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thereaderinsertlady · 7 months

Note

May I request Antasma x Reader NSFW for the questober?

:0 ofc. Here's the link on ao3 & I hope you enjoy!

Antasma x Reader - Just a Little Sore (Semi-Smut!)

You woke up with a groan, feeling so, so incredibly sore. It felt like you had walked up a million stairs the night before…

Something shifted beside you in the bed, reminding you that you weren’t alone… Aaand that you didn’t have any clothes on. You turned– before sighing in relief, recalling the events of last night.

The quiet bat stared at you, blinking one eye at a time. He didn’t really have the need for sleep, so you often woke up with him looking at you. More often than not, he was in his larger, almost noodly form nowadays– like how he was now, and it always took you a moment for your mind to adjust to reality.

“Good morning…” You sat up, rubbing your eyes.

“Mor-ving,” he responded simply, keeping his head on the pillow. “You slept vell.”

You pouted at his statement. “Yeah. I did sleep well. You ate my nightmares, didn’t you?”

“Vell… I suppose I can’t deny that I did.” He gave you a wide, almost freaky smile, showing all his sharp teeth. “Your dreams are very… delightful, for the refined palate.”

"Quit with the sexy talk so early in the morning," you said huffily. "I can't have sex with you this often!"

"Vhy not?" Antasma purred, moving to pepper kisses all across your face.

You lowered your bottom lip though didn’t try to stop him just yet, merely letting him do as he pleased… Well, you didn’t really mind waking up and being kissed and caressed and loved. You were just… a little sore.

He kept kissing you, his large purple claws rubbing your bare thighs. You've known him for quite some time now, used to his… unique anatomy. Eating nightmares was only the beginning of his differences– his member down below could be summoned at will… which, you had assumed he was lying when you first had sex with him.

Antasma made a low rumbling sound, clearly aroused. You wondered if he had been staring at your bare body this entire time– you hadn’t woken up beneath any blankets, the air too warm for that.

"...Mm…" You groaned when he nipped at your collarbone. "Antasma…" Your hands moved to his head, idly petting him. However, after watching him place some fresh hickeys, you spoke up again. "Let's do this in the shower…"

"The showh-ver?" He hummed thoughtfully, pulling away. "Hmm… it vouldn't hurt…"

Before you could try to convince him further he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you with ease. Sometimes, it didn’t take much to convince him. He moved over to the bathroom that was connected to the bedroom, flicking on the light before placing you onto the toilet seat.

He didn't have a cock now, but was completely naked, not wearing a shred of clothes. Other than his sharp claws, he seemed so soft…

He worked on activating the shower, turning it to the temperature you liked. "After you?" He smirked, gesturing to the running water.

You carefully got up, ignoring how your legs trembled while getting into the tub. Carefully– and making sure not to fall– you stood under the shower head.

…Shortly after, he slid in behind you, shutting the curtain.

Antasma allowed you to get adjusted before beginning to touch you, gently groping and rubbing the softer parts of your body. Sometimes, his touching wouldn't even be sexual– he just liked the different textures you had to offer… though, he was more than likely doing it in a more sexual way this time around.

"Do you vant to have sex?" He murmured politely, which made you smile. No matter what, he made sure to have your consent before going too far.

"Good question…" You looked at the wall. You were pretty sore, but it was hard to refuse him…

"...Vee can pick up on this later. Screek!" Antasma affectionately nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. "You should rest und let your muscles recovur."

"I should… but… are you sure it's fine?"

"Of course." He wrapped his long arms around you, giving you a hug. "Of course…"

You relaxed into him. Although you'd love to have sex with him any time of the day for as many rounds as he wanted, you… simply didn’t have the same stamina or recovery speed as he did. You were grateful that he was so… understanding of your limits.

You and him spent a long time in the shower, with him helping you wash up. It really was a struggle to stand, as much as you wanted to refuse…

"Any ideas on what I should have for breakfast?" You asked, wanting to make small talk so you’d quit thinking thoughts.

"Mm… vhat do you feel like eating?"

You stared at the drain. "I dunno." After a moment, you smiled cheekily. "You."

"Me?" Antasma seemed amused. "You vant to eat me?"

"Sure. I mean, you seem pretty tasty."

He couldn't help but chuckle. "I can assure you that I am not. At best, I'd taste very gamey and I'd be hard to chew."

"Oh yeah?" You looked up at him cheekily. "Lean down a little."

Antasma did as you asked and you leaned up to kiss at lips. He returned the motion, and before you knew it, you were making out with him in the shower.

You hummed, turning your body to face him properly while continuing to kiss him. Despite the size difference, kissing him always felt so delightful.

He released a deep groan, eventually pulling away. "You're lucky I have so much restraint," he murmured, his yellow eyes glowing slightly brighter.

You gave him a sweet, innocent smile. "Oh? And what if you didn't have any restraint? Would you push me against the wall and use my body?"

He growled, pressing one last kiss to your lips. "Silence… little minx…"

You giggled. He was very easy to tease at times– though you chose not to tease him further, simply enjoying the rest of the shower with him. Later; you'll have fun with him later. But for now, you'll allow your body some physical rest…

#reader insert #quest tober #antasma #antasma x reader #mario and luigi dream team #spicy 🌶#jussa little spice

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redwingedwolvesafterdark · 16 days

Note

Love your new takeover asks! 12 and 13?

Hiya, Sev! Thanks so much for the ask! I'm going to have both Keigo and Dabi answer this. ^^

Ask Game

12. Any favorite places?

Hmm, honestly? I actually really like our shower! It's open-plan, so it's more than big enough to accommodate my wings. Plus, it's always fun being able to tease him with the detachable shower head.

-🦅

╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾╼╾

Easy. Kitchen counter. He always looks, so cute, bent over it with his face pushed down into the marble top.

-🔥

13. What's the wildest place you and S/I have ever done it?

Answered here.

#winged wolves🐺🦅#hell hounds🐺🔥#-🦅#-🔥#selfship #self ship #proship selfship #proship self ship #tastes like spice🐺🌶#.answering howls🐺💌

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r0semultiverse · 1 month

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Two Truths & a Lie Round 14

For people who can't see polls: Pick the lie.

I’ve written a friend’s final project essay to help them graduate.

I’ve banged one of my platonic siblings (weren’t raised together or related).

I’ve survived two tornado encounters.

#I gotta do more unhinged ones to keep y'all on your toes #the celibacy tumblr poll truthers are gonna eat this one alive aren't they?#I love making these as chaotic as possible #maybe I should do one for my more spicy 🌶 interests too #just to spice things up #I'm more than just a tumblr poster :)#I'm really curious what y'all will pick on this one #these are just so much fun to do UwU #mine #op #2 truths and a lie #two truths and a lie #two truths one lie #tumblr polls #cw adult stuff #cw adult things

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squidyyy23 · 2 years

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for his honey 🍯

ian’s impressed when his husband’s business savvy helps them expand their farm. and he's going to make sure he knows it.

we all know @gallawitchxx is the queen bee of the birthday trope mashup ficlets. but what about her birthday prompt: alternate universe with characters who work together? so here you go, babe. a little something for your bee-day 🐝

rating: [be]e (<- "i was hoping for something a bit spicer". challenge accepted. 🌶) word count: 3.5k

and shoutout to sara @shameless-notashamed for the brilliant beta brain

read below the cut or on ao3 🍯🐝

Mickey’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It takes a moment for him to register the feeling against his leg out here surrounded by the familiar white noise of his bees buzzing away in their hives. He slides the frame back into the box, quickly removes his gloves, sets them beside his well-used smoker, and answers the call.

“He signed the contract!” an excited woman squeals through the speaker. He winces, holding the phone farther away from his ear. “I’ll swing by with a copy for you two to sign tomorrow.”

Mickey’s beaming when he hangs up. Victorious.

“Who was that?” Ian brushes the dirt off his hands and wanders over from where he’d been working in his garden.

It’s curiosity only, an interest in his husband’s life. Not an ounce of distrust or jealousy. They’d long gotten over all that shit. Solid for over a decade.

“Realtor,” Mickey answers.

“Realtor?” Ian repeats, confused.

“We got it.” Mickey doesn’t bother to hide his accomplished smile. Hell of a fight, but he did it.

“We got what?” Ian still hasn’t caught on.

“It. The land. The expansion.”

“Wait, what? I thought—” Mickey watches the realization wash over him. “How?”

“I have my ways.” Mickey smirks.

“‘Course you do.” Ian’s body language softens, excitement morphing into something else. Something notably hotter than even the warm summer air. “You always make shit happen.”

Damn straight he does.

Mickey looks around at all they’ve built. Their respectable plot of land. The couple acres of bee farm. The sizable garden they cleared last year for Ian’s crops. The small country store by the road where they sell their local, organic honey—and more recently, Ian’s produce and quickly-becoming-famous jarred tomato sauce—to tourists passing through on their way to their fancy-ass vacation homes in the mountains. A huge step up from the booth they used to lug around to every farmer’s market in a hundred-mile radius.

Ever since Ian followed his gardening passions to grow their business, he’s been whining about not having enough space to grow all the shit he wants. Nerdy ass motherfucker has all dozen of his beds mapped out in a goddamn spreadsheet trying to squeeze in as many things as possible.

They’d talked about trying to purchase the empty lot behind theirs. Called up a realtor. Paid a fucking appraiser to come out and give them an estimate of the land’s value. Sat down one very long night with the books and crunched the numbers. It was doable.

Only stumbling block was the prick who currently owned it. Some old, rich, white, republican asshole whose family bought up half the town generations ago. Jackass in a suit with zero intention of ever using the land for anything other than stroking his own ego.

So they made him an offer in line with said ego. Too generous if you asked Mickey, but Ian was so eager to make it happen that Mickey’d agreed. The response came back the very same day. No. Dickwad had refused to even consider it.

Ian wrote it off as a lost cause and sulked around for a week. But Mickey didn’t plan on letting it go that easily. If this guy thought he could bully them around just because he had a half-decent education and a pile of daddy’s money, he had another thing coming.

Kind of shit Terry would have pulled if he’d had the power. The thought only pissed Mickey off and made him want to fuck the guy over even more. His fist-fighting days might be over, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still up for a good challenge. Don’t fuck with a man’s honey.

“Can’t believe you kept going after him.” Ian steps into Mickey’s space. Drapes his arms over his shoulders. “Thought we’d given up.” A familiar fire burns in his eyes.

Mickey looks up into Ian’s heated gaze. “My husband’s got eight hundred varieties of tomatoes to grow. Think I’m gonna let some jackass stand in the way of that?” He grins, a mischievous thing, knowing damn well what these kinds of things do to Ian.

In an instant, Ian’s lips are on his, his tongue slipping through Mickey’s smile.

God, he fucking loves this man. All these years and it never gets old. Still that same rush. That same fluttering in his gut.

Ian’s arms slide down and wrap around Mickey’s back, those huge hands spread possessively across his rib cage. Mickey lets his hands fall from Ian’s waist to his hips where he slips his thumbs into the band of his dirty jeans and tugs. Not enough to pull them off, but enough to convey the message.

Hands drop to Mickey’s hips, pulling them forward and holding him steady as Ian grinds their already half-hard dicks together. Mickey swallows down the low moan breathed into his mouth before Ian pulls back, stepping away in his best effort to restrain himself.

“Not here,” Ian says.

“Jesus Christ. This again?” Mickey complains, wiping sweat from his brow, a combination of heat and arousal.

“I just can’t,” Ian whines. “The endless buzzing. Thousands of tiny eyes. Watching.” He makes a show of visibly shuddering at the thought.

“They’re bees. They aren’t fucking watching. Pretty sure they don’t give a shit to see us bang.”

“What if one stings your dick?”

“Seriously?” Mickey grouches. “Used to fuck behind the hives at the school almost every day. Never used to complain then.” But Mickey starts gathering his bee-keeping supplies into his toolbox anyway.

“Actually, yes. Yes, I did, but I put up with it ‘cause it was the only spot your dad would never come near.” Ian helps him pack up his tools.

There really was something funny about the fact that Terry—the big, tough, drug-running, child-abusing piece of shit—was terrified of some tiny, fuzzy insects. Maybe that’s part of what drew Mickey to bee-keeping. A quiet way to piss on his father.

Mickey hadn’t even known what apiculture was when he’d signed up for the high school’s agriculture program as his junior year elective. But it sounded like an easy class, and maybe he’d pick up some tips to up production from his weed plants. And of course Ian was there, damn hippie with a provider complex, eager to learn how to feed his whole family from a handful of seeds.

Ended up being the only period Mickey never skipped. Surprisingly, some of the material still managed to sink in even if he did spend every class staring at silky red hair.

They rush back to the store in record time, teasing each other the whole way. Mickey grabs at Ian’s dick, tickling his balls through his jeans. Ian slaps his ass when Mickey turns to run, a seductive waggle to his strut. Flirty and fun, always bringing out that youthful energy in each other.

Finally, they reach the back door, slamming it open as they bumble their way inside, practically tripping over each other on their quest to get behind the locking door of their office. But of fucking course, the bell chimes, and in walks an elderly couple, probably retired, traveling through in that giant-ass RV Mickey can see through the front windows.

And Mickey’s about to get real bitchy with these cockblocking customers, already sucking in a breath ready to blow, when Ian’s hand lands on his chest. Cool it, tiger. Can’t be scaring off the money makers.

Mickey lets it out, restrains himself just enough, tapping his foot while Ian goes off to greet the couple. He watches Ian show them around the store, offering samples of their most popular varieties of honey.

It’s a small shop, but it’s nice. Theirs. Mickey ain’t ashamed to admit he’s proud of it.

After what seems like hours to Mickey’s impatiently pulsing dick, Ian finally rings them up. Managed to sweet talk them into three bottles of honey, a jar of his precious tomato sauce, and even one of Franny’s handmade bracelets on display by the register. Mickey’s always impressed by his husband’s salesman skills, but Jesus fuck, can he not be so fucking nice to everyone all the damn time?

Ian flips the sign on the door to “closed”. His eyes land on Mickey, fucking him up and down from across the room. Mickey’s ass clenches in anticipation. Then the tension snaps, the both of them darting toward the office in the same instant.

Mickey makes it there first. By the time he turns around, Ian’s locking the door behind them, shirt already stripped off somewhere along the way. Fucker really hates shirts.

Before Mickey can blink, Ian’s got him shoved up against the wall, his body pinning him hard against the old wood paneling. He smells like dirt and sun and tomato leaves. Up this close, Mickey can see the pollen dusting across his nose, hiding amongst the freckles.

“Now tell me,” Ian growls into the crook of Mickey’s neck, breath hot against his skin, “how you broke that bastard into selling you the land.” Mickey tilts his head back, exposing more flesh to Ian’s busy lips. “Into giving you what you wanted.”

“Told him— fuck.” Ian pulls the collar of Mickey’s shirt open with his teeth, revealing even more skin to be ravaged.

“Tell me,” Ian chides.

Mickey sucks in a shaky breath. “Told him if he didn’t hand over the land, the ABF, USDA, and EPA would be up his ass ‘bout fucking with an endangered species’ natural habitat. Went after the fuckers money. ‘Course he folded.”

Mickey leaves out the part about slipping his brother some cash to “look into the guy” just in case the legal threats didn’t pan out. But if he never had to use the blackmail, Ian didn’t need to know.

“Money’s all that prick’s got in his life.” Mickey hisses as Ian grinds their hips together at just the right angle. “Doesn’t have a hunk of a husband like I do.”

Ian smiles at him like Mickey just came home with the winning lottery ticket.

“Fuck, I married the sexiest man on the planet.”

Ian reaches under Mickey’s ass and lifts his feet off the floor. Mickey circles his arms around his neck, holding on as their mouths crash together. Knocking teeth. Bruised and bitten lips.

Then Ian’s moving. Stumbling backward. Mickey’s too lost in their fervid kisses to pay much mind, trusting completely in his husband. At Ian’s mercy, always.

The back of his legs hit the edge of the desk, and Ian sets him down. The perfect height to line their mouths up just right.

Mickey’s hands work their way into Ian’s hair, tugging at the strands and scratching at his scalp. Ian clasps Mickey’s cheeks, his thumbs rubbing soft circles along his jawline, a stark contrast to the way he sucks Mickey’s lips between his teeth and pinches.

They’re both panting when they finally part for air. Ian’s fingers frantically unfasten Mickey’s jeans. Mickey uses his arms wrapped around Ian’s neck to pull him up enough for Ian to slide them off, exposing his bare ass to the polished wood.

He hears seams popping when Ian yanks Mickey’s shirt over his head. Ian wraps him in his strong arms and moans when their naked chests press together.

“You showed that asshole who’s boss,” Ian says, stepping back and stripping out of his own pants. “Now let me show yours.”

He rounds the desk. In one fluid movement, he swipes everything on its surface to the ground. Pens scatter, papers go flying, but it’s just a mess. They learned long ago not to keep anything fragile on there.

The handle nearly tears off the drawer Ian pulls it open with such force. He grabs the bottle of office lube and slams it on the cleared surface.

He stalks back in front of Mickey. Grabs his chin for one quick but all-consuming kiss before turning him around by the shoulder. A rough shove to Mickey’s upper back and he’s bent over the desk. His exposed asshole clenched, waiting.

“Fuck,” Ian whispers behind him. Raspy. Reverent. Fingertips trail down his spine. “Gorgeous like this. Still can’t believe I get to have this.”

A swift palm to Mickey’s left cheek has him gasping in surprise. He melts further into the desk, surrendering to the sweet, sweet sting on his skin.

So that’s how this is going to go. Mickey closes his eyes and curls his bottom lip between his teeth. He mentally runs through the possibility of buying up all the neighboring land if this is the reward.

Ian must have lubed up while Mickey was lost in his thoughts because suddenly he’s being filled, Ian crooking his finger into that perfect spot right off the bat.

“Ah, fuck. Holy fuck,” Mickey moans, burying his face in his arms.

His back arches into the pressure, his legs already starting to shake. From one finger. Fuck, his husband owns him.

One finger quickly turns into two, Ian scissoring them open for that achingly good stretch. He folds himself over Mickey’s body, planting soft kisses on the still-warm flesh of Mickey’s slapped cheek, Ian’s lips buzzing against skin when he moans into it.

He’ll never get over the sounds of his husband getting off to Mickey’s pleasure. From Mickey just being. Just submitting. Riles Ian up just as much as having his dick in Mickey’s mouth.

Then he adds a third finger to the mix. Fucks them into him good and hard while his other hand snakes around to stroke Mickey’s cock, his lips never leaving Mickey’s skin. Never enough to push him over that edge, just enough to keep him teetering right on it.

And then, fuck, then another. A glorious fourth finger that has Mickey drooling over the desk, his mouth hanging open as frankly inhuman sounds escape his lungs. His hips sway on his shaking legs as he adjusts to the sensation.

Spread. Stretched. Stuffed.

By his husband.

“Fuck,” Ian purrs and Mickey can feel him stand up behind him. “Take it so good, baby. Doing such a good job for me.”

Even with his eyes closed, Mickey can picture the look on Ian’s face as he stands back and soaks in the view. Half his hand buried in Mickey’s slick ass bent over the table.

Ian twists his fingers inside Mickey’s pulsing hole and they both groan in unison. Mickey’s not sure which one of them is enjoying this more.

“Love it when you let me use this perfect hole of yours,” Ian goes on, his voice sending shivers up Mickey’s spine. “Let me treat you like the queen you are.”

And Mickey’s preening under Ian’s attention, his body opening up to accept whatever Ian wants to give him.

It took him a while to get used to this, to get comfortable with it—Ian showering him in praise and affection—after a lifetime of hurt and neglect. Never learned how to process such positive words.

But now he loves it. Has learned to relish in it. Sometimes even beg for it. The assurance of how much his husband loves his body, loves him, all of him, soothing like warm tea and honey.

Ian keeps up his sensuous torment—fucking his fingers into him, spouting words both sweet and filthy into his ear—until Mickey’s legs can barely hold him up any longer.

Finally, Ian takes mercy on him. Reluctantly removes his digits, leaving Mickey empty, his cheeks clenching down hard in search of something, anything, to get that feeling back.

A strong hand wraps around his waist, stands him up, supporting most of his weight, and lowers both of them to the ground, Mickey coming to settle on his sore ass between Ian’s spread legs. Ian’s twitching cock presses against Mickey’s back, smearing wet slickness across his sweaty skin.

His tongue licks a heavy stripe up Mickey’s neck ending in sharp nibbles to his ear. “So fucking proud of my man,” whispered so soft Mickey’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. But no, he didn’t. Ian’s just like that.

Then Ian’s flipping them, pinning Mickey on his back on the plush carpet—the first and only thing they’ve remodeled in the place.

Ian straddles him, hovering painfully close but not close enough over Mickey’s thighs. He stares down at him. Pupils blown. Lost to the sight.

Mickey’s body writhes beneath him, hips bucking sky high in an attempt to find something to grind against. Friction or pressure or fucking something before he implodes under Ian’s gaze.

“You have no idea how sexy you look right now.” Ian has the audacity to smirk at him. Like he isn’t torturing the man in the most beautiful of ways.

“Please. Please, Ian,” Mickey begs, his voice hoarse and shaking. Full of desire and lust and need he’s long since stopped trying to hide.

He loves his husband. Loves the way he makes him feel. There’s no shame in that.

Ian smiles. A devious thing. Victory.

Mickey doesn’t even care.

Then he dips his head, marking his way up Mickey’s body. A trail of both teeth and suction bruising over his stomach, his chest, even the soft underside of his arm, that ultra-sensitive spot Mickey never knew he loved until Ian explored every inch of him. Ian finishes up his warpath across his neck, leaving hickies Mickey knows he won’t be able to hide.

Mickey thinks briefly of the third graders Ian invited to tour the farm tomorrow. “Come on, Mick. We’ll make it educational. Gotta get the next generation interested if we’re gonna save the bees.” Hopefully, the swarm of eight-year-olds will believe the marks are bee stings. A simple workplace hazard.

Someone sure is a hazard around this workplace, alright.

Finally, Ian’s lips make it all the way to Mickey’s. Tongues tangle in search of that familiar taste.

Ian’s splayed out against him, the full length of their naked bodies pressed against each other. Mickey squirms, rutting his cock against Ian’s, but it’s not enough. He’s still so achingly empty he’s convinced his body will turn to dust if he doesn’t get his ass filled soon.

“Ian. I need— I need—” His brain is too lost to get the right words to his mouth, but Ian understands.

His husband reaches under Mickey’s weakened legs and helps him wrap them around his waist. He lines them up. Mickey’s nails dig into Ian’s back as he braces himself.

Then, Ian’s pounding into him in one swift motion. He sinks to the hilt on the first thrust, Mickey’s hole already so stretched and ready for him.

Mickey registers the feeling of the scream leaving his chest but can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. Finally. Filled. Perfectly. By the perfect one.

Ian keeps up the relentless rhythm—good and hard, just the way Mickey likes it—until Mickey’s close. Right back on that edge. He mutters incoherent sounds until Ian gets a hand on his dick and grants him that long-awaited orgasm in three solid strokes.

Fucking ecstasy right here on the office floor. Anywhere Ian is.

Ian drags his come-slick hand up Mickey’s chest, rubbing it into his skin. Mickey hisses, all the sensations too much on the comedown.

Ian slows his thrusts, not ready to separate just yet, but eases up on Mickey’s pleasure-wrecked body.

“God, I fucking love you.” Ian’s eyes lock on Mickey’s, boring through him as he rocks his cock inside his still pulsing hole. “Fucking perfect. No one else I’d want to do this with. All of this.”

And with that, Ian’s face screws up, his eyes slamming shut against his will as he spills inside of him.

Ian’s arms shudder, his elbows give, and he collapses on top of Mickey’s chest where they stay. It takes a solid minute for the buzzing in Mickey’s ears to fade out. For his vision to clear. The tingling in his fingers and toes to subside.

He swallows. His throat feels raw. Must have been too lost to realize just how loud he’d gotten. One of the perks of being out here in the boonies. Not that neighbors would stop Mickey anyhow. Nothing a shot of homegrown honey won’t soothe.

When they’ve finally recovered, Mickey crawls his way over to the desk and opens the bottom drawer. The one where they keep the financial shit Ian avoids at all costs.

He watches Ian’s face as Mickey pulls out the supplies he’d stashed there days ago when it looked like the deal might actually go through. A picnic blanket. A grocery bag of Pringles and Snickers bars. A couple joints, the good shit from their buddy’s farm. And, even though Mickey thinks it’s disgusting, a bottle of champagne because he knows Ian loves that kind of sappy crap.

Ian’s eyes well up, soft motherfucker, and he smiles.

“For the official celebration,” Mickey says, holding up the bottle.

“You…” Ian trails off, for once at a loss for words.

“Here,” Mickey grabs one last thing from the drawer. A packet of seeds. “Let’s go plant some fucking tomatoes. As many as you want.”

Ian grabs Mickey’s face. Presses their lips together again. But this time they’re soft and slow. An I love you and thank you.

Sweet as honey.

#little sweet. 🍯 little spice. 🌶#who knew we needed beekeeper!mickey in our lives?#content warning: excessive bee-related content 😂#fuck this went off the rails somewhere #but you know i can’t resist a good bee pun #i’m just sticking to your brand okay?!?!#sticking. like honey.#alright alright. i’m done now. i promise.#happy birthday sweet thing! hope you have the most excellent of days. 😘#shameless fanfic #gallavich fic #ian x mickey #squid words 🦑

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pretchatta · 2 years

Text

Obey

"You gave me a direct order earlier," Kanan said in a soft voice. "I did." Hera's response was barely more than a whisper. "And I obeyed," he continued. "You did." "I think now it's your turn to obey." She swallowed. "Yes, Kanan."

This was sparked by a throwaway line in Making It Official but you really don't need to read it to know what's going on. It's PWP, after all – the plot got left behind somewhere.

rating: explicit (sexual content, BDSM); kanan jarrus/hera syndulla; 3.3k words

---

At the end of each day of being Captain and crew, Kanan and Hera would retreat to her cabin where they could be just themselves. That was when they would allow themselves to forget about the Empire and any rebellion, when they could just think of each other and enjoy being together.

Tonight, Kanan was waiting in the doorway for Hera to return from the 'fresher.

"Did you want some tea, love?" she called.

He shook his head. "No tea tonight."

He indicated into her cabin. She gave no outward indication that she understood, but he didn't need to see one. She knew exactly what he was looking for before they went to sleep tonight and told him she was more than willing to participate by following him inside without a word.

Kanan heard the door hiss shut behind her. Turning, he saw her waiting with a small smile playing at her lips and a single eyebrow raised in anticipation. He took a quick step forward, forcing her back against the bulkhead, and followed the movement by slapping one hand against the durasteel just next to her head with a dull thud. Immediately the smirk was wiped off her face, replaced with wide eyes darkening from arousal.

"You gave me a direct order earlier," he reminded her in a soft voice.

"I did." Her response was barely more than a whisper.

"And I obeyed," he continued.

"You did."

"I think now it's your turn to obey."

She swallowed. "Yes, Kanan."

He slid the hand that was against the bulkhead over to where one lek was pressed against the durasteel. He stroked his way over the sensitive skin, feeling it quiver under his touch, until he reached where it joined her head and traced a finger along the line of her jaw.

"Kneel."

Continue on AO3 ->

#kanera #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #kanan x hera #hera x kanan #star wars rebels #star wars: rebels #star wars #star wars fic #spicy kanera #spice level: 🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶#smut #fic #pretchwritta

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takami-takami · 7 months

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Like Animals.

kinktober day 4: sex pollen.

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. smut

warnings— afab!reader. dubcon (sex pollen/heats, but both have been pining like idiots). breeding if you squint.

keigo's beloved crush sidekick gets hit with the unluckiest quirk possible. he quickly discovers his rut suppressants ain't shit.

Through all the horrors and adverse life events Keigo has endured in this line of work— brutal near-assassinations, negotiations with international crime syndicates, purchasing sugar-free canned coffee with Splenda substitute by mistake before his morning shift— he has always been able to find a silver lining in the darkest of moments.

Which makes it infinitely more concerning that for the first time in his life, he nearly whines through his teeth the words, "why me?"

A palm drags once down his face, thumb and index finger pulling down his darkened eye bags. His hand collects the beads of sweat and stops to rest over his mouth.

He supposes this must be his penance for taking a risk and trusting faulty intel.

Keigo's informant told him the villain he and his darling sidekick were meeting would have a limited-ranged fire quirk, so the diligent hero stuffed ointment and cold packs in his pockets before leaving just in case.

If he had known the villain was a plant heteromorph and possessed a heat-inducing mist quirk instead, and that the person he was hopelessly in love with had a bit of a crush on would be caught in the direct line of fire?

He would have brought a paper bag to hyperventilate into instead. And some prayer beads. The god to which the prayer is delivered doesn't necessarily matter, he thinks. He'd simply pick one and drop to his knees in a bid for mercy.

"I'm taking you to a medic," Keigo puts his foot down for the fourth time this evening.

"Fuck no," you groan from the couch, shifting to squeeze your thighs together. It offers not even a modicum of relief from the incessant throb. "Do you want my cause of death to be humiliation? Is that your plan, genius? 'S bad enough as it is that you're here."

The subtext is unspoken, but clear to him through your adorable pout: I only trust you to see me like this.

It's unlucky that the man you've had the most innapropriate-for-work crush on for the better part of two years happened to be the one beside you that day. And it's just your sorry luck, you lament, that Keigo would also be the one to catch you, to fly you home cradled in his painfully capable arms, to refuse to leave your side and insist on making his favorite chicken soup for you in a desperate flail of support.

He'd respect your decision and leave, should you ask him to. You know that. And yet the humbling truth gnaws at your pride: doing so wouldn't do much to save your image at this point. He’s already seen you like this, you grumble. The proverbial cat has long since escaped the bag, waltzing its way over to rub its purring body against Keigo’s leg to your abject horror.

If you close your eyes, you can attempt to trick your brain into thinking this affliction is a flu of some kind.

Yes, this is just some common cold. You're wearing nothing but your work partner's shirt (your clothes were contaminated by the quirk's dust, Keigo explained, speaking in that strict work mode voice that makes you picture your mouth stuffed and drooling somewhere beneath his desk and between his spread legs). You pull the damned fabric down over your core as you try your hardest to not writhe in fits of pleasure underneath the blankets, rubbing your thighs together for any friction against your swollen clit.

All symptoms of an affliction of the flu, of course.

You don't need to reach down and touch to know the slick would string those thighs together, should you attempt to pull them apart.

Keigo knows that, too. But he doesn't say anything about it.

You would be mortified if you were aware of the truth.

That he knows everything.

Keigo knows exactly how you ache; like you're constantly on the precipice of an orgasm, perpetually ablaze from the heavy heat scorching your body from its surface to the boiling core.

You try to suppress your glee as he spoon feeds you the broth, reminding yourself that this is just what good friends do for each other.

Friends coo praises at each other when they swallow, friends tilt each other's chins up with one finger and mutter things like that’s a good dove and you can take another as they watch their throat bob in tandem.

Friends shiver from their wingtips down their spine when they pull the spoon back. They let their gaze linger for just a second on those lips that open wide, aching to touch.

Ever the gentleman, Keigo stays lowered to his haunches and places one hand over your forehead to check for a fever, redirecting his focus toward taking inventory of your vitals. He doesn't wince when he hears your moan at the contact, even though the pitiful sound pings at his weak points. His avian instincts remind him he needs to protect you, please you, take care of you; to make it go away, to fix that feeling he knows better than anyone is aching like a bruise between your thighs.

He doesn't allow his eyes to wander astray or trail their way downwards, especially when you're in such a vulnerable state; but his professional assessment is that if he could only wet his appetite, the flat of his tongue alone could—

He shakes his head and blows a puff to cool the soup, raising another spoonful to your lips.

"Here. Another. You need to keep your energy up," he reminds you, voice stern. It's nearly clinical and achieves the opposite of its desired effect.

Your heart rate picks up to thump at a steady, thrumming beat at the innocuous gesture of domesticity.

How have you never noticed how capable of a mate Keigo would be…? He’s all musculature and sincerity, sharp ridges at his knuckles and soft curves at the small of his waist where he only trusts you to touch.

You huff an involuntary moan.

He picks another god to praise that the couch you're laying on obscures his lower half.

Today, Keigo discovers his suppressants are only designed to reduce the chance of a rut being triggered. It brings the possibility of it starting in the first place to a comfortable near-zero, allowing him to carry out the spring and fall seasons as if he were entirely quirkless.

But if that rut passes through the blockers' biochemistry in, say, the event Keigo's luck rears its ugly head, for example… It does fuck all to reduce the actual symptoms.

More importantly than his own anguish, however, is this: his mate work partner got hurt because of him— hurt being a stretch, he'd know if he weren't overthinking so much, given the blissed out panting just two feet away from him; but you’re probably suffering and it's all his fault. It’s all because of an unlucky, once in a lifetime slip up from Keigo Takami himself, and he can't detangle himself from the guilt.

If drowning in the unexpected whirlpool that is his first rut in half a decade is his penance for the crime, then Keigo will hang his head and take it.

The huff he lets out is your last straw.

"I'm going to my room," you state, moving to leave like you left the stove on and are trying to avoid an upcoming house fire.

When his hand darts out to stop you, the touch against your shoulder sends shockwaves down your stomach.

He's touching you. He's taking such good care of you, feeding you, providing for you in his nest and now he's touching you?

It sends your hormones into overdrive.

You'd do well to conceal it, if his heightened instincts couldn't smell your desperation.

"I'm afraid it ain't that easy, dove," he warns, eye contact averted. "I'd avoid doing that, if I were you."

Keigo schools his expression, but not before you catch a flash of something hungry.

There's no chance in hell he's letting you out of his sight. Not like this. You're confined to the couch while he keeps an eye on you. Attempting to fix it yourself will only make the feeling unfathomably worse, something he tries to communicate to you with a look that only ends up making him look like a kicked puppy.

You squint right back when you process the implication of his words, eyes raking down his form in suspicion.

"How do you know all this, anyway," you ask.

Keigo goes silent, hand concealing his mouth.

Ah, it hits you.

Bird things.

Your head falls back against one of the numerous pillows your partner propped up behind you.

"The couch is soft," you murmur, situating yourself against the cushions and throw blankets he so carefully arranged. You trail your fingertips along a silk pillow. Keigo slams his eyes shut.

"Please don't say it like that."

"Why not?" Your lids droop, heat overtaking your better judgement. Tentatively, you play along the bounds. You allow your hands to run along the soft divots of the blanket covering your body, squeezing your chest and pinching the peaks. "It's like a little nest, isn't it?"

His hand drags down his face before pinching his nose bridge, suppressing a whine. "Baby, please—"

"You don't wanna join me?"

"You don't know what you're talking about. It's just the heat," Keigo tells himself more than you. "For the love of God, dove, stop talking—"

"But it hurts, Kei'." It’s a low blow, judging by the protective coo that escapes his lips.

Fed up, he leans forward and swings his right leg over your hip, crawling atop you as if his body has a mind of its own, utterly bogged by desire and yanked like puppet strings.

With him kneeling tall above you, the bodysuit of his hero costume hides absolutely nothing. The musculature is quite impressive, actually. Proof of his viability as a mate— all dominant and masculine and gorgeous.

And at this angle, you can see the most painful erection straining against his pants.

"I need you, Kei'. I need— mmph!"

A palm silences you; slapped down, hot, imposing, and heavy like a weight against your mouth.

The authority of the action makes your cunt clench; and Keigo would die before he lets that feeling go to waste, so his hips drop down to grind once against it.

Your eyes go wide, doughy and stunned, darting down in haste, following the trail of his thick bicep up toward the disciplinary scowl on his face.

His nostrils flare with the heaving in his chest, eyes screwed shut with his last slivers of patience holding its grip on his psyche.

"One more word," he says, pulling his hand away. "One more word and I'm ripping this blanket off and fucking you raw."

After a moment of silence, you speak.

"Please."

Keigo is wordless when he unbuckles his belt and lets it— and his inhibitions— drop with a satisfying clink.

The reality of what you've gotten yourself into comes crashing down as it hits you how utterly fucked you are. The scaffolding of years of sexual tension comes crumbling down like bricks to rubble, a city of restraint reduced to pure, animalistic desire.

Years of Keigo's eyes darting away when you nonchalantly change into your uniform in front of him, even though he never seemed bothered by any of his other peers doing the same; years of you both curling in on yourselves at the furthest edges of the bed you had to share, cramped close in those under-the-radar motels on stealth missions; years of the words "idiot, can I kiss you," held back by your lips as you watch him moan when he sinks his teeth into his comfort restaurant's chicken teriyaki every stupid Friday night, sitting cross-legged and at home on the carpet of your apartment floor.

Not a single word is exchanged as he pulls his cock free from its confines, nearly too thick for his fingers to meet when they wrap around it. He tosses the blanket to the side with haste, dragging your shirt (his shirt) up to your collar, exposing your chest when he lines his cock with your entrance.

"Please, Kei'," you sniffle. "Hurts."

"Oh, I know, baby... I know." His lips are pursed when he shushes you, tracing your cheek with his palm. "I'll make it go away."

When your lips meet, it's like static electricity; and it's entirely remorseless.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he groans against your mouth, dragging his length along your sticky thighs before plopping the thick of it atop your soaked cunt.

"So wet for me," he reveres, dragging the plump tip through your mess to get it slick enough to rub against your clit.

Your rutting hips buck with impatience in an attempt to glide his length against your swollen pussy, but that only serves to fuel his desire; and those desperate little whines only feed into his insatiable need to fuck, to breed you until you're silent.

Until you shut the fuck up.

Those pathetic little sounds are music to his ears, a siren's song that used to play only in his most shameful fantasies; the ones that kept his fist tight around his cock the moment he returned home after missions, the sight of you panting and spitting blood after battle with a smile on your face still fresh in his memory.

Keigo wants to hear you moan.

But his rut needs to fuck you wordless with satisfaction.

"Oh, fuck," he hitches, shifting his hips back and forth to the tune of the audible shlicks below. Unable to stay upright any longer, his chest falls flush into yours in a rut-afflicted haze, rutting against you like animals.

When he slips his cock inside, it's with a kiss to muffle his voice.

And he wastes no time setting a punishing pace, aided nicely by the slickness that coats the sides of his cock. The legs of the couch surely must be scraping indents into the floorboards, judging by the creaks that mingle with the sounds of his belt buckle at every thrust. You'd notice if either of you were lucid enough to care.

It's a brief consideration of a possibility of an afterthought, like a sheepish voice behind a roaring crowd.

Pulling out, that is.

Yeah, if he were a stronger man, he could probably will his hips to stall. There's a chance someone far stronger than him would hiss when he does it. His cock would weep in denial of that sweet, velvet entanglement, dripping out in the cold when he fists himself to completion mere inches away from what might as well be the center of his goddamn universe.

But when it comes to you, when it comes to his rut, Keigo is not a strong man.

He allows his cock to throb in the vice of your cunt, instead.

"God, baby," he moans into your neck, wings flapping once, twice with each thrust, shedding a few feathers before straightening out and grazing the ceiling behind his back. "Baby. Oh, baby. You're so tight. You're so— fuck!"

He's babbling, but so are you. Legs hooked across the small of his back, you bump your hips as best you can to aid in his efforts; and with your last shreds of lucidity, you decide for the both of you how things will end.

With watery lashes, you open your eyes enough to blink away some tears and clear your vision just enough. Your gaze crawls up his legs that are still clothed to the thighs, peeking over the curvature of his ass and up his shuddering spine— all to mark onto your scarlet red prize.

When you entangle your fingers into the downy feathers at the base of his wings, it shoots straight to his cock and he spills.

With eyes wide open and a strangled choke at the back of his throat, Keigo's hips stutter when he empties himself. With every throb comes another rope from the tip, sticky and excessive from the rut, mixing with your wetness as you crash over the edge soon after.

When the ringing in your ears ceases and you finally come to, it's to the sight of your now probably-more-than-a-work-partner pulling out and staring between your legs as if under a trance, eyes glimmering.

"Kei', you okay?"

"Uh huh," he answers absentmindedly, utterly transfixed on the mess he made.

It's strange, he thinks. Whatever urges his rut transcribed into cravings, every instinct that tugged at the avian etched in his DNA and called him to fill you pales in comparison to the satisfaction of having indulged himself at last.

His eyes flick back to meet yours.

"Does this mean I can kiss you at work now?"

You snort. So that's where his mind goes in the end.

"It means a whole lot more than that," you say, rolling you both over so he lands square on his back.

#sorry i made jesus canon in this fic. I had to have him say it. Okay bye!#i know his quirk doesnt work like that its not an animal quirk but shhhhhh im having fun #🖋 writing #🌶 spice #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #bnha x reader #mha thirst #mha x reader #bnha thirst #smut #x reader

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