Feral As Fuck - Blog Posts

@moociaoafterdark tada!!!

Sorry it took a little longer than I wanted, depression a bitch!

But to cope, I made these lovely feral ladies!!!

Aren't they just tasty? 😋

beautiful man

Pregnancy: Daichi (NSFW)

You were officially forty-one weeks pregnant.

Forty-one weeks. Not thirty-nine. Not even the neat, ominous weight of forty. No, you had blown straight past your due date like a train with no brakes and were now living in the swollen purgatory of maternity hell—bloated, achy, short-tempered, and so fed up with your body that you would’ve gladly traded it in for a paper bag and a nap.

Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. Your back felt like it had been used as a trampoline in the night. Your hips were stiff. Your feet looked like they belonged to someone who’d spent ten hours standing in a swamp. And your belly? Your belly felt like it had become its own planet, stretching your skin so taut you were convinced you could drum a beat on it.

Nothing fit anymore. Not your clothes. Not your shoes. Not even your own skin, if you were honest. Your maternity leggings had officially waved the white flag. Your bras were lost causes. Your wedding rings had been stashed in a drawer weeks ago, too tight to slide over even a knuckle. And the seatbelt? Daichi had to adjust it for you now, like you were precious cargo—though to be fair, at this point, you basically were. He was careful and considerate and just a little too cheerful about it all, which made it even more infuriating.

“Got everything?” he asked softly, adjusting the strap of your maternity bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t smile. You didn’t even grunt. You groaned—a long, low, theatrical sound of suffering as you slowly lowered yourself into the passenger seat like an elephant easing into a beanbag chair.

He took it in stride. He’d stopped taking anything personally around week thirty-seven.

Still, he reached across and placed his warm palm on your thigh once you were settled, rubbing his thumb in slow, steady circles. You didn’t push it away. You rested your hand on top of his and gave him a tired look that said, If I have to live in this body one more day, I will cry.

The car ride to the clinic was mostly quiet. You sighed a lot. Adjusted the air vents. Rolled down the window. Rolled it back up. Turned the A/C colder. Then warmer. Daichi drove patiently, sneaking occasional glances at you like he wanted to say something encouraging but also very much wanted to survive the day.

The clinic’s waiting room was somehow worse than usual. The chairs were uncomfortable, the light was too bright, and the cheerful wall art—baby elephants, pastel hearts, encouraging quotes in cursive—made you want to scream. You stared at the pamphlet beside you titled “Smiling Through the Third Trimester” with a level of disdain typically reserved for war crimes.

Daichi sat beside you flipping through a magazine that he absolutely wasn’t reading, occasionally peeking at you with quiet concern while trying not to make eye contact with the receptionist, who kept looking at you like you were a ticking time bomb.

When the nurse finally called your name, you heaved yourself up with a groan and waddled toward the hallway like a warrior going into battle. Daichi followed at a polite distance, like a man who knew better than to walk too close to a woman this pregnant and this pissed.

The exam room felt like a refrigerator. You plopped down on the crinkly paper with another long sigh, then glared at the stirrups like they’d personally wronged you. Daichi sat in the chair next to the table and gently rubbed your back, his thumb tracing light circles over your spine.

“Almost there,” he murmured, ever the optimist. “Just hang in a little longer.”

You turned your head to him, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and fury. “I swear to god, Daichi. If one more person tells me I’m almost there, I will throw something. Possibly this table. Possibly you.”

He only smiled through it, squeezing your hand like he hadn’t just been threatened with airborne furniture.

When the doctor entered, she was all serene smiles and clinical calm, her tone chipper and maddeningly upbeat.

“Well,” she said after a quick check, “good news is you’re making progress. The baby’s definitely settling into position. But you’re still not quite there yet. I’d give it another few days.”

You stared at her like she’d just told you the world had been cancelled.

“More days?” you repeated, your voice a cracked whisper. “As in, plural? Like… multiple?”

The doctor gave a warm little chuckle. “It’s different for everyone, but yes, could be a few more. You’re doing great, though.”

Your jaw dropped. You made a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a scream, your hands clenching the edge of the table like it might steady you.

The doctor handed Daichi a brightly colored handout titled “Natural Ways to Encourage Labor.” It had illustrations of smiling pregnant women doing yoga and eating pineapple.

“Try some of these at home,” she said kindly. “Spicy food, gentle movement, maybe a warm bath. You’re almost there.”

Daichi nodded like the polite, helpful husband he was, tucking the paper into your maternity bag as you stood slowly, moving with the weary determination of someone who had carried life for too damn long.

The walk back to the car was slow and tense. You didn’t speak. You didn’t look at anyone. The receptionist offered a cheery “Good luck!” as you left and you very nearly flipped her off.

When Daichi helped you into the car again and got you buckled in, you exhaled long and hard, the sound more like a groan of existential dread than a sigh.

“I’m going to die pregnant,” you said flatly, head tipping back against the seat as your eyes glazed over. “This is it. This is how it ends for me. Swollen and sweaty in the passenger seat of a Toyota.”

“No, you’re not,” he said gently, lips twitching as he reached over to adjust your seatbelt one last time. “You’re going to give birth soon, and then this will all feel like a weird dream.”

You turned your head just enough to shoot him a dry look. “A weird dream where my hips feel like they’re being sawed in half and I haven’t seen my own feet in two months?”

He chuckled under his breath, brushing your hair out of your face. “I’m just saying, you’re doing amazing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you snapped, though your voice lacked real venom. “I look like a pufferfish and I cry every time I drop something on the floor because I can’t pick it up anymore.”

“I pick it up for you,” he said, unbothered.

“Yeah, and I still cry!” You groaned louder, tossing your head back again. “I’m like a feral raccoon in maternity leggings. I can’t keep living like this.”

“You’re not a raccoon,” he said with a straight face. “You’re majestic. Fearsome. A hormonal goddess.”

You snorted so hard it startled a hiccup out of you. “Oh my god.”

“And soon,” he added, leaning closer to kiss your temple, “you’ll be holding the baby and none of this will matter.”

You didn’t move. You just stared up at the ceiling.

“Watch me die pregnant,” you said again. “They’ll write it on my tombstone.”

--

By the time you made it home, your mood had not improved. You kicked your shoes off at the door, grumbling as you peeled off your coat and waddled into the kitchen, leaving Daichi to trail behind you, pamphlet in hand and hope still stubbornly etched into his expression.

“Okay,” he said as you slumped down at the kitchen table, head in your hands. “Let’s try some of these. Worst case, they don’t work. Best case? Maybe we’ll get things moving.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just groaned into your palms.

He set the paper down gently in front of you. “It says spicy food might help. We could start there?”

You looked up with bloodshot eyes. “I want something violent. Like pepper-spray levels of spice.”

Daichi raised his eyebrows. “I’ve got extra hot chili ramen packets. You could probably weaponize them.”

“Perfect,” you growled. “Boil ‘em.”

Ten minutes later, you were perched on the couch with a bowl of nuclear noodles while Daichi sat beside you with his own, bravely taking a bite. He lasted all of three seconds before coughing into his fist, eyes watering.

“Oh my god—this hurts,” he rasped.

You, completely unaffected, slurped up another bite. “Nothing. Not even a twinge.”

He blinked at you, face red. “I’m going to need milk. And possibly CPR.”

You sighed and set the bowl aside. “Next idea.”

And so began the ridiculous journey.

You drank herbal teas that smelled like dirt and despair. You choked down thick slices of pineapple while muttering curses under your breath. You did the hip-opening stretches the pamphlet suggested, groaning with effort and telling Daichi that if this didn’t work you were going to shove a yoga ball down the stairs. He helped you do slow laps around the living room, hand on your lower back while you walked in increasingly impatient circles.

You even tried the dreaded castor oil. One teaspoon. Two. Mixed into orange juice so it wouldn’t taste like paint thinner. You gagged, glared, and gagged again. Daichi looked horrified but held the glass steady like he was assisting with a medical emergency.

Hours passed. The sun dipped lower in the sky. You had tried every single item on the pamphlet short of hiring a witch to chant over your uterus. And yet—nothing. No contractions. No discomfort. No sign the baby had any plans of evacuating. Just the same heavy weight in your belly and the constant ache of your ribs.

You threw yourself back onto the couch with a long, miserable sigh, your belly rising and falling like a dramatic mountain of defeat.

“This baby,” you declared, voice scratchy with exhaustion, “is never coming out. This is it. They’ve made a permanent home. They’re going to graduate college still inside me.”

Daichi, kneeling next to the couch, chuckled softly and leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Can you blame them?” he murmured. “You’ve made them a pretty amazing home.”

You blinked at him, half-touched and half-annoyed. “That’s not helpful.”

He grinned and sat back on his heels, picking the pamphlet up again with exaggerated patience. “Well, if they’re not leaving on their own, we’re gonna have to evict them.”

You groaned dramatically. “We’ve tried everything. I’ve eaten enough pineapple to singlehandedly wipe out Hawaii’s exports. I drank that weird tea that tastes like boiled weeds. I took castor oil, Daichi. Castor. Oil. Nothing works.”

He hummed, eyes skimming down the page.

Then he paused.

You watched as his brow arched just slightly.

“…What?” you said slowly.

He cleared his throat. “Well, technically… we haven’t tried everything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean?”

He turned the pamphlet toward you and pointed at a single line with a very straight face.

“Intercourse may help induce labor.”

You stared. Then looked at him. Then back at the pamphlet.

Your eyes narrowed, your lips pressing into a line as the wheels in your head began to turn. For a long moment, you didn’t say a word. But something changed—visibly, unmistakably. Your posture shifted. Your breath stilled. Your entire demeanor settled into something focused, determined, just a little bit unhinged.

Daichi saw it immediately. He watched the transformation like someone witnessing a weather shift, like a man who’d seen the sky turn before a storm. His back straightened. His eyes went wide. He held up one hand as if you were a wild animal and he needed to de-escalate the situation.

“Babe—let’s just think this through—”

You sat up slowly. Deliberately. Every movement a signal.

Your voice dropped, calm but commanding, your eyes locked on his.

“…Get upstairs.”

Daichi followed you up the stairs like a man walking toward something both holy and terrifying.

You didn’t speak. Just kept your back straight, your breath steady, your feet deliberate on the steps. Every part of you radiated heat—rage, desperation, need. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were already tugging off your shirt, grumbling under your breath as it got stuck around your chest. You were a force of nature, belly full and breasts heavy, skin flushed with exertion and irritation.

“Help me,” you snapped, voice breathless.

Daichi was at your side in a second, pulling the fabric over your head, his hands lingering for just a second too long on the bare curve of your shoulder. It had been a while since the two of you had made love—between the fatigue, the constant discomfort, and the way your body had become less your own and more a vessel of life, intimacy had taken a quiet backseat. You missed it. Missed him. And he missed you—his touch tentative and reverent, like he was savoring the moment as much as you were. You turned to him, eyes burning.

“This baby is coming out tonight,” you said, voice low and deadly serious. “So get on the bed.”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to. God, did he want to. But his eyes kept flicking to your belly, the way it rounded out so full and taut, the faint sheen of sweat already glistening along your collarbone.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hand resting against your waist, careful and reverent. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you said, grabbing him by the wrist and guiding him toward the mattress. “And if you do, I won’t care. I need this.”

He let out a shaky breath as you pushed him down onto the bed and climbed over him. The tension between you was thick, every inch of skin electric. Months of abstaining made everything heightened—your nerves tingled where his fingers grazed your hips, and his breathing hitched every time you shifted above him. His hands went instinctively to your thighs as you straddled him, palms warm and wide and trembling just slightly.

You leaned down to kiss him, hard and fast, teeth scraping his bottom lip as you ground your hips against his crotch. He gasped, his body already responding beneath you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you muttered, dragging your fingers down his chest. “Then we’ll die together.”

He chuckled breathlessly, then hooked his fingers in your waistband, easing your underwear off your hips with slow, reverent care. When he touched you, his fingertips sliding through the wet heat between your thighs, he exhaled like he was in awe.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice tight, eyes dark with restraint.

“I’m ready,” you breathed, rolling your hips into his touch.

He didn’t argue. He pushed his boxers down and kicked them off, his cock thick and flushed against his stomach. He gripped it at the base, ready to guide himself in, but you brushed his hand aside and positioned yourself with shaking thighs.

“Let me,” you murmured.

And then you sank down, slow and deep, the stretch sharp enough to make you gasp. Your hands clutched his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin as you took him all the way in, inch by aching inch.

Daichi groaned, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows. “Jesus, you’re so tight—fuck—”

You paused, hips resting flush against his, just breathing. The fullness was overwhelming, perfect, exactly what you needed.

When you started to move, it was unhurried. The sensitivity of not having touched like this in weeks made every motion feel magnified—every grind, every squeeze, every brush of skin set fire to your nerves. You both gasped more than once, surprised by how much you'd missed this, missed each other. Deep, rolling thrusts that had you grinding down with every motion, drawing small sounds from your throat as your body adjusted to the rhythm.

Daichi’s hands moved to your waist, holding you steady, thumbs stroking gentle circles along your skin.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice shaky. “You’re carrying our baby, and you still want me like this?”

“I don’t want you,” you corrected breathlessly. “I need you.”

Your pace picked up, just slightly, each roll of your hips drawing gasps from both of you. The bed creaked under the rhythm, your swollen belly brushing against his chest every time you leaned in to kiss him, desperate and messy and aching.

He slid one hand up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple until you arched into him. Your moan was sharp, needy, your body clenching tight around him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, fingers tightening on your hip. “You’re so—god, you feel so good.”

You chased the friction, riding him harder, faster, the pressure building between your legs in thick, pulsing waves. He met your thrusts now, his hips lifting off the bed, his face buried against your neck as he groaned into your skin.

When your orgasm hit, it slammed through you like a tidal wave, your body locking up around him as you gasped his name, trembling all over. He held you through it, rocking you gently, murmuring praise into your shoulder until your shudders turned to aftershocks.

Then he flipped you gently onto your back, careful with your belly, bracing himself above you as he drove into you with long, deep strokes, chasing his own edge.

You watched him through hooded eyes, heart racing, mouth parted in a soft, dazed smile. He looked wrecked—sweat-damp hair, flushed cheeks, jaw clenched with restraint as he fucked you slow and deep.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice fraying. 

You cupped his face, nodding, heart still thudding from your own climax. “It’s okay. Come inside me. I want to feel you.”

With a broken sound, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he came, thick pulses filling you, his body trembling with release. You wrapped your arms around him as he collapsed slowly beside you, one arm still curled protectively across your middle, his breath hot against your shoulder.

Neither of you said anything for a long while. The room was warm and quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of your breathing. His hand smoothed over your belly, the rise and fall of it still unsteady. You were both flushed, glistening with sweat, chests heaving.

You turned your head toward him slightly, letting out a huff of a laugh. “Well… at least I feel better.”

Daichi huffed a laugh, his voice still rough. “Honestly? Same. Not sure if we jumpstarted labor or just obliterated our spines, though.”

You both lay there for a beat longer, catching your breath, limbs tangled, and the faint hum of calm settling over you.

Eventually, you shifted, groaning softly as you sat up on your elbows. “Okay,” you said, voice still breathy, “I should probably clean up—”

And then it happened.

A sudden, warm rush.

You blinked. Froze. Looked down.

“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “Daichi.”

He sat up slowly, still half-lost in the afterglow. “Hmm?”

You stared at the sheets beneath you, soaked through in a way that was definitely not from sex.

“My water broke,” you said, blinking again. The shock in your voice cut through the air.

Daichi’s head snapped toward you.

“My water broke,” you repeated, louder this time, voice rising in panic. “Daichi, my fucking water broke.”

The adrenaline that had left your limbs warm and loose now twisted into pure, electric panic.

He was moving before you could spiral further, sitting up and cupping your face with both hands.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he said quickly, steadying your breathing with his voice. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

You nodded, dazed, still processing the rush of adrenaline and disbelief. Just moments ago, you had been begging for something to happen—for anything to finally signal the end. And now that it had, now that it was really happening, your heart felt like it might explode with the sheer weight of it. You had wanted this so badly. You had cursed the waiting. And yet now, the second it arrived, you were caught somewhere between terror and awe.

“I wanted this,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “I wanted this to happen.”

Daichi brushed a strand of damp hair away from your face, smiling warmly. “You did. And now it’s happening.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh, voice cracking. “I’m terrified.”

“I know,” he said, cupping your cheek with a hand as steady as his voice. “Me too. But we’re ready. You’re ready.”

You nodded again, tears welling in your eyes, this time from joy—not just from fear or exhaustion. You were going to meet your baby. Tonight. Maybe in just a few hours.

Daichi pressed a kiss to your forehead before swinging his legs off the bed, already grabbing the overnight bag he had packed and repacked a dozen times.

“Let’s go meet our baby,” he said, voice warm and certain.

And this time, you smiled through the chaos. Because it was finally happening—and you weren’t doing it alone.

fuuuck i’m a mess tonight. 😫 caught myself grinding on my pillow, imagining someone ripping this thong off and fucking me senseless. my pussy’s throbbing, begging for a rough hand to shut me up. i’m such a desperate slut, who’s gonna come fix this? dms open, i need it bad. 🫦💦

fuck it, here's the goods. 😈

fuckkk, this is the vibe i’m dying for rn. 😳 need someone to take control and make me melt like that, no cap. why’s my life so empty without this energy? 🫠

Deal with it 😎💅

I will forever repost this.

New year, new feral me.

Speak Now

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Childhood BFF!Reader

Warnings: Mutual Pining, Jealousy, Angst, Smutty Undertones, Grand Romantic Gesture, Anthony being completely unhinged in love. 18+

Word Count: 4,500k

Requested?: Yes, “can i pretty please request anthony bridgerton x childhood bff! reader, where the reader was on the altar and about to marry somebody else. but then anthony objected. very much inspired by taylor swift's "speak now" <33”- Anon

You and Anthony Bridgerton had been inseparable since childhood—two halves of a whole, bound by years of laughter, whispered secrets, and an unspoken understanding that neither of you had ever dared to define.

You were the one who kept him grounded when the weight of his family’s expectations pressed too heavily upon his shoulders, and he was the one who made you feel truly seen in a world where noblewomen were expected to be nothing more than dutiful daughters and future wives.

Anthony became Viscount. You became a woman of marriageable age.

Yet, as the years passed and the demands of society became inescapable, that easy friendship shifted. Anthony, ever the dutiful Viscount, had vowed to marry for duty, not love. And you—his dearest friend—had resigned yourself to the same fate.

Still, there were moments. Moments where his touch lingered a second too long, where his gaze softened as he watched you from across the ballroom, where his voice dropped to a whisper when he said your name. Moments where you thought—hoped—that maybe he felt it too.

But then came her.

Kate Sharma was everything a Viscountess ought to be: sharp, intelligent, and someone who challenged Anthony in all the ways a Bridgerton wife should.

You had seen the way he looked at her, the way his stiff resolve wavered in her presence. And because you were his best friend—because you loved him in ways you never admitted aloud—you helped him pursue her.

“I believe she is the perfect match for you,” you had told him one evening, forcing a smile even as your heart cracked in two.

And then, as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, your parents arranged a match for you as well.

Lord Andrew Montrose was kind, intelligent, and someone who had been part of your shared circle since childhood. Marrying him made sense. If you could not have love, you could at least have companionship.

So, you did what was expected.

You accepted Lord Andrew Montrose.

And Anthony? He had congratulated you with a strained smile, his hand gripping yours just a little too tightly.

Neither of you spoke about what it meant. Neither of you dared to.

And Anthony—fool that he was—let you go.

-

The first time Anthony felt it—the deep, burning rage that told him he was making the biggest mistake of his life—was at a Bridgerton ball.

You were in Montrose’s arms.

You were smiling.

And he was touching you.

Anthony saw red.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care.

He strode across the ballroom, cutting in without a word. “May I steal her for a dance?”

It was not a request.

Montrose hesitated. But you? You knew.

Your throat bobbed, your pulse visible at the delicate line of your neck.

Then—you nodded.

Anthony’s hand wrapped around yours. His fingers were hot, searing, as he pulled you into the waltz, holding you far too close.

His breath ghosted your ear. “Are you happy?”

Your lashes fluttered. “I—”

His fingers tightened on your waist, possessive. “Tell me. Do you love him?”

You hesitated.

And that was his answer.

The music stopped. The moment was over.

But before he stepped away, his fingers dragged down your arm, tracing over your wrist before slipping away.

And just before he turned, he whispered, so low only you could hear:

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

Anthony tried to let it go.

Then he saw you in Hyde Park.

Montrose’s hand was on your elbow.

He leaned in too close.

He kissed your gloved knuckles.

Anthony nearly lost his goddamn mind.

His fingers fisted at his sides. His breath turned shallow, ragged.

He had seen you dance with men. Smile at suitors. But this? This was different.

Because Montrose wasn’t just any man.

He was your future.

And Anthony Bridgerton realized he could not allow that.

-

The church was grand.

The whispers of the ton filled the air.

You stood at the altar, hands clasped with Montrose.

And your heart pounded.

Then—

“I OBJECT!”

The doors slammed open.

Gasps erupted.

And there—standing at the entrance, breathless, wild-eyed, utterly unhinged— was Anthony Bridgerton.

Andrew sighed beside you. “Bridgerton, this is highly inappropriate—”

“I do not care,” Anthony bit out.

He strode forward, eyes locked onto yours.

And then—he grabbed your wrist.

“Anthony—”

“I cannot let you do this,” he said, voice shaking.

Your breath caught.

Anthony’s grip was firm, his hands hot, his entire body vibrating with barely restrained emotion.

“I should have said it years ago,” he rasped. “I was a fool. I tried to ignore it. I tried to let you go.”

His voice dropped.

“But I cannot.”

Then, before you could breathe—

Anthony picked you up.

A gasp tore from your throat as his arms lifted you, cradling you against his chest.

The church erupted into chaos.

But Anthony did not care.

He stormed out, carrying you down the aisle like a man possessed.

“Anthony!” you shrieked, half-laughing, half-sobbing as he carried you into the streets.

“Yell at me later,” he panted, holding you tighter.

His grip never faltered. His breath was hot against your temple.

Then, his lips brushed your ear.

“Tell me you do not want this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked.

You couldn’t.

Because you wanted this.

You wanted him.

“…I love you.”

Anthony groaned.

Then—his lips crashed into yours.

Desperate. Fevered. Claiming.

And as the church bells rang—signaling the wedding that would never happen—Anthony Bridgerton kissed you like a man who had just stolen his future.

Because, in truth, he had.

Gahh I was gonna sleep but m'so horny.. horny and tired mmm the best combo. Idk if I should grind against a pillow and tease myself to sleep or overstimulate myself until I'm half lidded and trembling. Sooo much choices.

But I wish I had someone to touch me so I can lay here and enjoy it. My thighs spread open lazily, my panties around my knees, my eyes closed as someone rub my clit in slow firm circles. My wetness coating their fingers and they bring them up to my mouth to make me taste myself before they continue touching me all over.

Oh God but imagine if they had a vibrator, they put it on the lowest setting and rub it against my clit. Just as my breathing starts to quicken they take it off leaving me a whimpering sleepy mess and I can't cum until they let me.. I'm so feral ughhhbdbd

STOP THIS IS SO CUTE^⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠^

Yes do all the hard work while I make you lemonade and take care of the house(⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

on my knees begging to be someone’s butch husband. i have a carnal desire to fix things around the house in my boxers. make sure my femme’s gas tank is full. mow the lawn in shorts in and a wife pleaser. build a coop for the chickens she rescued. plant vegetables in our little garden. cook meals on lazy weekends. cuddle while watching a movie. enjoy the easy silence between us.

Me and who?? :)

Us doing our face with pretty makeup only to ruin it hours later with tears and drool RAHHNDHE

Us at the mall and we tease eachother until we are forced to take it to the car(⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠)

Us wearing cute skirts for the sole purpose of bending over in front of eachother.. don't look under my skirt>-<

Us at the library doing important work while the other rubs over our panties(⁠٥⁠↼⁠_⁠↼⁠)

pervy femme x pervy femme supremacy

The ultimate duo