beanie, 27, they/them, minors dni
i disappear for long periods of time but i am always here. lurking. i could post at any moment. maybe i'm posting right now. wouldn't that be cool.
damn i wish u guys could read this fic i haven't written and this fic i haven't finished writing and this fic i'm putting off outlining and this fic i outlined but haven't started and this fic i'll never write and this other fic i haven't written and this fic that exists only in vague impressions in my head that fall apart every time i try to commit them to the page and th
He’s shaking and squeezing his thighs around your ears and your only regret is that it muffles the sounds he’s making - clipped shrieks and raspy breaths as you coax him through his second orgasm of the night.
this post is so, SO horny. i have it on every nsft post but seriously no minors, please, god, i will block you on sight with extreme annoyance.
the vibes: oh boy where to begin. gender neutral reader. trans masc reigen (terms used: clit + cunt) who has multiple orgasms in a variety of ways including sitting on your face, fingering, and penetration w/ a toy. crying during sex but in the overstimulation way not the sad way. a smidgen of dirty talk (both praise and degradation). a dash of hair pulling (for the reader). probably more things that have like one line idk man this is the most self-indulgent thing i’ve ever written.
if you like this fic, you’ll probably also enjoy my overstim and trans reigen hcs because i basically just combined those to write this.
word count: 3,448
also on ao3! (with bonus paragraph in the end notes)
You’ve never felt a pain as pleasant as Reigen’s nails scraping against your scalp.
He gives another tug to your hair as his hips rock forward, and you moan gratefully into his cunt. Your hands slide up his thighs, over his hips to his waist and back down to his ass, following the movement as he grinds down into your mouth. Another sharp tug as you give a particularly hard suck to his clit, and then he’s shaking and squeezing his thighs around your ears and your only regret is that it muffles the sounds he’s making - clipped shrieks and raspy breaths as you coax him through his second orgasm of the night.
His breathing slows, and his hand slips out of your hair to rest on the bed above you. The pressure on the mattress tilts your head ever so slightly and, even though he’s clearly sensitive, he follows the motion with a whimper.
You tap lightly at his side to get his attention.
“Sorry,” he gasps, and he leans back onto his heels. It settles him above your collarbone; you spare a thought for the now soaked collar of your shirt. You’ll throw it in with his sheets. “I forgot about air.”
“Tha’s not it.” You pull insistently at his hips. “Scoot up.”
“Did- Did you forget about air?”
“Nope. Just not important.” When you pull again, he finally moves forward, but not before you get the chance to watch his cheeks explode with color.
“You’re gonna suffocate down there,” he says. He sounds equal parts worried and excited. You appreciate his concern, but he moves so much that it’s easy to sneak in breaths around his squirming. And, even if he did somehow block off your air for long enough, it would, without a doubt in your mind, be worth it for the chance to see him come undone above you over and over again.
He’s getting jumpy - you’re breathing a little heavy and he can probably feel it - so you tilt your head to the side to give him a break. A kiss to the inside of his thigh has him threading his fingers back through your hair. You press up just long enough to nibble at the seam where leg meets hip, and he squeaks and tugs to pull you back down to the mattress. He’s always sensitive there, but it’s not the first time you’ve bitten at him tonight and his skin is already starting to bruise a lovely red.
“Unless you want this to be the last one,” he pants, “you have to slow down.”
You hum with playful irritation, but you give him space. Eventually, once his breathing levels out, he loosens his grip to let you move. The second your tongue makes contact, he hisses and tightens it again.
“T-Too much. Not yet.”
He shuffles around to put some distance between you, lifting himself and leaning over you to put both hands on the headboard. The hem of his shirt brushes against your nose; it tickles, so you hold it to his stomach with a firm but gentle press. He jolts to stop your hand, the subtle muscles tensing under your touch, but he quickly relaxes when he realizes you have no intention of moving.
“Fingers instead?” you suggest. He nods. He waits, clearly expecting you to slide your hand down and get to work, but you have a better idea. You fumble for him, wrapping your fingers loosely around his wrist, and guide his hand to where yours just was. “I’ll watch.”
“What?”
“You agreed that fingers would be better.” You’re really hoping that he can’t see your smirk from this angle. “Go ahead. Use them.”
His arm twitches, and his legs shake around you. It’s one of his most endearing qualities at times like this; for all his hands fly around during the day, they’re the first thing to freeze up when you take him truly by surprise.
Slowly, uncertainly, his hand moves down. He hisses when he brushes past his clit, but soon he’s slipping two fingers inside himself with a noise that has your legs squeezing together. Even if you couldn’t clearly see it, you would be able to hear how wet he is, and you’re hit with a pang of regret that you’re not the one with fingers inside him. But then, as if mocking your indecision, he pulls his fingers out to readjust, and the sight of them shiny and dripping destroys the part of your brain with objections as it knocks all rational thought from you in a rush of air.
“Taka?” You don’t know what you’re going to say next. You just need him to pay more attention to you, to remember that you’re underneath him desperate for him to feel good. But then he leans back to look down at you through his lashes, a quiet “yeah?” tumbling out between a sharp gasp and a series of pitchy choked whines, and you have your answer.
“You’re so pretty,” you mumble against his knee, and he gasps and bucks his hips. Compliments like this used to be risky, his dysphoria creeping in to smother the meaning behind them, but now he soaks it up, giving an appreciative groan and forgetting momentarily that he’s the one in control of his pleasure as he presses down against you for more - or maybe, you think with dangerous satisfaction, he just instinctively moves closer to you. When you smooth a thumb up and over his hip, he shakes and whines. You can tell he’s close again. “My gorgeous boy.”
His legs give out when he comes again, pitching him forward before he catches himself, and you quickly press up to meet him. You lap greedily at his slit as he comes on your tongue; you savor the feeling of his fingers moving against you as he works himself through it. You hold him in place just a second after he starts trying to pull away, your thumbs digging into his hips and your fingers palming eagerly at his ass. He trembles and rasps out a string of curses, broken only by your name and what you think might be him thanking you. It’s hard to tell around his harsh pants and desperate gasps for air. It wouldn’t be the first time he came so hard he stopped breathing.
You let him go when he tugs at your hair, just on the wrong side of painful. It doesn’t stop you from moaning as you pull away. You’ve already broken your record for consecutive orgasms (a thing that, yes, you keep track of with no small amount of pride) but, selfishly, you can’t help but notice that he hasn’t warned you he’s on his last one yet.
“Do you think you have one more in you?”
He falls bonelessly to the side; his knuckles narrowly miss the corner of the nightstand. You hesitantly pull yourself up, propping one elbow underneath yourself as leverage as you wait for him to collect himself enough for words. You wipe your other hand across your chin to gather the mess he’s left there. He shudders and hums with interest when you swirl your tongue around your fingers, but he doesn’t surge up to kiss you like he normally would. Maybe you overdid it after all.
“Legs are too tired.” His head rolls to the side. His eyes are closed and his hair goes in every direction, stuck together with the same layer of sweat that covers his forehead. You gently move some of the more stubborn strands away from his temples, brushing them back with your pinky. He laughs and hides his mouth with the back of his hand. “But try- we can try one more. If you want.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, buh-” He swallows thickly. “But get up here first.”
You kiss him slowly and far too sweetly for the situation, savoring every puff of breath against your cheek that he’s too exhausted to control. Hushed whispers fall freely between presses of lips - he’s perfect, he’s handsome, he looks so good like this, he’s yours and you are so, so lucky to have him. When you finally move away, his arms loop around your neck to keep you close, and you let yourself be pulled down for one more kiss. Your forehead rests against his, and your hair sticks between you.
“Ugh, geez, you’re so sweaty,” you laugh.
“I wonder why.”
You hum and press a final kiss to his jaw as you lean away. “How do you want your last one?” When he doesn’t immediately answer, you lean down again to mumble behind his ear, “What can I do for you?”
You hear some fumbling off to the side, and he swears under his breath just after you hear a loud smack. He presses at your shoulder so he can sit up, and you watch with great interest as he retrieves his strap-on from the drawer.
“Fuck, I forgot to- Hang on.”
After letting him try to remove the dick from the harness a few times, you deem his hands too weak and gingerly lift it from his grasp. “You want this out?”
“Mhm.” He lets himself fall backwards again as you slip it out of the ring and drop the harness on the floor beside the bed. His feet slide up until his knees are bent and splayed open, dangerously inviting. “Mkay. M’ready.”
“I can-” You do your best to keep your voice level - to not trigger any nerves in him - but excitement makes it tricky. It’s rare that he wants something more than fingers inside him and, while you won’t risk telling him directly, you really want to hear him say so. “You want me to fuck you?”
“Y-Yeah. I need-” He slings an arm across his eyes. “I need more.”
“I’ll give you whatever you need, sweetheart.” You shuffle closer. His knees bump against your sides, and you slip an arm under one to settle his ankle on your shoulder for better access to his cunt. He whines and tosses his head to the side. You move his wrist above his head, prompting him to crack his eyes open to look at you. “Promise me something, though, okay?”
“Hm?”
Despite the fact that you’re about to use it on him, you both understand that the dick in your hands is irrefutably his - an extension of himself that you’ve had the pleasure of being fucked by more times than you can count. So it’s with the same reverence you show the rest of his body that you bring the cock to your face and drag it along your cheek. His legs shiver around you as you gather the last of the wetness on your face, letting your tongue dart out to meet the tip as you pull it away.
“I wanna suck your cock after.”
He really must be getting close to his limit, because he doesn’t even stammer out a protest. He just tips his head back, clamps a hand over his mouth, and groans. It does nothing to muffle the sound he makes as you press the cock into him - as you ease it in until it’s buried to the hilt. His legs shake and he squirms around you, desperately fighting to get closer. You take the hint and scoop your free hand under him, pressing it flat to the small of his back to lift him against you. When you lean forward to kiss his neck, his ankle slips off your shoulder, and he wraps it tightly around your waist instead.
You set a slow pace and keep it steady. Maybe it’s because you know him - know that he likes to wind down by letting his last orgasm build so gradually that there’s barely any warning before it comes - but it’s just as likely that it’s because you’re selfish. You want to savor this as long as possible.
“You spoil me so much, you know that?” you say. He gives up covering his mouth, too tired to keep his arm in place, and lets himself moan without reservation.
Finally.
“I’m so lucky, getting to make you come like this. Over and over.” A kiss to his jaw. “And over.” Another to his throat. “And over. You love this, don’t you?”
He mumbles something that resembles a garbled mix of yes, please, and more.
“I know. I know you do. Doesn’t it feel good to just let go and feel good?”
Something that sounds like your name, and a sharp gasp followed immediately by a loud cry. He claws at your back, and his nails bite into your skin even through your shirt. One hand finally makes it back to your hair. You groan into his shoulder when his fingers catch and tug.
“So perfect like this. The perfect man. You look so good underneath me. Feeling so good.”
His hips are rocking frantically now, all sense of rhythm abandoned as he fucks himself on the cock in your hand. You consider being cruel - consider holding his hips down and forcing him to only take what you’ll give him - but his moans are starting to get that wobbly edge to them that only comes right before he cries, and even you aren’t selfish enough to draw things out much longer.
“I wanna see you fall apart. Can you do that for me, Arataka? Can I see you come again?”
He’s outright sobbing now, tears welling up and rolling down your neck as he buries his face and yelps and his voice cracks and comes out in a rushed and strangled groan.
“That’s it. One more. Just one more.” His legs are trembling. His ankle presses into your tailbone. Your hand can barely move anymore, the toy held in place by how tightly he’s squeezing around it, but you keep rocking it against him anyway. “I’ve got you.”
His back arches and his head tips back. His mouth falls open in a silent scream that would be far less silent if his voice was less strained from overuse. When your hand slows, moving just enough to coax him through it, his hand flies to your wrist and his hips jerk up, unrelenting. He cries out as he impales himself, but refuses to slow his pace.
“Again,” he forces out. “Faster, more, I can- Again.” He sniffs loudly and scrubs at his face. “I want another. I can do it.”
You’re going to die here, you think. He’s going to kill you.
You can feel the mess on your thighs through the fabric of your pajama shorts; the sounds coming from his cunt are obscene, wet and sloppy, and they only get louder as you pound the toy more insistently into him. The force of it pushes his hips off the bed, and he lets his legs fall open to take it, releasing his grip on you as he grabs at the sheets and trembles.
“So desperate,” you mutter. It’s risky - degradation is a slippery slope to a much worse kind of crying - but he nods wordlessly along, giving you the go ahead to get much **meaner. “Being stuffed full of cock once wasn’t enough for you, hm? No, not for you. A desperate slut like you had to have more.”
He’s already coming again, but you bring your thumb to his clit and press, the pressure just enough to make his hand fly back to his mouth as the tremors send him curling in on himself.
“Is this enough?” you ask, and he shakes his head. You rub quick circles, small and hard, into his clit. “No? This greedy cunt wants to come on this cock again?”
You barely get the sentence out before his back is arching, less of a separate orgasm than a continuation of the last one. There’s a breath, a twitch of his hips where you think you’re going to have to talk him out of trying for one more so he doesn’t pass out, but then he falls limp and his chest heaves with one final sob and huge intakes of the air he’s been neglecting.
You scoop him into your arms, not attempting to pick him up but holding him close and squeezing until the tremors stop. He slides his hand up and down your back, a gesture you learned early on was just as comforting to him as it was to you, until his breathing evens out.
“You did so well,” you say. You press the words into his hair, follow them up with gentle kisses. “That was incredible.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Mhm.” He squirms until you loosen your grip. You can feel his hand fumbling around by your thighs, and you lean back to give him room. His eyelids flutter and you hear the unmistakable sound of the cock being pulled from his cunt. He presses it into your hands. “Start with this.”
“What?” you laugh. “We can just-”
“Did you already forget?” he interrupts. “You made me promise.”
He forces his eyes open, staring up at you with a smirk that shouldn’t be possible with the rest of him so worn out, and your face warms. You had originally meant something far more involved (with a lot more gagging and a lot more stress on your knees), but you weren’t expecting him to go quite so hard during this part. You’ll deal with your own very insistent arousal once he’s taken care of, but you can at least give him a quick show in the meantime.
You bring the cock to your mouth and drag your lips up from the base, closing them around the tip. You do the same on the other side, gathering his cum on your tongue and letting your mouth fall open to show him before swallowing. Taking it as far into your mouth as you comfortably can, you pull back with a suck. Your lips disconnect with a loud pop, and you break the strand of saliva between you and the tip of the cock with a swipe across your bottom lip. You swirl your tongue around your fingers to clean up the last of it, and he lets his eyes slide closed again with a satisfied hum.
“Happy now?”
“Hm? Mm. Mhm,” he says eloquently.
You laugh and shake your head fondly, leaning across him to get a washcloth and a bottle of water from the nightstand. Some of the water gets poured onto the cloth before you hand him the bottle and guide him to an upright position. He takes small sips from it, only pausing to complain when you brush over a sensitive area.
“I know,” you apologize, “I’m trying to be gentle.”
In response, he threads his fingers through your hair one more time to rub soothing circles into your scalp. In all the times he’s done this, you’ve never been able to tell if it’s his way of saying he accepts your apology or if he just can’t stand to not be touching you. It might be both. You toss the washcloth in the general direction of the hamper, not paying attention to whether it makes it in as you scoot your way up the bed to sit beside him.
“I need a nap,” he says, and he tips over to bury his face in your chest.
“You don’t want the couch?”
“Why would I?”
“It doesn’t have the wet spot.”
He stifles a laugh, coughing around the sound when he finds his voice still unprepared for the strain. “Eh, whatever.”
“I’ll wash the sheets for you when you wake up.”
“Don’t bother.” He shakes his head. His fingers lace together with yours and his arm wraps around your shoulders to pull you even closer. “They’ll just get dirty again.”
“Reigen,” you scoff in disbelief, “if I wring any more cum out of you, I’m gonna have to take you to the hospital for dehydration.”
He manages to chuckle without coughing this time.
“And, you know, I’m not shy, you know that, but I think that would be a very awkward explanation for all parties.”
“Not me.” He bumps his forehead into your collarbone. “You didn’t touch yourself that whole time.” Even blissed out of his mind, his powers of observation are sharp as ever. “Right?”
“I… did not.”
“Then I’ll take you- I’ll take care of you once I’m- when I have muscles again.”
“Okay.”
You know that any protests - if you even wanted to make any, which you don’t - would fall on deaf ears. You press your legs together to relieve some of the pressure and squirm in his arms.
people in books and tv shows are always getting so upset they throw an untouched meal in the trash. that would never be me. i'd receive the worst news of my life and still be like Let me put this in the fridge.
Oh youre "nonbinary"? Can i put you in a box please. Can i pleaseeeee put you in a box. We have two boxes and i really wanna put you in one. But dont worry. My boxes are very Woke and Nuanced. So its fine to put you in one. Pleaseeeee. Wow... youre such a bitch... not letting me put into one of two nuanced and essential necessary boxes... you obviously go into the box all those evil bitches end up in
Man no one even remembers laptop in bed. It was laptop in bed for years. Now it's just phone in bed. Maybe tablet. But usually phone. So much has changed
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