Hello Every Pony

three days later, a package arrives.

you know what it is because you’ve been tracking it obsessively, checking the delivery status every hour like a maniac. toji watches you tear into the cardboard with a look of profound resignation.

“you’re actually excited about this,” he says.

“excited is an understatement.” you pull out the balaclava and the skull mask; then the rest of it. the tactical vest. the sleeves. the pants. you’d ordered everything in his size, which was its own adventure because toji is not built like a normal person. he’s built like someone who could bench press a refrigerator and still have energy left to carry you to bed.

he picks up the vest, turns it over in his hands. “this is cheap.”

“it’s for cosplay, not actual combat.”

“the straps are flimsy.”

“toji.”

“i’m just saying. if i got shot in this, i’d die.”

“you’re not going to get shot!”

he shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye. he’s enjoying this. he’d never admit it, but he is.

“go put it on,” you say, pushing him toward the bedroom. “and don’t come out until you’re fully dressed. i want the full reveal.”

“you’re treating me like a show pony.”

“a very, very hot show pony. now go.”

he goes, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “i’m going to regret this.”

you wait on the couch. the minutes stretch. you hear rustling from the bedroom, the occasional grunt, what might be a curse word. you bounce your knee. check your phone. bounce your knee some more.

“toji? are you okay in there?”

no answer.

“toji?”

the bedroom door opens and your brain short-circuits.

he’s standing in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. the mask sits perfectly over his lower face, the white skull stark against the dark fabric. his eyes stare out from the hollows of the mask, some dark paint(is that your eyeshadow?) on his lids, and there’s something about the anonymity of it that makes them look sharper. more dangerous.

the tactical vest fits him like it was painted on. it’s not quite tight enough to be restrictive, but it’s snug enough to show every ridge of muscle beneath. his arms are bare below the short sleeves, and god, you knew he was built, but seeing him like this— the corded forearms, the thick veins, the way his biceps strain against the fabric—

the pants are loose, with pockets at the thighs. they hang low on his hips, and there’s a belt, and you can see the sharp cut of his waist disappearing into the waistband.

he’s wearing boots. you don’t remember ordering boots, but apparently he found some because he’s wearing them, heavy and black, and they make him look even taller than he already is.

he’s not even doing a pose. he’s just standing there, looking at you with those half-lidded eyes.

and you cannot breathe.

“well?” his voice is muffled through the mask, which somehow makes it worse— his voice is deep and it curls around you like smoke.

you open your mouth, yet nothing comes out.

his eyebrow lifts. the mask can’t cover his whole face— you can still see the arch of his brow, the sharp line of his cheekbones above the fabric. he's watching you, and there’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there before.

recognition. satisfaction.

“cat got your tongue?” he asks, and the words are lazy, drawled, like he has all the time in the world and he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

you make a sound. it might be a whimper. you’re not sure. you’ve lost the ability to form coherent thoughts.

he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you. his gait is different— slower, more deliberate. h’s stalking; stalking toward you like you’re prey and he’s the predator and oh god, this is everything you wanted and also maybe too much.

he stops in front of the couch, looking down at you. you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. they are piercing through you, the dark paint only bringing them out on his face.

“you’re staring,” he says.

“you’re—” your voice cracks. you clear your throat. “you’re really, really hot.”

his eyes crinkle at the corners. he’s smiling under the mask. you can tell.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he reaches down and takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up. his hands are huge, calloused, and the contrast between his rough skin and the tactical gear makes your stomach flip.

“you asked for this,” he murmurs. “you begged for this.”

“i know.”

“you wanted to see me like this.”

“yes.”

he leans closer. the mask is inches from your face. you can smell him— the familiar scent of his soap, his skin, underneath the new smell of synthetic fabric and nylon.

“so now you’ve got me,” he says, low and quiet. “what are you going to do about it?”

you’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.

he watches you short-circuit for a long moment, and then he laughs— a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the room. he pulls his hand back and drops onto the couch beside you, slouching into the cushions like the world's hottest sack of potatoes.

“you’re cute when you’re flustered, doll,” he says, tugging the mask down around his neck. his face is flushed underneath— just a little, just a hint of pink across his cheekbones. “didn’t think it’d hit you that hard.”

“how could it not hit me that hard,” you manage. “you look— toji, you look like you stepped out of my brain.”

“your brain needs better hobbies.”

“my brain is perfectly happy with its hobbies, thank you very much.”

he snorts, but keeps looking at you with that half-smile that says he’s enjoying this way more than he’ll ever admit.

“come here,” he says, opening his arm.

you don’t need to be told twice. you curl into his side, and the tactical vest is stiff and unfamiliar under your cheek, but underneath it is him. solid and warm and real.

“so,” you say after a minute, your voice small. “was it that bad?”

he’s quiet for a moment. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it absently.

“it’s not,” he says finally, and there's something softer in his voice now. “it’s not bad. if it makes you look at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like i’m the only thing in the room.”

your heart trips over itself.

“tojii—”

“don’t get sappy about it.” but his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. “just. you know. maybe we keep the costume. for future use.”

you look up at him. his gaze is fixed on the tv, carefully casual, but there’s a warmth in his expression that gives him away.

“future use,” you repeat.

“don’t make it weird.”

“you’re the one who said future use—”

“i will put you on the floor.”

“you would never.”

he looks down at you then, and his eyes are dark and fond and exasperated all at once. “i really, really would.” you laugh, he sighs, and the weight of him against you is perfect.

but you wait until the movie is over.

not because you have any patience— you don’t, not anymore, not after watching him sprawled on the couch for two hours in that vest, those boots, the mask pushed down around his neck like some kind of reward you’re not allowed to have yet.

but you wait because you want to see if he’ll take it off himself.

he doesn’t.

the credits roll. the room goes quiet except for the hum of the tv. toji’s hand is still in your hair, lazy and possessive, and his chest rises and falls beneath your cheek in slow, even breaths.

something tells you that toji— who has spent the better part of an hour watching you squirm under the weight of his gaze, who has not once taken off the gloves even though you know his hands get hot in them— is enjoying the slow burn just as much as you are.

you should say something. you should be normal about this.

instead, you tilt your head up and look at him.

his eyes are half-closed, relaxed, the sharp line of his jaw dusted with stubble. the vest is still buckled. the boots are still laced. he looks like he could roll off this couch and go clear a building without breaking a sweat.

and you want him so badly it actually hurts.

“tojiii,” you say.

“mm.”

“you’re still wearing the costume.”

his eyes crack open, enough to look down at you with that lazy, knowing expression.

“yeah,” he says. “i am.”

you wet your lips. his gaze drops to your mouth.

“are you going to take it off?” you ask, and your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. breathier.

he’s quiet for a long moment. his thumb traces the shell of your ear, slowly, which only drives you crazy.

“do you want me to?” the question hangs in the air between you.

you shake your head.

his hand stills.

“no?” he says, and there’s something dark and warm and curious in his voice now. “you want me to keep it on?”

you nod. your throat feels tight.

“toji,” you start, then stop. start again. “i want—”

“i know what you want.” his voice is low, rougher than before. he shifts beneath you, and you feel him— half-hard already, pressed against your thigh through the tactical pants. “you’ve been thinking about it since i walked out of that bedroom, haven't you?”

you can’t lie. you won't. “yes.”

“dirty girl.” he whispers like a praise. “you wanted me dressed up like some video game soldier so you could ride me in it?”

“yes, toji—”

the word comes out unbelievably desperate. you don't even care.

you don’t remember standing up. you don’t remember walking. all you know is the heavy press of his hand on the small of your back, guiding you down the hallway, and the sound of his boots thudding against the floor.

the bedroom is dim. the curtains are half-drawn, and the late afternoon light falls in golden stripes across the sheets. you barely have time to register any of it before toji turns you around and pushes you back against the mattress. you bounce once, twice, and then he’s there, climbing over you, all that bulk and muscle and gear blocking out the light.

his weight is heavy and perfect, the tactical vest pressing against your chest, the nylon straps digging into your skin through your shirt.

his face is inches from yours. the mask is still around his neck, but he doesn’t pull it up. he wants you to see his face for this. wants you to watch his expression while he takes you apart.

“you should have just said so,” he murmurs before firmly planting his mouth is on yours.

he kisses like he does everything else— thoroughly, assuredly, with a little bit of his mean streak. his tongue slides against yours, and his hips press down, and you can feel him now, fully hard, grinding against you through too many layers of clothing.

you moan into his mouth. he swallows it.

“you look—” you say, and your voice cracks on the last word. “fuck, toji, you look like you could break me in half and i want you to. i want you to pin me down and not say a single word and just—”

“just what?” he pulls back slightly to listen more closely to what you’re muttering frantically.

“toji,” you gasp when bites at your jaw. “please—”

“please what, doll?” he sucks a mark just below your ear, his voice is a deep rumble against your skin. “please fuck you? please ruin you? please give you exactly what you've been begging for?”

you whine, palms cupping the sides of his face to look at him properly. strands of his hair tickle your skin, hanging above you, “all of it, baby.”

he laughs, low in his chest and laced with darkness. “greedy.”

but he sits back on his hunches to pull your shirt over your head. his hands are rough and sure, undressing you like he’s done it a thousand times—because he has, but you don’t want him to follow with undressing himself too, obviously.

you shiver when the cool air hits your skin. your nipples pebble instantly. his gaze drops, hungrier than you’ve ever seen it.

“look at you,” he says, almost to himself. “so fucking pretty.”

he leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, and you arch off the couch with a cry. his tongue is hot and wet, rough against the sensitive skin, as his hand comes up to pinch the other, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until you’re writhing beneath him.

“toji, toji, please—”

“i’m going,” he says, smirk and smugness evident in his voice. “i’m going, sweetheart. hold your horses.”

you want to kill him. you want to marry him. you want him inside you right this second.

he works his way down your body with agonizing slowness— kisses to your sternum, your stomach, the jut of your hipbone. his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down, and your underwear goes with them, and then you’re bare beneath him and he’s still fully dressed.

it's so unfair and so hot you might actually die.

you lift your hips without thinking, desperate to help, and he makes a low sound in his throat. approval, maybe. amusement. “so eager,” he notes.

when you’re finally bare beneath him, toji sits back on his heels and just looks. the vest strains across his chest. the mask hides his expression. but his eyes— his eyes are burning.

“touch me,” you whisper. “please. toji. please.”

he leans down, braces one hand beside your head, and slides the other between your legs. the glove is rough against your skin, the sensation causing you to gasp at the contact. he’s not gentle, but he’s not rough either. he’s precise, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips buck, and when you moan he presses harder.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you wanted, right? me in this stupid costume, touching you like this?”

“yes—yes—”

“could’ve just asked.” his finger dips lower, slides through your slick, and you feel your face go hot. “so wet already. all for some guy in a mask?”

“for you,” you correct, biting your lip. “always for you.”

he’s moving, shuffling back, pulling at his belt with one hand while the other stays between your legs. the bed dips as his weight moves on it momentarily, and you’re left sprawled and desperate, watching him unfasten the tactical pants. he takes his time, the way he always does, drawing out every second just to watch you squirm.

the belt clinks. the button of his pants pops. and when he finally frees himself— he’s thick, heavy. the head is flushed and wet, and he strokes himself once, twice, watching you watch him.

you have to look away because it’s too much.

“eyes on me,” you pull your gaze back. “still want it?” he asks, his voice is rough.

“toji.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“yes, you absolute menace—”

he laughs, and then he’s on top of you again, and the weight of him is everything. the vest presses against your chest, the straps dig into your skin, and you can feel the rough fabric of his pants against your thighs. he looks like something out of your dirtiest dream, which you can barely take.

he reaches down and positions himself at your entrance. the head of his cock dips in, barely breaching it.

“you asked for this,” he says quietly. “you wanted it. so you’re going to take all of it.”

and then he pushes inside. you let out a wanton moan, clinging to him tighter.

“i know, baby.” he groans as he pushes in further. “i know.”he pushes in slowly. agonizingly.

you cry out. he’s thick, so thick, and you’re so wet but he still stretches you, fills you, makes you feel full in a way that borders on too much. he doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, and then he pauses, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours.

“fuck,” he breathes out. “fuck, you feel—”

“move,” you beg. “please, please move—”

the first thrust punches the air out of your lungs. the second makes you see stars. quickly, he finds a rhythm and you lose track of everything except the weight of him, the drag of him, the way his gloved hand slides up your thigh to grip your hip hard enough to bruise.

“toji,” you gasp. “harder, please, i can take it—”

he obliges and cants his hips, slow at first; deep, dragging strokes that hit something inside you that makes your vision blur. his hips roll against yours, and the sound of it— wet and obscene— fills the room.

his eyes flash a dangerous streak. “yeah?”

“yes—”

he slams into you.

the bed creaks. your head nearly hits the headboard and he pulls you back down, one hand cupping the back of your skull, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. he’s not gentle anymore. he’s fucking you, deep and rough, the straps of the fake gear leaving red marks on your skin.

you love it. you love every second of it.

“this what you wanted?” he grunts, driving into you. “wanted me to wreck you in this stupid costume?”

“it’s not stupid—ah—”

“it’s a little stupid.” but he’s smiling, you can hear it in his voice. “you’re so tight. so fucking tight around me. you like this, don’t you? like being fucked by your big, mean boyfriend in his silly little mask?”

“put the mask on,” you gasp.

he stops and stares down at you.

“what?”

“the mask,” you repeat, breathless. you’re so close, the tightness in your belly coiling, you’re right there, you can feel the edge approaching. “put it on. please. i want to see—”

his expression shifts. something dark and hungry flickers across his face.

“you want me to fuck you in the mask,” he says slowly.

“yes.”

he pulls out. you whimper at the loss, but he’s already reaching for the mask, pulling it up over his face. the skull grin stares down at you, hollow-eyed and menacing, and his green eyes burn through the darkness of the sockets.

“like this?” he asks, his voice muffled now, wrong in the best possible way.

“yes,” you breathe. “god, yes.”

he pushes back inside you in one smooth motion, and you scream.

he doesn’t hold back now. he fucks you hard and fast, the mask inches from your face, his breath hot through the fabric. you can see his jaw working beneath the skull, can see the tension in his neck, the way his muscles strain with every thrust.

“you like this?” he grunts, accentuating his thrusts. “you like being fucked by a guy in a mask?”

“yes—”

“by me?”

“yes—”

he picks up the pace. the bed wails louder under you, the headboard knocking against the wall, and you don’t care. you don’t care about anything except the way he feels inside you and the way he looks above you and the way his eyes haven’t left your face once.

“look at you,” he says. “taking it so good. made for this, weren’t you? made for me.”

you can’t answer, you can barely breathe; the pressure is building in your gut, hot and urgent, and you clutch at him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

“toji—i’m close—”

“not yet.”

“toji!”

he slows down, pulls almost all the way out, making you sob, because you were right there and he took it away.

“i said not yet,” he repeats, leaning down place a kiss on your cheek through the fabric. you push yourself before you even realise it — lips finding his under the mask, kissing him sensually.

he shifts, reaching down to hook one of your legs over his shoulder, and the new angle makes you see white.

“there,” you gasp. “right there, please—”

“you want to come?”

“yes, yes, i want to come—”

“then come for me, baby.” his hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. “now. i want to feel you come around me.”

that’s all it takes. you shatter beneath him, crying out his name—toji, toji, toji—and your body clenches around him, pulls him deeper, tries to drag him over the edge with you.

he thrusts hard once, twice, three times, as your whole body arches off the bed, a scream caught in your throat, and toji doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, through the waves and the aftershocks, until you’re limp and trembling beneath him.

only then does he let himself go. you feel him tense, feel his hips stutter, feel the heat of him spilling inside you. he groans, low and guttural, as he twitches, snug in your pussy, hot and thick and perfect. his hips roll a few more times, thrusting through it, and then he collapses on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on you but heavy enough to pin you to the bed.

his forehead rests against your shoulder. the mask presses against your skin, damp with his breath.

for a long moment, neither of you moves.

the only sound is your ragged, slowing breathing, mingling together in the quiet room.

eventually, toji lifts his head, pushes the mask down, and looks at you with lazy, hooded eyes. his lips are parted. his hair is a mess. and he’s still inside you, still half-hard. you’ve never loved anyone more.

he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you wince at the loss. then he’s tugging off the gloves, tossing them somewhere on the floor, and gathering you against his chest. the vest is uncomfortable against your bare skin, but you don’t care. you burrow into him anyway.

“happy now?” he asks, his voice rough.

his lips are red, swollen, and he’s smiling— a real smile, soft and warm and nothing like the skull grin.

“ecstatic,” you say.

he huffs a laugh and drops his forehead to yours.

“you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs. “with these bullshit requests of yours.”

“worth it.”

“debateable.”

but he kisses you anyway, slow and sweet, and when he pulls back, the mask is still on, and you know this won’t be the last time.

“future use,” you whisper.

he groans. “don’t start.”

“you said it first!”

“i’m rethinking every life choice that led me here.”

“no you’re not.”

he looks at you, his eyes so full of adoration and something you can’t name that it makes your chest ache.

“no,” he admits quietly. “i’m not.”

and when he carries you to the bathroom—because your legs don’t work anymore, and he’s still wearing the gear and the boots, and somehow that’s the hottest part— you’re already planning how to ask him to do it again.

maybe with the accent next time.

.

.

.

later, he’ll take the costume off piece by piece, and you'll watch every second of it. he'll catch you looking and roll his eyes, but he’ll slow down anyway, just to tease you. you’ll fall asleep with your head on his chest and he’ll press a kiss to your hair. you’ll hear him whisper something you're not quite sure you caught. something like “anything for you.”

but when you ask him about it in the morning, he’ll just grunt and change the subject, and the skull mask will be sitting on the dresser, watching you both like a silent promise. and maybe, just maybe, you’ll start planning your next request.

[ an. first time writing toji lowkey nervous also sorry for the obnoxious amount of dashes i just love them]

Neteyam huffs a quiet laugh as he helps you lower yourself onto the woven mat and then settling himself behind you. “She is right, you would not last a single day in her place.” he said mildly, though there was a warning edge beneath the fondness. “Watch your words, skxawng [moron/idiot].”

Lo’ak rolls his eyes, hands raised in surrender, catching both your tone and Neteyam’s warning, not wanting to get on either of your bad sides. “Okay, okay. No disrespect to the little warrior and their mother.” He says, insinuating to you and the baby developing in your womb.

You lean back against Neteyam’s chest with a small sigh, ignoring Lo'ak and allowing your mate's presence to ground you in the moment. Your hand settles over your belly without thinking, rubbing slow circles as another wave of hunger curls through you.

“I have been waiting all day to eat,” you say, voice softer now that your in the warm embrace of your mate. “I told your mother about it while we were weaving. I think she got tired of hearing me talk about it.”

Neteyam smiles down at you, resting his hand on top of yours. “You were talking about food again?” 

“Yes,” you admit without shame, not being able to repress your desire to speak of the foods you’ve grown to love over the years, and even more so since you’ve become with child. “My favorite.”

That grabs Neteyam’s attention, wanting to know what your craving of the day is, because you have developed many favorite dishes. “What favorite?” 

“The roasted yerik [hexapede] with the honey glaze,” you say with a soft, breathy sigh, eyes drifting closed as if the memory of the dish alone could satisfy the ache in your stomach. “The way you make it. I’ve been thinking about it since sunrise.”

Neteyam’s cooking skills have always been excellent, taught by the great Palulukan Makto herself, Neytiri. The way he roasts the yerik to perfection, then once it’s finished, smothered with the freshest herbs and spices, he glazes it with honey from the ripper wasp hive, careful not to let it burn, turning the meat slowly until it shines and crackles just right. 

He always lets it rest after, like his mother taught him, sealing in the juices before slicing it clean and even. It is rich, sweet, and savory all at once, comforting in a way that settles deep in your bones. Just thinking about it makes your stomach twist with longing for the meal.

Neteyam smiles softly at the sound of your sigh, pride warming his chest at how much you enjoy the food he prepares for you. “You like it that much?” he asks, thumb brushing over the back of your hand where it rests on your belly.

He remembers the long hours it took him to roast the yerik just right when he cooked in yesterday, the delicate honey glaze, and the patience needed to let it rest. It practically takes a full day to prepare, not even including prep time, but seeing your face light up every time you eat it makes all that effort feel worth it.

“Of course,” you murmur. “I crave it all the time now. Neytiri said the baby will be wishing for yerik once it’s older.” You say softly with a laugh, believing that Neteyam's mother's words are true and that once your child grows up, yerik will become their favorite type of meat as well.

Lo’ak makes a quiet sound from across the room, shifting where he lounges. Neteyam notices the shift in his brother, he notices everything. It must be the warrior in him that makes him so vigilant, but it helps in situations like these.

Neteyam’s ears twitch, eyes lifting slowly to his brother. The pride on his face fades into something more alert, assessing Lo’ak’s strange behavior. “Why are you suddenly so still?”

Lo’ak clears his throat, looking rather nervous for some strange reason. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Neteyam counters calmly, furrowing his brow lines, trying to figure out the root of Lo'ak's sudden fidgeting.

You push yourself up with a small groan, not paying attention to the back and forth between the Sully brothers, too busy with food on your brain. “I’m going to wash up,” you say, wanting to feel fresh before you settle down and eat. “I smell like dye and smoke.” You lean up, pressing a gentle kiss to Neteyam’s jaw, before standing up straight. “Can you warm the food for me please?” You request lightly, feeling the baby kick, as if they are rushing you to eat.

Neteyam hums softly at your request, already shifting to stand up as well. “Of course,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll have it ready when you come back.”

He watches you go, eyes lingering the way they always do since you’ve been pregnant: protective, fond, and most all memorized. You disappear behind the privacy curtain, the soft rustle of fabric marking the moment you are out of sight. A second later, he hears you exhale, the quiet sound of relief as you shed your clothing.

Only then does Neteyam move. He rises smoothly and crosses to the fire pit, crouching to stir the firewood and coax the start of the flames. The movements are automatic, practiced hands reaching for kindling, for the small fan woven of leaves.

The fire begins, crackling brighter by the moment, allowing the cooking pot to begin heating. Once it’s complete that's when Neteyam breaks the silence. “Lo’ak, what did you do?” He asks without turning around, keeping his eyes on the fire before him.

Lo’ak stiffens, looking very guilty even though he swears everything is fine. “I didn’t—”

“The food,” Neteyam cuts in, his voice calm but edged now. “What did you do with it?” The roasted yerik should be in the basket where he placed last night, untouched, waiting for you to request it, but now, mysteriously, it's gone.

Lo’ak scratches at the back of his neck, looking around, knowing he’s in trouble by Neteyam’s tone. “I thought she’d be gone longer. And it was just sitting there.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens as he feeds another sliver of wood to the flame. “Please, tell me you did not eat it.”

“…Only some of it.” Lo'ak mutters out, but Neteyam hears him clear as day.

Neteyam straightens slowly and turns to finally face his brother, an upset expression forming on his face. “She has been craving that food for days now,” he says, voice low. “It takes much time to prepare.”

“I know, okay? I messed up.”

“You know she has barely kept anything down these past weeks,” Neteyam goes on, eyes sharp, wondering how his younger brother could be such a skxawng that he would eat food that he eats food that's already claimed. “And now that she can eat, you take the one thing she has been waiting for.”

Lo’ak opens his mouth again, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Neteyam, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean—”

Neteyam whirls on him in a flash, ears pinning flat as he hisses sharply, not wanting to hear his brother's mouth. “Quiet.”

Lo’ak freezes, seeing the angry side of his brother appear, a side he doesn’t see often but when he does, he knows it isn’t good. “You do not apologize to me,” Neteyam continues under his breath, stepping closer so his words don’t carry past the fire, not wanting you to hear. “You apologize to her.”

“I will,” Lo’ak whispers back. “I swear. I just—”

Neteyam exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his temper down before he snaps. “You have not taken a mate yet,” he says, tone controlled but very serious. “So there are things you do not understand.”

Lo’ak frowns, not understanding what he means. “Like what?”

Neteyam’s gaze locks onto him, pressing his hand forcefully into his brother’s chest, wanting to get the words through his brother’s thick skull. “You do not mess with a pregnant woman’s food.”

Lo’ak lets out a weak, nervous huff, not taking his brother seriously. 'He has to be overreacting' the younger brother thought. “You’re acting like she’s gonna—”

“When she finds out there is no food,” Neteyam cuts in, deciding to be very blunt and plain, not knowing how else to put it. “she will kill you.”

Lo’ak chuckles, shaking his head, thinking Neteyam is just being dramatic. In his eyes, you're too sweet and kind to blow up at him over a meal. “You’re joking.”

Neteyam doesn’t laugh or crack a smile. He looks at his brother with a straight face. Lo’ak’s laughter quickly dies, making him clear his throat awkwardly. “…Oh,” he says lowly. “You’re serious.”

“Very,” Neteyam responds flatly.

He turns back to the fire, rubbing a hand over his face now, stress finally seeping through the cracks. “She has been waiting all day. She is tired. She is hungry. And she is carrying our child. Her body is not hers alone right now. It is demanding things, and that demand does not listen to reason.”

“I really messed up,” Lo’ak says quietly, realizing how fucked he truly is.

“You did,” Neteyam agrees, not sugarcoating it. “And when she starts crying, there will be no talking your way out of it.”

Lo’ak opens his mouth to say something else, wondering what his brother means by “crying”. He doesn’t know how to handle anything like this, he needs his brother's advice. But, it’s too late to ask because you’ve returned.

You step out from behind the privacy curtain in fresh, loose clothing, your shoulders no longer aching beneath the weight of the day. Your hair is tied back simply, something comfortable after the day you’ve had. 

There’s a soft smile on your face, one meant only for Neteyam, the one that spreads across your lips from being able to relax in the comfort of your own home.

Your eyes drift immediately to the fire, expecting to see your meal laid across the top in the cooking pot. The flames are thriving, but the stoneware that usually holds the food is bare. No wrapped leaves. No glistening meat warming. Nothing, making your smile falter. “…Neteyam?” you ask gently, tilting your head, confused on why the food isn't heating like he promised you it would. “Where is it?”

Neteyam stills, feeling his heart quicken in pace. He opens his mouth, ready to answer you in a soft, calm voice, already planning to ease the sudden tension in the room. But before he can speak, Lo’ak blurts out, voice tripping over itself, “I ate it! I… I’m sorry!”

Neteyam’s ears flatten fully, a low hiss tearing from his chest, a warning meant to stop his brother before he digs himself any deeper. If Lo’ak had let him handle it, Neteyam would have softened the blow, easing you into the idea gently, sparing you this spike of shock. But it’s too late for that now, you've heard it.

Your eyes narrow instantly, pupils sharpening as heat floods your veins. You turn fully toward Lo’ak, shoulders squaring, hands curling at your sides. “You ate it?” you repeat in disbelief, your voice remains dangerously calm. “You ate my food.”

Lo’ak flounders under your glare, holding up his hands defensively. “I didn’t think—”

“That much is clear,” you snap, already stepping forward. “Why would you eat something that is not yours?! In someone else’s home?!” You shove him hard in the chest, the force sending him stumbling back a step. “I have been waiting all day to eat Neteyam's cooking!” 

Your heart is pounding now, hunger and frustration twisting together until it feels unbearable. Tears sting your eyes, your anger bleeding into hurt. “I wanted it,” you say, voice shaking, feeling yourself become more and more upset. “That was the one thing I wanted and you ruined it.”

Lo’ak opens his mouth, but no words come. He’s never seen you like this before, and certainly not about food. The mix of anger, frustration, and hunger radiates off you like heat. Lo’ak swallows, guilt washing over him, wishing he didn’t eat the food in the first place. “I didn’t know it was that serious—”

Your breath comes sharp, feeling your anger boil over when those words leave his lips. How could he say that? How could he think denying a pregnant woman her meal wasn’t serious. It is in fact, a very serious matter. “I’m going to kill you, skxawng [moron/idiot]!” 

The words rip out of you exactly the way Neteyam knew they would. The instant they leave your mouth, he realizes just how much he knows you like the back of his hand. Neteyam knew this was going to happen the moment Lo’ak opened his mouth instead of letting him speak. He knew the hunger, hormones, and disappointment would ignite a fire in you.

You lunge towards Lo’ak, wanting to squeeze the life out of him. It’s fast and unfiltered, pure instinct driven by emotion, your body already moving before your mind can think of a more rational way to handle this. Lo’ak stumbles backward in panic, hands flying up as he scrambles out of reach, tail flicking wildly. “Oh shit—!”

Neteyam moves at the same instant, catching you around the waist and yanking you back against his chest, planting his feet as your momentum dies in his arms. “Mawey, yawne [calm, beloved].” he growls softly, firm but careful, not wanting your emotions to run too high and spike your blood pressure.

You struggle in grasp, breath hitching, frustration breaking into a sob, wanting to wrap your hands around Lo'ak's throat for what he did. “Neteyam— he—”

“I know,” he murmurs immediately, lowering his voice, understanding your anger. He moves one hand settles protectively over your belly, while the other anchors you in place on your hip. “I know, yawne [beloved]. Just breathe.”

Your strength gives out, not wanting to fight anymore. Now you just want to grief the meal you were deprived of. Your anger slowly begins to drain from your limbs, as tears spill freely down your cheeks. “I just wanted it,” you choke, trying to calm yourself. “I finally felt hungry again… I’ve been craving it all day…”

Lo’ak just stands there now, frozen, heart pounding, staring at the space you almost crossed. He’s never seen you like that, he’s never seen anyone snap so fast for that matter. The shove was bad enough, but that lunge? The bloodshot anger in your eyes? That was something else entirely. Lo’ak now understands what Neteyam meant earlier when it comes to dealing with a pregnant woman. 

Neteyam rocks you gently in his arms, soothing you as your breathing evens out against his chest. He waits until the heat radiating from your skin fades, until the trembling in your hands stills. Only then does he lift his head, cutting his eyes to Lo’ak in a way that leaves no room for argument.

“You are going to find the ripper wasp hive,” Neteyam says evenly, as his hand rubs soothing circles against your back. “You’ll harvest the honey properly. Then you will hunt a yerik.” His tone deepens, the words carrying a sharp, unmistakable edge. “If you do not return with both by eclipse, then I will be the one who kills you.”

Lo’ak nods immediately, no hesitation left in him. He hates seeing you cry, especially since he caused it, and he knows his brother well enough to understand that this is not an empty threat. Neteyam does not bluff when it comes to you. And, Lo'ak does not want to feel your wrath if he doesn't comply to Neteyam's orders.

“Go,” Neteyam hisses, deeming his brother is moving far too slow. Lo’ak doesn’t waste another second. He slips out of the marui, already running through the forest paths in his head. Where yerik roam thickest, where the ripper wasp hives hang untouched, and how to do it correctly and fast.

Once he’s gone, the marui falls quiet again. The adrenaline has finally drained from your body, leaving behind nothing but, hunger, exhaustion, and the creeping embarrassment that follows when you lose control. You sniffle, shoulders slumping as you press your face further into Neteyam’s chest. “…I should not have yelled like that,” you mumble, mortified by your actions. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Neteyam’s grip softens instantly. He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands warm and reassuring. “Hey,” he murmurs, wanting you to know you have nothing to feel sorry for. “You're with child. You're hungry. And someone ate the one thing you wanted.” He tilts his head until you have no choice but to meet his eyes, thumb brushing gently along your cheek, wiping away the tears that are beginning to dry. “You are allowed to feel things, especially when they have crossed you.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding, digesting your mate's words. “I still feel bad.”

“That just means you’re you,” he says with a soft smile, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “And I love you. Even when you threaten my brother’s life.”

A small, embarrassed huff of laughter escapes you, feeling a bit better now. Neteyam's smile stays curled across his lips, holding you close as the last of the tension fades, leaving only warmth, and the quiet certainty that you’re understood, even in your messiest moments.

You sigh shakily, forehead resting against his shoulder again. “I just… I wanted it so badly,” you whisper, still wishing you could eat the food Neteyam prepared for you. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” Neteyam says quietly, tenderness thick in his voice. “I know. But it’s alright. You don’t have to stay upset. I’ll make it right.”

You sniffle, nuzzling closer as he presses another kiss to your skin, right against your temple. “I could make you something else for now,” he suggests gently, wanting to ease the hunger clawing at your stomach.

You whine softly, voice muffled against his chest, hands clutching his cummerband with stubborn desperation. “No… I only want the roasted yerik. I don’t want anything else.”

Neteyam exhales through his nose, thinking. He doesn’t want you to go hungry, especially since you haven't eaten in hours. He doesn’t want you to wait on the honey-glazed yerik, knowing how long it will take to prepare properly.

He shifts slightly, considering what he can make quickly from what’s already prepped and ready in the home. “I could steam some teylu, roast the sturmbeest I hunted today, grill some delta tree roots…”

Your lips press into a thin line, not liking the sound of any of those foods, but then his next suggestion makes your ears twitch, piquing your interest. “Buoyfish…” you repeat softly, eyes widening when you hear him say it. “You… have buoyfish?”

“Yes,” Neteyam nods, grinning. He had a feeling that would make your ears perk up. “Fresh from the waterways, already cleaned and ready for grilling. I can pair it with some fruits and vegetables. Quick and easy.”

Your stomach gives an approving flutter, and your lips tug into a soft, shy smile. “That… that sounds really good,” you admit, the tight knot of frustration and hunger in your chest loosens, finally feeling yourself relax. You haven't eaten this fish since you became pregnant, not being able to withstand the smell but those days are long over. Now, the smell of it makes your mouth water instead of making you nauseous.

Relief washes over him when he hears you say that, the tight line of worry leaving his face as if it had never been there at all. His expression softens, eyes warming as he looks down at you.

“Good,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to brush a loose braid away from your face, and then allowing his hand to linger on your cheek. “I’ll prepare it right away. You won’t have to wait a moment longer.”

Still nestled safely in his arms, you tilt your face up toward him, drawn in by the way he’s smiling at you, like you're the center of his world. Neteyam leans down slowly, giving you time to adjust, until his lips meet yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, unhurried and tender, meant to soothe rather than ignite. His mouth is warm, soft, his lips pressing against yours with quiet reassurance, as if every worry he carried has melted away. You hum softly into the kiss without thinking, the sound vibrating between you, and your hands drift up to rest over his shoulders, fingers curling around his neck.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours, noses brushing together softly. You smile up at him, eyes half-lidded, feeling content in this moment, your hunger taking a backseat and your love for your mate arising. “Thank you,” You aren't only thanking him because he's cooking for you, it's because he sees you, because know you better than yourself and is always willing to cater to your every need.

“Anything for you, yawne.” he murmurs back, just as quietly, brushing his nose against yours in a familiar nuzzle.

You lean in again, cheek resting against his chest now, while Neteyam's arm tightens around you briefly, one more wordless act of love, before he presses a final kiss to your temple. “I’ll start preparing it right away,” he says, already turning toward the cooking pot, grabbing the buoyfish and a selection of spices to smother across it before laying it over the fire.

You giggle softly, watching him go, warmth blooming in your chest as the crackle of the fire grows and the marui settles into a peaceful hush. The hunger, the exhaustion, the long day, all of it feels lighter now. And as you lower yourself and curl back onto the mat, listening to the familiar sounds of Neteyam moving about, the evening feels gentle again, and you're happy that you'll soon be ravishing into one of Neteyam's great meals.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓… @24k-raptor @sal8khd @miklormeg @merlinbtch @llovekats @jjaaammwii @itskekeelise @annieayuu @bunnyredgirl @sleepypulm @ermuhficarchive @chaotickittenanchor @nyxciaa @avatar4eva @littlebambi-isdee @ilyjxdz @other-w-0-rldly @kazgiena @bakugouswaif @neteyamslovrr @fizzywizzyglizzy @dreamlessnight98 @callsign-mischief @emforjin @sourcameron @rafescrazyfangirl @astrophiliq @yeeusniss @naya-papaya @peachgirllvr67 @yukichan67 @yoritsune-jpsmbh @rosalia-97 @Gardenbabe1988 @anikasully67 @kazgiena @xoxojules86 @littlemochix17 @tiswanye @emilymikado @ikeyniofthetayrangi @prettyinpikk @avatarsslut @himikoquack

~~~~~~~

Nanami Kento

“And one more-” 

He traces the skin of your calf until his fingers hover right above the bone of your ankle.

 “… ah- here.” 

Warm and calloused hands wrap the smooth threads of the rope around the underside of your left ankle and carefully bind it up to the knots on your thigh. The red shibari bright against your skin while Kento peers down at the picture book, his knee holding the page open while both of his hands are pre-occupied.

Squirming slightly with limited patience, Kento looks up from his knot and pinches the flesh of your foot.

“Hey there… what’s with this behavior suddenly?” he gently scolds (more so teases).

You purse your lips at the man and huff slightly while throwing your head slightly more on the plush pillow. “Mmmm, how much longer Ken?”

He smiles at you and places a kiss on the flesh of your foot before turning back to the threads in his hand. “Depends how long you decide to keep squirming dear. I’m just following the book you gave me.”

Okay yes, it was your idea. But in your defense, it makes total sense. The man loves to read. He also loves to fuck you. So it wasn’t a long deliberation in the adult section of the book store to buy the “How To” demonstration on Shibari ropes.

But now it’s been 25 minutes of both of you stripped down to nothing except the bright red ribbons that decorate your restrained limbs. Welll… you’re decorated with red string while his bright red tip weeps loooong strands of pre cum onto the silk sheets below—  a stain and issue to worry about in the morning.

It takes another excruciating 4 minutes until the rest of you is completely tied up and held still by the soft threads and only seconds before the man is comfortably positioned between your legs. Kento doesn't even look up from your pussy when the book topples to the floor with a thud. He certainly doesn’t look up when the first orgasm leaves your legs twitching against the confines.

No, the man peacefully slips his fingers in and out while his lips suck on your swollen clit and a mixture of saliva and cum pools from your pussy and joins the stains of his own leaking pre on the sheets.

It takes another 30 minutes until he finally stretches you open wider with his own cock. And hours until he unties you.

Gift: How to: Beginner’s Guide to Shibari in the Bedroom

Toji Fushiguro

It was supposed to be a joke. An XL box of condoms you picked up from the pharmacy as a gag gift for Toji and his own lack of child support. What you didn’t expect was for him to take it as a challenge: to finish the entire box in one night and then you’d have to take it raw again. (tbh you’d take it raw anyways but that’s unrelated)

So now here you are, 17 rubbers into a box of 24 with at least one chair broken and sheets covered in a mixture of sweat and cum.

“F-Fuck… boutta make me fill up another-” Toji grumbles behind you, hands so tight on your hips that your GP will ask about the bruises.

Your response is muffled by the pillow as the weight of the man pushes you deeper into the plush.

Truth be told, you haven’t had sex 17 times today; at least 5 of the condoms ‘accidentally tore’ when Toji was either ripping off the foil or sliding it down his shaft. And at least 2 rounds were ‘double layered’. Not that it mattered, you both had the stamina to make your neighbors regret their renting decisions.

 Bed frame smacking against the wall with every thrust, the pillow you cushioned between the wooden bars and your neighbor dropped to the floor at least 3 rounds ago.Toji grunts loud by your ear, dripping sweat and a string of profanities while his canines nip at your flesh.

Toes curling and mind going fuzzy, his hips snaps into you a few more times before the rhythm slows and he gives you a quick warning tap before slowly pulling out. Hot cum pooled at the tip of the condom, he pulls the material from his sore cock with a wince before taking a swig from your water bottle on the night stand.

There’s a moment of silence when he passes you the metal tumbler until he shuffles off the bed for a moment and makes his way to the flimsy cardboard box on the floor.

“Got a few more in ‘ya?’’

Gift: Condoms. Lubricated and ribbed.

Choso Kamo

No winter storm is loud enough to drown out all of the sounds leaking from Choso’s bedroom, but that doesn’t stop you from praying the rest of his family doesn’t wake up.

What was supposed to be a nice trip to see the Itadori’s over the new year left you and Choso stranded in the house while one of the worst snowstorms to date roars outside. How many inches were piled up outside while his 8.3 inches were piled up inside you?

The wind roars outside while you lay sleepily on your back and Choso lays beneath your legs eating the mixture of his and your cum from your swollen pussy. You both almost went to bed like it was nothing. Almost.

So many days of keeping each other at an arms length while you played every board game under the sun with his family finally reached a tipping point. The rest of his family was barely in their own rooms before you and Choso were practically clawing each other back into his room. 

“You okay?” he says slurred, saliva dripping from his lips.

Mouth open with mindless whimpers escaping your lips, the man takes his time to spit and suck and stir up your insides while you both lay wrapped beneath the covers. How many hours has it been? 3?

You murmur the mix between a moan and hum of approval and tug his hair slightly to reposition his mouth on your clit. He greedily rubs his tongue against it. It’s too cold to leave the bed, but your bodies are burning up in the tent of the duvet.

Wind roaring, snow hitting the panes, and gushes of his fingers knuckle deep make up the sounds of the room. Pulling orgasm after orgasm from you and drinking you dry like an unhuman creature, Choso finally pulls the duvet down just enough for you both to breathe a bit of air.

You tug at the now sweaty and wet chunks of dark hair and push it from his forehead. 

The howling outside doesn’t let up and the forecast is calling for another 6 inches of snow overnight but hey, same time tomorrow?

Gift: A new weighted blanket

Geto Suguru

Having raw sex in the safety and comfort of his bedsheets while the rest of the world sleeps is one of Suguru’s favorite ways to take you. Truth be told the man would drop his trousers if you even breathed the hint of making love, but this was his preferred setting.

There’s no wrapping of any kind when it comes to the man leaning over your back and pressing his chest to the flesh of it. Long evenings of nightmares and stress make the feeling of your skin against his own heaven, and there is nowhere else he'd rather be.

A doggy position to most isn’t the most romantic, but it gives Suguru a feeling of control while simultaneously being able to hug your body into his from above. Instead of leaning back and controlling your hips, he folds over to hover your body; he uses one hand to position himself up and the other to palm at your breasts and squeeze the nipples extra hard when you squeak.

It’s hot, and erotic, and his hips don’t let his cock slide too far out before he ruts them back inside; side to side and up and down to press against every little spot rather than focusing on speed.

The cold wind outside is drowned out by the soft whispers and moans you make to one another. Hot humid air that smells of sex twist with the rolling plumes of woodsy incense that illuminate a dark glow as they burn down.

“Love you– haaa you know that?” He murmurs into your ear before bitting down on the flesh of your shoulder.

“Of cour– aaa se”

You bounce forward with his hips and nearly dip from assisting his weight while his balls smack against your body with a shallow plap!

It’ll be at least another hour until you both are satisfied and dehydrated enough to stop, but while he has you like this, completely unwrapped and vulnerable, Suguru’s entire attention and being is focused entirely on you.

Gift: New incense holder

Gojo Satoru

It’s been a few weeks since the holidays passed but that didn’t encourage you or Satoru to put away the decorations at a reasonable time. Nope. Instead, the boxes of lights, streamers, and wrapping paper stayed out loooong past December. It’s also what led to the situation before your eyes.

Instead of just recycling or putting away the last few rolls of paper, Satoru attempted to ‘wrap himself up’ as a cheeky way of presenting you a belated gift. (definitely not because he couldn’t be bothered to properly dispose of it)

“Ah-! Watch it…” he whines beneath you, “that one hurt !”

Pulling piece after piece of transparent tape from his pubes that got stuck in his own charade, the man laying on the bed beneath you squirms.

“Why did you even tape the paper to your bare body in the first place…?” you murmur, pulling off another piece and tearing a few more hairs in the process.

Satoru continues whimpering… and groaning… and squirming until eventually his skin is a bright pink, the follicles have gone numb, and he notices your own thighs twitching.

And he takes the moment, and savors it. 

The entire time you sat above him, he allowed it. But now?

The seconds fly by until the roles have swapped and you lay beneath him on actively soaking bedsheets while he pumps in and out and in and out. Tape sticking to the inner flesh of your thighs and leaving a bright red mark every time it attaches and rips off with Satoru’s movements.

Crinkling paper and a slew of huffs escape his lips while he planks over your body in a nice missionary fold. Air steaming with the increased temperature, you lean back into the disheveled pillows in bliss. The sheer force of his body sliding his cock in and out of your swollen pussy creates a mess of your hair as it slides up and down on the pillow.

To be fair, you both probably would’ve found a way to have sex when he was still half wrapped in the paper, but this way results in much fewer papercuts.

Gift: Glue sticks for future wrapping

Higuruma Hiromi

The lace of your bombshell bra tickles the swell of your breasts as gravity pushes them forward and the pace of Hiromi’s hips leave you buckling over the sofa. A new lace set was the gift you surprised him with a few weeks back, and it’s unlocked a new set of kinks you never knew the man had. Fucking you with the lingeries still on.

Now to be fair, the mans loooves seeing you naked. And if he didn’t have to go to work everyday, he would rather lay between your legs than do anything else. But there was just something so hot about seeing you decorated in skimpy, pretty fabric while fucking into your cunt.

“Haaaa, just like that.”  Hiromi tilts his head back and takes a hand from your hips to loosen the tie around his neck.

The man came home, saw you in his favorite color and frills and decided to skip the undressing on both your parts. Bent over the sofa and pants barely past his hips, his cock slides in and out without friction as you clench around the length.

Seeing your pussy through the thin fabric and the long frill of the teddy that flowed from the underwire of the slutty push-up bra itched a primal portion of his brain. He could see through it, yet your flesh was still covered? Oh yea, something about just got him riled up.

So panties pulled to the side and your own breasts bouncing in your upturned face, the sofa slides along the wooden floors while his skin slaps against the flesh of your ass. 

God, you would have noise complaints later. Furniture sliding and moans can only be explained by so much. And in this situation it was the soaked gusset of your thong pulled halfway across your ass while a hand sneaks from the underwire to squeeze a tit with greed.

Hiromi stays leaning over you for a moment before pulling back and letting his spine arch and allow his hips control the movement.

A long day at work is awful, but coming home to you? All wrapped up in skimpy lace? There’s nothing that makes him come (back) faster.

Gift: Lace teddy set

Roymen Sukuna

On a rare occasion he allows it (and will never admit how much he secretly enjoys it), Sukuna is the one wrapped up beneath you. Well wrapped is more of an understatement… chained is probably better suiting in these cases.

Cheap leather wrist and ankle wraps that attach to stainless steel thin chains secure each of his limbs to the corners of the bed. Sure he could probably escape if he wanted to at any moment given the poor quality of the restraints… but he wouldn’t even dream of it in situations like this.

Squeezing every drop of cum from his cock while you bounce above him. Eyes glazed and blank stuck staring at your tits while his mind fuzzes over in a warm bliss. 

Occasionally his arms twitch in over stimulation, to which you sliiiide off with a pop! and give him a few minutes of care and kisses. Peppering his neck, rubbing his chest while his heart races, and wiping the sweat from his brow as he comes back.

The bounce from mind hazy orgasm to ready for the next round is remarkably quick for a man of his size, though you make no complaints as you swing one leg over his hips and sit.

“Ahh shit– haaa” he groans, hair wet and his head thrown back. “Didn’t wanna give ngh me another minute?”

The sarcastic remark is betrayed by the twitch of his muscles and the grin of his pelvis up and into you when the pace even slows down by a fraction. Such a moody and brooding man now lays beneath you, itching and urging for any way possible to get his cock more ensheathed by your cunt.

It’s hot and greedy, and despite his ability to escape at any moment he reasonably wanted to, there’s nothing else Sukuna could’ve wished for this holiday season. Besides of course maybe a vibrator he could control remotely. Maybe next year?

Gift: Beginner’s leather bondage set

Shoko Ieiri

Ok you got scammed. But how were you supposed to know the silk, organic, and lilac bondage ropes you got on a super discounted price would wind up be a fraction of the length actually needed to tie anything up? The moment of realization in the bedroom and moment of reflection of maybe you should’ve checked the delivered package before wrapping it up and slapping a bow has now melted into a different scene.

Sure ropes are nice, but if the idea is to have you immobilized while Ieiri can toy and prod at your cunt, then that is what will happen. So that leaves you sweating in the felt of a blankets that’s been wrapped around your torso a few times.

Arms snug at your sides and legs thrown onto both shoulders of the brunette, Ieiri leans forward and take times to switch between the array toys laid on the bed. Vibrators, dildos, even small whips have graced your skin or were slid inside while you moan and squirm from your confines.

“Oh come onnnn” she taunts and spreads your twitching thighs further apart, “I know you take another.”

Another at this point could be anything. Another finger, another round of lips on your clit, another orgasm; the list continues for a long time. 

And while one might think that laying between their partner’s legs and focusing solely on pleasure would be an imbalance, Ieiri doesn’t hide her own satisfaction that comes from it. Any time there’s a gap in the stimulation you can hear the soft moans of her own fingers taking the cum from your own orgasm and stuffing them inside herself.

Sheets soaking in the puddles of sweat and cum, there’s a back and forth to the pleasure she provides you and the view of her own while you come down from a high. Eortic and awestruck, the confines of the felt blanket has provided a highly beneficial situation that you can’t wait to return to.

Gift: $4.99 clearance lilac ropes! Perfect for beginners.

an: tyyyy for your patience with this pookies!! I feel like every week i have a new random life update, and this time i am moving apartments hehe. I've also been scheduling better times to write when i'm not packing up which is fun.

my timeline gets a lil busy in march since i'll be traveling BUT that also means hours on an airplane to write soooo (GL to the person who's gotta sit next to me <3)

love u pookies