the other detonators sat at.

Scar and Doc eventually retreated to the bar to get another drink, and Scar leant casually against the smooth wood as Doc spoke with Etho.

When Grian excused himself to get his own, he heard the tail of their conversation.

"-shouldn't have happened," Doc told Scar seriously.

Scar shrugged, "I took care of it as best I could," and looked up, "Hey G! Whatcha getting?"

"Gin, I guess. Taste of home yeah?"

"Last one I reckon, we don't want our horses stolen again." Scar laughed, winking.