#dewqueue complete!

Kenpachi: This man is in it for the love of the game. He’s a munch through and through for HIS pleasure, but because of that enthusiasm, you are NOT complaining. Long day? Eat pussy. Happy? Eat pussy. Sad? Eat pussy. See? It’s the solution to all of his problems. He doesn’t care if you’ve been training all day … heck, he probably prefers it.

Shunsui: A lover devoted to your pleasure first and foremost, although he, too, is a total munch. He’s very intentional about it though; a big fan of using his fingers and mouth at the same time. Shunsui can get a little lost in pleasure at other points during sex … he likes being rough n’ mean (in a good way, as long as you also get off on it), but eating you out is when he really slows down and takes his time, making it very passionate and sensual … mmmhm mhm. he’s so sexy. He absolutely loves it when you ride his face, too.

Shinji: A munch as well! So many munches on Bleach. He’ll take breaks from eating to finger the hell out of you, talking not you, but your pussy, through it. This man is obsessed with trying to get you to squirt … also likes overstimulating you orally. He wants it messy and fun.

Byakuya: Pretty agnostic on eating you out … doesn’t hate it, but doesn’t love it. If he knows you’re into it, though, he will make sure it’s a common occurrence in foreplay. He’s never ONLY done oral on you; he always uses it as a precursor to penetrative sex. On the flip side, this man loves getting blowjobs. Double standard!!!! But that’s ok <3

Starrk: Not a munch in the same way that Kenpachi, Shunsui, and Shinji are, but he likes being close to you in any capacity, so he sees this as a way to achieve that goal. Receiving oral from Starrk is an extremely intimate and intense experience. His fingers reach so deep and curl perfectly … I just imagine him being so attentive.

Grimmjow: Similar to Kenpachi in the sense that he’s addicted to the taste of you. But, unlike Kenpachi, he can’t be satisfied with just getting you off. He also wants to cum … preferably via fucking and not blowjob.

Your body oozes nostalgia as you drive through your hometown, windows down, at night in the dead of summer. What kids now consider "oldies" blast through your speakers, disrupting everyone in your car's path. Some things never change.

If you were alone, the moment might be bittersweet. But just as soon as you enter the small town's limits, you're pulling up to Connie's family home — which you almost drive past because it's been painted blue sometime in the past ten years, and all the trees in the front got cut down.

Sasha and Connie stumble outside. The sight lurches you back to high school, where you're picking them up after Prom — piling into your shitty Jeep to make your way down the shore for Prom weekend — only now you drive a sleek sedan, and a neatly-packed bag is tucked away in your trunk instead of a sloppily-stuffed backpack, half-full of stolen beer cans you copped from a friend's older brother.

"Hiiiii!" Sasha greets you as you step onto the pavement, a beamy, pumped up grin spread across her face as she pulls you into a warm hug. "God, we haven't seen you in ages!"

"You two are too good to visit a city-slicker like me," you joke, falling into Connie has he wraps you into a tight embrace, "but I'm happy t'see you guys." Your words are muffled against his chest, trapped in the wrinkles of his t-shirt, but they're honest.

Sasha slips into the passenger seat while Connie gets in the back. He immediately asks for the aux cord — but your car doesn't have one. You only use Bluetooth, now, and it takes forever to get his phone connected. He puts on a song from some new rapper he discovered; he used to listen to classic rock. You wonder if he still does.

"Jean went to Reiner's," Connie explains as you take off, "so we can just pick them both up there."

"…Reiner?" Your brows furrow slightly. "Braun?"

An awkward silence ensues. It's not that Reiner is a bad guy or anything, he's just … one of those kids you forgot about the second you graduated. He ran in different circles … was on the wrestling team, went to trade school … meanwhile you and your friends all participated in either football or cheer, and went to four-year universities away from home.

"Well y'know how Jean had to move back here a few months ago…" Sasha draws little hearts on the dashboard as she explains, "I guess Rei was part of the crew that worked on the extension to his mom's house. They expanded their kitchen and added a bedroom, did you know that? His grandmom had to move in after his grandpa died…"

You let Sasha ramble on as you try to think back to where the hell Reiner Braun lives. Connie saves you the trouble, leaning between the seats: "Timber Creek Trailer Park. The one on Scrivens Drive."

"Thanks," you murmur faintly, turning a corner so you can loop back around. "So…you're all friends with Reiner, now? And he's joining us…?"

"Awh, yeah, he's such a sweetheart," Sasha gushes, "you'll really like him. I dunno why we didn't hang with him in high school."

"We had our heads in our asses," Connie snarks, "dude's a great guy and we were wastin' our time with dickheads like Floch."

"Oh my God, Floch!" Sasha shakes her head, "I saw on Facebook that he got his third DUI like, a week ago."

Your hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter as the song switches to a familiar R&B tune that you all used to play constantly. Sasha sings it from the top of her lungs, her bad pitch unchanged by time.

You'd been to Timber Creek Trailer Park once, not for a particularly pleasant reason, just to give some Senior head when you were a Freshman: a mistake that you paid for dearly in social currency. Gravel crunches beneath your tires as Connie guides you through the maze of mobile homes. "He has a place of his own," he explains, squinting through the window, "but he comes back here 'cause he takes care of his mom most nights. She had a stroke a year ago."

They speak about him with such familiarity that it makes you nervous. Sasha and Connie have remained close over all these years; they went to the same school, and now they rent together a few towns over. Jean, like you, had moved further away — but a nasty round of layoffs kicked him back to where he started. You went into this "reunion weekend" knowing you'd be playing fourth wheel to your oldest friends, but adding a stranger to the mix makes playing catch-up feel even more daunting. You feel like an intruder on their lives … a reader of someone else's story.

"Here! The red one," Connie jabs a finger past your face. You coast to a stop, the movement turning on some motion-sensored lights, just in time for two shadows to appear in the doorway. Jean comes outside first, cooler in one hand and a duffel bag in the other. Behind him? A stacked wall of muscle.

Reiner Braun had always been big. He was, after all, the best wrestler your school district had seen since 1971. But he wears it … differently, now. Older. With confidence. He hit some kind of second growth spurt, too; he's all wide with biceps that could probably crush your face, a little softer than his cut figure back in the day, but …

"You'll catch flies," Sasha presses a silly lil' smooch on your cheek as she whispers it to you — a tactic you two used to use whenever you wanted to say something about a cute boy. "He's single, if you were wondering."

Jean and Reiner join Connie in the backseat. Jean greets you jovially, bursting into a long-winded story about how he almost forgot to make the reservation at the hotel because his mom threw out his day planner. Reiner doesn't get a word in edgewise, but your eyes meet through the rear-view mirror, and his crinkle in the corners slightly as he smiles.

The beach is an hour away. Connie and Jean prattle through a variety of random conversations, dragging Reiner in for a third opinion when needed. You and Sasha catch up quietly in the front, but the chitchat always seems to falter when Reiner's deep baritone hits your ears, and only resumes when Sasha pokes you on the shoulder to recapture your attention.

You're all tired by the time you get to the hotel because, well … it's a Friday, and everyone (other than Jean) has already suffered a long day's work. You agree to meet up in the lobby for breakfast at eight before breaking off to your rooms; you and Sasha share two queens with stiff sheets and creased edges. She brought facemasks and you brought popcorn and chocolate: the perfect setup for an evening of gossip and deep-talks and projections for the future. Sasha's still mourning her breakup with some fancy chef that chose to drop everything and move to a different country for 'opportunities', whatever that means. Her parents, bless their hearts, have adopted another kid; this one's sixteen with sticky fingers … but a sweet girl, apparently, who likes to draw. Connie leaves balled-up, stinky socks everywhere and Sasha's about to break the lease because of it.

"Enough about me," she says through a mouthful of snacks, "whattabout you? I hope y'r not still fucking around with Floch … I mean … God, three DUIs?" Her smile fades at your downcast expression. She blinks in shock. "Wait, you cant be serious …"

"It's not like we got back together or anything…" you nibble on a candy, "but, we …. slept together. A few times."

Sasha's quiet for a moment, the loud hum of the air conditioner filling the silence, before she nudges you mischievously. "Well I know the perfect guy to distract you from that train wreck."

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

The sand is already hot enough to burn the soles of Reiner's feet as everyone steps onto the sand, but it doesn't seem to phase the rest, so he keeps his comments to himself. He helps drive the umbrella into the ground as you and Sasha lay down blankets, turning to Connie and Jean soon after, who are that day's sunscreen dispensers, making sure 'the ladies' (Jean's words, not Reiner's) are properly covered.

Reiner hasn't really struck up the nerve to talk to you yet; that torch he's held for you since middle school is ever persistent, placing you on a pedestal that seems far out of reach. He thought age would perhaps mute those feelings, but it seems his schoolboy crush has devolved into grown-man lust, drawing his eye to you more than what's socially acceptable.

You're in the prettiest bikini he's ever seen. It looks expensive … and he didn't even know expensive swimwear was a thing until he sees the way the fabric slinks across your hips elegantly. His eyes fixate on the smooth curves of your calves and thighs and hips — an ass man through and through — but he can't help but take a peek at the most perfect tits contained by two cherry-red triangles whenever he gets the chance. He's fighting for his life as you oil yourself up, hands slipping and sliding all across your exposed skin. Sasha helps you with a spot on your back … you arch toward her, short-circuiting Reiner's brain as your ass sticks up in the air at the motion, and he must look like an idiot because before he even has a chance to re-hinge his jaw, he's receiving a firm whack on the back of the head from Jean.

"Let's go, big guy," he snickers, "Connie brought a football. We're gonna toss it around."

Reiner has never been much of a beach-goer, but he starts to understand the appeal as the day continues. It's relaxing, first and foremost: the sound of waves and gulls … children screeching happily as cold water licks their feet … the rest of the world seems so distant: his problems, small. When he gets too hot he can just take a dip in the ocean; it's still early in the season, and sure, the temperature is cool enough to numb his ankles, but they warm right up whenever you come to join him. Sasha's always in tow, of course — as are the guys — and he still hasn't managed to talk to you properly. He feels like a neanderthal, all chopped-up sentences and nervous laughs. His limbs are heavy and his brain slows whenever you're in his periphery, as if he's trapped under some siren's spell.

The day ends when Connie announces he's about to have heatstroke and Sasha complains that she'll die if she doesn't eat a full meal soon. The night, however, is just starting: first dinner, then the casino, and finally, Club Paradis.

Dinner is good; it's at a Cuban restaurant, with big portions and bottomless mojito pitchers. Gambling is underwhelming; Reiner puts twenty bucks into a slot machine, and in return, gets a seventy-four cent voucher. At least he didn't lose all twenty dollars … only nineteen and twenty-six cents!

You have a little more luck, investing one-hundred in a game of blackjack and doubling it … only to drop down to one-hundred-and-ten after a game of roulette. You've been sipping on some fruity cocktail since stepping onto the casino floor, and Reiner's on his second beer. It's easier to talk, now; he leans into your every word, listening to your tale of the workplace admin, Gale, and her thirty-years-younger 'work husband', who was just promoted to mid-level management. You theorize that the older woman had something to do with it, but you're "not a gossip", and "who are you to judge?"

By eleven, it's time for Club Paradis. Everyone went back to their rooms to get ready; Reiner's glancing at his reflection, applying some aftershave onto his neck, wondering if jeans and a v-neck are too casual for a place like this. His worries evaporate, though, as soon as his vision is assaulted by a bright, yellow Hawaiian shirt hanging loosely on Connie's wiry frame.

"The ladies love it," he swears, winking, "but I don't think you care about impressing the 'ladies' tonight, eh? Just … one lady."

He's not wrong, and after his and Jean's relentless teasing about Reiner's "gawking" on the beach, Reiner doesn't even try to refute it. "Somethin' like that," he mumbles, "way outta my league, though."

"Don't give us that self-deprecating shit. You're doing way better than her, dude. Sash told me earlier that she's miserable in the city … still hooks up with Floch sometimes when she's desperate."

"Floch?" Connie's jaw drops. "Still?"

Jean nods, tossing Reiner a knowing smirk. "And just sayin' … she was staring at you just as much as you were, my friend. 'Specially in the water. And did you notice how close she leaned in when you were talking downstairs?" Jean pops his collar, "she doesn't cozy up to just anyone like that."

"We were just talking…"

"Uh-huh. Well. If you wanna do more than "talk", just put the 'do not disturb' thingy on the door. We don't mind crashing in the other room."

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

The music is loud and your ears are bleeding. Sasha and Connie are off being each other's wingmen, in a competition to see who can collect the most phone numbers. Jean found a pretty girl to dance with, or rather, dance on, hips grinding into hers sloppily with a Jack and Coke sloshing around in one hand, her waist in the other.

Meanwhile, you and Reiner have been at the bar nearly the whole time, alcohol blurring the day's mounting nerves into animated conversation. He's funny and sweet and smart and sensitive … and handsome. So handome, in fact, that your eyes, which usually like to wander in a place like this, have been glued to him all night: the way his Adam's apple scrapes along his throat when he swallows his drink, the way his fingers, thick and textured, drum along the sticky wood when he orders another beer … the way his honey eyes cut to yours when he shyly asks if you want another gin and tonic — on him.

Each time you hit the bottom of your glass, you notice your body has drawn inadvertently closer to his. You're so close that you can feel heat radiating from him … can smell the soap and aftershave lingering on his skin … traces of Pabst and fresh mint on his breath. Sometimes, you're swapping stories in giddy pitches, and others, you're sipping drinks in charged silence.

Now's one of those times; the topic of Bertholdt Hoover's wedding and Reiner's role as best man has come to its natural end. Your lips clamp around the tiny red straw poked between ice cubes, focus drifting to the dance floor, wincing as you catch sight of Jean shoving his tongue down his dance partner's throat.

"You look like you could use a refill."

The voice next to you is not Reiner's. It's deeper, more serious … not predatory, but assured. Certain that you'll accept his offer. He's broad and blonde, not unlike the man who has been keeping you company all night, but something about him is cold and detached. A shorter guy sits in his shadow, thoroughly unimpressed with the atmosphere and the people that occupy it, watching his friend's attempt to pick up a girl with a raised brow.

"She's alright, I already got her one."

Reiner's forearm slides across the bartop to cage you. It's a protective stance, if not a little territorial. Arousal swims deep in your belly at the display, and you lean into the small gap that exists between you, smiling politely at the stranger. "Thank you, though. For the offer."

He tilts his head, eyes flashing with understanding … and annoyance. "I see. Sorry … for interrupting."

"No problem at all," you wave a hand. "Enjoy your night."

With a nod he turns back to his friend, whose lips are now quirked into an amused smirk. You should probably move, but you don't; you stay firmly planted on Reiner's chest, breath hitching as he rests his lips against the shell of your ear. "I don't wanna 'nother drink, to be honest," he admits, "I want you."

On autopilot, you nod eagerly. He slaps a tip on the counter and leads you out, hand on the small of your back, palm pressing into the silky fabric.

Little time is wasted once the door's card reader flashes green; he's all over you in a heartbeat, trailing sloppy kisses down your neck and exposed collarbone, only to coast back up to your mouth and crash his lips onto yours. Your hands fly to his shirt — a dark gray v-neck that had been clinging to his pecs sluttily all night — fingers curling beneath the hem and lifting it above his head, revealing a muscled stomach, accented by a mouth-watering happy trail, and a broad chest coated in soft, golden hair.

"'M gonna start blushin' if ya keep starin' at me like that," he grunts, pulling away, slowly twirling you around so your back is facing him. His fingers are rough against your smooth skin as he unzips the little black dress, but they're gentle and warm, and you're melting beneath them.

Left in a skimpy set of lace, Reiner exhales, grabbing the meat of your ass with both hands, pulling your cheeks apart only to watch them slap back together. You wiggle teasingly, skin flush with liquored anticipation, and squeak in surprise as he picks you up and plops you face down on the bed. You shuffle up onto all fours, only to be pressed into the meanest arch, one arm flattening your shoulders to the mattress while the fingers on his other dip beneath the strip of cloth covering your soaking cunt. "Stay just like this," he murmurs, releasing the pressure on your back as he rolls your little thong down your hips and to your knees, exposing yourself completely to him, minus the bra that's still miraculously in tact.

You have no time to prepare yourself before he's grabbing your thighs and licking a long, hot stripe between your folds, making you twitch with surprise, and your eyes nearly roll back into their sockets when he finds your clit almost immediately, slurping it up and rolling the soft muscle of his tongue across it. You buck into the touch, somehow already close, and he doesn't stop eating until you're fisting the sheets and crying out his name, the mounting pressure in your belly snapping as you orgasm all-too-soon.

You don't even know if your vibrator has ever made you cum that quickly, but here you are, dripping onto—

"Want you to ride my face," Reiner draws your wandering mind back to him, mouth shiny with your release. He's standing at the edge of the bed, now, covered from the waist-down, although a sizeable bulge has tented his jeans. "Been wantin' it all day."

Your hand reaches for his fly, thumb and pointer finger seizing the zipper and dragging it slowly down, taking your sweet time so you can catch your breath. "Only if I get to taste you, too," you bargain, wetting your lips as he starts to shuffle out of his remaining clothing. The imprint of his dick beneath his briefs his intimidatingly large, but you're up for the challenge; you've been thirsting after the guy since you laid eyes on him yesterday, and you can't back out now just because he's a little a lot bigger than you were expecting.

"You sayin' you wanna sixty-nine?" he huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Can't say I've actually ever done that before."

"It's fun," you smile, rearing up on your knees so you can kiss him again. He stoops down to meet you half-way, and you can taste yourself in the exchange; the kiss doesn't break as he peels off his briefs and climbs onto the bed, mattress dipping beneath his solid weight. His hands deftly unclasp your bra, tossing it to the side, and he lets you roll him onto his back as you grind your cunt down his thick shaft, trapping a lip between your teeth as you think about how deliciously he'd fill you.

"Nope," he stops the movement, eyes glued to the spot where your bodies meet, "'m still hungry. That can wait."

You blush, nodding, letting him guide you one-hundred eighty degrees around until your pussy's hovering over his face and your mouth is placing feathery kisses along the velvet-swathed veins of his cock. He spreads you wide apart before yanking you down onto him, tongue burying itself deep inside of your tight, wanting hole, nose grinding against your puffy clit.

Trying to distract yourself from cumming too-fast again, you wrap your lips around his head and suck, flicking your tongue across his slit and catching the salty pre that's been accumulating there. He groans into you, griiinding your hips down, squishing his fingertips into your thighs, bucking deeper into the wet heat of your mouth. You take him enthusiastically, trying to match the vigor with which he's devouring you, palms flat into the hard muscle of his quads. It takes you a few tries, but eventually you manage to relax enough to nudge him into the back of your throat, and you must be doing something right because his mouth stills its assault, struggling to continue as he's pulled into the feeling of how sweet you pull him in, drool forming in the corners of your stretched lips.

You take turns with who distracts who; the room is full of wanton noises — pants and grunts and whines — and the few times he decides to detach his mouth from your cunt it's to feed you praise that only encourages you to take him deeper — faster — to the point where the hairs at his base are saturated with your spit.

"Fuck, you're doin' so good, baby," he groans, lifting his hips to rut into you, licking his sticky lips — slick with your second orgasm — as he takes a peek between your thighs to watch his cock disappear into the depths of your throat. It's damn near pornographic the way you're taking him, making the prettiest, filthiest noises … but he really shouldn't have looked, because seeing it's enough to make his balls tighten and shoot his load before he can even try to stop it. "Shit — haaah, fuck — sorry —" he grits his teeth as you keep on sucking, working him into an overstimulated haze; he nips at your thighs, nuzzles them, takes a few more tastes before you both end up jelly-limbed lumps cuddled up next to each other with stupid grins on your faces.

"We didn't even get to the main event," you giggle when you realize he's about to start dozing off, ear pressed against his pounding heart. "Don't you wanna…?"

"Mm, no," a beefy arm curls around you, pressing your naked body flush against his. "Gotta take ya out t'dinner first … and it will not be in some trashy casino, I can promise ya that."

"Ooh — such a gentleman." You try to brush off his sentiment with a joke, but something about his earnest tone strikes a dangerous chord in your heart, warming you completely.

aot masterlist // main masterlist

request: thank you @disturbyakuya for requesting 'riding reiner's face' and @the-nightingales-world for requesting 'beachside date with reiner'. hope you guys enjoyyyyy

dew yaps: this is sooooo my state-coded. lowkey doxxing myself with this one. i love where i grew up tho, this is a love letter to my trashy lil corner of the world <3 and of course a love letter to reiner <3

Kisuke Urahara and Sosuke Aizen, two of the most skilled, intelligent, and accomplished Soul Reapers in the history of The Soul Society, were well-acquainted with the terms of their rivalry — or so they thought.

To say they felt a little silly was an understatement. Never in a million years did they think they'd fight over something as mundane as someone's affection; but, alas, when you came back from the world of the living one day with a "Brazilian Waxing Kit" and puppy-dog eyes, neither could say no … especially when they learned that the other hadn't backed out yet.

And so that is how they find themselves in the very vulnerable position of being completely naked, side-by-side, watching hot wax drip from a wooden stick and onto the floor as you frown down at a manual with various depictions of male genitalia.

Now they don't have to be completely naked. They could have kept their robes on, like you told them, and just make sure to lift it up at the appropriate times. But when Aizen walked in and saw Kisuke completely stripped down, he didn't want to be seen like some prude — so he, too, discarded his robe at the door.

"Should I start with the crotch…?" you ask, breaking the awkward silence "or the butt??"

The question, of course, is rhetorical. They don't bother to answer as you walk up to Aizen and tap his leg. "Feet together … and knees out. I think."

He obeys, lips parting in concern as you hum down at your little guidebook again, brows furrowed.

"Y'look nervous, Sosuke," Kisuke teases from his left. Aizen glances over — and the asshole is shamelessly erect, hands behind his head, waiting for his turn. "Be gentle with him!" he warns you, "who knows what he'll do if he gets upset—"

Aizen tunes him out as a warm sensation spreads across the seam between his groin and right thigh. His gaze drops to watch amber wax melt across his skin.

"This will hurt," you sing a little too eagerly. Aizen says nothing, centering his breathing, preparing for what will hopefully be a painless experience. After all … this is something humans do all the time, and if those weaklings can do it without a problem, then surely he can, too.

You stick a piece of paper onto the cooling wax, and without warning: riiipp!

Kisuke has the nerve to giggle at Aizen's shock. Suddenly everything feels a little sweaty, and he's doing everything he can to subdue any outward display of pain.

"Does it hurt, Sosuke?" Kisuke asks with fluttery lashes. "Need me to kiss it better?"

Aizen doesn't even bother with a reply, rolling his eyes, heart rate increasing as you prepare another application of wax.

Smear, rip. Smear, rip. Smear, rip. The cycle is cruel and relentless … and humiliating! Aizen hardly recognizes the man he's become as he lays there, holding his feet in the air so you can access the hairs in his ass. When you get to his balls, he swears he sees stars — and not the good kind — but he'd be damned if he let Kisuke know any of that, so he steels his expression into one of nonchalance and boredom.

Surely Kisuke, who is known for his childish antics and overdramatics, will make a fool of himself in comparison!

Wrong.

When it's Kisuke's turn, he's holding a conversation with you as if this were a casual evening stroll. He's flirting, even — telling you that your touch is just right, commenting how 'a man should embrace pain if it's at the hand of someone so sexy' … really laying it on thick. And as Aizen lies there with raw skin, a limp dick, and a bruised ego, Kisuke is still hard as a rock, preening beneath your attention.

"You're handling this surprisingly well," you comment, gesturing for him to lift his legs. “Figured you’d be running for the hills by now."

"It's not my first time around this particular block, let's just say that," he waves his hand absentmindedly.

"Oh! When you were in the world of the living, did you get this done often?"

"Every month!"

Aizen's eyes widen. Cheater!

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