(original image by sweatermuppet on tumblr and IG)
hi! my name is moosetongues but you can call me bigfoot/moose. i am a gay FTM nonbinary in my mid 20s which is really only relevant because I enjoy writing and posting smut. i write almost exclusively 'x reader' content about my favorite fictional boytoys with an emphasis on gender neutral reader inserts in hopes of being trans-inclusive. please note that i write very inconsistently and mostly use this blog to repost gay smut. 🖤
you can find all of my "officially published" fanfics here.
good smut is really a character study and that is final. i need it to be about vulnerability i need it to be about trust or lack thereof and most of all i need it to be emotional agony. thats what sex is for
if it isn’t even a little bit about the monstrous potential of intimacy when paired with hedonism or a dissection of guilt-related neuroticisms regarding sexuality… unacceptable. how am i meant to jork my pingus in these conditions
I've loved Infinity Nikki for a long time now, and as much as I wanted to avoid writing for someone as niche as Meghill, 2.6 dropped and I couldn't hold back. Here's an exploration of a few ideas I had since meeting him that I hope yall will enjoy! As always, gender neutral reader with applicable tags below. 💙
Notes: gen!reader, stylist!reader, masturbation, pining, pent up and stressed out Meghill
You and Meghill had been getting to know each other over these past few months as you spent your time researching Parksolians and Soulrift in hopes of finding a cure outside of the Boneyard. You traveled here initially as most stylists do: looking for inspiration and new experiences to further your styling prowess across Miraland. As you explored though, you noticed the same agony time and time again. It began to consume your mind, and rather than inspire you as a stylist, your findings began to inspire you to work to help find a cure for the victims.
Those feelings drove you to Meghill. When you met him, he was respectful but seemingly in no mood to chat; he always had more important things to do, even if he was worked to the point of exhaustion. Even though his nature seemed to push many people away, you were determined to help him. You came back for days on end, begging to help him and doing anything he asked no matter how small. Eventually, you were basically studying under him. You spent your spare time reading and recording notes and writing letters to your friends in other parts of Miraland for their insight. The work seemed tireless, but you made progress- and eventually, that progress extended to your relationship with Meghill too.
You saw quickly the type of person he was: quiet, reserved, respectful, but most importantly, exhausted. The weight of his title as clan leader left him with more than enough to do when he wasn't also trying to help the victims of Soulrift and further their research into the affliction. He never seemed to sit still or relax, and to some extent, you couldn't blame him. He was experiencing tragedy and guiding his people through it, and you couldn't imagine the weight of that responsibility... but you also knew if he kept going like this, he would only be hurt too.
As days stretched into weeks, you encouraged Meghill to let go more. He didn't need to be available every second of the day, and he deserved the time to breathe and let it all out. You could tell even relatively soon after meeting him that he was lonely and starved for something more than the role of leader he held for his people- he wanted something real. You quickly became that realness to him. You accompanied him in his office or with his research often, which meant you were always close in proximity to him. A tension grew to fill the air of whatever space you both occupied, and Meghill's body language changed the closer you were to him. He was a noble man and very able to control his impulses, but with you, his ears would twitch as you spoke and at times he would catch his tail reaching out to you when you were close. He couldn't stand it; he couldn't stand being around you like this.
Many nights Meghill spent trying to find relief with just his hand and his thoughts. It was a familiar feeling by now; he would never abuse his status as clan leader and partner with another Parksolian just for something so carnal. His desires were his own, and he treated jerking off like a chore for most of his adult life- a thing to be done quickly and efficiently just for his sanity. As you wormed your way into his life, however, the act began to change for him- he began to wonder how you'd touch him if you ever had the chance. Would you get to the point or tease with him a little beforehand? Surely there is no harm in imagining all of this with you because you aren't apart of his clan or a Parksolian at all.
In his mind, you'd tease him. For the first time in his life, Meghill really began to explore his body as he imagined you would. One hand was wrapped around his ribbed cock, slowly moving up and down while his other hand explored his chest. His breath was light and airy as he moved his hand across his pecs, hitching only when he caught one of his nipples on accident. He saw you almost as clear as day in his mind smiling down at him and stopping to pinch at it; as he mirrored your actions, he moaned under his breath. That felt good.
He continued his descent, tracing his fingers lightly over the ridges across his abdomen and noting how sensitive they are when he's aroused. Before he made it all the way down, he noticed his tail absentmindedly thumping against the bed- he could control it, but when he wasn't thinking, he found it had a mind of its own. Now, in the dim light of his living quarters, he could only think of how you would react to it. Would you like the way his tail behaved on its own, or would you want him to control it? He could always wrap it around your hand while you stroked him or maybe he could use it to catch you off guard in the moment... what would you want?
You'd want to touch it first to see how he reacts, he thinks. In a moment of clarity, he realizes he has never actually tried touching his tail like this- it's just another appendage to him. Meghill reaches the hand not stroking his cock out to grasp at the end of his tail. At first, he feels next to nothing, but he decides to keep going further up. As his tail gets thicker towards the base of his back, he notices it gets more sensitive. Almost as if in a daze, he completely focuses on the sensation and takes his tail in his hand, stroking it further up until he can no longer comfortably reach. He is laying on his back and unable to reach most of the base, but what he can reach feels divine. It heightens his senses and before he can think to stop it, he quickens the hand on his cock to match the electric feeling flowing up his spine. Maybe if he got on his knees he'd be able to reach more, and-
Enough. He snaps from his lustful haze and looks down at his member weeping precum at all of the new and exciting sensations. The idea of bending over to expose the base of his tail was both mortifying and arousing, but that is something he will have to explore at another time- if he dared to. For now, he just wanted to shut his mind off, get you out of his head, and just cum. He knew how to do that; he'd done it that way many, many times before. As he began stroking himself again, quicker this time just to chase that high, his mind seemed to have other plans.
You were there in his head again, smiling. He tries to shake away the thought and is greeted only by another of you admiring the stars with him. It's so sweet and innocent that he groans as he pumps his fist up and down at the thought. He chases it away with shame only for it to be replaced yet again by a more sinful memory- your first visit to the blue pools. You became unsteady and he tried to catch you, but before either of you could stop it, you had fallen into the water and gotten drenched. You laughed at your blunder as you rose, but Meghill could barely hear it over his pounding heart as he watched your clothes conform to your body. He was taken aback by suddenly seeing everything, especially the parts of you that had been covered by lighter colored, lightweight fabrics. He felt like all he wanted to do was run at the time, but now, he wished he had reached out more than anything.
The memories flooded in as Meghill approached his high, his desperation to cum overriding any desire to continue to chase away his thoughts of you. You came to him like an angel in his mind, cheering him on and guiding him to his peak quicker than ever before. He had never been this loud or felt this good before, and now, he was caught between chasing this feeling forever or letting himself go over the edge. As his mind swirled, his whole body began to twitch as he swiped over the head of his cock one last time. He spilled into his hand with a guttural cry as for the first time in a long time, he truly felt sated.
It took a while for his mind to catch back up to him. When he was lucid again, he took note of just how hard he came and how relaxed it had made him feel. It was like a miracle- the usual tossing and turning to fall asleep was replaced with a feeling of contentment as he cleaned up and eventually drifted peacefully to sleep. His final thoughts were of you: your smile, your caring tone, and how you had spent so long encouraging him to just relax and do something for himself.
If only you knew that he had and it was all thanks to you.
He's missing you, missing his baby, and he can't help it. Can't help but think of your touch, your scent, and the way you say his name. The way you love him. Can't help but think of the way you plead for more as he fucks you, as your legs wrapped around his waist trembles with each thrust and he knows he's bringing it home.
Shit.
And so he calls you. Wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you want him the way he wants you. Wants to hear you tell him you love him. He calls you and makes you touch yourself for him, makes you tell him who you belong to. And fuck if the way you say his name isn't heaven to his ears.
He doesn't touch himself. Doesn't want to even though he's rock fucking hard. Just wants to bask in your pleasure and so he does, closing his eyes and listening to the music of your moans, biting back a groan of his own as you cum and he ruins his pants with the intensity of his own orgasm. Damn. He likes this pair, too.
But it doesn't matter, not when he's thinking of how fucking beautiful you always look after you've cum, when you're both basking in the afterglow and your love is once again reaffirmed. And he can't wait to get home. Can't wait to get to you. Can't wait to feel you under him and hear heaven once again.
Can't wait to hear you want him the way he wants you.
Come and make it last all night
This ain't rocket science
Baby, come get inside
He knows you had your reservations at first, that you didn't think you could fuck him like he fucks you, but you're doing so well, baby.
You're doing so well for him and to him. Goddamn.
You have him on his back, legs splayed. He's long since given up wrapping them around your waist; you were fucking him so good, just like he does you. He lies there taking it, stroking his dick, so lost to the fucking pleasure as you hit that spot over and over, alternating between guttural moans, whimpers, and praise, lifting his baby up because that's it, right there—fuck, sweetheart.
He knew you had it in you, knew you could make him feel as good as he does you, knew you could fuck him senseless.
Christ, he's so hard. So sensitive. Everywhere. And he loves it, loves everything that comes with it, the vulnerability of it all, how you hold his gaze, blanket him, and how you make him feel so... so safe. Cared for.
Just like he does to you. For you.
He's close. Baby, he's so close. He watches you watch him, wants you to see what you do to him, to see the urgency as he strokes his cock. God, he's gonna fuckin' nut...
He pulls your face closer, licks your lips wanting passage, gives you a kiss so open and sloppy and filthy, and his body seizes up. It seizes up, he snaps, and cums so hard. And never-ending. That's what it feels like. He's a fuckin' mess afterward, full of tremors and covered in cum, and he's so proud of you, beautiful. So fuckin' proud.
But he needs more. Needs you to fuck him some more. Needs you to make him feel so good and safe and vulnerable and loved and just... just like that.
Warning: 18+, Smut, anal reader receiving, masturbation, reader giving bj, english isn't my first language
A/n: I made this for @ask-killer-dubstep I hope you like it
You hadn’t meant to develop a crush on your neighbor. It just… happened somehow.
You first saw him on move-in day, hauling boxes up the stairs like they weighed nothing. Broad shoulders straining under his black shirt, dark hair falling into his eyes, an easy half smirk on his lips. He’d flashed you a grin when you held the door open.
“Carlos” he’d said, sticking out a hand.
You’d shaken it, trying very hard not to notice how warm and calloused his palm was.
After that, though? You barely saw him.
He kept odd hours. Sometimes he’d leave before sunrise, boots heavy against the hallway floor. Other nights he wouldn’t come home until long after midnight. You’d catch glimpses of him leaning against his door scrolling through his phone, him laughing quietly to himself in the stairwell, him carrying groceries in one arm up the stairs.
It wasn’t enough. But the walls. The walls were thin.
You learned that by accident the first week. A muffled thud. A low curse in Spanish. The creak of what had to be his bed frame.
You’d frozen, heart pounding, realizing you could hear him pretty clearly.
Over time, you started recognizing patterns. The way he paced when he was on the phone, the way he’d sometimes laugh, that rich, warm sound vibrating faintly through the drywall. The sound of his shower turning on late at night.
And then there were the other nights.
No TV. No phone calls. Just the creak of his mattress. A soft exhale. A low, frustrated sigh that sent heat curling in your stomach before you could stop it.
You told yourself you weren’t listening on purpose.
But you absolutely were.
Sometimes you’d lie in your own bed, lights off, staring at the ceiling. Every small noise from the other side of the wall felt magnified. The shift of sheets. The faint sound of him breathing out. Once you swore you heard his voice. Low. Rough. Saying something you couldn’t quite make out.
You shouldn’t have pressed your palm to the wall. You definitely shouldn’t have held it there.
It became a habit after that.
Bad days were the worst. You’d come home exhausted, flop onto your bed, and then, there it was. The sound of him moving around next door.
One night, it’s raining outside. You’re in your room, window cracked open, when you hear it.
A breath. Not just a sigh, instead it sounded thicker.
Followed by the unmistakable creak of his bed shifting rhythmically.
Your stomach drops.
The rain almost masks it, but not completely. There’s a pause. A sharp inhale. Another soft sound, strained, like he’s trying to keep quiet.
Your pulse starts racing.
He’s right there. Just a few inches of plaster and paint separating you.
Another breath. Lower this time.
Your hand curls in your sheets before you even realize what you’re doing.
You shouldn’t be listening.
You definitely shouldn’t be imagining what he looks like right now, sprawled across his bed, head tipped back, jaw tight, dark hair sticking to his forehead.
The mattress creaks again. Slower.
“Fuck...”
The word, low and rough, vibrated through the wall, but it wasn't the word itself that made your breath stop. It was what came after.
A soft, wet sound, a sharp gasp and then your name.
He’d mumbled it. But it was there. A choked “fuck, (Y/N)...“ followed by a groan. The rain outside had stopped, leaving a sudden, thick silence where every noise from his apartment became like a crystal-clear broadcast into your dark room.
Your cock, which had been half-hard and twitching against your thigh in your boxers, jumped to full attention. He knows my name. The thought was stupid, of course he did, you’d introduced yourselves, but hearing it like that, ragged and desperate, shot a bolt of pure, electric heat straight to your groin.
You pressed your palm flat against the cool wall, as if you could feel the heat of his body bleeding through. The rhythmic creaking started again, faster now. Fuck, he’s really going for it. Your other hand slid down your own stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband of your boxers. You wrapped your hand around your length, hissing at the contact. You were already leaking, the tip slick with precum. You smeared it down your shaft, starting with a slow, tight stroke, your rhythm instinctively trying to match the pace you hear through the plaster.
You imagined him. Carlos. On his back, one arm thrown over his head, the other working between his legs.
You pictured his cock (you’d never seen it) but your mind constructed it in vivid, hungry detail. Thick. Uncut, maybe. A deep, flushed red at the head, the shaft veiny and heavy in his big, calloused hand. You imagined his grip, tight, his thumb swiping over the slit. You could almost hear the slick, filthy sound of his fist gliding up and down, faster and faster.
The bedsprings protested. A series of short, sharp creaks. He’s close.
Your own strokes became frantic, your hips pumping up into your fist. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound. You wanted to be over there. You wanted to be the one making him sound like that. You fantasized about crawling into his bed, peeling back his sheets, and just taking him into your mouth without a word. You’d swallow him down, deep, until you choked, letting him fuck your throat with those rough, broken groans. You’d taste him, salty and bitter. You’d make him come so hard he’d see stars.
“Ah, christ...” His voice was a broken thing now. The creaking became a frantic, uneven stutter.
That was it. The thin barrier broke in your head. The fantasy became alive, it was so vivid that you could feel it.
You’d get on your knees beside his bed. You’d look up at him, his eyes dark and blown wide, and you’d say, “Let me taste you, Carlos. Let me suck that cock until you can’t think.” You’d lean in, breathe in the musky, pure scent of him, and then you’d lick a long, slow stripe from the base of his balls all the way up to the tip. You’d swirl your tongue around that swollen head, suck just the crown into your mouth, teasing him, before sinking down, taking him all the way, your nose buried in his coarse pubic hair. You’d feel him pulse against your tongue. You’d reach to cup his balls, rolling the heavy weight of them in your hand, feeling them draw up tight when he got close.
Through the wall, a choked-off cry. A final, shuddering creak of the bed frame. Then silence, followed by a long, trembling sigh.
He’d finished.
The knowledge that he was lying over there, spent and sticky, his chest heaving, while you were still here, hard and desperate and alone, was a special kind of torture. You couldn't stop. Your hand was a blur, your own breaths coming in sharp, silent pants. You were so close, the pressure building at the base of your spine.
You pictured his cum. Thick ropes of it, shooting across his stomach, painting his abs white. You imagined leaning over him, licking it off, cleaning him with your tongue while he watched, dazed and satisfied.
That was the image that did it.
Your orgasm ripped through you, your back arched off the bed, your mouth open in a soundless scream as you came, hot stripes of cum painting your stomach and chest in frantic pulses. You rode it out, your hand finally slowing to a tender glide as the last shudders left your body.
You lay there, panting, staring at the ceiling. The room was silent. His room was silent. The only sound was the soft patter of rain starting up again outside.
Shame tried to creep in, but it was smothered by a hotter, heavier feeling: hunger. It wasn't enough. Hearing him, fantasizing about him… it wasn't fucking enough anymore.
You were about to reach for the tissues on your nightstand when you heard it.
A soft thud from his side. A foot hitting the floor.
Then, quiet, but unmistakable, footsteps. They didn't go toward his bathroom. They came closer. To the shared wall.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You froze, your own cum cooling on your skin.
The footsteps stopped right on the other side of the wall from your bed.
A long, quiet moment passed. You could hear the faint sound of his breathing.
Then, his voice, low and clear, not muffled by a pillow or a groan, spoke directly through the wall.
“You hear all that?”
The silence after his question hung in the air, thick enough to choke on. Your brain short-circuited. Every muscle in your body locked. You couldn’t answer. You just couldn’t.
A second later, you were moving. You scrambled off the bed, your skin sticky and cold, and grabbed the first t-shirt you found, pulling it on to cover the mess on your stomach. You didn’t look at the wall. You couldn’t. You fled your bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind you as if that could lock everything that just happened inside.
The living room couch was a sad, lumpy thing, but it was now your only option. You lay down on the stiff cushions, staring at the dark ceiling, trying to will your heartbeat to slow down. He knows. He fucking knows you were listening. He knows you were jerking off to him. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to erase the last hour, the sounds, the fantasies, the way your name had sounded from his mouth. It was impossible. The mental images were burned onto the back of your eyelids.
Sleep was a joke. Every time you started to drift off, you’d hear his voice again. “You hear all that?” Low. Knowing. Not angry. More curious. That was the worst part. You tossed and turned, the couch springs digging into your back, until the light of dawn started to filter through the blinds.
The next few days were a masterclass in avoidance from you. You became a ghost in your own apartment. You listened for the sound of his door opening before you left for work, leaving earlier or later than usual. You kept your music on low to drown out any potential noises from next door. You went to the grocery store at absurd hours. It was exhausting.
And it was completely fucking useless.
The first time you ran into him, it was in the stairwell. You were coming up, head down, and he was coming down, taking the steps two at a time. You almost collided.
“Whoa, easy” he said, his hands coming up. He was wearing a tight gray shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the muscle of his forearms. He smelled like soap and something earthy, like leather.
“Sorry” you mumbled, not meeting his eyes, sidestepping him to continue up.
The second time was at the mailboxes in the lobby. You were fumbling with your key when he appeared beside you, pulling his own box open. You could feel the heat radiating off him. He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the wall, watching you with those dark eyes until you grabbed your bills and practically ran for the stairs.
The third time, he cornered you.
It was late, something past ten. You’d given up on the couch and were creeping back to your bedroom for a proper pillow, telling yourself you were overreacting, that he’d probably forgotten the whole thing.
Besides, after the past few days of awkward avoidance and sleeping on your own couch like some kind of self-imposed punishment, you figured you deserved some takeout. So when the delivery notification buzzed on your phone, you’d slipped downstairs to grab it before anyone else in the building could (or could run into Carlos).
A warm takeout bag hung from your hand as you came out of the elevator and padded down the short hallway toward your door.
Just as you reached your door, your hear someone walking up the stairwell.
Carlos came into view, looking tired but alert. He saw you and stopped, a slow, familiar smirk spreading across his face. It wasn’t the friendly one from move-in day. This was sharper more with like intent.
Your brain short circuited with no idea how you could escape right now, you were already against your own door. There was nowhere to go.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this” he said, his voice a low rumble. He took a step closer, closing the distance between you. The hallway was narrow, and suddenly he was all you could see, the broad line of his shoulders blocking the flickering fluorescent light, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“Carlos, I” you started, but the words died in your throat.
He leaned one arm against the doorframe above your head, not touching you, but caging you in. His eyes searched your face, and you felt transparent. “You never answered my question” he said, his tone conversational, as if he was just discussing the weather.
Your mouth went dry. “What question?”
“That night. The rainy one.” He leaned in a little closer. You could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes. “You hear all that?”
Your heart was a frantically drumming against your ribs. Denial was pointless. The truth was written all over you, especially in the flush you could feel heating your neck and in the way you couldn’t hold his gaze. You looked down, then back up, a surge of just defiant frustration pushin the panic aside. “It seems” you said, your voice quieter and less confident than you wanted “you already know the answer.”
His smirk softened and somehow became hotter. “Yeah” he breathed out. “I know.”
The confession hung between you, the distant sound of a TV from another apartment was the only thing that could be heard paired with your shared breathing. His eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Been thinking about it” he said, his voice dropping even lower, more of a rough sound. “Thinking about you. On the other side of that wall. Wondering what you were doing.”
“You know what I was doing” you whispered, the confession just suddenly leaving your mouth.
“I want to hear you say it.”
You shook your head, a weak refusal. He didn’t pull back. Instead, he brought his other hand up, not to touch you, but to rest his knuckles against the door beside your head. You were surrounded by him, his scent, his heat, his presence.
“Say it” he repeated, a command.
“I was…” You licked your lips. “I was touching myself. Listening to you.”
A low sound escaped him, almost a groan. “Fuck.” His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the amber. “You gonna tell me what you were thinking about?”
“You” you said, the word a exhale. “I was thinking about you. Your… your cock. Your hands...”
That was it. The last thread of restraint snapped.
He closed the space between you, his mouth crashing on yours. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry and claiming, his lips were firm, insistent, and you opened for him instantly, a desperate sound vibrating in your throat. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands coming up to clutch at the front of his shirt, fisting the soft fabric.
He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your whole body. One of his hands left the doorframe and cupped the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss. His other arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard muscle of his chest and the unmistakable ridge of his erection pressing against your hip through his jeans.
You melted into him, all the tension and anxiety of the past week dissolving into pure, raw need. This was real. His mouth was real, his hands were real, the low, greedy noises he was making against your lips were real. You arched into him, wanting more, wanting everything.
He broke the kiss, both of you breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your wet lips. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I moved in and saw you in this hallway.”
“Inside” It wasn’t a question.
You fumbled behind you, your fingers slick with nervous sweat, but managed to twist the doorknob. The door swung inward and you stumbled back into your own dim apartment, Carlos following, kicking the door shut with a heel without ever breaking contact. He took your food out of your hand and dropped it next to your door.
His mouth found yours again, hungry and consuming. His hands were everywhere, sliding down your back, gripping your hips, palming your ass through your thin sweats and pulling you hard against him. You could feel the thick, length of his cock even stronger with how hard he held you against him. You clawed at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He got the message, breaking the kiss just long enough to grab the hem and yank it over his head in one fluid motion.
The sight stole your breath.
His chest was broad and sculpted, dusted with dark hair that trailed down the center of his defined abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Every muscle was cut, not like a body builder, but like a man who used his body for real work. You reached out, your fingers trembling, and touched the warm skin of his chest. His skin was hot, smooth over hard muscle. He watched you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, as you explored.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful” you breathed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.
A slow grin spread across his face. “You’re not so bad yourself.” His hands went to the hem of your t-shirt. “This is in the way.”
You raised your arms and he pulled it off, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air hit your skin, but his gaze warmed you right back up. He looked you over, his eyes tracing your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. His thumb brushed over one of your nipples, making you jerk and gasp. “Sensitive” he murmured, approvingly.
You couldn’t wait. Your hands went to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling with the leather and metal. He let you work, his own hands sliding down to the waistband of your sweats and boxers, pushing them down over your hips in one motion. They pooled at your feet and you stepped out, kicking them aside, standing naked and fully hard before him.
His eyes dropped to your cock. It stood straight out, flushed and leaking. “Look at you” he said, his voice rough. He wrapped his big hand around you, his calloused palm a delicious friction against your sensitive skin. You moaned, your head falling back. “All this for me?”
“Yes” you choked out. “Fuck, yes, Carlos.”
He stroked you once, firm motion that made your knees weak, then just let go. “Bed. Now.”
You led him the few steps to your bedroom, your legs unsteady. You sat on the edge of the mattress and watched as he now completely took off his belt, popped the button of his jeans, and shoved them and his boxers down his thick thighs. His cock sprang free, and your mouth actually watered.
It was exactly as you’d imagined, yet so much more. Thick and uncut, the shaft a deep tan color, the head a flushed dark purple, already glistening with wetness. It curved slightly upward, heavy and impressive. He was bigger than you, and the sight sent a jolt of pure desperate want straight to your core.
He came to the bed, kneeling on it, looming over you. “You gonna just look, or you gonna do something about it?” he asked, his smirk back.
You didn’t need a second invitation. You leaned forward, your hands on his thighs, and took him into your mouth.
The taste was musky and salty. You swirled your tongue around the head, licking up the pre-cum, before sinking down, taking as much of him as you could. He was big, stretching your lips, filling your throat. A ragged groan tore from him, his hands coming to cradle your head. “That’s it” he hissed. “Just like that. Fuck”
You bobbed your head, establishing a rhythm, one hand wrapping around the base of his cock to stroke what you just couldn’t take. You used your tongue, tracing the thick vein on the underside, sucking hard on the upstroke. His hips began to move in tiny, shallow thrusts, fucking your mouth gently. The sounds he made, low, guttural curses in Spanish and English, were the hottest thing you’d ever heard.
“Enough” he gasped after a few minutes, pulling you off gently but firmly. “I’m not gonna last, and I want to be inside you when I come.”
The words sent a thrill of anticipation and nervousness through you. “Lube” you managed to say, nodding toward the nightstand drawer.
He reached over and rummaged, pulling out the bottle and a condom. He tore the foil packet open with his teeth, rolling the latex down his length, that action alone made your stomach flip. He slicked his fingers with lube, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Turn over” he said, his voice gentle but leaving no room for argument. “On your hands and knees.”
You moved, presenting yourself to him. The position felt vulnerable, exposed, and unbearably erotic. You felt the movement on the mattress as he came closer. A cool, slick finger pressed against your entrance, circling slowly. “Relax for me” he murmured, his other hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back.
You took a breath, forcing your muscles to unclench. His finger pressed forward, slow and steady, breaching you. The stretch was weird, but then faded into a strange, full feeling. He worked his finger in and out, getting you used to the sensation, before adding a second. The burn was more intense, a deep, spreading pressure. You buried your face in the sheets, a low groan escaping you.
“You’re doing so good” he murmured, scissoring his fingers gently, stretching you open. He crooked them, searching, and then, oh god, he found it. A bolt of pure, electric pleasure shot up your spine, making your whole body jerk. “There it is” he said, his voice triumphant. He pressed against that spot again, and you cried out, your cock dripping onto the sheets beneath you.
After a minute of that exquisite torture, he withdrew his fingers. You heard the cap of the lube bottle click again, the wet sound of him slicking himself up. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against you, replacing his fingers.
“Breathe” he ordered, his voice strained.
You exhaled, and he pushed forward.
The stretch was immense, overwhelming. It burned, a deep, filling ache as he slowly pushed inside you. You felt every inch of him, the thick ridge of his head, the heavy stretch of his shaft, the way your body resisted and then yielded, taking him in. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his balls pressed against your skin. You were full, stretched to your limit around him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave marks. “You feel… incredible. So tight around me.” He stayed still for a long moment, letting you adjust, his own breath coming in harsh pants against your back.
Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, and thrust back in.
The second time was easier, the burn fading into a deep, building friction. The third time, he brushed against that spot inside you, and you saw stars. A broken moan tore from your throat.
That was all the encouragement he needed. He set a pace, slow and deep at first, each thrust a grinding that dragged perfectly against that sensitive nerve inside you. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. The bed began to creak, a familiar sound, but now you were also the cause of it.
“Yeah, just like that” he grunted, his rhythm speeding up. “Take my cock. Fuck, you’re so hot inside.” His words were filthy, spurring you on. You reached down and took your own cock in hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much, the deep, filling stretch inside and the tight friction of your own hand.
Each thrust from Carlos jolted you forward, his pelvis slamming against your ass with a wet, smack that echoed loudly off your bedroom walls. The sound was filthy, obscene. You felt him everywhere, the thick, veined length of him pistoning inside you, stretching you open, the rough grip of his hands on your hips, the hot gust of his breath against your sweat-slicked back.
“That’s it, fuck, just like that” he grunted, his rhythm becoming erratic, powerful. “I can feel you clenching around me. You gonna come? You gonna spill all over your sheets for me?”
You couldn’t speak. A broken, wordless cry was your only answer. The coil in your gut wound tighter and tighter, white-hot pleasure overtaking you. Your vision started to tunnel, the edges going dark, focusing only on the sensation of being utterly filled. The burn was gone, replaced by a deep, grinding fullness that rubbed against that perfect spot inside you.
Carlos leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding the side of your neck. He didn’t kiss it, he bit like a claiming nip that made you yelp.
You don't know why but that was all you needed.
It wasn’t a just a release more like a eruption. Your whole body locked, your back arching violently as the first thick, hot rope of cum shot from your cock, splattering across the rumpled sheets beneath you. A second pulse followed, then a third, each one forced out of you you with a choked, sobbing moan as Carlos kept fucking you through it, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more desperate. The overstimulation was like exquisite agony, your oversensitive nerves screaming as he milked your climax, dragging it out until you were shuddering and weak.
With a ragged shout that was half your name, half a curse, he drove into you one final, deep time and held there. You felt him swell, then pulse, a hot, rhythmic flooding inside the condom as he came. Each throb of his cock was a distinct with a claiming heat that seemed to go on and on. His body went rigid over you, every muscle in his back and arms corded tight, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades as he rode out his own climax with low, continuous groans that vibrated through your bones.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The frantic slapping of skin faded into the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. The intense driving pressure of his hips softened. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, his weight comforting on top of you. Then, with a soft, wet sound, he pulled out.
You collapsed forward onto the mattress, completely spent, your limbs like liquid. You felt empty and used in the best possible way. The smell of sex (sweat, musk, lube) filled the air. You heard the soft snap of the condom being dealt with, then the dip of the bed as he lay down beside you.
For a minute, it was just quiet, your heartbeat gradually slowed down to a normal rhythm. You were now slowly becoming aware of the cooling mess on your stomach, the pleasant deep ache between your legs, the sheer reality of him lying next to you in your bed right now.
His hand found yours on the sheets, his calloused fingers lacing with yours.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. In the dim light, his face was relaxed, the intense hunger from moments ago replaced by a soft satisfied look. “You okay?”
You managed a nod, your throat dry. “Yeah. More than okay.” You turned to face him. “You?”
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the one you’d seen on move-in day. “Never better.” He reached out with his other hand and brushed a damp strand of hair from your face. The gesture was so tender it made your chest ache. “That was… fuck. That was something else.”
“It was” you agreed, your voice rough.
He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow. “Here, let me.” He leaned over you, grabbing the t-shirt you’d discarded earlier. He used it to gently clean the cooling spend from your stomach and chest, his touch surprisingly careful. The cotton was soft against your oversensitive skin. When he was done, he tossed the shirt to the floor and layed back down, pulling you against him so your back was to his chest, his arm draped over your waist.
You fit together perfectly. His body was a furnace at your back, his steady breathing like a lullaby. “I’m gonna be sore tomorrow” you murmured into the darkness, a hint of a smile in your voice.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, his chest vibrating against your spine. His lips brushed the back of your shoulder. “Good. You’ll remember me every time you move.”
You smiled, closing your eyes. The silence was comfortable now, filled with the warmth of him
The next morning came slowly and weirdly you wake to the smell of coffee.
For a few seconds, you don’t remember where you are in the timeline of your life. Your body feels heavy in a pleasant, loose way that only comes after a deep sleep. The room is illuminated with late morning sunlight spilling through the blinds.
Then you shift around and immediately remember everything.
The ache in your muscles makes you wince softly, but it’s the kind that comes with a strange sense of pride. The sheets beside you are empty now, cool where Carlos must have gotten up earlier.
You push yourself upright, running a hand over your face. From somewhere outside the bedroom you hear the clatter of a pan, the low hum of someone moving around your kitchen like they belong there.
For a moment you just sit there, listening. It’s too surreal.
For this entire time the only way you’d known he was around was through a wall. A muffled laugh. Footsteps. The creak of a bedframe.
Now he’s ten feet away in your kitchen.
You grab a clean pair of sweatpants from the closet and pull them on before padding out of your bedroom.
Carlos is standing at the stove like he’s lived here for years.
He’s wearing his jeans again but no shirt, his broad back to you as he flips something in a pan. Sunlight from the window hits the line of his shoulders, highlighting the muscle under his skin. A mug of coffee sits on the counter beside him.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears you. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Well, look who finally woke up.”
His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re in my kitchen,” you say, leaning against the doorway. “Yeah,” he says casually, turning back to the stove. “Figured the least I could do after last night was make breakfast.”
You raise an eyebrow. “The least?”
He snorts softly.
“Careful,” he says. “You’re walking funny already. Don’t start something you can’t finish before coffee. Also I put your dinner that you forgot about in the fridge.”
You feel heat crawl up your neck but can’t stop the smile that tugs at your mouth.
The pan sizzles and he slides a pair of eggs onto a plate before grabbing two pieces of toast. The whole scene is weirdly domestic, Carlos moving around your tiny kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times.
He hands you the plate and your fingers brush his, this action makes you weirdly shy even after everything that happened last night.
You sit at the little table by the window while he pours you a cup of coffee and joins you with his own plate. For a minute the two of you just eat in comfortable silence, the quiet broken only by the scrape of forks.
You catch him looking at you, like he’s studying you.
“What?” you ask. He shrugs, leaning back in his chair.
“Just weird” he says.
“How?”
Carlos gestures vaguely toward your bedroom.
“All this time you were right there” he says. “Just one wall between us.”
The wall you’d spent weeks pressing your hand against.
“Yeah” you say quietly.
A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Gotta admit” he adds, “I always wondered if you could hear me.”
Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You knew?”
“Walls like these?” he scoffs. “Come on.”
You stare at him.“You’re telling me you knew the whole time and still—”
He laughs, holding his hands up.“Hey, hey. I didn’t know for sure,” he says. “Just had a feeling.” Your eyes narrow.
“And the whole saying my name thing?”
Carlos’s grin turns shameless. “Had to test the theory somehow.”
You drop your head into your hand with a groan. “I cannot believe you.”
He leans forward across the table “Hey” he says quietly. You look up again. His expression has changed.
His fingers tap lightly against the table like he’s choosing his words. carefully right now “Last night wasn’t just… a one-time thing for me” he says.
The air in the room shifts and your chest tightens slightly.
“Good” you say. “Because that would be a pretty awkward neighbor situation.”
He chuckles softly but doesn’t look away. “I’m serious” he says. “I like you.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“I’ve liked you since the day I first saw you” he admits. “Just didn’t think you were into guys. Or into me.”
You stare at him.
“You masturbated about me loud enough so I could hear even though you weren't sure I was into you?”
“Confidence isn’t my strong suit” he mutters.
You laugh quietly, the tension breaking. Then you reach across the table and take his hand.
“Well” you say, squeezing lightly, “for the record… I’ve been into you for a while.”
His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “Yeah” he says with a small smile. “I figured that part out.”
“So what does that make us?” you ask after a moment.
Carlos leans back in his chair, pretending to think about it. “Well” he says slowly “we could keep things complicated.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Or...” he continues, “we could do the obvious thing.”
“And that is?”
He reaches across the table, tilts your chin up gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips.
This one is nothing like last night. It’s slow. Warm. Unhurried.
When he pulls back, he’s smiling again. “That” he says simply and you can’t help laughing.
play fighting with him where he tells you to run only to catch you and you keep struggling to get out of his grasp only for him to hold you down tight and watching you go from fighting him to loving the way he makes you feel and eventually giving into him, that kind of submission has him rock hard in his pants
Tell me baby if I fuck you right,
Can I fuck forever?
He's fucking you, taking you apart and putting you together like his life depended on it. You're a sight under him, beautiful body covered in hickeys, sweat, cum—his and yours—and you're holding on to him, clawing at his back, legs shaking and barely holding on to his waist, he's fucking you so good.
Fuck, is this what it feels like? Pure fuckin' nirvana? He's hitting spots, holding and molding you in ways you didn't even know existed, bringing out so much more than moans and orgasms, making you goddamn addicted, and the bastard would be lying if he said you didn't have that same effect on him.
You say his name like a prayer, like a fuckin' prayer, and he thrusts harder, faster now, so close, so damn close, the crescendo of your moans music to his ears, warmth tightening around him, arms and legs keeping him in a vice grip, fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK—
You cum. He does, too, but it ain't enough.
Not for you, sweetheart.
Gonna love you some more. He's gonna love you until you can't think of anything else. Until you can't think of anyone else but him.
He doesn't stop. He keeps going, keeps fucking you through the overstimulation, wanting to hear more of you, watching the tears of pleasure sit on those pretty lashes, fucking you—making love to you—like it's the last thing he'll ever do.
Say it, baby. Say it.
"Tell me you fuckin' love me," he begs, words slurred, lost to the pleasure, helplessly in love, and lost in you.
nsfw
-
carlos oliveira would be so vocal in bed, loud in the best way possible.
moaning, groaning while talking you through it all, every kind of petnames and endearments he knew spilling out of him like a prayer. "hands on me sweet girl, i got you."
and you knew he felt good because he made sure to tell, all while his body wrapped around you pressing so close, like it hurt to pull away. he grunted, the wild of his breath ghost over your cheek as he panted.
"that's it, baby. take what you need." he thrusted, his mouth on your collarbone identic like a quiet promise only he knew how to recite. "'m yours, all yours," he chanted, hanging onto it like it's the only thing keeping him on ground.
carlos would curse a lot because it was truly out of this world, how amazing you felt against him, your curves under his palm, how sensitive you were under his touch because never once looked away, observing every twitch, every hitch of your breath carving them on the back of his mind.
"fuck, you f-feel so—god." his words stuttered, giving up, eyes closed in pure ecstasy. chasing his release like that's his only purpose, letting out a string of curses as he finished because he just couldn't hold himself back.
bringing you over the edge, he kept whispering sweet nothings against your ear—like couldn't help it. so perfect, so beautiful, he said. all sweaty and spent, hair sticking on his forehead, carlos stared at you fondly, trailing kisses across the blade of your shoulder.
"you'll be the death of me, meu amor. but you know what? that'd be the best way to go."
i normally try to take these thoughts and articulate them as at least drabbles or hcs, but i need to tell the world right now with no flowery language that i need carlos oliveira to bend me over and fuck me like a bitch in heat. raw, animalistic, sweaty, LOUD. i need him to be an absolute menace in my pussy, and then i need him to be my special cutie boy and clean up after himself. i know he can.
₊˚ʚ ☁️ ₊˚ ♡ ﾟ. content warnings + author's notes ⤸
nsfw. reigen arataka x afab!reader. using a fleshlight on him :-) thank you to the lovely kiokantalope for your message of support <333333
You never thought a scarcely-furnished 1R apartment could feel like home, yet here you are— standing in the middle of it all with your hair pushed back, a duster in one hand and a microfiber cloth in the other, because you’re doing some housecleaning. You saw Reigen off this morning, feeling real housewifey. You kissed him goodbye and everything; if anyone deserves a ring on your finger, it’s you.
But you’re getting ahead of yourself.
You’re not doing anything too crazy; you sweep, mop, kill many a dust bunny, and now you’re just emptying his only cabinet to wipe down the surfaces. You grab a box from the middle shelf, making a mental note to remind Reigen to go through it because you sure as hell won't. They’re his things and just because you’ve been together for a while now doesn’t mean all privacy goes out the door.
But the box is a lot heavier than you thought and just when you think you have a good grip on it after juggling it between your arms, it topples to the floor.
“Shoot !!!” You innocently curse, diving right after it like a gold-medal olympian but you’re not one so you slip on your toes and crash land right next to:
Scattered business cards, which upon closer inspection are misprints that spell Reigen’s name as Reiken Arataka (you make a mental note to joke about this later before pocketing one for yourself)
Pamphlets for businesses throughout Seasoning City, likely inspiration fodder for Spirits and Such
Books with frayed covers and dog-earred pages
You move in to investigate the titles of those obviously-used books when a black, poly satin bag catches your eye: the kind that comes complimentary with sex toys. Your hand freezes mid-hover, fingers twitching curiously but ultimately, they fall away to your side. Badump. Badump. Badump. Your heart is racing, stomach lurching but not from disgust.
From excitement.
Reigen was a virgin when you met him but you would have never guessed he tried toys before— if it is a toy, that is.
You’ll find out… Just not like this.
—
Though the question has seeped into your tastebuds by the time Reigen comes home, you don’t ambush him. No, you let him do the whole song-and-dance of shedding the world and the persona of Reigen Arataka, the Greatest Psychic of the 21st Century, until he’s down to just Arataka. Your Arataka.
Things are heating up between the two of you, your legs bracketing his thighs as you bombard him with kisses up and down his throat while he pants and mumbles your name under strained breaths, his head limp against the couch. His hands cup your rear, trimmed nails digging in now and then but nothing is more indicative of his arousal than the budding bulge twitching against your cushiony mons.
“‘Taka…?” His name on your lips is holy and you’re a goddess he doesn’t deserve but damn, if he isn’t honored to worship at your feet all the same.
“Hmmm…?”
Pulling away, your cheeks hot and voice tender, you finally start your investigation. “You know how I was cleaning today?” Your fingers curl around the blondish baby hairs at the nape of his neck, waiting for his eventual nod. “I found something… And I wanted to ask you about it.”
You present the bag, its contents still unknown to you, to your boyfriend, who’s currently blushing so red and hot, you think he might short circuit before you even find out what it is.
How could he have ever guessed you would be talking about that— that splurge purchase he only used a handful of times before giving up on it entirely, not because it didn’t feel good but because he met you and using it let his brain wander to places he felt he had no right to be in. Pumping his member through the silicone folds, engulfed by the artificial heat: in the moment, how could he not think about what you would feel like instead?
… That and the clean-up was mortifying.
“O-Oh, that?! That— That was—”
Cupping his face, your smile cuts him off before he can come up with an explanation. “‘Taka, breathe. I’m asking because we can use it together. Would you like that?”
One big gulp and a shaky yes later, you’re on the bed, cramped as it may be. You loosen up the bag’s drawstrings and at last, the mystery is solved.
It’s a fleshlight, a simple one. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it hasn’t been used at all. Sitting beside him, you tug on Reigen’s sweatpants and briefs in one go.
Reigen watches, unable to breathe or moderate his heartbeat while you squirt the lubricant into the toy’s cavern, getting it nice and ready for him. Oh my god… It’s the last thought he has before they’re wiped clean altogether.
His hips immediately launch off the mattress, his cock disappearing into the fake pussy with a profane, wet SQUELLCHHH! “Oh-h-h-h…!” His head lolls back and hits the wall with a quiet thump!
He doesn't notice.
At this, you purr, “You like that?”
Oh you’re evil. Catching him off guard, stripping down to your panties, then jerking him off by proxy with that voice… You’re giving him the worst/best whiplash of his life.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He grovels. Those animated eyes of his are welded tight, wrinkles stretching from the corners and his jaw is fixed.
Your hips swivel up his thigh, the soft hairs on his leg caressing your legs, against the apex of your legs. Hands free, you’re getting off because god, he sounds, looks, too good not to.
Best. Spring. Cleaning. Ever.
You have to remind yourself to watch his expressions because you’re mesmerized by the sight of his pink cock disappearing into the mushy puss, the soppy slop of your strokes filling the cramped room and you listen with the same reverence as someone enjoying an orchestra. People have called Reigen “down bad” for you but the feeling is mutual. Very mutual.
The silicone swallows him whole and isn’t shy about it. Your fingers cramp but you simply tell them to shut up and deal with it.
The mechanical whirr of the sex toy does little to disrupt the erotic synergy between the two of you. It’s simply part of the soundtrack.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” You lick your lips but they quickly pop apart as the fleshy part of his thigh rubs just right against your clothed clit. You gasp as your legs involuntarily clamp down. Reigen tries to touch you, wants to — god, does he want to — but you’re drowning him in pleasure and his fingers are numb to the bone.
His cockhead contracts, pre-cum welling at the tip and quickly mixing with the lubricant seeped in the silicone walls. His balls are swollen, aching for a long overdue release.
Schlurp. Schlurp. Schlurp.
The sound of the toy clutching him to the base repeats over and over and you use it as fuel to grind your hips down even harder until your clit is squished down, the nerves tickled with pleasure. Need him inside, but… You think as your hole flutters pathetically around nothing, demanding the attention you’re not giving it.
“Cum for me once… Then you can have the real deal.” Your whispering is feverish and not just from your hot breaths on the curve of his ear.
Reigen, hearing your own need seeped in your words, nods, determined to oblige. He was a quick shooter at first but here he is now, going on ten minutes. His eyelashes still close together, he can barely make out the swipe of your needy pussy along your plush seat but he sure as hell can feel your need. Your panties cling to your folds, the fabric stained with arousal, but he knows you can’t cum like this so—
“Close.” He rasps with a dry throat, “Really… Really close.”
Your permission is the last thing he needs and his cock gives one, two, then three earthshattering throbs before bursting with ropes upon ropes of seed. “O–O-O-Oh…!” Reigen cries out a breathy, final moan. He barely notices how sweaty he is, the choppy strands of hair clinging to his temples and forehead like a second skin.
Sssssssshhhhhhhhh. You’re careful sliding the fleshlight up his length and off his cock. You have to immediately turn it over before the mess he’s made of cum and lubricant can spill out. The toy’s clear walls are opaque with your boyfriend’s release now and you commit the image to memory, knowing damn well this won’t be the last time you see it.
“God…” A laugh coasts his next exhale. “It never felt… That good… Before…”
You giggle, satisfied, but still hungry for more at the same time. You start spreading the mixture of lube and cum to his balls with your hand wrapped in a fist against his half-hard dick. He needs a break.
“Don't worry, I’ll give it a minute.” You assure him, to which he sighs, relieved.
₊˚ʚ ☁️ ₊˚ ♡ ﾟ. content warnings ⤸ nsfw. trans reigen arataka x afab!reader. alright. here are my thoughts on reigen's pussy, resurrected from the dead.
Personal hot take: Reigen would not get bottom surgery but he would take hormones. Top surgery is a definite yes and one of his many reasons is because he feels his best when he's wearing a binder under a suit. Can you imagine the gender euphoria he'd get from putting on a dress shirt for the first time post-surgery? makes me wanna cry actually...
I digress.
T is a gift that keeps on giving. Apart from body hair in places he didn't realize were possible, it also swells up his clit. His nerves become dialed up to one hundred. You do the math. smashing pussiessss
Tribbing in the mating press position with him on top. Thinking about his thighs trembling against yours as he grinds your pussies together. Schlick, schlick, schlick... His muscles keep contracting because he's not used to this intensity. Reigen is chasing a pleasure his body can't cash (AKA he is out of shape but he isn't going to let that stop him from making you both cum). He gets a cramp later but god, he'd do anything to get your wet lips on his again.
Explodes with pubic hair. Blond and wiry... Pink labia lips...
Also thinking about how you'd spread his pussy and he'd be so wet, a bridge of his juices would make and break between his folds.
I am a big fat personal believer in clit fucking. :-)
I just imagine him rutting into you like crazy in the scissor position. He cums really quickly this way, though...
Reigen is a sucker for the missionary position. He'd pant like a dog into your neck, bracing himself with his hands on the bed by your shoulders as his hips slam into yours. Slip ‘n slideee
reigen arataka breeding reader IS RHAT HOW U WORD IT 😭😭
IT SURE ISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
₊˚ʚ ☁️ ₊˚ ♡ ﾟ. Reigen Arataka x AFAB! Reader ⤸
No pronouns used. Not entirely proofread lol
Reigen has always been on the fence about having kids but after he sees how good you are with Mob, Tome, and the others, he makes up his mind.
He just didn't realize how addicting all this trying was going to be.
The first time he sees his cum bubbling out of you, he swears it alters his brain chemistry. One look and ZAP! Now all he can think about these days is your pussy folds drenched in cream, a mixture of his and yours leaking from your slit.
It becomes a routine, and a favorite at that: after you've drained him to the last drop, he gets to hear your pretty, flitty cries again as he fingers his load back inside you.
"Ahhh, it's a lot this time." Reigen notes, his wet cock hitting your ass when he draws his hips back. A bit of his seed splashes on your backside and you can hear Reigen stifle a low chuckle amidst the deliciously wet squelches your pussy emits with every stroke of his crooked fingers.
It's okay if this one doesn't take. There's always the next one. And the next one. And the next one...
Do you think you could write about touchstarved! Reigen getting a lap dance from reader?
I actually wrote something like this already in this fic but this did spawn another idea...
WEARING A BUNNYSUIT WITH PANTYHOSEEE!!!
I'm a huge believer in Reigen-thigh-high-fucker-supremacy but you can't tell me he wouldn't get off on a great pair of black, sheer pantyhose.
For his 500th "exorcism", there's a party at the office but the real fun happens at home...
₊˚ʚ ☁️ ₊˚ ♡ ﾟ. content warnings ⤸ nsfw. reigen arataka x afab!reader
uhhh content self-explanatory i think LMAO .............
"Oh, 'Takaaaa~"
Before you even step out of the bedroom, Reigen already knows he has a treat in store for him by the sugary, sing-song lilt in your voice alone.
He can't lie; he's already hard. It's only been a week since you two have been intimate – the office has been booming with business, clearly – but if you ask him, it’s been eons.
Yeah, you’ve effectively ruined him with all your spoiling.
The first thing Reigen sees when you finally make your debut are your heels: red platforms to be exact. Then, your legs. Good god, you could kill him with that visual alone. The fabric clings just right to your body and what’s Reigen’s first thought? I want to cum on them so bad.
But then he sees you in a bunny suit and he’s destroyed before you even get to touch him.
Then you’re grinding on his lap, pushing up your breasts, and he’s done. “H-Hold on, hold on, I’m–” He chokes on his own words and you know what’s happened when a patch of wetness kisses the apex of your thighs.
“Oh, gosh, Arataka.” You gasp in disbelief, but you say it with such adoration, Reigen isn’t even embarrassed about it.
You don’t give him an encore. He needs the real thing.
office loser! reigen who literally almost passes out when you first suck his cock under his office desk as his coworkers come up to him to ask if he’s okay and if he needs water but all reigen does is shake his head and cover his mouth, his face bright red as you lick his balls all the way to his tip
Another transmasc post as a celebration of TDOV- and definitely not just because I can't get the idea of FTM mating press Leon out of my head today. As always, gender neutral reader with no description of genitals in hopes of being trans-inclusive. I'm thinking of compiling my transmasc x readers into one place on AO3 because I've got a lot more ideas for a lot more characters, so let me know if you'd be interested in more. I hope y'all enjoy, and happy TDOV to my trans siblings!
Notes: Top!Leon, brief bottom!Leon, FTM!Leon, penetrative sex, fingering, mating press, use of toys, implied relationship, implied re9!Leon
Language used for Leon: folds, hole, cunt, pussy, cock (for genitals and a strap)
Leon Kennedy has always been more prone to bottoming, but as an older man, he is definitely open to try topping. You both make a date of going to your local adult store and picking out a strap-on and harness that you're both comfortable with trying. His first time using it is slow and laid back; you both enjoy yourself even if it takes a while to find your pace.
From then on, Leon reminds you why you love him so much: he is determined to only get better and do everything he can for you. On nights when you want it, he is quick to put on the harness for you and fuck you until you're satisfied. Sometimes he even insists that his pleasure can wait- he can cum just from topping you some nights, but on nights when he can't, he makes sure you're taken care of before you take care of him. And when you take care of him, you are shown proof that he really does enjoy himself on top; he is wetter than you think you've ever seen him, and one swipe through his folds has him groaning and grinding onto your hand. You jerk him off if he wants it quick, but on some nights, you repay the favor and finger him.
He moans when you slide the first two fingers in, his wet cunt so aroused from fucking you that it sucks you in with ease. The noises he makes as you crook your fingers in his hole are divine; he is loud and wanton as you take care of him, groaning your name and panting as you pick up the pace. You add more fingers when he's ready, making sure he feels filled- something he's always loved. It doesn't take long for him to cum like that, especially when you brush your thumb along his cock in time with your thrusting digits. You both end up feeling satisified this way, both of you filled the way you like and bathed in bliss.
But Leon isn't always content to just fuck you; when he is more comfortable with his skills with the strap, he asks if he can experiment with you. You practically jump at the chance he gives you, even if he's a bit vague in describing what he wants to do tonight. When you both finally settle in for the night and he puts on the harness, you're more than eager to take what he wants to give.
He starts you on the bed, both of you naked except for his harness and strap, asking you to lay back for him and bring your legs up. You obey by grabbing your legs behind the knees and situating yourself comfortably. He slides his large hands up the back of your thighs to your knees where he shoos your hands away and begins to press against them until you are nearly folded in half. He is gentle, asking if this position is okay and if you're comfortable- you can barely hear him from how turned on you are by the thoughts rushing through your head about how exposed you are. You reassure him when you finally snap back to your senses, and he chuckles at how clearly eager you are to do this.
The next thing you know, he's on top of you, pressing your legs down as he pistons his cock into you. The look on his face is intoxicating enough: he is focused on the task at hand, desperately fucking down into you with fervor, almost like an animal in heat as he brings you closer and closer to orgasm. You are only able to babble about how good it feels, your body alight with the feeling of how deep he is inside of you and how good his cock feels pistoning in and out of your willing hole. You take everything he gives, the room smelling of sex and sweat- the sounds of skin on skin bouncing off the walls is almost lewd enough to make you cum on the spot.
You hold out, though. You want nothing more than to make this feeling last. You can tell this position is good for him, too, as his moans have gotten louder and more erratic. The sharp snaps of his hips have slowed to something closer to a grind as he brings you both to climax; the room spins and your vision nearly whites out as you ride your high, and when you come to, Leon is almost a dead weight above you. He shifts off of your legs first, and then when he slips out of you, you can't help but feel a little empty.
You know he will always take care of you. He leaves to clean up the toy and get out of it, and when he comes back, he's got a rag and whatever else he deems 'necessary' for you: water, food, maybe even aspirin just in case. You chuckle at his thoughtfulness, and when it's all said and done, he is by your side, clean and content to cuddle you to sleep. You make sure before either of you drift off to mention just how good he's gotten with his strap and just how much you wouldn't mind trying that position again. As you snuggle together and relax, you hear him chuckle and say he'd be happy to do anything you want as long as you're doing it together.
