Neteyam jerks awake with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

The mat beneath him is damp, sticky between his thighs, his cock so hard it throbs angrily against his stomach, leaking steadily onto his own skin. 

The air inside the marui smells like him and you—even though you’re not here yet.

He drags a hand down his face, ears pinned back, tail lashing once against the woven floor. 

His body feels hot, every nerve screaming. 

The dream clings to him: the weight of your hips, the slick glide, the way your walls fluttered when he hit that spot that always makes you sob his name like a prayer.

He needs you.

Now.

Neteyam rolls onto his side, fangs biting into his own lip hard enough to taste copper as he tries to breathe through it.

 It doesn’t help. 

His fingers drift down the ridges of his stomach, tracing the tense lines of muscle until they brush over the heat between his legs. 

His hips twitch at the touch, and with a quiet exhale, he pushes his loincloth down just enough to free himself, the movement slow and unthinking as he rests back, breath catching.

His cock twitches a few times, a thin bead of release spilling out before it trails warm and slow down his stomach. 

He wraps his hand around himself and gives a few lazy strokes, trying to imagining the dream, but it’s not enough.

He wants your breasts, the taste of your clit, the way you get so wet for him it drips down his balls when he fucks you slow and mean. Wants to feel your thighs clamp around his head while he licks into you until you’re crying, wants to pin your wrists above your head and drive into you until the whole clan can hear how prettily you beg.

He’s already moving before he fully registers it—silent as any hunter, slipping out of the marui into the cool night air. 

The bioluminescence of the forest paints his skin in shifting blues and violets, cock still straining, untouched now and weeping at the tip.

He doesn’t care who might see. Let them look. Let them know exactly what his mate does to him.

You’re at the healing marui with a friend , you were helping your mother with the night inventory, before she went to bed. 

Neteyam’s tail lashes harder and his braids shake against his light jogs

He’s going to walk in there, drag you behind the nearest woven screen, shove your loincloth aside and bury himself so deep you’ll feel him in your throat. 

He’s going to fuck you until your legs give out, until you’re trembling and marked and full of him, until the only word you remember is his name.

He simply ducks through the entrance flap, broad shoulders filling the space, and the conversation dies instantly.

Your friends eyes flick up first—sharp, knowing, one brow arching as she takes in his dilated pupils, the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the obvious ridge of him still straining against the thin cloth of his loincloth like it has a mind of its own.

His stomach is glossy, loincloth a little wet, and to top it off you can see his tip from the top of his lioncloth like he didn’t care enough to fix himself before he left your shared home 

Your breath catches audibly. The little wooden bowl in your hands nearly slips; you catch it at the last second, but a few dried leaves scatter across the mat.

“Neteyam?” Your voice is small, surprised, but there’s that undercurrent—the one that always appears when he looks at you like he’s starving.

He doesn’t speak. 

Can’t. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of your hips under the simple wrap skirt, the way your top clings just enough to show the soft swell of your breasts. 

He can smell you already—sweet, a hint of slick gathering between your thighs because your body recognizes him before your brain catches up.

Your friend clears her throat.

“I… will finish inventory later,” she says dryly, not even pretending she doesn’t know exactly what’s happening. 

She gathers a few baskets with exaggerated slowness, then slips past him toward the rear alcove. 

The moment the dividing curtain falls behind her, Neteyam closes the distance in two strides.

You don’t even have time to set the bowl down before he takes it from your fingers, sets it aside with careful precision despite how badly his hands are shaking, then grabs your waist and hauls you tight against him.

A tiny, startled sound escapes you as your palms flatten against his chest for balance and you can feel how hot his skin is, especially how fast his heart hammers under your touch.

“Neteyam—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth.

He kisses like he’s trying to crawl inside you.

teeth and tongue and low desperate growls rumbling in his throat. 

One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head so he can lick deeper; the other slides down to grip your ass, grinding you against the hard length still weeping against his stomach.

You whimper into his mouth and it’s like throwing oil on fire.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to rasp against your lips, voice wrecked, “I dreamed about you. I need—” His hips roll forward instinctively, dragging himself along your lower belly through the cloth. “—need to be inside you. ”

Your thighs press together on reflex. You’re already soaked; you can feel it, the slippery gathering, your body answering him before you even form words.

“Here?” you whisper, glancing toward the curtain, cheeks burning. “My mother is literally ten steps away—”

“Ma yawntu ” He nips your jaw, then your throat, fangs scraping just shy of breaking skin. “Let her hear. Let the whole clan hear how wet you get for me.”

“Neteyam—” Your voice cracks, needy, pleading.

That’s all it takes.

Neteyam’s eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and he surges forward, his mouth crashing into yours in a messy, desperate kiss that tastes like need and everything he’s been holding back since he woke up aching. 

His hands are everywhere at once: one sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, keeping you right there against him, the other dipping between your bodies.

He hooks two fingers into the thin ties of your loincloth and yanks—hard. The fabric gives with a soft rip, fluttering uselessly to the mat. You gasp into his mouth; he swallows it, greedy.

Then his hand is between your thighs. He spreads you open with his thumb—your clit makes a wet noise when he does as he’s —dragging the pad right over your swollen clit and you jolt like you’ve been struck by lightning. A broken whimper spills out; your hips buck forward on instinct, chasing the pressure.

“you never disappoint ,” he breathes against your lips, voice wrecked. “So wet already. ”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. His other hand fumbles at his own loincloth—fingers shaking just enough to betray how badly he needs this—and shoves it down just far enough. 

His cock springs free, thick and flushed and still slick from the dream, the tip weeping steadily. It slaps heavy against your lower belly making you both groan at the contact.

Neteyam shifts his hips, then lines himself up so the tip of him slides right along your slit. 

Using his thumbs to gently part your lips to get a good look at where his cock is gonna go. 

He’s slow at first, teasing, letting you feel every ridge drag over your clit. Then he grinds forward, humping against you in shallow, filthy rolls that make your thighs feel like water and your breath hitch high in your throat.

The head catches on your entrance every few strokes, dips just barely inside before sliding back up to rub hard over your clit again. 

“Neteyam—”

He growls low, fangs grazing your jaw. “Yeah, I know.”

He keeps that maddening grind, hips rolling in tight circles, the thick underside dragging over your clit over and over until your legs start to give. Your back slides a fraction down his grip; he hauls you right back up with one arm banded around your waist, keeping you pinned, keeping the pressure exactly where you need it.

His braids fall forward as dark strands brush your cheeks, sticking to your sweat-damp skin, one bead clicking softly against your collarbone every time he rocks forward. 

They frame your faces like a private curtain; you can barely see past them, can only see him. His golden eyes locked on yours, lips parted on ragged breaths, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

The friction builds fast—too fast. Your thighs tremble violently; slick coats him, drips down both your legs in warm trails. You’re so close you can taste it, can feel the coil pulling tight in your belly.

“Come on,” he rasps, voice breaking. “Can you cum for me”

That was all you needed to hear

The orgasm rushes through your body, your whole body locking up as you sob his name into the crook of his neck. Your clit throbs against him, pulsing in time with every aftershock, slick gushing until his length is drenched.

He doesn’t stop moving.

He keeps grinding through it—slow now, dragging out every tremor—until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and shaking. Only then does he finally shift.

He notches the head at your entrance—still fluttering, still dripping—and thrusts.

All the way in one smooth stroke.

Your cry is muffled against his shoulder; he’s so thick it burns in the best way, stretching you wide, filling every aching inch. 

He doesn’t pause, just pulls back and slams back again, setting a brutal rhythm that makes the floor creak and your toes curl against the mat.

“Fuck—yes—just like that—” His voice is wrecked, hips snapping forward with wet slaps. His braids sway with every thrust, brushing your flushed skin, heavy and grounding. “So tight—fuck—”

You’re clinging to him, nails raking down his back, legs shaking too hard to hold you up properly. You start to slide again; he growls, arm tightening around your waist to keep you pinned right where he wants you, fucking you through the aftershocks until you’re climbing toward another peak already.

“Gonna cum” he snarls against your ear, hips stuttering. “Gonna cum— fuck yes —”

He slams back one last time—burying himself to the hilt—and comes with a choked groan that vibrates through your whole body. 

His cum flood you, thick and endless, spilling out around where you’re joined, trickling warm down your thighs. His hips keep twitching, grinding slow and deep like he’s trying to push every drop inside.

You hang there, panting, trembling, held up by his arms and the way he’s still buried deep. 

His braids drape over your shoulders now, heavy and warm, strands clinging to your damp skin like they don’t want to let go.

He exhales shakily, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

“I’m sorry I’m so needy today” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You laugh—weak, breathless—fingers tangling in those dark braids.

“It is okay… I love you like this”

“ mmmhh… then shall we go another?”

Before you can answer, he’s already moving inside you again, cock sliding through the mess of his cum dripping around your hole.