Welcome to an updated directory of my works and WIPS. Everything will be updated every few months with new works and works in progress — from prompts to headcannons to socmeds.
Updated: 16/07/2026
Requests: OPEN
Join my taglist
Key:
❦: fluff
☾: angst
❀: headcanon
𖥔: preference
ᥬᩤ: drabble
꩜: reactions
⪩⪨: smau
𖧧: suggestive
✧: smut
☼: series
☆: completed
➷: WIP
✈︎: Do not take requests for them anymore
Okay, some house rules!
First things first, I primarily write reader inserts for black readers. I am a cisgender black woman, so I tend to write for black women unless requested otherwise. I have disabilities, so my posting schedule is irregular.
I am currently in the process of rewriting and improving old fics, but my requests are open and will close in a few weeks.
‼️I will not condone any homophobia, racism or hate speech on my account. You will be blocked if I see it in my reblogs, comments or dms.‼️
Secondly, some things to note:
Use the ask box for requests, not the chat feature.
I don't mind people asking for a fic of a certain character, but please add some basis to it. Not just "please write for __". I have prompt lists (and am working on a new one) if you want one of those.
Again, I am chronically ill and disabled, and I am not always writing, but I will try to have stuff in my drafts or queue.
Do not send multiple requests for the same thing. I will ignore it otherwise, as it clogs my request box
I do not write for minors, unless in a platonic or motherly capacity.
Following the bullet point above, if I write a preference, headcanon, or drabble for a group with minors (e.g. Cortis or 82Major), I will not be including the minors
I write smut so MDNI
Lastly, these are my non-negotiables when it comes to things I DO NOT write:
Illegal age gaps
Ageplay
Raceplay
Master/slave
Scat
Gore
Vore
Fisting
Pee (the action or consumption)
Incest/pseudo-cest (Caleb will not be written like the Infold myths of being a brother)
Body horror (in smut)
Mutilation (in smut)
Necrophilia
Prompts:
Prompt List One
Prompt List Two
Kpop:
ATEEZ
Tomorrow x Together
EXO
Seventeen
Zerobaseone
&TEAM
Ampers&one
Enhypen
Monsta X
Stray Kids
GOT7
P1Harmony
NCT (all subunits)
WayV
Riize
The Rose
Just B
The Boyz
Aespa
KHH:
DPR Ian (Christian Yu/ Yu Barom)
ONE (Jaewon)
Simon Dominic
Gray
Dean
Tabber
Jay Park
POP:
5 Seconds of Summer
The Vamps
Shawn Mendes
Omaha Boys
One Direction
Games:
Love and Deepspace
Baldur's Gate
Resident Evil
MOVIES:
The Kissing Booth
HIM
The Maze Runner
MCU (Black Panther/Iron Man/Spiderman)
DCU
Descendants
Harry Potter
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
The Mortal Instruments
Power Rangers (2017)
Avatar
Eternals
Dune
Twilight
Star Wars
Percy Jackson
Fast and Furious
Dracula: A Love Story
TV SHOWS:
13 Reasons Why
Gotham
Hemlock Grove
Once Upon a Time
Altered Carbon
The Mandalorian
Stranger Things
Pretty Little Liars
Teen Wolf
Euphoria
Shadowhunters
Riverdale
The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina
Wednesday
Titans
The Witcher
Sons of Anarchy
Gachiakuta
Jujutsu Kaisen
Black Butler
Alice in Borderland
Peacemaker
The Umbrella Academy
Avatar: The Last Airbender
Daredevil
The Acolyte
The Order
Magicians
The 100
Criminal Minds
Sandman
The Night Agent
Outer Banks
Percy Jackson
Chicago Fire/PD/Med
Vikings
The Flash
S.W.A.T
Da Vinci's Demons
The Blacklist
Wild 'n Out
Optional Member:
Optional Member 1 (Old) ✧
Untitled I (new) ✧
Shippings:
Ship One
Ship Two
Ship Three
Ship Four
SocMeds:
Discontinued/Not Accepting
Discontinued - ✈︎
Not accepting - Crossed out
Rue Bennett - Co-dependency ✧❦
Peter Pettigrew - In The Shadows ☾❦
NichoJoo - Bass Down Low ✧❦
Lee Heesung - All My Bad Desire ✧❦☾
Neteyam Sully - In Your Fantasy pt2 ✧❦
Jabber Wonger - Freak Like Me ✧
Enjin - Untitled ✧
Cameron Cade - You Get Me So High ✧
The Maze Runner - Their Reaction To You Remembering Them 𖥔☾❦
Gally - Monday Mournings ☾❦
Rudo (platonic) / Arkha Corvus - A Mother's Touch ☾❦
Choi Jongho - Forgive Me, Father ✧☾
Fezco O'Neill - Interviewing Your Ex ✧❦
Ateez - Caught In The Act 𖧧𖥔꩜
Song Mingi - Lips 𖧧❦
A/N:
I may have forgotten a few groups, artists, or characters (books, games & movies). If there's anyone not mentioned, drop them in the comments or send me an ask, and I will let you know if I write for them.
summary: you're too young for me and this is wrong and i'm supposed to be teaching you float around jack abbot's head. but every time, knowing that he shouldn't, he still leans in to kiss you.
word count: 17.9k
tags: first year!reader (but no age mentioned + she has a stupid nickname), illicit workplace relationship, lots of guilt/we shouldn't do this (mostly from jack), yearning/pining, shea's version of slowburn and a bubbly reader and much too much dialogue, regular hospital talk/mention of injuries/death and fourth of july special scene <3 maybe out of character for the other doctors but i tried my best!, smut (fingering, orgasm denial, dirty on-call room sex, creampie because.. duh).
note: based off of the intern baking for jack during his bad week blurb, also known as i can't help myself
jack abbot stares at you, then down at the containers in his hand filled with cookies that you baked for him after he spent the better part of a week yelling at you, and then back at you.
and then he laughs for the first time all week and wonders to himself—what the hell am i going to do with you?
because truly, you are something else. jack’s seen you in passing during day shift sign-offs at seven pm, and occasionally walking to the lockers a touch early. reflecting back, while placing the yellow tupperware into his own locker, he thinks he’s even seen you as early as six-thirty in the morning some day, if not most days.
he can’t resist—who told you about his sweet tooth, he’s not actually sure—but he opens up the lid. just like you had told him before you walked away to start your shift, the round chocolate-chip cookies don’t have any sea salt on them, not that he minds.
he bites into one and chews on it while trying to remember what else he knows about you—all that comes to mind is your teary eyes day before last when he yelled at you over something he can’t remember right now.
it hadn’t been that big of a deal—there was a patient presenting with disrupted kidney function and you hadn’t discontinued their nsaids on your initial evaluation. the solution, usually, is a stern conversation and to inform you for next time. no ibuprofen for the guy with bad kidneys, something you would have figured out in the next hour even if they hadn’t immediately caught it.
but for some reason (he knows the reason, he thinks grimly) he had yelled instead. raised his voice, caused a scene. every nurse nearby had looked up and started whispering—and he knows how the gossip goes in this place.
even ellis had intervened and dragged you away, glancing back to give him a look something akin to what the fuck, man?
because he doesn’t yell—it’s not hardwired in him to do so. he was raised in a loud house but he’d almost looked to avoid it everywhere he went, trying his hardest to not become like his father in that way.
the realization that he never yelled when his wife was still alive hits him like a slap to the face every time. he can’t help it, and he’s sure everyone justifies it for him. even when he’d yelled at you and you’d stood in front of him like a kicked, teary-eyed puppy, he hadn’t realized he’d done it again—taken out his frustration on the nearest thing. he’s sure that parker’s with you in some corner, telling you how he usually never yells and it’s his week from hell and you’ll see the real abbot next week.
that doesn’t take away from the fact that he made you cry, though.
nor does it erase the fact that you made him cookies. quite frankly, delicious cookies. maybe the best ones he’s ever had. soft and chewy and made with semisweet chocolate chips. before he realizes it, it’s seven pm sharp and he’s eaten the whole thing, shoving his go-bag into the locker carefully on top of the container you gave him and going out to join you for sign-offs.
and he doesn’t realize it either, not until you stare at him for a moment too long, garnering a cough from mckay as she tries to tell you about the patients from the chairs, the ones that you’ll be following up on and taking care of for the rest of the evening.
there’s chocolate smudged on his fingers, and he’s licking it off, trying to pay attention to robby—who looks at him confused, and then glances at you, and turns back to jack almost… knowingly—while you’re paying attention to him.
and jack, well, everyone knows about jack’s staring thing. they call it just that—he has a problem with overdoing eye contact. he doesn’t know when he picked it up, though he’s sure it’s another one of those military attributes he pretends he doesn’t have. what he does know is that he’s always been able to tell when someone’s looking at him, like you are now.
jack turns his head just to look in your direction for a moment and he finds you already facing in his direction. your gaze quickly goes from his eyes to his fingers and then back to cassie, and he doesn’t have to be near you to know that you’re flushed.
then he stops himself—he doesn’t have any business digging around in your thoughts, wondering what exactly made you look away, was it the fact that he turned to look or that he already knew you were staring—and for the first time all night, he tries to pay attention to robby.
fuck. is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your time on nights? resisting the urge to turn and lock eyes with you, to make sure you’re there and make sure you’re looking, even when he knows you are?
no, no. he’s not that guy. he’s not the guy who obsesses over the nice, pretty intern and accepts her cookies when he’s the one who made her cry to begin with.
you have a place in this hospital, and it’s to learn and grow and better yourself under his guidance, not stay nestled in his thoughts that linger somewhere between inappropriate and really inappropriate.
no, what jack wants to do is get you alone somewhere quiet so he can apologize, and make sure that you believe him.
rarely does jack abbot get what he wants.
you’re talking with mckay still, going on about something at a mile a minute, in more of a carefree tone that he’s never been on the receiving side of. every time he’d spoken to you the previous week, he’d been angry and you’d been dejected. it’s not how teaching is supposed to be, especially not jack’s teaching. he’s always been proud of how he treats residents, how they flourish under him, how they end up liking nights like john and parker did.
he catches the ending half of your conversation with cassie.
“-but the recipe doubles really, really easily, so if you make them and you feel like you want more, because, i mean, i made them for a bake sale once-”
“and it’s always a crowd pleaser?” cassie asks, tilting her head at you, looking as focused as jack has ever seen her. he doesn’t know the context, though he’s sure it has something to do with harrison and his school.
you, on the other hand, are completely engrossed in the conversation. as though cassie’s son and his school’s bake sale are the most important things on the planet.
“always! it’s so good. but just make a test batch—it’s so easy. half the recipe, try it out, and then if you like it, you can use the extras to let people try it before they buy it-” you’re interrupted, parker calls out your name somewhere in the distance.
the day shift has began to filter out. robby pats jack’s shoulder firmly before muttering i’m outta here, but jack stands frozen in place, wanting for some reason, to hear the end of your conversation.
he didn’t know people could be so passionate about baked goods—but he guesses it makes sense. for you, that is.
“actually, that’s not a bad idea. you sent me the recipe already?”
“yes, i texted it. but i can email it if you want, or i-”
jack actually laughs—you’re so eager to get cassie this recipe. he thinks you have more energy right now than he’s had all day.
he hears cassie thank you, and he gets a glimpse of you beaming at her, a bright, pretty smile, before the charge nurse calls out his name and his shift really starts.
shen jumps on with him and he sees you somewhere in the distance, probably running through your game plan for some patient in the chairs with ellis. you smile brightly at her too, and for the first time in a long time, jack has a thought that he deems in the category of uncontrollable.
he’s a disciplined guy, always has been. thoughts don’t consume him like wildfire, rather they run through a series of checks and balances before he even fully thinks them. last week his system had been all off, leading to you getting yelled at in the first place, and right now, the whole thing seems like it’s gone haywire, focused on one thing in particular.
what does he have to do to get you to smile at him like that?
+
the night shift is a place of routine. jack wants to get you on a trauma with him, wants to show you what he’s like when he’s of sound mind and not thinking about how last week, a couple of years ago, he had the worst day of his life. and then a couple years before that, another worst day of his life.
he has an overpowering urge to show you what he’s like on a normal week. he can even picture it in his head—handing you gloves and asking you questions that help you run the trauma, to get you in the habit of approaching the cases like he does. the questions are to make you believe in yourself—if you know the answers, you could have run this whole thing by yourself. if you get something wrong or don’t know, he throws in an easier one next time.
you might be a little worried at first but you’d get the hang of it. and then, after the patient was stable and he got to tell you good job, you’d do it. smile at him, beam up at him like you’ve been doing to the others. the kind that makes your eyes light up, makes little lines crinkle in the corners of your face, lets him see your lips—well, that’s not important.
what is important is that you realize that jack abbot is there to help you, not to make things worse. that’s the side of him he wants you to see.
but unfortunately, the night shift is a place of routine. interns are on chairs, getting every move double-checked by a senior resident. there’s enough hands on the day shift to allow first years to jump on every incoming but nights are not nearly as well distributed.
so, you and jack fall into a routine—you both show up early for your shifts, walk to the lockers together in silence. sometimes you stare and he catches you, and other times you catch him. you think about asking him what he thought about the cookies, or if you can get your tupperware back, but then you stay silent and head out into the chaos.
one day at six forty-five, he sees you looking at him while mel is trying to tell you something that you are decidedly not paying attention to. after he looks your way, you turn back to her and start profusely apologizing.
he turns back to robby, missing half of what he said.
“you okay?” robby asks, gaze flickering towards jack, and then back at you, somewhere in the distance. jack nods. “how’s she been doing?”
he doesn’t have to say your name for jack to know who he’s talking about.
“fine. good. i haven’t gotten much of a chance to teach her, so-”
“right. teach.” robby says it and looks at jack differently—as if he’s amused.
“what?” jack snaps, suddenly irritated by the line of questioning.
“nothing. this week’s probably gonna be her last on nights, just so you know.” before jack can respond, robby puts his hands up in defense. “don’t shoot the messenger. apparently we’re supposed to be cycling interns and r-twos so they all get to experience nights. something about equality and fairness. i don’t know but you can read the memo.”
“fairness?” jack grumbles, though it’s mostly to himself. he’s annoyed, and he knows why, and he doesn’t like the reason why. “they used to put us on nights for three months at a time and the only memo i ever got was too bad.”
“careful, jack,” robby says, a little too sing-songy for his current mood. “you keep talking like that and she’s gonna think you’re an old grump.”
jack glares up at robby, wanting to reply but nothing biting comes to mind.
“you have a good night, jack,” robby says and jack mutters back a yeah, yeah. he turns to watch robby leave, but somehow, his gaze still ends up back on you, like it always does. it’s harder still throughout the course of the night, nerves somehow taking over him every time he wants to tell you to drop whatever patient’s hand you’re stitching and jump on this trauma with him.
the vision he’s been chasing, aimlessly at that, seems further and further away as the hours pass each night. your shift is filled with first degree burns and sprained ankles and kind-of, sort-of allergic reactions, when it should be spent by his side, learning everything he has to offer you before you’re back with the day shift.
because that’s why he’s so invested in making sure you’re on a trauma with him—because of how much he has to teach. parker and john haven’t said a bad thing about you, and even the day crew during passing exchanges—nothing besides wondering how you have so much energy at seven am without a cup of coffee in your system.
that is why he’s so invested—right?
on your last shift of nights for this block, you show up a little extra early. you think you can avoid jack by doing so, but he comes early too, wanting to catch you alone, if just for a moment.
you walk with your hands filled with more tupperware that he recognizes. the very same containers are sitting on his countertop right now, the contents mostly eaten. he doesn’t want to finish the last of your cookies even though they’ll get stale soon. and why that is, he pretends to not know the answer.
he follows you into the break room at six twenty-five while you open the lids and set out napkins.
“oh,” you say, surprised when you hear the door click behind you. you didn’t think anyone would have noticed you sneaking in there. “dr. abbot-”
“listen, kid, i need to-” jack’s eyes, without intending to, fall from your confused expression to the table in the room. you have more cookies—maybe snickerdoodle—in the containers. “what’s this for?”
“it’s my last day on nights.”
“so you made cookies?”
“it’s to thank everyone,” you ramble on, like you have to justify the idea to jack. “for being so patient with me. interns are already so annoying and then on top of that when they’re not sleeping. i just thought it would be nice. and there’s no nuts or chocolate so it’s more allergy friendly, you know. i-i’m gonna stop talking now.”
“no-” he says, too quickly, and you look just as confused as ever. your eyebrows knit and your mouth opens a bit and he stares at you, while you stare at him. in fact, jack wishes you wouldn’t look at him like this—cute and confused and too nice for your own good. “no, i mean-”
what does he mean? what he really wants to say is please don’t stop talking, but all that comes out is—
“that’s…nice. i’m sure they’ll appreciate it. and interns, well, they’re supposed to be annoying. that’s how you learn.” jack pauses, thinking he’s done well, that this is a good place to stop. “not that you’re annoying, that’s not what i-”
“thank you, dr. abbot,” you supply, smiling at him. and god, if it isn’t exactly how he thought it’d be—your bright smile feels like it sends a halo of warmth over the person you’re looking at, and this time, it’s lucky him. your face changes too, the confusion and concern melt away and are replaced with sheer joy, like you’re thankful for every bumbling word in a fairly awkward conversation.
he’s never been like this, he thinks, or maybe the confidence that surged through him during every trauma had nestled somewhere permanently, constantly hitched along into his real life. he’s never considered himself a don juan but he’s not a stranger to women either—and he certainly doesn’t stutter through sentences and backtrack because he’s worried he’s offended you. that doesn’t happen to him. it’s never happened to him.
but he supposes, taking in how you smile with your entire face and what else he can do to get you to stay smiling, that there’s a first time for everything.
“you were saying something? when you came in?” you ask.
“yes, uh-”
damn it. what was he saying? he can’t remember. it’s distracting—you, the cookies, your radiant smile, all of it. especially when he thinks about a week ago today, when you were standing in front of him with your wet eyes and wobbly chin, when he was angry about something he can’t even piece together right now. right—the apology.
“i just wanted to apologize for my behavior last week. i-i hope you-”
but before he can finish the sentence the door opens. it’s dana.
“jack, robby’s asking for you. three incoming mvc’s and mckay left early for something with her son and no one else is here yet, and-” she stops, glancing between you, jack, and the cookies on the table. “hey, kid. you jumping in?”
you glance to jack when dana asks that, big eyes staring at him for permission. you really shouldn’t have done that, because he thinks you’re only making all the rest of this much worse, whatever he’s been pushing down and burying for the last week that seems determined to hit the surface today.
“tell him we’re coming,” jack says, and though he had more to say to you, he has to stop for now. on the walk to the trauma bay, jack recaps how he runs through traumas with you. he ties your gown while you pull gloves in his size, and then the ones in your size.
when you hand him the gloves, he gets a look into your eyes—pretty, nervous, excited. in that order.
“what do we have?” jack asks, and trail behind him momentarily, taking a big breath before walking out and following him into the trauma bay. robby jumps on the first ambulance with heather and leaves the second to you and jack. you see frank and mel walking towards the third one, still driving up.
the paramedic starts rattling off the vitals and the patient keeps speaking over him, thrashing up and trying to crane her neck despite the c-spine collar wrapped around it.
you know what you’re trained to do in these situations—listen to ems, treat the patient, figure out what she keeps interrupting for after you’re positive that she’s not going to die on your table. but some part of you just can’t let it sit like that. you can’t stand when someone thinks you’ve ignored a part of their sentence, much less ignore them entirely.
“wait, wait,” you tell the paramedic as they’re wheeling the gurney into one of the trauma rooms. all around you, the nurses have started their work, setting up iv’s and rolling in portable x-rays. they set aside blood and wait by the phone to call for the surgical consult or to clear up ct as soon as you and jack decide the patient needs one.
“excuse me?” he replies, turning to look at jack with an expression that asks are we listening to her? and even jack looks at you a little confused while you get closer to the patient, until you’re in her line of sight and she stops moving so much. the noise around you will never fully go quiet, but it dims down for thirty seconds.
“you have to stop moving so much, ma’am. what are you trying to say?”
“i really think we should-” the paramedic interjects, but you snap your head towards him, trying to figure out how to say shut up without really saying it.
“can you please, just give me a second?”
“my daughter, my daughter, she’s hurt, please-” she responds, not thrashing anymore, just crying.
jack looks between you and the patient for a moment. this case is surgical—she practically went through the windshield. there’s glass that needs to be removed, a concussion, possibly a chest tube, and an airway if she crashes.
“you guys need hands in here?” you hear trinity ask from somewhere behind you.
jack knows you have a choice here, and he thinks, for a moment, you’ll tell her to find the daughter while you finish this trauma with him. it’s for your own learning, your education. it’s to show you what the some of the worst outcomes from car accidents look like, things to check for in the future even if your patient looks fine.
“i’m gonna find your daughter, okay? but i need you to stop moving so they can take care of you. because she needs her mom, too.” you turn to santos, and trinity jumps in while you walk out. jack catches one glimpse of you before turning to his patient, laying still and compliant, crying silently.
an hour later, most of the day shift has gone home. trinity even stops at bed 19 where you’re suturing the little girl’s arm while she drinks a juice box and waits for a head ct in case she has a concussion too.
“when is it gonna be my turn on nights? abbot is so cool. i put in the chest tube and got to bring her up to surgery.”
you get an uneasy feeling in your chest thinking about someone else on nights with jack in your position—not the yelling, but rather the apology he never got to finish. how sincerely he looked at you when you left to find the daughter instead of finishing up with your patient—maybe it was a mistake. maybe he’ll be upset with you, but it doesn’t matter, since it’s your last shift, anyways.
“and those cookies are fantastic. alright, thanks bubbles. i’ll see you back on days.”
“bubbles? wait, those cookies weren’t for you-” you call out after her, but she walks away without responding. you turn back to the little girl.
“there’s cookies?”
“yes,” you sigh, taking your seat again. her arm is nearly done, just needs a bandage. dad is on his way, the social worker is informed, and someone should be coming over to take over to watch her until ct is ready. “i can give you one after your dad gets here, if he’s okay with it. but for now you have to rest.”
she asks you if her mom is going to be okay, and in truth, you don’t know the answer. you should, but you don’t. you excuse yourself when one of the nurses gets there to monitor her, and try to find parker so you can move onto the next.
jack must be in another trauma, because you don’t see him anywhere and though you’re not eager to get yelled at again, you do need to finish the conversation from earlier.
and you need your tupperware back.
you end up seeing six patients, getting four of them ready to be sent home and two waiting for beds upstairs and consults that are taking far too long. parker pulls you aside while she chews on one of your snickerdoodles.
“can you do nights more often? these cookies are great, bubbles.”
“okay, when did this catch on? i know trinity likes her nicknames but this is the first time i’ve heard it. also, what the hell does it even mean?”
parker looks at you with a tilt of her head.
“seriously?”
“bubbles? maybe something like, i don’t know, crybaby, i would have understood.” you pause, hesitating, and then glancing up from the screen you’ve been staring at, your half-assed attempt at a proper note. “wait, how long has she been calling me that?”
“since your first day. but it doesn’t sound like nearly as much of an insult as it used to.”
at least parker will give it to you straight.
“can i ask you something? about dr. abbot?” you don’t know where the surge of confidence comes from, but you think you need to ride the wave to some answers before your shift ends. you glance at your watch while parker does the same. almost midnight.
“i’ll give you five minutes. by the way, he was in the break room if you want to ask him directly.”
“really?
“yeah. shoveling down cookies. you’re gonna give him pre-diabetes.”
“really?” and it’s hard to hide your smile, entire face lighting up. “it’s my favorite recipe. well, second favorite, i guess. my roommate in medical school had a nut allergy so i always made snickerdoodles for her, but those brownies i made for him are probably are my actual favorite-”
parker’s expression changes.
“you made him brownies?”
“yeah?” fuck. “it-it was to apologize. for last week, the nsaids thing.”
“he yelled at you.” she pauses, staring at you a little more quizzically. “he made you cry.”
“he was having a bad week?” you offer sheepishly.
“right.” another pause. “what was your question?”
“i don’t remember. i’m gonna go see a patient now.” you save the contents of your note and decide to finish it later, during the three am lull with a hot cup of coffee and a cookie if there’s any left.
your question was going to be disguised with a ramble of some sort, asking ellis if she thinks jack abbot is the type to apologize for yelling at her or if there was something else he was going to tell her before those traumas came rolling in.
but lucky for you, you get your answer. four am, in the break room, running a little late on finishing your notes, behind on a schedule that you had invented in your own head. the last patient you saw had been really frightened of the hospital, as well as a language barrier that you had to wait thirty minutes to find a translator for at this hour.
you need a coffee, a cookie, and a computer to finish your notes. and then you need to leave the night shift and not be stuck in the hospital with jack abbot for twelve hours.
though there’s a smile on your face when you open the door, at the very idea that jack liked your snickerdoodles enough to shovel them down, or whatever parker had said. you look up and your smile gets replaced with surprise at the man standing in front of you.
it’s mental beetlejuice, or something. every time you think about him, boom, there he is. facing the counter, pouring black coffee into his steel gray tumbler.
“oh. hi.” how can you be so shocked that he’s in here? it’s four am with no incomings and it’s really not that big of a department. you passed the other two doctors on with you on the walk here—parker at central talking to a nurse and shen at a computer eating a granola bar.
“hey, kid. coffee? just made a pot.”
“yes, please.” you walk over, fetching your yellow mug from the cabinet. you glance at the table—your containers empty save for the crumbs of cinnamon sugar on the bottom. “was gonna have a cookie too. i should have made more.” jack pours you a cup and then hands you the creamer and the sugar. you notice that his own coffee is drunk just black though.
“it’s john, i’m telling you. he’s got a sweet tooth worse than mine. and don’t let parker fool you. i saw her in here three times tonight.” jack takes a seat in one of the chairs, but first he pulls one out for you.
you sit down and smile, laughing at his comment.
“well, she said that you were in here shoveling them down, so, i don’t know who to believe.”
“she said that?” you nod, taking a sip of your sweet coffee.
the coffee in the break room is notorious for being just fine. it’s never great, or even just good, it’s just fuel. but it tastes a lot better today.
“i’m gonna plead the fifth on that one.”
you laugh again. you look over, realizing there’s one cookie left in the container.
“one left. but you can have it,” you say, the caffeine and this conversation doing wonders for your energy levels. “i had a bunch at home earlier today and i make them all the time, so-”
“nah, kid. we’ll split it.” jack breaks it in half and slides it towards you on a napkin, and you smile at him again—warm, generous, compassionate.
a lot of big words to describe the smile of a resident he just got to know better this week, but he can’t turn it off. the radar in his head alerting him that the person he’s been thinking about for hours is sitting in front of him now, nibbling on half a cookie.
“that was a nice thing you did, earlier. with the mom and the daughter. she was completely compliant after.”
“i figured. i can’t believe the paramedic didn’t listen to her the whole ride in, though.” you take another sip of coffee before putting your mug down on the table. “not that he did something wrong. i know he was trying to help and they’re trained to focus on the patient and all that. but she was moving around in a c-collar, so i figured-well, i’ll stop rambling. they said the surgery went good so that’s all that matters, i guess.” you go quiet, taking another bite just so you stop yourself from talking too much again.
“both things can be true. he should have listened and he did his job. how’s the daughter?”
“good, good. i gave her stitches and she had some minor cuts. i think the mom thought she was bleeding a lot worse. dad’s with her, so…”
“you had the chance to jump on the trauma but you left to take care of the kid.” jack doesn’t say it with any sort of tone, presents it to you plainly, like a statement.
“is this the part where you’re gonna yell at me?” you blink up at him, worried again.
“no, no. i just-” he pauses, thinking about his words carefully. he smiles, like he’s about to laugh. “it’s just the sort of thing i can’t teach, so-”
there’s a knock on the door, and you audibly sigh. is it the worst thing in the world to ask for some privacy for five minutes in this place, to be able to finish a conversation with your attending for once?
it’s john.
“incoming. three minutes out. aw, man, are those the last of the cookies?”
you do get to jump on the case with shen and abbot, though the man isn’t in bad condition at all. took a spill on his kid’s toys and bruised his tailbone, but his wife called for an ambulance. he waits for a head ct and x-ray and the room clears out, and you wonder if you’ll get a chance to finish out your conversation with jack abbot.
you don’t.
he stays behind to tell robby something and parker and john usher you out for a celebratory latte—decaf, obviously—to finish your first small taste of nights. you carry your empty containers in the tote bag you brought them in, and realize you didn’t even get a chance to tell him to bring your containers back.
(whether you want the containers or an excuse to talk to him again, you don’t know. it’s a can of worms not worth opening now that nights are done—though you’re sure he must have finished the contents by now. the idea of your yellow tupperware sitting on his counter or his kitchen table, well… it leads your mind to wonder about other things.
what does his place look like? did he sit on his couch with brownies and farmer needs a wife, like you had suggested? what about in his bed? jack doesn’t seem the type to have a television in his bedroom, or the type to eat in bed, though sometimes you’ll make an exception for dessert, and maybe he can be convinced.
and then you cut the entire thought out of your head, because it’s downright unprofessional and you have no business spending time wondering about his bed or his couch or anything else. stupid tupperware. and what’s even worse is going home with the realization you might not get to find out what jack was going to say to you in the break room, either time.)
+
if you ask a hundred emergency room doctors what the worst day of the year is, you’ll get a hundred different answers. halloween, thanksgiving, and new year’s are all up there.
but jack abbot’s answer has never changed—fourth of july.
a day littered with sunshine, grilling, and sparklers. to any emergency medicine specialist, it’s more about sun-poisoning, choking on hot dogs, and burn injuries from at-home fireworks. the hospital is flooded with back-to-back traumas, ranging from people passing out at the beach in the afternoon to full body burns by the evening.
you had always predicted the worst part is how a lot of the injuries are on children. they’re the ones left unattended while mom and dad drink themselves silly or let them play with firecrackers on the pavement, assuming they’ll be fine. you’ve done two emergency medicine rotations in school and you think you know what the fourth will be like, that you’ll be unnerved the entire day by the sound of crying children and trying to hold back anger on the irresponsible parents.
but walking through the doors of the hospital on your second week back on days, you realize you really don’t know much.
like, for example, that jack abbot walks in beside you and mel at six forty-five. you look at him confused, and then turn to mel, who doesn’t match your expression but is also confused, you’re sure. jack is quick by the lockers—takes off his backpack and heads straight back out.
mel speaks up first.
“i didn’t know dr. abbot does days,” she says, taking off her jacket and folding it neatly.
“i didn’t either. do you know why?” it’s really an unnecessary question—it shouldn’t matter to you at all. but it does, and you’re terrible at burying things. it’s written all over your face that you want to know the answer why.
“well it’s likely just for overflow. i’m sure they’re expecting double the amount of patients today.”
“right. yeah, that makes sense.”
“though it is surprising-”
“what is?”
“-that he didn’t take the day off, i suppose.”
“why’s that?” you ask, and mel shrugs.
“fourth of july is a usually tough day for a lot of veterans. when i was at the va hospital, some of the other doctors who had served would stay at home with their families. and the noise from the fireworks, too-”
mel goes on, but you have a hard time paying attention to the rest of her story. one thought washes over you, filling you with enough dread to last all day, making your blood feel icy cold in your veins. jack doesn’t have any family to spend the day with at home, so instead he’s here for the day shift, to help with the extra patients.
“i hadn’t thought about that.” you say quietly. you put your stethoscope around your neck and hold the familiar container in your hands.
“that’s okay, a lot of people don’t. i don’t think i did before my year there. wait, are those more cookies?”
it seems that robby shares some of your dread. you head out with mel, putting the star shaped sugar cookies with red and blue frosting in the break room. during sign-offs you tell parker and john to grab a few—just a few! leave some for the rest of us—before they head home. you smile politely at frank, who seems very concerned with making sure mel knows how hectic this holiday gets in the pitt and ask cassie how that bake sale went.
and then robby pulls you aside, leading you in front of central.
“i brought sugar cookies, i hope that’s okay. is something wrong?” you ask, gauging how robby is looking at you right now.
“yeah, everything’s fine.” he looks around distractedly, or maybe like he’s trying to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “listen, i know you just got back from nights-”
“are you sending me back? to nights?”
“what? no, no, we need you on days. i mean, you just finished nights and you were with abbot for a bit. how’d that go, by the way?”
“dr. abbot?”
“nights.”
“oh,” you say, feeling yourself flush. warmth spreads over you despite how cold it runs in the hospital. flustered, you continue. “it was good. um, busy and i learned a lot.”
“and you got to spend some time working with abbot, right?”
“yeah. some-uh, yes. i did.”
“great. because today is a bit of a weird day for him. he’s not used to days and we get overwhelmed pretty quickly. he’s here to help and it’s always great to have extra hands, especially his hands, but-” you zone out for a moment at the thought of jack’s hands. “-he seems a bit off and i want to make sure he’s doing okay, and he’ll just ignore me if i ask. so if you could—?”
robby trails off and you stare at him blankly, blinking after fifteen seconds of silence.
“if i could what?”
“just, check on him, y’know, throughout the day. just make sure he’s alright. thanks a ton kid, i knew i could count on you.”
“wait, what-” but then robby is gone, and you’re left at central with dana behind you, handing you a tablet with a patient’s name on it and somewhere to your left is jack, immersed in a conversation with heather. you stare at him, and the he notices you looking, and looks back.
any other day, you’d turn and go straight to your patient, but not today.
today your attending has given you a task—check in on jack. make sure jack’s okay. and you are not the type of person to disappoint your superior.
you walk over to them, smile at both, and then watch as heather excuses herself. had robby told her about the task he’d assigned you?
“hey, kid. don’t tell me—america themed cookies?”
you shirk under his gaze, the idea that felt very cute last night suddenly seeming exceedingly corny.
“it’s just festive,” you argue. “the frosting is made with blueberries and strawberries instead of food coloring. it’s healthier, i mean, it’s practically like eating fruit.”
“i don’t think you’re winning that argument, but sure, whatever you say. if parker and john left any for the rest of us.”
“i made a bunch this time. i figured there’d be more hands on deck today, i guess.”
(you hadn’t figured that. your logic with doubling the recipe and yielding twice as many cookies was that maybe there’d be some leftover for the night shift to take home with them—specifically one salt and pepper attending who already has two containers of yours at his home. what’s a third?)
“smart. we’ll need them. it’s gonna be a busy day.”
“that’s what i’ve heard,” you look up at jack again with a small smile—trying to disarm him without alerting him of your motive from robby. “how are you feeling, by the way?”
jack knits his eyebrows together.
“how am i feeling?”
“are you okay? do-do you need anything? i can go get you a cookie now, if you want, before they’re all gone. it’s not just the night shift, you know, trinity plows through them. and mel doesn’t have as much of a sweet tooth but since it has the fruit frosting, you know, i think she’ll like them.”
jack looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes, like he’s holding back a laugh, stopping it short at just a smile.
“i’m, i’m fine, kid. and that’s alright, i’ll go get one in a bit.”
“oh. okay. well that’s good.”
“are you okay?”
“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?” you lock eyes with him again.
“no reason. well, maybe we can go get that-”
“dr. abbot?” someone says, and you hold back the groan. it’s getting harder and harder to keep it inside.
the people in this hospital really don’t want you to finish a conversation with your attending.
“yeah?”
he gets pulled up, and you do too—back to the chairs. it’s the usual residual patients from last night, but as the hours pass, you get more injuries related to the holiday. the allergic reactions and sprained wrists turn into burns from the grill and heat exhaustion.
you find jack three more times in between seven patients—asking him he’s okay, how his patients are, if he wants that cookie now, or maybe water? all these people are dehydrated, it’s no good if their doctors are too, right?
the next time you do it, he locks eyes with robby right after. you sneak your way past moving gurneys and crying patients, just to tap his shoulder and check in one last time before you sit down to debride a severe burn, one that’ll have you gone for at least an hour.
“what the hell did you do, robby?” he asks, while they monitor a man who came in on the ambulance after setting half his body on fire trying to grill hot dogs.
“what do you mean? nothing.”
“that kid has-”
“did you try those cookies? they’re fantastic. no wonder you want her back on nights.”
maybe another two hours later, during a surge of ambulances, you realize you haven’t seen jack in a while.
you pat your patient on the shoulder—a little girl with her mom who took a spill on the pavement while chasing her sister—and tell them you’ll send the nurse over with their discharge papers, and set out to find jack before sitting down with yet another burn—your tenth or so at least so far today. you close the curtain and look at the chaos in front of you—gurneys lined up against walls, patients crying and the entire place smelling of burnt flesh and salt water.
dr. abbot is by the trauma bay, organizing patients as they come, and the whole thing feels more like a triage unit than it does an emergency room.
you see trinity seeing the others from the chairs, heather jumping onto an incoming with robby. mel and frank are in one trauma room and jack is standing in the middle of everything.
is it the best time to ask him how he’s doing? no. that much is clear to anyone with a functioning frontal lobe.
but you are not just anyone, you’re you. you get slightly muddled in the head when it comes to jack abbot, and you definitely are not going to disappoint robby when he put you in charge of checking in on him.
you weave your way through the floor, avoiding nurses walking through with supplies in their hands and telling whoever you were supposed to be checking in with that you’ll be right back.
you dodge two gurneys that almost took your knees out just to get close enough to say his name and for him to hear you. you don’t see the one rolling right behind you.
“dr. abbot, are-” you’re interrupted by the sound of your own yelp, when jack reaches out to clasp his hand around your arm. he yanks you hard, pulling you out of the way, and suddenly, all the noises of the emergency room die down.
you hear the paramedic behind you, apologizing as he wheels the gurney out and back to the ambulance bay. you hear dana shouting from central to you—watch out, kid!—and even the wails coming from the trauma room robby and heather are in—a woman crying.
but you don’t really hear any of it. your eyes are locked on jack’s hazel ones, his fingers still tight against your bare skin. his hands are softer than you’d imagined.
you blink at him stupidly, mouth falling open a little. you must look as dumb as you feel, almost getting hit by a gurney in the middle of a very busy shift. it’s like intern 101—things to avoid doing, especially in front of your attendings.
but jack doesn’t seem mad. he looks at you with concerned, pretty eyes, a focused expression. and then, at the same time—
“are you okay?”
you both stare at each other for a while. you must look the equivalent of someone starstruck, staring with sparkling eyes, looking almost as grateful for him as you feel. that gurney would have taken you out of commission—at the very least you’d hit your head and be filling out paperwork under gloria’s watchful eye.
but you’re fine, save for a large bruise forming on your upper arm with each second that passes by as you continue stare at jack.
“you two!” dana shouts over the other commotion, effectively snapping you out of it. all the noises return at once, making you wince, and what’s worse is that people are staring. “incoming, two minutes out. the rest of you, back to work-”
“come on, kid. you’re with me.”
you most certainly are.
+
at around quarter past eight on the fourth of july, you’re seated across from jack abbot at his favorite twenty-four hour diner.
well, to be fair, you’re making more assumptions in the thirty minutes you’ve been sitting here with him than you have for the entire time you’ve know him. first—that this is his favorite diner. second—that he’s as interested in you as you are in him. and third—that you’ll finally get to finish the multiple conversations you’ve started with him and been unable to finish due to interruptions.
but there’s no interruptions here. post dinner rush, with a group of teenagers a few tables away and a couple in business clothes eating on the stools by the counter. there’s no nosy residents or gossipy nurses or incoming traumas. it’s just starting to get dark out, and you know the fireworks will start soon.
what you don’t know is if jack is going to be completely okay tonight. you don't care if you’re a temporary distraction from the noise, but you do care if you’ll be enough of a distraction for him.
the two of you order enough food to feed the entirety of the night shift at the hospital right now. the short staffing is the reason why you didn’t sit down to eat until seven forty-five, but it’s fine. as long as you’re here with him now.
you justify it mentally while jack steals one of your french fries—the ones he said he didn’t want half of when you asked—that you just need to finish the conversations from earlier. that it’s not wrong or inherently bad to order half the menu with your attending, one that was responsible for all of your anxiety three weeks ago.
but staring at him like this, you wonder what you had been so worried about. in fact, over the last few weeks, you’ve realized he’s nothing like what you thought at first.
“okay, i know this must be sound terrible,” you start, setting down your soda and reaching for another salty fry. “but that was amazing. like, the thrilling kind of amazing. does that make sense?” you stare at jack while you await his response.
“yes, it makes sense,” he says, but he can’t contain the laugh anymore. it comes out from his chest—unadulterated laughter, the rumble taking over his entire body.
“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, though you don’t actually seem upset about it. it’s hard to feel any sort of upset when you’re listening to what may be your new favorite sound in the world.
“no, no, i promise i’m not. you’re just so… you. even on a day like today.”
“what does that mean?” you reply quickly, sitting up straighter in your seat, expression turning deadly serious. “god, i’m so sorry. is that completely insensitive? i know it can be a hard day, i mean, well i didn’t know know. but mel brought it up this morning when we saw you and then robby told me to check on you and i thought i was helping until that stupid gurney almost took me out. but i just meant after that! the traumas and doing them with you. i-i hadn’t done any yet, with you, so i-”
“when do you breathe?”
“sorry,” you sigh. “it’s a bad habit.”
“don’t apologize to me, please. it’s-” jack goes quiet, his mind searching to fill in the blank but coming up empty.
it’s nice, he thinks. sweet. refreshing. funny. you’re all of those things and more. you don’t bite your tongue and hold back thoughts. you ramble until he can step into your thoughts completely—see it from your perspective like he’s inside your brain.
and jack—well, jack has friends. army buddies, guys he used to study with during medical school, a couple people from his residency that he stays in touch with. he has robby, though his friendship with him is going to be on thin ice after what he put you up to earlier, and dana. his parents are gone and so are his in-laws but he calls his sister when he really needs to talk about something and he checks in with his wife’s siblings once or twice a year, usually around the anniversary of her death.
(he hadn’t done it a few weeks ago, though, and he has trouble figuring out if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. but then he stares up at you, sipping your drink, patiently waiting for him to finish his sentence, before you, undoubtedly, ask him if he’s okay again. like if he tells you that he’s not—because really, he’s not—that you’ll make it your personal mission to make sure that he is. and that, well, what is he supposed to do with that?)
luckily the waitress interrupts the silence with the rest of the food—grilled cheese and waffles and whatever else sounded appealing in a hunger-driven craze—and he doesn’t have to finish the thought.
you two do talk about other things—how he’s sorry about yelling that week and how you completely didn’t deserve it. you tell him it’s fine and that he had a bad week and that you’re not upset, that it would feel wrong to hold that against him. he tells you about how good the brownies and the cookies were, and you beam at him with that smile again.
the conversations ebbs and flows—how it was nice of you to take care of that woman’s daughter. how great you did in the traumas today. how stupid robby is for asking you to check in on him—don’t listen to him ever again, just, come to me first next time.
and then once the food is eaten and your drinks run empty, and the sound of fireworks is littering your eardrums, you just say it.
“i don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“i’ve spent lots of july fourths alone, kid. i’ll be fine.”
he probably will be fine. he has noise cancelling headphones and though his apartment is close to the park where the fireworks are held—an oversight he didn’t think of when he moved in—he can distract himself enough to get through the night. he’s been doing it for years—taking care of himself when it comes to things like this.
“no, i-i know you will be. i just don’t think you should be alone.”
and then, for a split second, the force of your caring, of your affection for him hits him like a blow. it rushes over him—the feeling of how easy it might be to let you take care of him. to let someone else do it for once. reality seeps back in slowly, bringing his senses back one by one.
the first thing it does is remind him that you’re an intern.
“kid,” jack says firmly, sitting up straighter in the booth. he rests his elbows against the table, staring straight at you, boring into your soul like he always does. “i don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“why not?”
“well, for one, i’m your attending.”
“oh, who cares about stuff like that? it’s not like i’m gonna tell anyone,” you reply, as though the words had come to you quickly, like you really believed them.
as if you’d already put some thought into your response before he’d asked you the question.
you don’t seem the least bit hesitant about basically telling him to spend the night with you—whatever that might mean to you. he doesn’t want to assume things, but it’s been a while since he’s done something like this. he doesn’t know what’s changed in the last decade and he certainly has never done something like this with a resident, much less an intern.
the whole thing is seeming much too bill clinton to him. he wants to express the thought to you, though it doesn’t make much sense—he’s not married and he’s not the president but you’re an intern and he was raised right so it feels wrong—and then he realizes it quickly. are you even old enough to remember that scandal? he shakes his head, as though he can dispel the thought by physically removing it.
“i care about stuff like that. there’s a power imbalance here, and-”
“i’m not even on nights anymore!”
“but you will be on nights again in the future. in a few months from now, when you’re a second year. you’ll do a whole month of nights in third year, too.”
your lips curve up into a playful smile.
“getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”
“kid-”
“i said you shouldn’t spend tonight alone. you’re thinking three years ahead. i mean, don’t get me wrong, jack, i’m totally flattered, but i think you should scale it down. one day at a time and all that.” his expression changes and so does yours—it’s the first time you’ve ever called him anything other than dr. abbot. “i’m sorry. is that completely unprofessional? oh my god, am i one of those people? is that harassment?” you whisper the last part, as though you’re worried he’ll leave to report you this instant.
jack wants to bang his head against the table. he thinks, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time about what he’s going to do with you.
the waitress brings the check and he places his card in her hand before you can so much as glance at it.
“i… i just meant that, i think it’s a bad idea if you spend tonight alone. we can watch a movie or make cookies or whatever you want to do. it’s just-” you trail off, suddenly quiet.
“it’s just what?”
“if we both go home alone, i’m just gonna spend the whole time worrying about you, anyways. might as well worry about you while i’m sitting next to you.” you stare at the table the whole time you say it, and then your gaze flickers up at him before looking back down quickly. “that must sound crazy. i’m sorry-”
“stop apologizing to me, kid.”
it’s hard on a regular day to resist the urge to listen to everything you say, to comply since he knows how good you are. made of a kind of sweetness that he really doesn’t know the first thing about—how you got to be this way, with an abundance of compassion, enough to make him feel like he’ll explode from the sheer strength of it.
what jack does know is that he wants to find out.
you both get up, and you put on your pullover from what can only be your alma mater, grabbing the containers you’d brought into the break room this morning. he swings on his backpack and you both walk outside. it’s dark now, and you can hear fireworks somewhere in the distance. the noise is loud and uncomfortable even to you, and you briefly wonder how it might sound to jack, and decide again that you really, really don’t want him to be alone tonight.
“listen, kid. i don’t want you to waste your night worrying about me. you should-”
“oh, trust me, it’s not a waste. i have an ulterior motive for wanting to go back to your place,” you say, nodding when jack tilts his head at you in confusion, wondering if he’ll bite.
“yeah? and what’s that?”
“i need my tupperware back.”
+
your back thuds against the wall beside jack abbot’s apartment door. you’ve never been here but you try to blink open your eyes to take it in, to see if it’s just as you thought it’d be while his lips—soft and wanton and kissing you—stay against yours.
it’s stupid—why are you worried about his apartment when your attending is kissing you like you belong to him? but then you remember something frank had once told you during your first week, something about adhd and how all of you probably have it, and then you start giggling against jack abbot’s lips.
his fingertips, which were brushing against the skin of your waist after sneaking under your shirt, tighten around the soft skin there. you can feel them digging in, but stupidly, deliriously, and a little light headed, you wonder if you’ll bruise if he pushes hard enough.
“y’know, kid,” he mumbles against your mouth, pulling away for just a second. his breath is hot against your lips and his touch makes goosebumps rise all over you, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up tall. “i haven’t done this in a while but if you’re laughing, i must be doing something wrong.”
you should say something, say anything, so he stops talking and keeps kissing you, but nothing comes out besides another laugh.
“i’m sorry,” you say, trying to catch your breath while jack’s hands hover over your hips. “i-” you glance up to lock eyes again, but when you see the way he’s looking at you, you stop laughing completely.
“if you’re uncomfortable, we can stop. you don’t have to-”
“no! no, i’m not uncomfortable. i-i’m laughing because this is so funny. you’re my attending and now we’re kissing and i’m in your apartment and it looks, exactly how i pictured it. and you’re so nice to me, but it’s the fourth of july and i want to make sure you’re okay because-”
jack interrupts you with another kiss, his lips pressing against yours. this time he doesn’t let up, his tongue slipping into your mouth while you collapse against the wall, knees suddenly very weak.
but it’s alright, because jack’s got you. he holds you up by your hips and your legs mindlessly wrap around him, his hands going to your ass to hoist you up and secure you around him. he lifts you up and starts walking, and you whine against him, impatient and fairly comfortable where you were.
it’s like he’s a mind reader.
“our first time is not going to be against a wall,” he mutters, mouth on the column on your neck, tracing kisses from your collarbone to your cheek and then back to your lips. you want to reply, you want to tell him that you would have been perfectly content against that wall, or the door, or the couch, or even the floor, but nothing comes out.
you pull away just for a moment to look at him in the dim light of his bedroom—flushed cheeks, breathing heavy, taking a moment to push a piece of your hair behind your ear before kissing you again. and then with his mouth on yours again, you realize that jack abbot has discovered some way to turn your brain off.
his touch is rough on your skin—when your scrubs got peeled off of you, you don’t actually know. he throws them somewhere on the ground and you paw at his shirt until he gives in and takes it off.
it should be slower, he thinks briefly, he should slow down and take his time and not even give in and slip inside of you until you’re already a writhing, aching mess. he’s out of practice but he knows how you are, knows what would make you fall apart piece by piece.
that’s what he thinks of when your hands go to the button and zipper of his pants. for everything he knows about you, you’re also impatient. and lucky for you, he is too.
jack is out of practice, but it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten everything.
“c’mon, kid,” he breathes against your collarbone, wrestling your hands away from and then pinning them over your head. “be patient.”
“i’ve been patient—!” you whine, but he doesn’t give in just yet.
“it’ll hurt, sweetheart. i have to stretch you out first,” he says, and you feel dizzy with lust. it washes over you and makes you dumb, and you, for everything you are, are not a dumb girl. at least—not normally.
jack skips the teasing this time, trailing fingers down your chest, between the valley of your breasts and over your stomach. when he gets to your leaking cunt, he collects the wetness there with two fingers, and when you start whining again, impatient and antsy and your entire body humming with want, he does it again.
reminds you to be patient, and then plunges a finger inside of you. a moan leaves your throat—choked and loud, but he wants you to be even louder. you don’t know when he adds a second, and then a third, but you feel the delicious stretch of your walls, how his palm stays in place for you to grind up against. your hips buck up and you’re ruining his sheets and crying for more though you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
and jack takes it all in. how wet you feel against his fingers, how beautiful the noises that you’re making are. so focused on you—the sheen of sweat on your skin and how responsive you are to his touch, the noises outside his walls get drowned out.
“jack, jack, more—” you plead, but jack doesn’t listen. everything in your body feels ready to finish. your muscles ache, the knot in your belly tightens, and heat washes over you while your toes curl in anticipation.
and then jack just stops.
“no—” you whine, the rush disappearing all at once. “no, no, jack!”
“patience, kid.”
“you’re being unfair-”
“no, i’m not.”
“then why’d you-”
“because the first time i make you finish is going to be when i’m inside of you. understood?”
and for once, you’re silent.
+
“i would have gone to the roof, probably.”
you blink open your sleepy eyes. you’re pressed against jack’s chest, your head resting there while he trails his fingers through your hair. you’re wearing his shirt, sleeping in his sheets, a cup of water that he got you from his kitchen resting on the nightstand.
you can’t feel your legs, but that’s a problem for tomorrow—but at least you know now that you might have bitten off more than you can chew.
“what do you mean?” you ask quietly. the fireworks stopped an hour or so ago, and the only noise you hear now is jack’s heartbeat thudding against your ear.
“the rooftop, at the hospital. i go there after my shifts sometimes.”
a lot of the time—but you don’t need to know that. from the way you immediately sit up in bed, his sheets slipping a little and exposing more of your soft skin that you don’t seem to care about, he can tell you’re concerned already.
his shirt looks good on you.
“tell me it’s just for fresh air?” you ask, reaching your hand over to run your fingers through the hair near his temple. his eyes close when feels your touch there, and suddenly, it feels more intimate than it has all evening. jack takes a deep breath, and then sighs.
“something like that.”
“jack-”
“it’s just… i don’t know. i got used to it, i guess. at first it was just to see what it felt like being up there. then it just turned into something else. i go up there after a bad shift and look at all the people below and… decide if it’s still worth it, i guess.” his hazel eyes look towards you and jack nestles himself more comfortably against your hand that hasn’t left him.
“what’s gonna happen if you decide it’s not worth it one day?” you ask quietly, wet eyes sparkling up at him.
teary-eyed and flushed in his bed, all for him. you feel your emotions so strongly that he can watch them flooding your body, taking their course, almost sense them radiating from you.
that’s the second time you’ve cried because of him, and he decides he’s not going to let it happen a third time.
he takes the hand that you had extended against him into his own and presses a kiss against your palm.
“i don’t think i have to worry about that anymore.”
+
you get back to your apartment around four in the afternoon—you have a rare day off today. jack’s back on the night shift at seven, and though he offered to let you stay the night while he was gone, you wanted to give him time to get ready before going into the hospital. everyone has a pre-shift routine, even if they don’t recognize it.
now that you’re back on days, yours consists of waking up early to stretch and eat a big breakfast and leave enough time lay in bed for an extra ten minutes before you actually have to get up.
you don’t know what jack’s is but you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough.
the two of you slept in, courtesy of his black out curtains. you’re more of a get up with the sun person, but exceptions can be made.
(you’ll be making a lot of them from now on. jack abbot made you cum three times in his bed and once in the shower, and then he washed your body with his soap, the one you can still smell on your skin now. he kissed you while making you breakfast—eggs and bacon—and then told you to stop apologizing every time you accidentally hit your foot against his prosthetic under his dining table. and finally, he gave you one of your containers to take back home, and said he’s keeping the other one here. why? you’d asked. insurance, he’d replied.)
so you go back home, make dinner for yourself and wash your singular yellow tupperware and text jack to have a good shift tonight.
you set an alarm for five, get out of bed at five-fifteen and get ready for work, more giddy for a shift than you have been since your first day of intern year.
when you walk into the hospital, early like always, you see jack talking to parker. he looks in your direction and even parker can notice his gaze following something, but she doesn’t say anything. you look away before smiling to yourself, the grin being glued to your face the entire walk to the lockers as you recall memories of the last time you saw jack.
one of the perks of always being early is that there’s no one by the lockers when you arrive.
(you’ve never thought of it as a perk until now though.)
jack walks in behind you a few minutes later—right as you’ve tucked away your pullover and your bag and he stands beside you as you reach to pick up your stethoscope.
“ah, hold on,” he says, taking the stethoscope of your hand and into his. he loops it around your neck carefully, setting it in place for you. “there you go.”
“really?” you ask with a laugh, closing the door to your locker. “when you walked in here i thought i was gonna get a kiss. wait, what did you tell parker-”
“c’mon, kid,” jack says, looking at you with an expression you’re not sure you could ever get tired of. “i’m not that obvious.” you stare at him. “yeah, okay. i told her to go finish the note from the last trauma.”
“lucky for you, i’m your best resident. these other chums don’t show up until much closer to seven. actually, one time, santos came five minutes late. so-”
and for the second time, jack interrupts you with a kiss. he leans in, pressing his lips against yours, and your hands go slack by your side. his mouth tastes like coffee and even after a twelve hour shift he still smells like jack, the way his sheets and his soap and his shirt had smelled when you wore it.
he pulls away, and your eyes blink open slowly, like you’re figuring out where you are. fluorescent lights and the smell of the alcohol wipes they use to clean everything lingers around you.
and, of course, your attending, the one who sneaks into the locker rooms before shift change to give you secret and likely highly forbidden kisses.
“my lips are sticky,” jack says, bringing a finger to his mouth and rubbing it against another. you can’t bear to look at his hands right now, so you look away, at the risk of being useless for at least the next hour.
“it’s this lip peptide thingy. i don’t know, it’s good for them, i think. better than chapstick and they have all these flavors. they say it-” you trail off, staring at jack while he stares at you. he licks his lips.
“tastes good, kid. see you out there.”
oh god. you lean against your locker and watch jack leave. a minute later, mel walks in with trinity.
“i don’t want to hear it, bubbles. i’m here extra early, and not just to prove a point-”
“well, actually, i think it is to prove a point, but not-”
“what’s wrong? did the cat finally get your tongue?”
“i never understood what that meant-”
oh god. it’s going to be a long shift.
and outside the lockers, robby finds jack.
“so?” robby asks, leaning against the counter while jack sorts through tablets. he hands one to parker and then another to john, and they go off to pass on their patients to everyone arriving.
“am i supposed to know what you’re talking about?” jack replies, noticing you from the corner of his eye.
you’re coming out with santos and king, a water bottle in your hand. he had filled it for you before you left his apartment, after you’d refused his offer of walking you home. you look in his direction, and then you both look away at the same time. jack picks up his coffee cup to take another sip—if he doesn’t get the taste of you and your lip peptide thingy out of his mouth, he’s going to have a freudian slip in front of robby.
“i’m talking about you and the kid.” jack sputters, choking on his drink mid-swallow. “woah. you okay?”
“f-fine. uh, what? me and the kid?”
“yeah. since the fourth, you know, are you two good again?”
robby looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the silence with an answer.
“uh, yes. yeah, of course.”
“good. that was my goal. she started on nights at a bad time, and uh, i mean no one blames you. but we don't want to scare away all our interns, either.”
“right.” jack looks back at robby. “anything else?”
“no.” robby arches a brow at him. “you sure you’re okay? because she’s back on nights soon, and i don’t want-”
“i’m good, robby.”
“alright then. where are we with sign-offs?”
you on the day shift is something manageable. something he can handle, something that shouldn’t be too terrible for you two to figure out. you always come early and he always stays a little late, and he’s sure that it won’t look suspicious.
if you’re on days, then he’s not the one primarily in charge of your post-graduate medical education. that falls to robby and heather and frank, and he can trust that none of them are going to accidentally interfere with you learning everything you need to learn to be a good resident.
to be a great resident—because he knows you have it in you. you’re made of the stuff it takes to be teaching other interns one day—compassion and kindness and how to treat the person while you’re fixing the patient.
robby and heather and frank can help you with that. but if you’re on nights, it’s an entirely different ball game. he’s responsible for your education, for approving your notes and questioning your decisions and making you jump onto incoming traumas and justify every choice you make. he’s also responsible for correcting you when you’ve made a mistake. making you drink a cup of coffee if he thinks you’re getting tired. waking you up if you fall asleep at your desk at three in the morning.
and that’s just the problem. for the first time, jack abbot wonders if he can do all of those things if you’re the intern he has to do them to.
for god’s sake—he couldn’t even wake you up to ask how you wanted your eggs.
that’s the conundrum he’s facing when you come back home that night, near seven thirty. he’s off tonight and back tomorrow night, which means he gets about eleven or so hours with you until you leave tomorrow morning.
“hi,” you breathe, when he opens the door to let you inside. you’re clad in your pullover and you drop your bag by the front door when you come inside. “it feels weird to not go straight home.”
“oh, sweetheart, you could have gone home. i could have met you there-”
“no, no, it’s okay. i have a noisy neighbor and, well-” you drift off, smiling up at him the way you usually do.
“well?”
“i’d rather wear your clothes anyways.”
what’s he supposed to do when you say things like that? a couple of words that make him happier than he’s felt in years, lifting the storm cloud that’s been following him around since the conversation with robby this morning.
but it’s an important conversation, one that needs to be had. jack is a lot of things, but he is absolutely not a meddler in the lives of pretty interns or in the business of hindering their education.
“did, uh, robby say anything to you today?”
“jack,” you start slowly, turning on the couch to face him completely. “he’s not a mind-reader, you know.”
“no, i know. i just meant—well, did he?”
“no. he was normal. he even apologized for giving me side quests on an already busy day.”
“oh. that’s good.”
you bring your hand to his hair again, running your fingers through it. it’s almost an instinct to him now—jack closes his eyes for a moment and you watch his shoulders relax.
“what’s wrong? what’re you thinking about?” his pretty hazel eyes meet yours.
“i just want us to be careful-”
“hey, you’re the one who kissed me this morning-”
“i know, i know. i need to be careful, too. i don’t want-”
“i understand. i wouldn’t want everyone knowing i’m screwing the intern either. it’s kind of a cliche, honestly, we’re no better than-”
“what? no, no. i don’t want anyone to say anything that could hurt you, or for this to interfere with your education. it is a cliche, and i know you’re close with the others and people can act very differently when they think that-”
“jack,” you start, moving yourself closer until you can crawl into his lap. his eyes flick over you, settling to watch your lips before he locks eyes again.
“yeah?” he asks, his throat dry.
“in five minutes, i’m going to be wet and naked in your shower. you can either keep talking about this or you can come join me.” then you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek. “c’mon, i wanna hear all about how you spend your days off, old man.”
and then you get up, peeling off your sweatshirt, and then your shirt, and leaving him a trail of your clothes that ends with your panties on his bathroom tile.
jack is a lot of things. but stupid isn’t one of them—so he follows you in there and leaves the rest of the conversation for another day.
but that day doesn’t end up coming that quickly.
as it turns out, interns on day shift barely get to spend time with their attendings from the night shift. on top of that, he has no idea how anyone manages to have an affair with a resident—they’re at the hospital every single day, pulling eighty hour weeks and coming home, if jack is even at home, completely exhausted.
but he also learns that glimpses of you at shift change and sign-offs at seven am and seven pm are enough to sustain the two of you.
it starts with conversations in the locker room before your shift starts. he makes sure his residents are distracted before sneaking away to get a kiss or two and leaning against the metal lockers like a lovesick high schooler.
“you know that patient i was telling you about yesterday? with the bleeder? well, i came to change my scrubs and trin was grabbing something and she saw me and asked if i was mauled by a bear.”
“oh, god,” jacks says from his position, watching you do the same thing you do every morning. put away your hoodie, grab your protein bar for later, tell him whatever you’ve been thinking about since he left you yesterday night. “what’d you tell her?”
you smile.
“something like that.” you laugh, so then jack laughs.
“that’s a little dramatic, no?”
“i also told her i’m clumsy, but i think she’s come to the conclusion that i’m a sex freak.” you close your locker, facing your boyfriend-slash-attending.
“well, i mean-”
“shut up. do not-” you start with another laugh, but your smile fades when you see mel walking in with frank.
“uh, make sure to check that with ellis, alright?”
“yes, i will, dr. abbot.” jack leaves, smiling politely at frank and mel and turning back to look at you once. he really shouldn’t but he’s gotten in a bad habit of it, even though one day, someone is going to notice.
“did you just tell abbot to ‘shut up’?” frank questions, and they both look at you, waiting for your answer.
“no! no, of course not. i was just telling him about something a patient said and, um, dr. ellis wants to document it. yeah, she wants, like, really thorough notes, so he was just telling me. about that. um-”
mel looks at you thoughtfully, before bringing her hand to frank’s arm.
“i have noticed that she writes her patient encounters in a very specific format,” she says, and you sigh without realizing it. you let her carry the conversation into how frank’s notes could use some work, and then the two tease each other while you quietly make your exit.
+
another morning, jack stands at central with dana and robby, filling both of them in on two patients who are due to come back in the afternoon and the three patients still waiting for a bed upstairs.
heather and frank are bickering next to the three of them like they always do, like they’re siblings fighting in front of the parents, when he hears what they’re talking about.
“well, now i feel bad, ‘cause she’s mel’s friend, but i don’t even have that kind of energy after two red bulls, so-” frank starts, before heather interjects.
“it’s not about energy, it’s just a conversation about burn-out. candles don’t burn on both ends for a reason.”
“okay, you lost me with the metaphor.”
“you can’t be that nice to every patient forever. at some point you have to pick.”
“be nice or save their life?” frank supplies. “so basically, when is she gonna become like the rest of us?”
“i mean…” heather trails off, turning to dana. “what do you think?”
“i think they call her bubbles for a reason,” dana says, pushing up her glasses. she cranes her neck to stare at the screen of patients, looking for the next empty bed. “and i think north-two needs to be discharged, so if you two are done-”
“let me test our theory,” frank says. he waves over the lot of you coming in for your shift—you, cassie, mel, and trinity. you look over at jack, and he looks over at you, before you focus back on frank. “need someone to discharge this bed and then go grab the next patient from chairs. dana—?” he holds the clipboard and looks over at all of you, but it’s only half a second before you chirp up.
“i can do it,” you say brightly. you smile at frank and dana, reaching for the clipboard, while jack watches it happen.
“thanks bubbles,” trinity says, while the others dissipate. you make a slightly dampened face at the use of the nickname.
“one other thing,” heather asks. “when are we gonna get more cookies?”
“oh! i’m so glad you guys liked them. i guess another holiday, if there’s one coming up? or someone’s birthday? actually, i think there’s just labor day and i don’t know what kind of themed cookies i’d make. well, chocolate chip cookie day is in august, i think-”
“kid?” dana asks. “the patient? north-two?”
“right. i’m sorry. i’ll come check in after i bring the new patient back,” you say, still smiling when you walk away with the clipboard in your hand.
“what exactly were you testing?” heather asks.
“i don’t know, but she’s definitely doing whatever your metaphor meant. are we taking bets yet? i wonder how long she’ll last-”
“alright, enough,” jack snaps. “do you two not have anything better to do? who’s this helping?”
“jack?” robby questions, his eyes flicking towards dana, who looks back at him with a shrug.
“why would you want her to be jaded? isn’t it better for our patients that she stays like that for as long as she can? i thought you’d try to keep her that way, but i guess-”
“jack-” robby interrupts.
“you two, go help somebody,” dana says to heather and frank, before turning to jack. “what the hell was that about?”
jack sighs, not realizing when his hand had turned into a fist. probably when your name was brought up.
“nothing, i just- bad night. that’s all.”
“o-kay,” robby whistles. “you going up to the roof, or?”
“no. no, i’m going home.”
jack walks away, not in the direction of the door, but rather towards the beds on the north side, almost instinctively.
“what the hell’s wrong with him?” dana asks.
“i don’t know. since when does he just go straight home after a bad shift?”
“i have no idea.”
(that night at six-fifty, trinity pulls you aside before you two head home. you’re antsy since you want to get a couple of quiet minutes with jack before you have to leave, but when she starts talking, you forget all about it. listen, trin says, i’m sorry about the whole bubbles thing, i didn’t think it was bothering you. but collins told me that abbot was yelling at them about it and he was pretty upset, so i- but sadly, you don’t hear much of the rest of the conversation.)
you walk away from her after she finishes, reassuring her that you’re fine, before setting out to find jack. he’s putting his backpack under the desk at the hub, and you go straight to him, not entirely caring that people can see the two of you, supposing it’s fine as long as they don’t hear you.
“what’s the matter?” jack asks, and then much quieter—”everything okay, sweetheart?”
“you defended me?” you ask softly. you’re normally full of words but it feels hard to find them just now, your head feeling cloudy.
“no, no, i just told them to knock it off.”
“was it something bad?” you question, your expression knitting into worry.
this is exactly why he got upset—why he didn’t like their conversation from the jump, why he knew that he wanted frank and heather to stop talking before someone else overheard and jumped in and you found out what they were saying.
it’s not bad, even you wouldn’t think it’s bad. but jack doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like anyone speaking of you in any way that he doesn’t like and he especially hates the idea that you’d be upset when you found out.
“no. i just-” jack trails off.
“you just?”
“i don’t like anyone talking about you. and i don’t like that stupid nickname, so-”
you smile at him, not the sort of innocent smile one casts at their attending—the result of being told good job on a case or have a good night on your way out. no, you smile at jack the way you do everything—with the full force of every emotion behind it, wearing your heart on your sleeve.
and jack couldn’t look away from you, even if he wanted to.
(the two of you look like idiots—googly eyed and lovestruck and every other way to describe people who like each other a bit too much. this time it’s dana who sees the two of you. she does a double take on her way to hand a stack of tablets to the night shift charge nurse and blinks twice to make sure she’s seeing the right thing. jack abbot, a regular on the roof, and the intern who they call bubbles, looking at each other like the rest of the hospital has faded away into nothing. and then she walks away, and decides she’ll wait for robby to bring it up.)
+
it’s mel next—she’s incredibly observant as it is, but even more so when it comes to someone she considers a friend, someone like you. trinity jokes about the continual bear attacks that explain the hickies on your neck and chest when you change out of your scrub top and pull on your hoodie, but mel knows it’s more than that.
she’s always known you get to work early, but recently, every time mel comes in to put away her belongings, the space that you usually occupy is already empty. your things put away, locker closed and locked, your yellow water bottle already resting by the computer that you usually write your notes at.
and after that, it’s just a game of paying slightly closer attention. you walk out from behind a curtained bed and come say hi to mel, ask her how her evening was, how becca is doing. but when mel glances up at the screen to see what patient you were with behind that curtain, it’s empty.
that bed was empty. and well, mel’s not much of an detective (though she has her moments), but it’s worth a shot. waste a few minutes, stare at that curtain to see if she can figure out what, or rather who is behind it. she’s almost about to call it quits, frank was running late but he’s here now and there’s an incoming so she should start moving and then—
dr. abbot comes out from behind that same curtain. he leaves it open, comes to the hub, smiles politely at mel and tells her to have a good day, dr. king, and then he walks away.
more specifically, he walks in your direction. the back of his head moves slightly in your direction. you beam at the tablet in your hands. and then—
“mel? you okay?” frank asks, and she’s snapped out of it.
(she could have figured it out ages ago, she thinks afterward, reflecting on how dr. abbot never used to tell anyone to have a good day or hum while finalizing notes or look up and smile in your general direction before looking back down at whatever’s in his hands. the first time she met him, she thought he was the type of person you categorize in the debbie downer sort of group, whereas from the moment she met you, you were clearly more of a chatty cathy. but you’re her friend. and when she had told you about her feelings for frank, you had listened and supported her and never made her feel that it was anything less than okay.)
so the next time she sees you at seven am, already out by your computer or walking back from around an empty corner, when she notices dr. abbot trailing behind you, she doesn’t say anything. when dr. abbot hangs around late finishing up a trauma and you go ask him for his opinion on whatever patient you’re seeing, even when robby is free just over there, she doesn’t say anything.
even when frank brings it up over dinner with her and becca, a side conversation while they eat spaghetti—you noticed anything different with abbot recently?—she doesn’t say anything.
in fact, the closest she gets to saying anything is when dr. abbot comes in early—maybe around five-thirty one evening—because they’re getting swamped and heather and cassie have the flu and it’s been a terrible mess of a day.
you and mel have been running around the entire shift, barely stopping to drink water or eat something. when jack shows up and flocks straight to you and leans in to tell you something, your hand moves to touch his arm for half a second before you remember where you are and put it down. jack pulls out a granola bar from his pocket and leaves you with it to jump on the next incoming.
mel watches the encounter and puts her head down when you look her way, pretending that she’s drinking her water and staring at a tablet. when she looks up, you’re gone in another direction, but dana stares at mel, both with an understanding of what they just saw.
and then they go on with their shift.
+
it all comes crashing down, just as it had the first time, after a particularly terrible night shift. it’s always hard when someone dies in the first few hours, leaves a horrible, bitter taste in his mouth that makes him want to walk outside and not come back in.
it’s even worse when he knows he did everything he could, that there was no way this patient was making it off the table. that the devastated husband and the crying kids were completely unavoidable, that he still has to go back and jump on the next case and start fresh and try to drown out those noises.
drowning, drowning, drowning. he’s always trying to drown out something. if it’s not the fireworks then it’s the kids sobbing over their dead parent, and if it’s not that, then it’s how he relives his own worst day of my life every time someone’s wife dies in front of him.
it’s been one of those days. you’re due to start on nights in two shifts from now, and he still has no idea how he’ll manage to be any less obvious when it comes to you.
(the last thing he keeps trying to drown out is how wrong this is. the voice in the back of his head keeps reminding him, seemingly unable to stop, no noise being loud enough to get it to stop repeating itself. you’re still a while away from being a second year, but is that even any better? or is that another excuse he’s invented to stop feeling so guilty about the fact that you sleep in his apartment every night and leave cookies for him on the counter so he has something nice to come home to? jack doesn’t know.)
you show up at six-thirty, smiling sweetly at parker and john, telling them to grab a cookie on their way out. parker asks you why and you tell her just because, and you want five minutes alone with your boyfriend before he leaves.
you’re impatient, always have been and always will be, especially when it comes to any and all matters related to jack abbot. you’re eager to go back on the night shift because you think you’ll be able to appreciate it so much more now—learning under his tutelage, being able to discuss those foreign medical journals he shares with you over coffee at four in the morning rather than through his illegible, scribbled print on post-its and your neat handwriting in the margins.
you want it all, and you want it now.
so you made more cookies—oatmeal raisin—to make jack’s apartment smell nice, and you pack several of them to have a valid reason to distract the others so you can get those five minutes, maybe ten, in peace.
“hi,” you sing, while jack stands in front of you, tablet in his hand and blood on his shoes. “how was your night?” he doesn’t look up, but you don’t wait for an answer. “i made oatmeal raisin last night and i put some in the break room so i think we have five minutes. i want ten but i won’t be greedy, i mean, we’ll be on nights together soon, so at least that’ll be-”
“we need to talk, kid,” jack says, looking up at you with an expression you don’t recognize.
“what’s wrong ja- dr. abbot?” a nurse walks by just as you start your sentence, changing it mid-way.
“that,” he says, coming out a bit louder than he meant it to. “that’s what’s wrong.”
“jack?” you say it quietly. he doesn’t mean it like that—he doesn’t want you to be upset and worried about him when you have a whole shift ahead of you, one that you show up early to with distractions so the two of you can have a few minutes alone.
it’s all of it—it’s the fact that you even have to do things like that to get five minutes alone with him. it’s that you can’t let someone overhear you calling him anything besides dr. abbot.
it’s the realization that you deserve much better than what jack abbot can give you. more than five minutes behind a curtain or a couple minutes in the break room or thirty seconds at central hub before the charge nurse comes in with another incoming.
“come on,” he says, leading you away for a moment. you have twenty-five minutes before your shift starts and he has two senior residents who can run the show until robby walks in. he leads you to the on-call room, four walls enclosing four beds. surgery has rooms of their own, but sometimes the trauma surgeon on deck will crash in there waiting for the next page, so he checks the room before letting you into it, closing and locking the door behind him.
“i thought you were gonna yell at me. this is so much better,” you say.
your mouth has gotten you into trouble before, especially with dr. abbot. in fact, it’s what got you into this whole thing to begin with, but where you expect jack to laugh in the privacy of this room, he doesn’t.
“kid, we need to have a serious talk about this.”
“about what?”
“this. us.”
“oh, jack, come on-”
“no, i-i’m being serious. this is not okay, it’s not sustainable.”
“you’re upset because we don’t see each other? honey, i start on nights in two days, i think we can make it,” you say, coming in closer to bring your hand to jack’s shoulder. “what’s going on? really?”
“don’t you think that… what i’m doing is wrong? you’re an intern. this is about your education, i-”
“why do you think you’re disrupting my medical education just because you’re my attending? i know i get stupid around you but i promise, i’m not gonna stop paying attention to my patient because you’re standing near me. i am a doctor, you know-”
“kid, i-”
“no, stop. half this hospital is dating each other. robby is heather’s attending and i don’t see you storming them into on-call rooms to debate about his influence on her medical education-”
“that doesn’t even make sense-”
“it doesn’t have to,” you sigh, out of breath and a little winded from how loud you’re being. “we make sense. you and me. we’re good together. a lot of things in this place don’t make sense but we do. people die everyday and i don’t want to die wondering what could have been if i’d just-”
“don’t,” jack interrupts, his hands coming to your waist. they feel tight, like the first time he’d help you like this. he brings his face closer to yours, foreheads almost touching. “don’t say that.”
“oh my god. i am so sorry. that must sound so insensitive, i just meant-”
“stop talking.”
“but i-”
and this time, he doesn’t give you a choice, pressing his lips against yours quickly. you mumble against else against his mouth, but he can’t make it out, choosing instead to ignore it. like always, jack’s mouth tastes like coffee and you take it in—your boyfriend, your attending, and whatever else jack abbot is to you, kissing you like he’s finally realizing that he belongs to you, just as much as you belong to him.
jack’s fingertips travel under your scrub top, hands roaming the expanse of your back and then settling onto your waist again while you keep kissing, realizing that when you go back out there, you’ll be flushed and warm and your lips will be swollen.
and then you realize that you don’t care, and you let your body lean against jack’s. he pulls away for a moment, but you don’t let him get the chance to stop, leaning in to resume the kiss, desperate to feel his tongue against yours again.
jack does pull away finally, holding your jaw with his hand.
“this is so much better,” you mumble again.
“kid, we can’t-”
“yes, we can. we have so much time, jack,” you say, trying your best to sound convincing.
“it’s seven in the morning,” jack argues, though he doesn’t resist when you pull his navy shirt off and over his head, exposing his chest to you. you run your fingers down the exposed skin, pressing your mouth against his shoulder.
“no it’s not,” you reply, leading hot, open-mouthed kisses from his collarbone to his neck, back up to his lips. “it’s six forty-something.”
“someone’s gonna-”
“no one’s gonna,” you say, smiling in that way that you do, the way that makes it impossible for him to say no. “not unless you stop talking, old man.”
“oh. that’s how you wanna do this?”
“i’m not doing anything,” you say, pulling off your own scrub top, and then your shoes.
“you’re gonna kill me, kid,” leaves his mouth as your hands go to the tie of his scrub bottoms, undoing the knot. jack brings his hands to either side of your waist and lifts, bringing you down onto one of the beds with all of his strength, making you squeal as your head hits the pillow.
he starts with a kiss to your jaw, and then your neck, trailing down between your breasts while he undoes your bra. your hands find his shoulders, gripping him tight while he works his way down, littering your stomach with kisses until he gets to the drawstring of your pants.
his fingers work on undoing it while you whine, and then try to push yourself to sit up against jack’s weight on top of you.
“oh my god, this is so embarrassing. i didn’t know we were doing all this. i have so many matching sets of underwear for this very occasion and the one day-”
“sweetheart, i love you, but you really need to stop talking right now.”
“you love me?” you repeat back. “you love me. oh my god, i-”
you lean in, lips crashing together hard, until jack moves and he’s on top of you again. he slides off your bottoms first, his fingers dancing around the waistband of your panties—navy blue with lace on the sides and he thinks they’re awfully great so he’s not sure what you were talking about—and then you start giggling. nearly uncontrollable.
“kid, that’s twice now you’ve done that-”
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry jack,” you plead, trying to keep a straight face but being unable to stop laughing. “i can’t believe this is how we’re saying i love you to each other-”
“you’re the one who wanted to date your attending-”
you burst into another fit of giggles, which jack effectively silences by kissing you again.
“one day,” jack starts, tugging your underwear down until it’s discarded somewhere by your feet, or maybe somewhere on the floor next to your clothes. “i’ll get to take my time with you again.”
that sentence leaving jack’s mouth makes your entire body tense up, a flood of want washing over you until you feel loopy.
you pull him in for another kiss, and you feel him against you, memories of the first time he stretched you out on his fingers running through your mind. you two don’t have enough time for that today, and you both know it, but it still makes your cunt throb with anticipation.
jack lines himself up against you, running his thick tip over your opening, collecting wetness and making pleasure course through your body when he bumps against your clit. it’s electric—like a live wire hitting your nerves and making everything feel like lightening.
your limbs already feel like jelly, and you let jack maneuver your legs up onto his shoulders, watching him while he looks down at where you two are connected.
he pushes inside and you moan—loudly and unfiltered—feeling that ridiculously amazing stretch again, your toes curling and every muscle tensing. jack leans in to kiss you and swallow the noises you make, but you still think it might not be enough.
when he pushes all the way in, your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head.
“i’m sorry, kid, we can’t be loud,” he breathes, followed by a groan. he uses his hand to cover your mouth, pulling out and then thrusting back in all at once. the bed creaks as jack starts fucking you with an intense rhythm, the thin wooden frame hitting against the wall repetitively.
you lock eyes with jack, moaning against his hand, feeling how big he is like it’s the first time all over again.
every ridge and vein makes you see stars while you focus on how full you feel—full of jack, how you want stay like this forever if he’ll let you—in a tiny on call room with the door locked and people looking for the two of you.
you repeat it against his palm—jack, jack, jack—while he keeps fucking you with an intensity that makes the coil in your belly keep tightening. he’s so deep inside of you that you’re sure you won’t be able to walk after this, let alone finish your shift, but the thought drifts somewhere far away when he changes the angle slightly.
jack pushes his hand against your lower belly and thrusts back into you, while your back arches and tries to fight him. maybe you’re trying to get away from how good it feels, that overwhelming sensation that the ground is about to give out beneath the two of you. you stare up at jack through teary eyes, taking in how he looks hovering over you, taking care of you and watching out for you and thinking about you first like he always does.
and then it happens, the hot sensation in your belly tenses, and then snaps, and it washes over you like a current. you feel it—the ringing in your ears feels like it’s making its way through your entire body and your walls clench and pulse around jack’s girth.
your eyes snap shut but when they open, you keep looking up at jack, finally forcing his hand away from your mouth.
“jack,” you get out, your throat dry and sore and lips aching. “i love you too-”
you hear jack groan, a noise that makes your walls flutter, and then you feel it again—jack’s hips stuttering, his grip on you tightening, and then warmth filling you, hot streams of cum coating your walls until it’s leaking out of you.
you take deep breaths, head hitting the pillow while jack collapses on top of you, and then rolls over until he’s beside you.
the room is silent besides the two of you breathing, until of course, you speak up.
“i can’t believe this is how we said i love you.”
“you already said that, kid.”
“i know. i just really can’t believe it. i figured it would at least be outside of the hospital, but, i guess that wouldn’t feel right.”
“sweetheart-”
“am i doing it again? the not knowing when to be quiet thing?”
“no, but i-”
“wait,” you cry out, sitting up immediately. “what time is it? oh my god-”
“don’t worry about that right now. i gotta get you cleaned up before-”
“jack, i have never been late for a shift before.” you sigh dramatically before you keep going. “i just knew it. this relationship is completely affecting my medical education-”
jack shuts you up with a kiss before you can finish the sentence, capturing your laugh against his mouth.
he starts making half a plan in his head, though what he wants to do is take you home with him right now.
“i think i’m ready for you to be back on nights now.”
“yeah? why’s that?”
“because at least we can sleep next to each other if you-”
“jack!” he hears robby’s voice shouting from the other side of the door, followed by three pounds that rattle the wood. “do not tell me that my intern is in there.”
“fuck,” jack whispers, while you stare at him with wide eyes.
“what should we do?” you mouth, while jack gets up, finding your scrubs and pocketing your underwear while he pulls on his own clothes.
“stay in here,” he tells you quietly. “just take your time.”
“okay,” you whisper back, leaning in for another kiss with a smile. “i love you.”
“i love you too.”
jack pulls on his shirt and unlocks the door, closing it quickly behind him as he steps out to meet robby on the other side.
“you’re kidding me, right?”
“i can explain, robby. we-”
“i don’t want to hear it. the on-call room? that’s disgusting, you know.”
“robby, i-”
“go talk to hr before gloria gets on my ass about this.” robby walks away, shaking his head.
you open the door, poking your head out, and jack turns back to look at you.
“gosh. i sure hope hr doesn't think you’re interfering with my medical education-”
I can't keep falling in love with men who aren't real, but GAWDDAMN this did it for me! Let me gets my hands on Dr Jack Abbot, I'm setting society back a couple years with my actions.
Perv!Mingi and his not so subtle obsession with you
3,917 - perv! mingi, swearing, masturbation (m), fingering, oral (f! receiving), p in v, creaempie, hyperspermia. Based off of this post
Mingi was the kind of guy who made girls' heads turn at a distance — tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jaw and dark eyes that could cut glass.
Up close, though, the cracks showed. He showed up late to class, if he showed up at all. His assignments were a mess. He spent more time at the campus convenience store buying energy drinks and junk food than in the lecture hall. His friends Wooyoung, San, Yeosang, and Hongjoong called him a hot loser to his face, and he never argued. He knew it was true.
His field of study — biomedical engineering — was a joke at this point. He'd chosen it because it sounded impressive, because his parents expected something respectable, because Hongjoong had said the programme had good job prospects. But Mingi had spent most of the school term skipping lectures to smoke behind the music building with Wooyoung or play basketball with San. Truly, his grades were hovering somewhere between "academic probation" and "please just drop out."
Honestly, if he spent half as much time studying as he spent ogling the girls he encountered in passing, his grades could improve from their hellscape. But he was so easily distracted by fantasising about girls he'd never have the guts to talk to.
Especially you.
He first saw you in the library during midterm season while waiting for Hongjoong to "study". You were sitting at a corner table with Seonghwa, his friend from the music production club. Seonghwa was laughing at something on your laptop screen, his hand resting casually on your shoulder. Mingi's gut twisted. He'd never seen you before, but from that moment, he couldn't stop looking.
You were pretty in a quiet, focused way — hair pulled back, glasses perched on your nose, lips slightly parted as you explained something to Seonghwa. Your shirt was loose, but when you leaned forward to point at the screen, the neckline gaped, and Mingi caught a glimpse of the curve of your breast. His cock twitched in his jeans.
He sat down at a table across the room, pulled out a textbook he knew he wasn't going to read, and watched you for the next two hours.
When he got home, he rushed to his bedroom. He had spent the entire time at the library observing you; the image of you leaning over that library table, your shirt gaping, burned into his brain. The soft curve of your breast peeking through. He'd jerked off to that memory four times since midterms. Four times, each session longer than the last, his hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking until his balls tightened and he spilt rope after rope of cum into a wad of tissues.
That became his routine. Every day, he found an excuse to be in the library at the same time you were there.
He'd sit far enough not to be obvious but close enough to see everything. He memorised the way you bit your pen when you were thinking, the way you stretched your arms above your head when you'd been studying too long, the way your shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach.
His friends noticed.
Wooyoung caught him staring one afternoon and elbowed San. "Holy shit, he's actually drooling," Wooyoung whispered, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.
"Suck my dick," Mingi muttered, not taking his eyes off you.
"You wish." Wooyoung retorted, rolling his eyes at his friend's creepy staring.
"What would you even say to her?" San asked, leaning in. "'Hey, I know I've never spoken to you, but I've been fapping off to you for three weeks.' Want to study together?"
"Fuck off."
Hongjoong, ever the sensible one of the friend group, sighed. "If you're that obsessed, just talk to her. She's friends with Seonghwa. I can set something up."
Mingi's heart hammered; he looked like a kid in a confectionery store mixed with one caught with their fingers in the cookie jar as he stared at Hongjoong. "Set something up how?"
"I'll tell Seonghwa you need tutoring. He'll recommend her. She's like, top of the class. Then you get private sessions with her. Easy."
It really was easy. It was terrifyingly too simple.
A week later, Mingi sat in his dorm room, which smelled like stale energy drinks, his favourite Jo Malone cologne and regrets. He lay sprawled across his bed, phone clutched in his hand, when Seonghwa texted Mingi with a time and an address.
Hwa: 'She says she can help you with your assignment. Be on time, and don't fuck this up, asshole.'
He'd been half-hard since reading it, and now, two hours before he was supposed to meet you, Mingi lay in bed and let his mind wander. His hand drifted down to his sweatpants, palming his half-hard length.
He imagined what it would be like to have you beneath him. To feel your legs wrapped around his waist, your mouth open against his, your fingers digging into his back. He wondered what sounds you'd make — soft little gasps or needy moans?
Would you let him fuck you slowly, or would you want it rough?
Would you want his cum inside you?
The thought made his cock twitch, already hardening. He imagined gripping your hips, pumping into you, feeling his release build until he couldn't hold back anymore. Thick, hot ropes flooding your pussy, leaking down your thighs, marking you as his.
"Fuck," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.
He was getting hard just thinking about it. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers wrapping around his shaft. Already slick with precum, he started stroking — slow at first, then faster, his breathing ragged.
In his mind, it was your hand wrapped around him. Your palm sliding up and down his length, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the precum. His room filled with low groans and sharp gasps as he continued jerking off. He imagined you stroking him until he couldn't take it anymore, until he begged you to let him come, and when you finally whispered, "Go ahead. Show me how much you want it." His hips bucked into his fist. Precum dripped onto his stomach. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to unload.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck–"
He came hard, his back arching off the mattress. Cum pumped out of him in thick, white ropes, splattering across his stomach, his chest, pooling in his navel. He kept stroking through it, milking himself dry, until his arm was soaked and he was panting like he'd run a marathon.
When he finally opened his eyes, he stared at the mess he'd made.
Get it together, he told himself. You're about to see her. Don't fuck this up.
Mingi showed up at your flat thirty minutes early due to a mixture of nerves and lack of choice. Wooyoung had kicked him out of their shared dorm because he and San were "conducting important musical research" that apparently required privacy and a locked door.
"You're not staying here," Wooyoung had said flatly, blocking the doorway. "Go study or something."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"Literally anywhere else."
Hongjoong had passed by on his way out with a smirk and a stack of composition notebooks under his arm. "Heard you're getting tutored by Seonghwa's friend. The hot one from the library."
Mingi's face burned as he fidgeted with his clothes slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't," Hongjoong clapped him on the shoulder. "Try not to drool on the textbooks. They're expensive."
The rest of the walk to your flat, Mingi replayed their teasing in his head. He hated that they knew. Hated that they could see right through him. But more than that, he hated that he couldn't stop thinking about you long enough to form a coherent sentence.
When you answered the door, his brain short-circuited. You looked soft, comfortable, real, and his cock twitched in his jeans despite the fact that he'd just jerked off not even two hours ago.
You lived in a small studio near campus. "Hey," you said, stepping aside. "Come in."
As Mingi followed you further in, his eyes darted around the room, and he noted the walls were covered in posters of bands he didn't know. Polaroids of you and friends smiling, fairy lights draped over the window, and stacks of books on every surface.
It smelled of vanilla and laundry detergent. Mingi stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for the space, while you cleared a spot on your desk.
"Seonghwa says you're struggling with the experimental design section," you said, pulling out a chair.
"Yeah." He sat down, trying not to stare at the way your jeans hugged your thighs. "I just– it's hard to focus." With the intensity of his stare, he's shocked he hasn't burnt a hole in your pocket. His eyes snapped back up to your face as you spun around.
You smiled at him, and it made his chest tight. "That's what I'm here for."
The first hour was torture.
You sat across from him, leaning over the desk to point at diagrams and equations, and every time you moved, your shirt shifted. He caught himself looking at your chest more than the paper. You were wearing a simple cotton top, nothing special, but he could see the outline of your bra underneath. His palms started to sweat.
"Experimental design relies on proper variable isolation," you said, tapping the textbook. "If you don't control for confounding factors, your results are meaningless."
"Right," he said, not registering a single word.
He'd been answering questions mechanically, half his brain on the work, the other half imagining what your skin would feel like under his hands. You must have noticed because you paused mid-sentence, looked up at him, and raised an eyebrow.
"Mingi. You're not listening."
"I am," he lied.
"You're staring at my boobs."
The words hit him like a slap. His face flushed neon red. He opened his mouth to deny it, tried to form an apology, but nothing came out. You didn't look angry. You looked amused, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile.
"You know, you're not as subtle as you think." You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms under your chest, pushing your breasts up slightly. Mingi's mouth went dry. "I saw you in the library. You always sit at the same table, don't you? The one with the direct sightline to my spot."
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Yeah." You laughed, soft and mocking. "You're kind of a pervert, aren't you?"
"I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean to– I just– you're really pretty, and I–"
You held up a hand, cutting off his stammering. "It's fine. I know how to fix this."
Your eyes sparkled with something that made his pulse race. "I have an idea. For every question you get right, you get a reward. A touch. Something simple. You tell me what you want, and I'll let you do it. Consider it motivation."
Mingi's brain short-circuited. "A touch?"
"On the honour system. You answer correctly, you get to cross one of your fantasies off the list. But you have to keep studying. And you can't cum. Not until the end. Deal?"
He nodded, barely able to speak. "Deal."
The first question was simple. You slid a worksheet toward him, and he scribbled the answer in seconds. When he looked up, you gestured at your hand resting on the table.
"Go ahead. Claim your reward."
He reached out slowly; his fingertips brushed your knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through him. He took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your palm. It was soft and warm.
"That," he said, voice low. "Wanted to know if you'd let me."
You let him hold it for a full minute before pulling away.
"Next question."
He answered it correctly again. This time, he got braver, his fingers sliding up to graze your neck before he leaned in slowly.
Mingi leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of your throat. He lingered, breathing in your scent — vanilla, coffee and a hint of something spicy — before pulling back. You shivered, and he felt a surge of pride.
By the third correct answer, he was bolder. "Can I touch your thigh?"
You spread your legs slightly in answer. He slid his hand onto your knee, then slowly upward, fingers grazing the denim of your jeans. Your breath hitched. He squeezed gently, feeling the muscle beneath.
The fourth question was harder. He had to think, to recall details from the textbook he'd barely read. Something about factorial designs that he should have known but had completely blanked on. You were watching him, waiting, and his mind went blank.
"Give me a second," he muttered.
"Take your time."
But he couldn't focus. Not with his hand still resting on your thigh, not with the memory of your neck against his lips, not with the way you were looking at him — patient, amused, knowing.
He guessed wrong.
You smiled softly and shifted back in your chair. His hand slipped off your thigh, landing on empty air. You stood up, stepping away from the desk entirely, folding your arms.
"Wrong answer. No reward." Your voice was teasing but firm. "Try the next one."
Mingi groaned, running a hand through his hair. "That's cruel."
"Study motivation, remember?" You sat back down, but this time you kept the chair a few inches farther from him. "You have to earn it."
He gritted his teeth and flipped to the next page.
I'm going to get every single question right, he swore to himself. And by the end of this, I'm going to have you underneath me.
Two hours later, Mingi had answered fifteen out of twenty questions correctly. His hand had mapped the curve of your calf, the dip of your waist, the soft skin behind your ear. He'd kissed your palm, your wrist, the hollow of your throat. Each touch left him harder, more desperate, his cock aching against the zipper of his jeans.
By the time he reached the last question, he was sweating, his breathing shallow. You closed the textbook and set it aside. "Last question."
He was barely listening. His eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. He wanted to taste you. Wanted to feel you writhe beneath him.
"If you get this right, you get your last reward. Anything you want."
Mingi's head snapped back up to your face. That definitely got his attention. "Anything?"
"Within reason." A small smile played at your lips as you tapped your pen on the cover of the textbook.
You asked the question — something about p-values and statistical significance — and this time, Mingi didn't hesitate. The answer came easily, pulled from a corner of his brain that had actually absorbed your teaching.
"Correct. Sixteen out of twenty, a passing score." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "So. What do you want?"
Mingi stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. He rounded the desk, grabbing your hips and pulling you to your feet. Your body pressed against his, your warmth seeping through his clothes. But his hands trembled slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He'd never done this before, never been this close to a woman's body like this, and the anticipation was almost unbearable.
"I want you to ride me."
Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. "Here?"
"Here." He guided you toward the edge of your bed, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. "Right now."
You straddled him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of your cunt pressed against his clothed cock, and he groaned, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your tits through your top.
"You sure?" you whispered.
He answered by kissing you hard and desperately, his tongue sliding against yours. But his hands were shaking. His heart hammered so loud he thought you might hear it. He wanted this more than anything, but he didn't know what the hell he was doing. Every move felt like a gamble.
Instead of rushing, he pulled back, breath coming in short gasps. "Let me–" He swallowed. "Let me taste you first. Please."
He didn't wait for an answer. He slid off the bed, landing on his knees in front of you. His fingers found the button of your jeans, but they fumbled, clumsy with nerves. A frustrated laugh escaped him. "Sorry. I'm–" He didn't finish. He just focused, finally getting the button undone, pushing the denim down your thighs.
You shimmied out of your pants, and Mingi's mouth went dry. Your panties were dark at the centre, a damp patch glistening in the low light. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, slowly revealing your cunt inch by inch. The sight of you bare, slick, and waiting for him made his cock twitch painfully.
He leaned in, pressing a tentative kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher. His nose brushed your curls, and he inhaled your scent — musky, sweet, intoxicating. His tongue darted out, tracing a line up your slit.
You gasped, your hips shifting toward him. Encouraged, he parted your folds with his thumbs and pressed his mouth to your clit. He licked experimentally, then with more confidence as your moans grew louder. He circled the sensitive nub with his tongue, flicking and sucking, learning what made you squirm.
But he wanted more. He wanted to feel you clench around his fingers. He slid one hand up your thigh, fingers teasing your entrance. "Tell me if it's okay," he mumbled against your skin.
You nodded, breathless. "Just– go slow."
Mingi pushed one finger inside you; the heat and tightness made his head spin. He pumped it gently, then added a second, stretching you, curling them to find that spot that made your back arch. Mingi watched your face — eyes squeezed shut, lips parted — and felt a surge of power mixed with nervous wonder. He was doing this. He was making you feel good.
Your wetness coated his fingers, and he kept working you, alternating between licking your clit and tonguing your folds, until your thighs trembled and your moans turned into desperate whines. He pulled his fingers out slowly, wiping them on his own jeans before standing up.
"Okay," he said, voice rough. "Now, ride me."
He sat back on the edge of the bed, his cock straining against his jeans. He freed it with trembling hands, and a bead of precum oozed from the tip, thick and viscous, more than you'd expect. It dripped down the shaft, glistening. He pumped himself once, twice, spreading the slickness, then guided you forward.
You positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. Mingi's breath hitched. He was so hard it almost hurt, the pressure building in his balls already. He gripped your hips, steadying you, trying not to thrust up.
"Slow," he repeated, more to himself than to you. "Go slow."
You sank down, inch by inch, and Mingi's eyes rolled back. The heat of your cunt, the silkiness of your walls — it was overwhelming. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting the urge to come right there. A groan tore from his throat as you took him fully, your hips flush against his.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you rocked forward, and he felt another wave of precum leak from his cock, mixing with your wetness. He shuddered, fingers digging into your hips.
"Fuck, Mingi. You fill me so good," you whispered.
He couldn't speak. He just nodded, his hands trembling as you began to move; a slow, rocking grind that stole every thought from his head. You rode him with a rhythm that started gentle, then built, your hips rolling in circles while he gripped the sheets and tried not to come immediately.
The pleasure was overwhelming. Every sensation — the clench of your cunt, the slap of your thighs against his, the sight of your tits bouncing in front of his face — pushed him closer to the edge. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to erupt.
"Fuck, I'm gonna–" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hips bucked upward, burying himself deeper as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick ropes of cum shot into you, pumping again and again, flooding your pussy with hot, white fluid. His body shuddered with the force of it, his hands digging into your hips so hard he'd probably leave bruises.
You gasped, your rhythm faltering as you felt the torrent of semen filling you. It leaked out around his cock, dripping onto the sheets, your thighs, his stomach.
But Mingi wasn't done. As the aftershocks faded, a new hunger flared in his chest. He needed more. Needed to feel you come on his cock while he controlled the pace.
He flipped you onto your back before you could react, your legs falling apart as he hovered over you. His cock was still hard, still slick with his cum and your wetness. He lined himself up and slammed back inside you, a guttural curse ripping from his throat.
"Oh God," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Mingi–"
He didn't answer with words. He fucked you hard, deep, each stroke driving his cock into your sopping cunt. The bed creaked beneath you. Your moans filled the room. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your sounds as he pounded into you. Your nails left lines of red down his back.
He could feel your walls clenching around him, hear your breath hitching. You were close, so close, and he wanted to see you fall apart.
"Come for me," he growled against your ear, his fingers trailing down to rub firm circles against your clit, causing your back to arch further into his chest. "Come on my cock."
That was all it took. Your body arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as your orgasm crashed over you. Your pussy milked him, squeezing and fluttering, and Mingi groaned, burying his face in your neck as he came again — a second, weaker orgasm that still spilt another hot pulse of cum into you.
When it was over, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled in each other. The sheets were a mess, soaked with sweat and cum. He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering.
After a long silence, you spoke. "Mingi?"
"Yeah?"
"That was insane. Where the hell did you learn to fuck like that?"
He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at you. A nervous laugh escaped him. "I, uh... didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that was my first time."
Your eyes went wide. "What? No way. That was your first time?"
He nodded, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "I'm a virgin. Or, I guess, was a virgin."
You stared at him, then burst out laughing — not mocking, but genuine, surprised laughter. "Holy shit. You're kidding me."
"I'm not."
"Mingi– You let me take your virginity for a study session, and you fuck like that?" You reached out, running a hand through his damp hair. "You're a natural, I guess."
pervy, hot loser! Mingi can't keep his eyes off you
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who wastes most of his university life cutting classes with San and Wooyoung to fuck around and play basketball or spark up behind the building. He gets teased by his friends for still being a virgin despite his looks. He gets called nicknames like "hot loser" quite often by them.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who is too focused on jerking off to whichever girl he decides to hyperfixate on, to actually ever go up to one and sleep with them. Whether he's seen them walking through the campus hallways or they had a sliver of an interaction, he will latch onto them as fap fuel for when he gets home. Assignments forgotten as he strips down to his boxers and sits in his bed, a saved porn link already loading as he imagines it's the two of them instead.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who happens to stumble upon you studying in the library as he sits down to wait for Hongjoong and attempt to finish his assignments. Your hair was covered in a scarf, but your edges were laid, and you had minimal makeup with your large frames hanging off your nose as you typed furiously on your laptop.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who can't stop glancing up at you as you bit your pen when you were thinking or reading your textbook. He couldn't stop himself from letting his eyes wander down the length of your neck to your chest, the top part of your boobs visible in your tank top and open flannel, legs crossed, hiking your skirt up your plush thighs, causing him to drool at the sight of them.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who couldn't focus on a single word Hongjoong said as he let his thoughts wander to what your thighs would look like around his head or draped across his thighs as he pounds into you. Are you a moaner? Maybe you whine? Maybe you whimper? All he knew was you were running through his mind, causing his jeans to feel tight, and he didn't even know your name.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who went home and had the longest session of his life just masturbating to the thought of you as you sat there studying, he had never felt this intense of a feeling in his life. His large hand pulls out his big, veiny cock from their confines, and he spits in his hand as he strokes himself to what he would do if you let him. He damn blacks out when he reaches his peak, groaning loudly as his chest heaves and his hand moves faster as he jerks himself through his earth-shattering orgasm. The mess on his chest settled as he lay on his bed, limp.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who repeats this cycle daily. He'd go to the library and sit at a few tables away, where he won't be in your direct line of sight, but close enough that he can see how your crop top pushes your breasts up, and your jeans hug your curves as you have a new hairdo this time. Twists with beads. The soft clacking of your beads as you shifted your head slightly when you read a new paragraph. He'd watch you throughout your entire study session only to return home and wonder if he'd be able to hear your beads as he thrusts into you from behind, his thoughts race as he imagines you clenching around him as he tightens his fist, moving up and down faster.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who gets caught staring at you as you study with Seonghwa by Wooyoung, who teases him for being so hot but such a damn loser who can't pull because once he opens his mouth, he exposes how much of a gooner he is. Hongjoong decides that he has to step in and help, so he gets Seonghwa to set up a tutoring session for him.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who comes to your house early because he was so nervous, but what you don't know is that he jerked off before coming over in order to try and decrease his chances of getting hard in your flat. His theory failed. The second you opened the door, he was a goner. He felt his dick twitch in his trousers as you let him into your house that smelt like vanilla and bergamot. As you led him to your table, Mingi couldn't help but stare at your ass on the short walk, almost getting caught by you as you twirled suddenly, and his eyes snapped back up to yours in record time.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who can barely concentrate on what you're saying when he's so aware of how close he is to you, close enough to smell your cocoa butter lotion and papaya leave-in conditioner. He was buzzing from head to toe with awareness as he attempted to focus on not cumming in his pants when you brush his leg when you move.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who gets caught by you as his eyes practically burn holes through your top and bra. His laser-focused expression as you watched for a second, deciding not to say anything just yet. A few minutes go by before you mention it and watch him attempt to stammer out excuses and apologies.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who agrees to your rewards system rule, attempts to answer every question you have for an opportunity to explore your body. With each right answer, he requests a new favour — a graze here, a kiss there — he was practically shaking as he pulled you closer.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who loses his virginity that night. You push him down on your bed and give him the ride of his life. He cannot believe he's balls deep in your warm, wet pussy as you bounce up and down on his thick length. He breaths out little moans and groans, broken whines and words escape him as his eyes roll back and his hands alternate from gripping your waist as you move fervently and holding onto the sheets as his hips stutter in his attempt to keep up with your actions.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who cums so hard, he hears his ears ringing and his vision blurs as he grabs your thighs and feels your body keep going until you reach your peak a few thrusts later, and your body shakes as you release broken moans of his name before collapsing in his arms.
note: Ateez's In Your Fantasy was playing when I thought of this, so enjoy. I might release a part 2 of their families finding out.
summary: Neteyam has always been there, a stable, sturdy figure in your peripheral vision as you ran around the forest with Lo'ak and Kiri. He saved your asses more times than you would like to admit. So why now is it that you can't get him off your mind?
pairing: aged up!Neteyam Sully x fem Omatikaya!reader
warnings: swearing, fighting, explosions, blood, unconsciousness, mentions of wet dreams, smut, p in v, oral (m & f receiving), anal (mildly), minor miscommunication trope (I know, I hate me too)
word count: 6k
For as long as you could remember, Neteyam Sully has always been there. A looming force.
Neteyam has always been the constant in your chaotic world, a towering figure of blue-skinned reliability lurking at the edges of your wild romps through the forest. A fixture in your life since the earliest days of your childhood, a steady presence woven into the fabric of the Omatikaya clan's vibrant existence on Pandora.
You don't remember the first time you truly noticed him. Not because it wasn't important, but because he had always been there.
Like the trees. Like the wind moving through the leaves. Like the distant calls of creatures you had grown so used to hearing, that silence felt wrong without them.
Neteyam was simply... part of things.
You, with your boundless energy, had spent countless days darting through the dense undergrowth alongside Lo'ak, Tuk, and Kiri, the siblings who felt like your own blood.
Lo'ak's reckless grin matched your own, while Kiri's quiet insights grounded the madness. Even when you were older, and Tuk came along, her little legs trying to keep up as you and Lo'ak went about the forest on another adventure that was sure to lead you to trouble.
But Neteyam?
He was the one who shadowed you all, his bow always at the ready, his voice a sharp command cutting through the thrill of the chase.
You were just a young kit, barely old enough to toddle through the underbrush, when your paths first crossed in earnest. Your father was a skilled hunter, and when he was lost in the brutal wars against the Sky People, it left a void in your family kelku that echoed with his absence. As the only child of a widowed mother who wove baskets and tended the clan's communal fires, you carried the weight of his legacy early — expected to embody the hunter's spirit, to track and provide as he once did. But in those tender years, play was your world, and it was through Lo'ak that you found your way into the Sully family's orbit.
Jake and Neytiri, the clan's revered leaders, embraced you as one of their own from the start. Your mother's ties to the old ways, her quiet strength mirroring Neytiri's, made it natural.
Evenings became routine: you'd join the family pod for meals, sitting cross-legged by the fire, Tuk, a tiny bundle of curiosity, then crawling into your lap for comfort. You'd hum lullabies your father once sang, stroking her soft ears until she dozed, her small tail curling around your arm.
You belonged with them.
You ran when they ran. Climbed when they climbed. Fell, laughed, argued, and made up just as quickly.
And somewhere behind it all, Neteyam watched.
Not in a strange way. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. Just… present. A steady figure lingering at the edges of every moment, always close enough to step in, never quite part of the chaos.
As the eldest son of Jake Sully, the Olo'eyktan, and Neytiri, the fierce warrior Tsahìk's daughter, Neteyam carried the weight of expectation on his broad shoulders. He trained relentlessly, leading patrols and mediating clan disputes, his golden eyes always scanning for threats to the harmony Eywa demanded of him.
He'd saved your behinds more times than pride allowed you to count.
Lo'ak, with his mischievous spark and untamed energy, had spotted you one dawn while you gathered wildflowers near the village edge, your small hands clutching stems as if they were spears.
"Come on, let's race the ikran shadows!" he'd called out, and you'd followed without hesitation, your laughter mingling with his as you dashed through the ferns. From that day, you were inseparable. Two wild spirits chasing the forest's secrets, climbing vines and splashing in shallow streams. Neteyam, even then, the responsible elder brother at perhaps eight cycles old, watched from afar. His golden eyes tracked your escapades with a mix of exasperation and quiet protectiveness. He'd linger at the pod's entrance, bow in hand for his own training, pretending to focus on sharpening arrows while stealing glances as you and Lo'ak vanished into the green.
Despite it all, your responsibilities extended beyond play. With your father gone, the clan looked to you to honour his role — hunting small game as you grew, but also gathering herbs for Tsahìk Mo'at, the clan's healer.
Mornings often found you in the misty glades, basket slung over your shoulder, fingers deftly plucking healing ferns and luminous fungi that glowed faintly under Eywa's touch. Mo'at would nod approvingly as you delivered them to her tent, her wrinkled hands sorting your finds. "Your father would be proud, child. The Great Mother guides your hands." These duties grounded you, a reminder of the expectations: to contribute, to survive, to weave your thread into the clan's tapestry without faltering.
Yet, despite your duties, trouble followed you and Lo'ak like shadows, and Neteyam was always there to pull you from its grasp.
One afternoon, at around ten cycles, you'd ventured too far toward the floating mountains, daring each other to touch the Hallelujah Mountains' vines. A sudden storm whipped up, winds howling as rain lashed the cliffs. Lo'ak slipped on slick rock, dangling precariously, while you clung to a root, heart pounding. Neteyam's voice cut through the gale; he'd trailed you, as always, sensing the recklessness. His small but strong frame reached out, hauling Lo'ak up first, then you, his grip firm on your wrist.
"Skxawngs! You'll get us all killed," he'd scolded, but his eyes held relief, lingering on your mud-streaked face. "Foolish," he'd continued, snapping and reprimanding the two of you, his golden eyes flashing with frustration, bioluminescent spots flickering like stars on his skin.
You'd yanked away, muttering about how you didn't need his babysitting, but the heat of his grip lingered on your flesh, a phantom touch that haunted you long after.
That night, as the family gathered in their pod, Neytiri smoothed her hand over your braids as she checked you and Lo'ak for wounds. "You are family, but the forest tests the careless." She mused, moving around the Sully kelku with grace and familiarity.
Jake chuckled, clapping Neteyam on the back. "Good instincts, son. That's what makes a leader."
Neytiri nodded approvingly, her tail swishing, but Lo'ak rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because climbing cliffs is such a threat to the clan." He grumbled, his tail lashing behind him in his annoyance at his father's praise towards his brother.
Neteyam shot him a warning look, the sibling rivalry simmering — Lo'ak's wildness clashing with Neteyam's duty-bound restraint. Kiri, ever the peacemaker, changed the subject to Eywa's signs in the stars, but you caught Neteyam glancing your way, his expression unreadable.
As cycles turned, the pattern persisted. At twelve, during a mock hunt with slingshots, you and Lo'ak startled a thanator cub, its mother charging from the brush. Neteyam, practising nearby, fired a warning shot from his bow, drawing the beast away long enough for you to flee. He fought it off with a spear twice his size, earning scars that Jake cleaned later, praising his bravery.
"That's my future Olo'eyktan," he'd say, while you hovered guiltily, offering herbs from your pouch.
Neteyam waved you off gruffly. "Just stay out of trouble."
But in quiet moments, he'd watch you teach Tuk basic weaves, your patience shining as you guided her tiny fingers. Tuk adored you, calling you 'sister' in her lisping voice.
Once, when Neteyam suggested you show her a safer knot, you snapped, "She's learning fine without your critiques!" Tuk giggled, siding with you, and Neteyam backed down, a rare smile tugging his lips.
Throughout this, Kiri became your confidante in those growing years, her spiritual attunement mirroring your own subtle connection to Eywa.
You’d wander the bioluminescent groves together, baskets heavy with herbs, sharing whispers. “I feel her everywhere,” you’d start, pressing a hand to a glowing tree. “Like she’s breathing with me, in the wind, the roots.”
Kiri’s eyes would light up at finding a kindred spirit who felt Eywa similarly to herself. “Eywa speaks through you, too. The signs are strong. The shifting of the wind, in dreams, pulls towards certain paths.” She’d weave flowers into your hair as she redoes your braids, sensing the unspoken tension with her brother, but you’d deflect, laughing it off as sibling-like bickering.
By adolescence, the pretence solidified. You insisted you couldn’t stand Neteyam’s rigidity, his constant shadowing like an unwanted guard. He'd retort that your impulsiveness endangered everyone, especially as his duties as future Olo'eyktan mounted — leading young warriors, mediating minor disputes under Jake’s watchful eye. Family dynamics deepened the strain. Meals were lively: Lo'ak teasing Neteyam about his 'watchdog' habits toward you, Kiri mediating with knowing glances, Tuk piping up with innocent questions that made you soften. Neytiri often pulled you aside for archery lessons, treating you as a daughter, while Jake shared hunting strategies, emphasising your role in the clan's survival.”Your father’s spirit lives in you. Hunt well, protect the young ones.”
Yet, beneath the barbs, attraction simmered. Neteyam watched from patrol perches as you rode off with Lo'ak on gathering runs, his heart twisting with unspoken worry — and something warmer. Saving you became a ritual: pulling you from a collapsing vine bridge at fourteen, his body shielding yours from falling debris; diverting a stampeding herd during a herb forage, his direhorse barreling between you and danger. Each time, touches lingered, his hand on your back, steadying; your fingers brushing his arm in thanks, igniting sparks neither acknowledged.
Interactions with Tuk grew tender. At sixteen, you'd teach her to ride a small pa'li, your voice soft as you adjusted her grip. “Gentle, little one—feel the bond.”
Neteyam watched, then suggested, “Hold the reins firmer for control.” You'd whirl on him.
“She's not a warrior yet! Let her feel Eywa first.”
Tuk hugged you, whispering, “You're the best teacher.” Neteyam sighed, but his eyes softened.
Conversations with Kiri deepened during herb runs. “Eywa's presence... It's overwhelming sometimes,” you'd confess, kneeling by a sacred pool. “Like she's urging me toward something.” Kiri nodded along with your words.
“Toward balance. Perhaps a bond waiting to form.” She added, voice fading softly as she looked out into the horizon.
Nights brought dreams that blurred the lines. Yours began innocently but twisted heat. In the first, at eighteen cycles, Neteyam cornered you in a dream-glade, pinning you to moss, his mouth claiming yours before trailing down to suck your nipples, teeth grazing until they peaked. His fingers plunged into your pussy, thrusting deep, curling to hit that spot, thumb rubbing your clit until you came hard, juices soaking his hand. He flipped you, cock sliding into your slick folds, pounding relentlessly until you shattered again.
You woke up panting, aroused and confused. Your arousal dampening your thighs from the remnants of your dream still clinging to your clouded mind.
Across the scattered array of pods, Neteyam’s dreams mirrored the intensity of your own. He envisioned you kneeling against the soft moss of the forest floor, lips wrapping around his hardened cock, sucking deeply as he fucked your mouth, cum spilling down your throat. Then, bending you over, he thrusts into your pussy, gripping your hips tightly as the rhythm of his thrusts builds to a mutual release. filling you there also. The guilt that overtook Neteyam mingled with ecstasy upon waking as he looked down, his cock spent in his loincloth.
These dreams haunted your days. Training sessions dragged, bodies clashing in spars. Your breasts brushing his chest, his thighs pressing your core accidentally as he overpowered you down to the mossy floor, leaving you both flushed and pulling away before you were told to.
“Focus!” he’d bark, but his voice roughened.
Hunts prolonged the torment. The great migration hunt spanned days. Tracking sturmbeest across plains, Neteyam commanded the group, which consisted of you, Lo’ak and a small handful of warriors. Mornings started with strategy by the fire, Jake overseeing via the comms that rested around Neteyam and Lo’ak’s necks. “Neteyam, keep formation.”
You'd scout ahead with Lo'ak, spotting tracks, but veer into thickets, Neteyam calling you back. The chase unfolded over hours — galloping through dust clouds, arrows loosed in volleys. One bull charged your flank; Neteyam shoved you aside, downing it with a precise shot. During rests by rivers, you'd share water skins, fingers touching, eyes locking too long. “You're reckless,” he'd murmur, but his tail flicked toward you. Lo'ak teased, and Kiri smiled knowingly. The hunt yielded a massive haul, but the tension built like storm clouds.
Another extended pursuit targeted prolemuris in the canopy forests; their agile forms were a challenge for three days. Neteyam assigned vines for swings, his body brushing yours as he demonstrated. You swung ahead, gathering herbs mid-hunt for Mo'at, rare blossoms only found high. A branch snapped; you fell toward thorns. Neteyam caught you mid-air, arms wrapping your waist, pulling you to safety. Pressed together on a limb, breaths shared, his hardness nudged your hip. “Why do you test me?” he whispered.
You pulled away, heart racing. Evenings around campfires, family stories flowed — Jake recounting war losses, including your father's, his hand on your shoulder. “He fought bravely. You honour him every day.”
Dreams multiplied, ranging from a simple kiss in front of the clan or escaping duties to explore one another.
Yours: Neteyam binding you with vines, spanking your ass before he knelt, hands roaming your body as he licked your pussy, tongue thrusting inside, sucking your clit to orgasm. Watching as your body shook under the skilled hands of the man who you were sure hated you. Then he rose, moving your pliant body as he entered you slowly before fucking you hard, cock slamming deep until you squirted as moans ripped from your throat.
His: You laying him against the soft mossy floor, kissing down the expanse of his chest as the bioluminescent dots on his body pulsed in time to his wildly beating heart before you straddled him. You slid down his hardened cock, riding him to the rhythm of the forest, pussy clenching his cock, then in dreams, shifting to the tight ring of your ass, the forbidden tightness making him shudder at the sensation of you wrapped around him as he came explosively.
The breaking point loomed during the RDA skirmish. Scouts warned of encroachment; Jake led the assault, Neteyam at his side. You joined on your ikran, diving into chaos — bullets zipping, explosions blooming. You targeted a saboteur at a vital root vein, arrow flying true, but his dying twitch detonated charges. The blast hurled you from your ikran, world tumbling.
The world dissolved into fragments — shrapnel's white-hot kiss, the jarring impact of Neteyam's ikran beneath you, his arms locked around your waist as blood soaked his chest, warm and sticky against your skin. Consciousness ebbed in waves, each beat of your heart pushing more of your life force through the wound in your side. The wind roared past as he dove, his voice distant, frayed with panic.
"Stay with me. Stay with me."
You tried to answer, but your tongue was thick, throat dry. The canopy blurred into smears of green and gold, and then you were moving — not flying, but running. Neteyam had dismounted mid-stride, cradling you against his chest, his long legs eating up the ground toward the healers' tents. Each jostle sent fresh agony through your side, and you whimpered, your hand weakly gripping his shoulder.
"I'm here," he gasped, voice cracking. "I'm here, I've got you. Just hold on."
The tent flaps whipped open. Mo'at's sharp voice cut through the haze — commands, reassurances, the clatter of bowls and the acrid smell of burning herbs. You were laid on soft furs, hands pressing against your wound, and Neteyam's face swam above you, pale as moonlight.
"Don't leave," you whispered, though you weren't sure the words made it past your lips.
"I won't." His hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "I'm not going anywhere."
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Neteyam sat vigil, holding your hand. Pain ebbed under the tonics, but your face — pale, skin torn from the shrapnel — cracked his heart.
The first day passed in fevered fragments. You drifted in and out, never fully awake, never fully under. Mo'at worked tirelessly, stitching the jagged tear in your side, packing the wound with numbing pastes and healing moss. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Your breath steadied into a shallow rhythm.
Neteyam didn't move from your side.
He sat cross-legged on the furs, your hand clutched between both of his, thumb tracing absent circles on your wrist. His eyes were fixed on your face; the flutter of your eyelids, the occasional twitch of your lips, watching for any sign of returning consciousness. The healers bustled around him, but he was a statue, unyielding.
By the second day, the tent had become a pressure cooker of tension. Lo'ak came, then Kiri, then Jake. They tried to coax him away, to make him eat, to make him rest. He refused.
"Neteyam, you need to–" Jake started.
"I'm fine."
"You haven't slept. You haven't eaten–"
"I said I'm fine."
His voice was clipped, sharp as a blade. Lo'ak tried a different approach, settling beside him with a bowl of broth. "Come on, bro. You're no good to her if you collapse. Just a few mouthfuls."
Neteyam's golden eyes flashed. "I told Mo'at I'd stay. I'm not leaving her."
"You're not leaving her," Kiri said softly, crouching opposite him. "But you have duties. The patrols need direction. The young warriors look to you."
"Let them look elsewhere." The words came out bitter, almost snappish. He didn't look at her. "I have one duty right now. This one."
Lo'ak opened his mouth to argue, but Kiri placed a hand on his arm, shaking her head. They left the broth beside Neteyam, uneaten, and retreated.
By the third day, he was a frayed rope. Dark circles carved hollows under his eyes. His queue hung limp, unbraided. Neytiri came, her face unreadable as she watched her son, her strong, steady, reliable son, crumble at the bedside of a girl he'd spent years claiming to despise.
"Son," she said, her voice gentle, "you must tend to yourself."
"I can't."
"Eywa gives us strength, but even the strongest tree bends before it breaks."
"She needs me." His voice cracked. "I can't– if she wakes and I'm not here–"
"She will wake." Neytiri's hand settled on his shoulder. "But you need to trust the healers. And trust her."
He shook his head, jaw tight. Neytiri sighed, but she didn't force him. She simply sat beside him, silent, offering presence instead of words.
On the fourth evening, Mo'at finished her examination of you and turned to Neteyam with a look that brooked no argument.
"You will walk with me."
"I can't–"
"You will." Her voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "The girl is stable. The spirits have spoken. She will live."
Neteyam’s breath caught. A tremor ran through his shoulders. "She– you're certain?"
"I am Tsahìk. I do not speak uncertainly." Mo'at's weathered hand took his, pulling him to his feet. "Come. There is something you must hear."
He followed her out of the tent, into the dusk that painted the forest in shades of violet and amber. They walked to a quiet grove, the bioluminescent plants casting soft light on their faces. Mo'at turned to face him, her ancient eyes studying him with a knowing that made him feel like a child again.
"You love her."
It wasn't a question. Neteyam flinched as though struck, then slowly, painfully, nodded. "I do."
"Then why have you fought it so long?"
He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion bleeding through. "Because I am the future Olo'eyktan. Because my duty is to the clan. Because I thought–" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought I could bury it. That if I kept her at arm's length, I could focus on what mattered."
"And what matters, Neteyam?"
He looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. "She matters. She's always mattered. I just– I was too afraid to admit it."
Mo'at was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the canopy above. "The Great Mother does not gift us feelings by accident. Love is not a distraction. It is a foundation. A leader who cannot love is a leader who cannot lead with his whole heart."
"But the clan–"
"The clan will see what I see: a young man willing to sacrifice his own well-being for another. That is not weakness. That is the heart of a true leader." She stepped closer, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. "You have choices, Neteyam. You can continue to hide, to pretend, to let duty consume you. Or you can choose her. Choose to mate her, to bond with her, to make her your partner in leading this clan. That is not abandoning duty — it is enriching it."
He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking into his chest like roots into the earth. "And if she doesn't want me?"
Mo'at's lips curved into a faint smile. "Then you will survive. But I think you know her heart better than you admit."
She left him there, standing alone in the grove, the night settling around him like a cloak.
You woke to the soft glow of firelight and the weight of a hand in yours.
Your head felt stuffed with tree sap, thoughts slow and syrupy. You turned your head, wincing at the pull in your side, and found Neteyam slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head bowed, braids falling over his face, his hand wrapped around yours as if terrified to let go. He was asleep, chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted breaths. Even in slumber, his brow was furrowed, tension etched into every line of his face.
You didn't move. You just watched him — the way the firelight played across his features, the faint scars on his arms, the way his thumb was still pressed against your pulse point, as if checking that you were still alive.
A surge of emotion — gratitude, confusion, something deeper and hotter — swelled in your chest. You squeezed his hand.
He jolted awake instantly, eyes snapping open, locking onto yours. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just stared, as if afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.
"You're awake." His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
"I'm awake." Your own voice sounded like gravel, dry and cracked. "How long...?"
"Four days." He lifted your hand and pressed his forehead to it, a shudder running through him. "Four days. I thought– I thought I'd lost you."
"You stayed."
"Of course I stayed." His laugh was broken, raw. "Where else would I be?"
You should have said something sarcastic, something sharp to break the tension. But the look in his eyes — vulnerable, open, unguarded — stole your words. Instead, you just let your fingers curl around his, a silent promise.
The next few days were a strange, awkward dance.
Neteyam was still at your side constantly, but now that you were awake, the closeness felt charged, electric. He brought you broth, adjusted your bandages, and helped you sit up. His touches were gentle, lingering — a hand on your back steadying you, fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. But whenever your eyes met, he looked away, jaw tightening.
You tried to needle him, falling back on old patterns.
"You know, you could let someone else fetch the water. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm fine."
"You've said that four times today."
"Because it's still true."
You raised an eyebrow, and he huffed, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. But the teasing felt different now, lighter, but weighted with something unsaid. Every barb was a deflection, every laugh a shield against the truth that hung between you like a held breath.
Kiri visited, her knowing smile driving you mad. "You two are insufferable," she said one afternoon, helping you walk outside for fresh air.
"Excuse me?"
"Neteyam hasn't left your side in days. He's been a terror to everyone — snapping at poor Lo'ak for breathing too loudly. And you-" She poked your arm. "You watch him like he's the sun when you think no one's looking."
"I do not."
"Do too."
You scowled, but your cheeks burned.
On the fifth day of your recovery, he found you sitting by a stream, watching the glowing fish dart between rocks. He settled beside you, close enough that his tail brushed your ankle.
"You should still be resting."
"You should stop telling me what to do."
A pause. Then, softly: "I don't want to fight with you."
You turned to look at him. His profile was sharp against the fading light, his jaw set. "Neither do I."
The silence stretched, filled with the sound of water and the distant calls of night creatures. His hand inched across the moss between you, stopping just short of yours.
"I was so scared," he whispered. "When you fell. When I saw the blood. I thought-" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought Eywa was taking you from me before I ever had the chance to-"
He broke off, shaking his head. You reached out, your fingers brushing his.
"Chance to what?"
He turned, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. "You know what."
Your heart hammered. The words hung in the air, fragile and precious. But neither of you moved further. Not yet.
Three days later, you were well enough to walk the path to the Tree of Souls.
Neteyam had suggested it; a pilgrimage, he said, to give thanks for your recovery. But the look on his face told you he meant more. You agreed without hesitation, your pulse quickening as you walked through the forest, following the familiar trail to the sacred grove.
The Tree of Souls stood in the centre of a clearing, its tendrils cascading like waterfalls of light. The air hummed with Eywa's presence, thick and alive. You stepped into the grove, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Atokirina drifted down around you, glowing seeds of light that danced through the air like stars. Some brushed your skin, warm and tingling, and you gasped as they settled on your shoulders, your hair, your arms.
Neteyam turned to you, and the seeds landed on him too, cocooning you both in a gentle, shimmering embrace.
"This is–" you started.
"Eywa's blessing," he finished, his voice reverent. "I've heard it's happened once before. At the bonding of my parents."
Your breath caught. He stepped closer, the atokirina swirling around you both, creating a barrier of light and warmth. His hand came up, fingertips brushing your cheek.
"I can't pretend anymore." His voice was raw, stripped of all pretence. "I've tried. For years. I've told myself you were a nuisance, a distraction, something I had to watch over and tolerate. But every time I saved you, every time you argued with me, every time I watched you laugh with Tuk or teach the young ones, I fell deeper. And I didn't know how to stop."
"Neteyam–"
"I don't want to stop." He stepped closer, his body inches from yours. "I want you. As my mate. As my partner. As the one who drives me mad and makes me whole."
The atokirina pulsed, humming with energy. Your hand found his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm.
"I've hated you," you said, your voice trembling. "Because hating you was easier than admitting I dreamed of you."
His eyes widened, a flash of emotion passing through them. "Dre– You dreamed... Of me?"
"Every night. You, in my arms. Your mouth on mine." You pulled him closer, your lips a breath away from his. "Show me I'm not dreaming now."
He didn't hesitate.
His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and hungry, all the pent-up longing bursting free. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and you opened to him, tasting the salt of tears — yours, his, you couldn't tell. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you moaned into the kiss as his teeth grazed your lip.
The atokirina swirled faster, a vortex of light and approval.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his braids, tugging him closer. "Neteyam-"
"I need you." His voice was rough, desperate. "I want to bond with you. Tsaheylu. Here. Under Eywa's eyes. If that is what you want also."
"Yes."
You reached behind you, shaky fingers gasping your queue as he mimicked your actions. His hand outstretched as your queue was already reaching for his, the tendrils intertwining before either of you could think. The tsaheylu snapped into place, and the world exploded into sensation.
You felt everything. His racing heart, the ache of his longing, the overwhelming tide of love he'd buried for years. It washed over you, through you, drowning you in warmth. And then you felt him feel you. Your own tangled emotions, your fear, your desire, the love you'd denied so fiercely. His forehead pressed to yours as you both took in the new sensation, the intense experience of being one in mind and soul as his eyes stayed on yours.
"Oh," you breathed, tears streaming down your face. "Oh, Eywa–"
He kissed you again as he lowered you to the moss, the atokirina blanketing you both like a living quilt, moving around you in a silent, ancient dance as they rose and fell in time with your shuddered breaths. His hands moved over your body, reverent and urgent, pulling at your loincloth, baring your skin to the night air. You did the same, your fingers shaking as you untied his.
When he entered you, it was slow, measured, his eyes locked on yours.
The tsaheylu made everything feel magnified, like your body wasn't your own. Every inch of his cock sliding into your pussy sent pleasure-pain sparking through your shared nerves. You gasped, your fingers curling around his forearms as you felt him push in further, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck.
"I can feel you," he gasped, thrusting deeper. "Every part of you. Fuck–"
He thrust in, slow and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cried out, nails raking his back as he bottomed out, balls pressing against your ass. The rhythm built, powerful strokes that filled you completely, his hips snapping forward. “So tight... made for me,” he panted, one hand pinning your wrist, the other teasing your clit in circles.
The sensations amplified. The pace raw and primal. He fucked you with abandon, no pretence, no restraint. His hips snapped against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the grove, mingling with your moans and his growls. The tsaheylu amplified every wave of pleasure that crashed through you, doubling each crest, each clench, each shudder.
You flipped him, straddling, sinking down to ride him. Breasts bouncing, you ground your hips, clit rubbing his base. He gripped your ass, thrusting up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing in the sacred space. You came first, your pussy clenching around him, pulling a cry from your throat that echoed across the clearing. He followed, hips stuttering, spilling his seed deep inside you with a roar that shook the trees.
But he didn't stop. He pulled out, licked the mess from your thighs, then flipped you over, entering you from behind. The new angle hit deeper, and with the bond still humming, you felt his pleasure as he thrust into you, felt the coil of your own orgasm building again.
"You're mine now," he rasped, hand fisting your hair gently, pulling your head back. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Forever."
"Forever."
The second orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and he followed, filling you again. Then he turned you onto your back, lifted your legs over his shoulders, and took you again, slow and deep, your sweat-slick bodies sliding together.
The night stretched, endless, sacred. By the time the tsaheylu finally released, you were tangled in each other, breathing in unison, the atokirina settled like crowns on your heads.
You woke to the soft grey of pre-dawn, the air cool against your skin, and the solid warmth of Neteyam wrapped around you.
His arms were around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm on your neck. The Tree of Souls loomed above, silent witness to the night's passion, its tendrils glowing faintly. You felt heavy, sore, but deeply content.
You stirred, and he tightened his arms, a sleepy grumble escaping his lips.
"Don't move."
"Need to breathe."
"No."
You laughed softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes were still half-lidded, hair a tangled mess, a lazy smile curving his lips. He looked ruined—in the best way.
"Good morning, mate," he murmured, the word sending a thrill through you.
"Don't get used to it."
"Get used to what?"
"Me being nice." You poked his chest. "I still think you're insufferable."
His grin widened. "And I still think you're reckless, stubborn, and impossible."
"Yet you mated me."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then his hand slid down, cupping your ass with a playful squeeze. "Now, about those dreams you mentioned..."
You shoved him, laughing, as he tumbled onto his back, pulling you with him. You ended up sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
"We should probably go back," you said, without conviction.
"Probably."
"Tuk will be worried."
"She's fine. Kiri's probably told everyone the atokirina showed up."
You lifted your head, a mock glare on your face. "You planned this."
"I hoped." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I didn't know if you'd–"
"I would." You kissed him, soft and quick. "I did."
He smiled, and for a moment, the world was perfect. Then his hands wandered lower, and his grin turned wicked. "We should probably offer thanks to Eywa properly."
"You're insatiable."
"You have no idea."
He spread hot kisses across your neck and the curve of your breasts.
Dawn painted the forest in a soft golden glow as you and Neteyam finally stirred, now fully awake. The Tree of Souls is still humming with the memory of your union. The atokirina had scattered with the rise of the morning light, leaving only the moss and the lingering warmth between you.
Neteyam helped you sit up, his hand lingering on your lower back. "We should go back before they send a search party."
"Lo'ak probably already knows," you muttered, stretching your sore muscles. "He's insufferably nosy."
"He's also insufferably bad at keeping secrets." Neteyam's grin was soft, almost shy. "So maybe we... keep this between us? For now?"
You raised an eyebrow. "You want to keep me a secret?"
"I want to keep us a secret. Just for a little while." He traced a pattern on your thigh, gaze dropping. "I want to enjoy you without the whole clan watching. Without my parents' expectations. Just... us."
Something warm unfurled in your chest. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Fine. But I'm terrible at hiding things."
"So am I." He laughed, pulling you closer. "We'll be terrible together."
summary: You and Jason broke up 2 years ago because of him constantly pushing you away. You see Jason on a date with a new girl whilst out on yet another date. Even after the date, when you're under your date in the back of his Cadillac, all you can think about is Jason.
pairing: Jason Todd x black!f!reader
warnings: Angst, arguments, messy breakups, bad coping mechanisms (sex and drinking), Jason is emotionally stunted, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, car sex
note: Based off of the song Rhythm of Love by Cil
word count: 2,062
🎶 While I'm wasted in the back of a Cadillac
Under somebody, somebody, somebody
It makes me sick to watch you fall into the rhythm
And I'm nobody, nobody nobody 🎶
The leather of the Cadillac's back seat is cool against your bare thighs. The man above you —what was his name? Derek? Matt? — moves with a rhythm that should feel good, should pull you under, should drown everything out like it always does. His mouth trails down your neck, his fingers digging into your hip as he positions himself between your legs. The windows are fogged, the city lights bleeding through in smears of gold and red.
But your mind is somewhere else entirely.
You close your eyes, and instead of the weight of this stranger pressing you into the upholstery, you feel his weight.
Jason.
The memory of his hands, calloused and warm, sliding up your ribs. The way he used to whisper your name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. Two years. It's been two years since you walked out of his apartment, since you told yourself you were done crying over a man who wouldn't let you in.
And yet here you are, lying in the back of a Cadillac, letting a man you barely know fuck you into the leather, pretending it's enough.
The date had started like all the others. A nice dinner at that Italian place downtown, the one with the dim lighting and the overpriced wine. Marcus — yes, Marcus has to be correct — had laughed at your jokes, held the door open, told you you were beautiful in a way that felt scripted but sincere enough. You wore that red dress, the one that clings to your curves like a second skin, the one that always makes you feel powerful. You sipped your Chianti and talked about your job, your hobbies, the way you'd always wanted to travel to Greece.
And then you saw him.
Jason Todd, sprawled in a booth across the restaurant, his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with honey-blonde hair and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his chest, and Jason — your Jason, the one who never let anyone touch him like that — was letting her. Leaning into it. Smiling that crooked smile you hadn't seen in two years.
Your chest caved in. You felt it, a physical collapse, like someone had reached inside you and pulled out your ribs. Marcus was still talking, something about his boat, but the words were underwater. All you could see was the way Jason's fingers traced lazy circles on the blonde's shoulder. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking forever.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to march over there and slap that smile off his face, or maybe slap yourself for still caring. Instead, you finished your wine, excused yourself to the bathroom, and stared at your reflection in the mirror until your hands stopped shaking.
You're on a date. You're moving on. You're fine.
But you weren't fine. You were never fine.
The first time you slept with someone after the breakup, it was a guy you met at a bar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw that reminded you of Jason in the worst way. You took him home, let him fuck you against the headboard, and when it was over, you lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where satisfaction should have been.
That became the pattern.
One-night stands.
Blind dates.
Friends with benefits.
You threw yourself into every bed that opened its doors, hoping that if you fucked enough people, you'd eventually fuck the memory of Jason out of your system. You told yourself it was liberation. This is what moving on looks like. But every time a man groaned your name, every time his hands grabbed your hips, every time he buried himself inside you, you found yourself comparing. He doesn't kiss like Jason. He doesn't hold me like Jason. He doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart and coming together at the same time.
No one ever did.
After the restaurant, Marcus suggested a drive. "Got the old man's Cadillac," he said, grinning, his hand on the small of your back. "Plenty of room in the back seat."
You knew what that meant. You knew it the second he said it. And you agreed, because that's what you did. You said yes to the drinks, yes to the charm, yes to the sex that followed like a well-rehearsed script. You let him take you to the parking lot behind the restaurant, let him open the door for you, let him slide in beside you.
Now his mouth is on your collarbone, his hand sliding up your thigh, and you're staring at the ceiling of the Cadillac, counting the tiny perforations in the fabric. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...
"Okay?" he murmurs against your skin.
"Mm-hmm."
He takes that as encouragement. His fingers find your cunt, and you gasp — not from pleasure, but from the shock of it, the intrusion. You're wet, because your body doesn't care about your heart. Your body is a traitor. It responds to touch the way it's been trained to, opening up, welcoming him in.
He pushes inside you, and you close your eyes.
And then you're gone.
You're back in Jason's apartment, the one in the Bowery with the busted radiator and the stack of books on the floor. It's late, maybe two in the morning, and you're straddling his lap on that worn-out couch, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth hot and hungry on yours.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he growls against your lips.
You laugh, breathless. "Good. Then I'll have you all to myself."
He flips you onto your back, pins you to the cushions, and looks down at you with those eyes — green and fierce and so full of want it makes your stomach flip. "I love you," he says, and he says it like it hurts. "I love you so goddamn much it scares me."
"Then don't push me away," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Let me in, Jay. Please."
He doesn't answer. He kisses you instead, deep and desperate, and you let him. You let him because you think that's enough, that his body can say what his mouth can't. He fucks you slow that night, like he's memorising the shape of you, every curve, every sound. When he comes, he buries his face in your neck and shudders, and you hold him, convinced that this time will be different.
It wasn't.
Marcus is moving faster now, his breath ragged, his grip tightening. "God, you feel good," he grunts.
But you don't feel it. You feel nothing except the ghost of Jason's hands, Jason's mouth, Jason's cock. You didn't mean to compare every guy to Jason, you tried not to.
You remember the way he used to take you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into him. You remember the way he'd whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made you blush and burn and come undone. You remember the way he'd hold you afterwards, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your shoulder, his voice soft: Stay. Don't go. Please don't go.
But you always went. Because staying meant seeing the walls he built, night after night. It meant watching him shut down, push you away, lock himself in his own head. It meant loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.
So you left.
And you've been running ever since.
The breakup happened on a Tuesday. It was raining, because of course it was. You'd been fighting for a month straight — stupid things, really. He forgot to call. You were too clingy. He said you "deserved better." You said you didn't want better, you wanted him. But he wouldn't hear it. He'd already made up his mind, the same way he made up his mind about everything: alone, in the dark, without consulting anyone.
"Just go," he said, standing in the doorway, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's better this way."
"For who?" you wailed, tears streaming down your face. "For you? Because it sure as hell isn't better for me!"
He didn't answer. He just stood there, a statue carved from grief, and watched you walk away. You waited for him to call you back. You counted to ten, twenty, thirty. But the door clicked shut, and that was it.
Two years.
Two years of waking up alone. Two years of pretending you were fine. Two years of letting strangers fuck you into mattresses and back seats and kitchen counters, hoping that if you filled yourself with enough bodies, you'd forget what it felt like to be filled with him.
But you haven't forgotten. You'll never forget.
Marcus is close. You can tell by the way his rhythm turns frantic, the way his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm gonna... fuck..."
"Come inside me," you say, because that's what you're supposed to say. That's the script. The words fall out of your mouth like a reflex, hollow and rehearsed.
He groans, thrusts deep, and stills. You feel the warmth spread inside you, and you close your eyes, trying to feel something, anything, but there's only a cold, yawning void. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, his weight pressing you deeper into the leather.
"Wow," he mutters after a moment. "That was..."
"Great," you finish for him. "Yeah."
He lifts his head, looks at you with that post-coital softness. "You okay?"
No. I'm not okay. I'm never okay. I'm lying in the back of a Cadillac, covered in a stranger's cum, and all I can think about is the man who broke my heart two years ago, and I hate myself for it.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "I'm good."
He kisses your forehead, and you let him. You let him pull you closer, let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, let him pretend this means something. Because that's what you do. You let them pretend. You let yourself pretend. And when it's over, you go home, shower until your skin is raw, and start the cycle all over again.
But tonight, something is different. Tonight, the illusion cracked. You saw Jason with someone else, and it sliced you open in a way you didn't think was possible. You thought you'd numbed yourself enough. You thought the sex, the drinks, the constant motion had sanded down the edges of your grief.
But all it did was polish it. Make it shine brighter. Make it hurt more.
You slip out of the Cadillac an hour later, after Marcus has dressed and driven you back to your apartment. He kisses you goodbye, asks if he can call you again, and you say yes, because why not? Another name in your phone. Another body in your bed. Another night you'll forget by morning.
But when you get inside, when you're alone in the dark of your empty apartment, you don't head for the shower. You don't pour yourself a drink. You sink to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.
You cry for the girl you used to be, the one who believed in love, who thought that if she loved hard enough, she could break through anyone's walls. You cry for the woman you've become, the one who fucks strangers to feel whole, who smiles through the pain, who tells herself she's fine when she's falling apart. You cry for Jason, for the way he looked at that blonde, for the way he never looked at you like that in the end.
And you cry because you know, deep down, that you'd still take him back. Even after everything. Even after the years of silence, the hurt, the walls. You'd crawl back to him on your hands and knees if he asked.
But he won't ask. He never does.
The memories play in your head, over and over again. Like a movie premiere replaying the worst moments of your life on the big screen for your personal viewing displeasure.
You press your palms to your eyes and let the darkness swallow you.
Can you do a wholesome/more wholesome wip Jason pt2 of the post u put up yesterday(The one where the reader is going on dates to 'get over' Jay) Please.
Hii, unfortunately, that specific piece of work will not be getting a part 2, but I have some more, less angst-filled Jason Todd fics in the works that should be coming out soon.
note: Ateez's In Your Fantasy was playing when I thought of this, so enjoy. I might release a part 2 of their families finding out.
summary: Neteyam has always been there, a stable, sturdy figure in your peripheral vision as you ran around the forest with Lo'ak and Kiri. He saved your asses more times than you would like to admit. So why now is it that you can't get him off your mind?
pairing: aged up!Neteyam Sully x fem Omatikaya!reader
warnings: swearing, fighting, explosions, blood, unconsciousness, mentions of wet dreams, smut, p in v, oral (m & f receiving), anal (mildly), minor miscommunication trope (I know, I hate me too)
word count: 6k
For as long as you could remember, Neteyam Sully has always been there. A looming force.
Neteyam has always been the constant in your chaotic world, a towering figure of blue-skinned reliability lurking at the edges of your wild romps through the forest. A fixture in your life since the earliest days of your childhood, a steady presence woven into the fabric of the Omatikaya clan's vibrant existence on Pandora.
You don't remember the first time you truly noticed him. Not because it wasn't important, but because he had always been there.
Like the trees. Like the wind moving through the leaves. Like the distant calls of creatures you had grown so used to hearing, that silence felt wrong without them.
Neteyam was simply... part of things.
You, with your boundless energy, had spent countless days darting through the dense undergrowth alongside Lo'ak, Tuk, and Kiri, the siblings who felt like your own blood.
Lo'ak's reckless grin matched your own, while Kiri's quiet insights grounded the madness. Even when you were older, and Tuk came along, her little legs trying to keep up as you and Lo'ak went about the forest on another adventure that was sure to lead you to trouble.
But Neteyam?
He was the one who shadowed you all, his bow always at the ready, his voice a sharp command cutting through the thrill of the chase.
You were just a young kit, barely old enough to toddle through the underbrush, when your paths first crossed in earnest. Your father was a skilled hunter, and when he was lost in the brutal wars against the Sky People, it left a void in your family kelku that echoed with his absence. As the only child of a widowed mother who wove baskets and tended the clan's communal fires, you carried the weight of his legacy early — expected to embody the hunter's spirit, to track and provide as he once did. But in those tender years, play was your world, and it was through Lo'ak that you found your way into the Sully family's orbit.
Jake and Neytiri, the clan's revered leaders, embraced you as one of their own from the start. Your mother's ties to the old ways, her quiet strength mirroring Neytiri's, made it natural.
Evenings became routine: you'd join the family pod for meals, sitting cross-legged by the fire, Tuk, a tiny bundle of curiosity, then crawling into your lap for comfort. You'd hum lullabies your father once sang, stroking her soft ears until she dozed, her small tail curling around your arm.
You belonged with them.
You ran when they ran. Climbed when they climbed. Fell, laughed, argued, and made up just as quickly.
And somewhere behind it all, Neteyam watched.
Not in a strange way. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. Just… present. A steady figure lingering at the edges of every moment, always close enough to step in, never quite part of the chaos.
As the eldest son of Jake Sully, the Olo'eyktan, and Neytiri, the fierce warrior Tsahìk's daughter, Neteyam carried the weight of expectation on his broad shoulders. He trained relentlessly, leading patrols and mediating clan disputes, his golden eyes always scanning for threats to the harmony Eywa demanded of him.
He'd saved your behinds more times than pride allowed you to count.
Lo'ak, with his mischievous spark and untamed energy, had spotted you one dawn while you gathered wildflowers near the village edge, your small hands clutching stems as if they were spears.
"Come on, let's race the ikran shadows!" he'd called out, and you'd followed without hesitation, your laughter mingling with his as you dashed through the ferns. From that day, you were inseparable. Two wild spirits chasing the forest's secrets, climbing vines and splashing in shallow streams. Neteyam, even then, the responsible elder brother at perhaps eight cycles old, watched from afar. His golden eyes tracked your escapades with a mix of exasperation and quiet protectiveness. He'd linger at the pod's entrance, bow in hand for his own training, pretending to focus on sharpening arrows while stealing glances as you and Lo'ak vanished into the green.
Despite it all, your responsibilities extended beyond play. With your father gone, the clan looked to you to honour his role — hunting small game as you grew, but also gathering herbs for Tsahìk Mo'at, the clan's healer.
Mornings often found you in the misty glades, basket slung over your shoulder, fingers deftly plucking healing ferns and luminous fungi that glowed faintly under Eywa's touch. Mo'at would nod approvingly as you delivered them to her tent, her wrinkled hands sorting your finds. "Your father would be proud, child. The Great Mother guides your hands." These duties grounded you, a reminder of the expectations: to contribute, to survive, to weave your thread into the clan's tapestry without faltering.
Yet, despite your duties, trouble followed you and Lo'ak like shadows, and Neteyam was always there to pull you from its grasp.
One afternoon, at around ten cycles, you'd ventured too far toward the floating mountains, daring each other to touch the Hallelujah Mountains' vines. A sudden storm whipped up, winds howling as rain lashed the cliffs. Lo'ak slipped on slick rock, dangling precariously, while you clung to a root, heart pounding. Neteyam's voice cut through the gale; he'd trailed you, as always, sensing the recklessness. His small but strong frame reached out, hauling Lo'ak up first, then you, his grip firm on your wrist.
"Skxawngs! You'll get us all killed," he'd scolded, but his eyes held relief, lingering on your mud-streaked face. "Foolish," he'd continued, snapping and reprimanding the two of you, his golden eyes flashing with frustration, bioluminescent spots flickering like stars on his skin.
You'd yanked away, muttering about how you didn't need his babysitting, but the heat of his grip lingered on your flesh, a phantom touch that haunted you long after.
That night, as the family gathered in their pod, Neytiri smoothed her hand over your braids as she checked you and Lo'ak for wounds. "You are family, but the forest tests the careless." She mused, moving around the Sully kelku with grace and familiarity.
Jake chuckled, clapping Neteyam on the back. "Good instincts, son. That's what makes a leader."
Neytiri nodded approvingly, her tail swishing, but Lo'ak rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because climbing cliffs is such a threat to the clan." He grumbled, his tail lashing behind him in his annoyance at his father's praise towards his brother.
Neteyam shot him a warning look, the sibling rivalry simmering — Lo'ak's wildness clashing with Neteyam's duty-bound restraint. Kiri, ever the peacemaker, changed the subject to Eywa's signs in the stars, but you caught Neteyam glancing your way, his expression unreadable.
As cycles turned, the pattern persisted. At twelve, during a mock hunt with slingshots, you and Lo'ak startled a thanator cub, its mother charging from the brush. Neteyam, practising nearby, fired a warning shot from his bow, drawing the beast away long enough for you to flee. He fought it off with a spear twice his size, earning scars that Jake cleaned later, praising his bravery.
"That's my future Olo'eyktan," he'd say, while you hovered guiltily, offering herbs from your pouch.
Neteyam waved you off gruffly. "Just stay out of trouble."
But in quiet moments, he'd watch you teach Tuk basic weaves, your patience shining as you guided her tiny fingers. Tuk adored you, calling you 'sister' in her lisping voice.
Once, when Neteyam suggested you show her a safer knot, you snapped, "She's learning fine without your critiques!" Tuk giggled, siding with you, and Neteyam backed down, a rare smile tugging his lips.
Throughout this, Kiri became your confidante in those growing years, her spiritual attunement mirroring your own subtle connection to Eywa.
You’d wander the bioluminescent groves together, baskets heavy with herbs, sharing whispers. “I feel her everywhere,” you’d start, pressing a hand to a glowing tree. “Like she’s breathing with me, in the wind, the roots.”
Kiri’s eyes would light up at finding a kindred spirit who felt Eywa similarly to herself. “Eywa speaks through you, too. The signs are strong. The shifting of the wind, in dreams, pulls towards certain paths.” She’d weave flowers into your hair as she redoes your braids, sensing the unspoken tension with her brother, but you’d deflect, laughing it off as sibling-like bickering.
By adolescence, the pretence solidified. You insisted you couldn’t stand Neteyam’s rigidity, his constant shadowing like an unwanted guard. He'd retort that your impulsiveness endangered everyone, especially as his duties as future Olo'eyktan mounted — leading young warriors, mediating minor disputes under Jake’s watchful eye. Family dynamics deepened the strain. Meals were lively: Lo'ak teasing Neteyam about his 'watchdog' habits toward you, Kiri mediating with knowing glances, Tuk piping up with innocent questions that made you soften. Neytiri often pulled you aside for archery lessons, treating you as a daughter, while Jake shared hunting strategies, emphasising your role in the clan's survival.”Your father’s spirit lives in you. Hunt well, protect the young ones.”
Yet, beneath the barbs, attraction simmered. Neteyam watched from patrol perches as you rode off with Lo'ak on gathering runs, his heart twisting with unspoken worry — and something warmer. Saving you became a ritual: pulling you from a collapsing vine bridge at fourteen, his body shielding yours from falling debris; diverting a stampeding herd during a herb forage, his direhorse barreling between you and danger. Each time, touches lingered, his hand on your back, steadying; your fingers brushing his arm in thanks, igniting sparks neither acknowledged.
Interactions with Tuk grew tender. At sixteen, you'd teach her to ride a small pa'li, your voice soft as you adjusted her grip. “Gentle, little one—feel the bond.”
Neteyam watched, then suggested, “Hold the reins firmer for control.” You'd whirl on him.
“She's not a warrior yet! Let her feel Eywa first.”
Tuk hugged you, whispering, “You're the best teacher.” Neteyam sighed, but his eyes softened.
Conversations with Kiri deepened during herb runs. “Eywa's presence... It's overwhelming sometimes,” you'd confess, kneeling by a sacred pool. “Like she's urging me toward something.” Kiri nodded along with your words.
“Toward balance. Perhaps a bond waiting to form.” She added, voice fading softly as she looked out into the horizon.
Nights brought dreams that blurred the lines. Yours began innocently but twisted heat. In the first, at eighteen cycles, Neteyam cornered you in a dream-glade, pinning you to moss, his mouth claiming yours before trailing down to suck your nipples, teeth grazing until they peaked. His fingers plunged into your pussy, thrusting deep, curling to hit that spot, thumb rubbing your clit until you came hard, juices soaking his hand. He flipped you, cock sliding into your slick folds, pounding relentlessly until you shattered again.
You woke up panting, aroused and confused. Your arousal dampening your thighs from the remnants of your dream still clinging to your clouded mind.
Across the scattered array of pods, Neteyam’s dreams mirrored the intensity of your own. He envisioned you kneeling against the soft moss of the forest floor, lips wrapping around his hardened cock, sucking deeply as he fucked your mouth, cum spilling down your throat. Then, bending you over, he thrusts into your pussy, gripping your hips tightly as the rhythm of his thrusts builds to a mutual release. filling you there also. The guilt that overtook Neteyam mingled with ecstasy upon waking as he looked down, his cock spent in his loincloth.
These dreams haunted your days. Training sessions dragged, bodies clashing in spars. Your breasts brushing his chest, his thighs pressing your core accidentally as he overpowered you down to the mossy floor, leaving you both flushed and pulling away before you were told to.
“Focus!” he’d bark, but his voice roughened.
Hunts prolonged the torment. The great migration hunt spanned days. Tracking sturmbeest across plains, Neteyam commanded the group, which consisted of you, Lo’ak and a small handful of warriors. Mornings started with strategy by the fire, Jake overseeing via the comms that rested around Neteyam and Lo’ak’s necks. “Neteyam, keep formation.”
You'd scout ahead with Lo'ak, spotting tracks, but veer into thickets, Neteyam calling you back. The chase unfolded over hours — galloping through dust clouds, arrows loosed in volleys. One bull charged your flank; Neteyam shoved you aside, downing it with a precise shot. During rests by rivers, you'd share water skins, fingers touching, eyes locking too long. “You're reckless,” he'd murmur, but his tail flicked toward you. Lo'ak teased, and Kiri smiled knowingly. The hunt yielded a massive haul, but the tension built like storm clouds.
Another extended pursuit targeted prolemuris in the canopy forests; their agile forms were a challenge for three days. Neteyam assigned vines for swings, his body brushing yours as he demonstrated. You swung ahead, gathering herbs mid-hunt for Mo'at, rare blossoms only found high. A branch snapped; you fell toward thorns. Neteyam caught you mid-air, arms wrapping your waist, pulling you to safety. Pressed together on a limb, breaths shared, his hardness nudged your hip. “Why do you test me?” he whispered.
You pulled away, heart racing. Evenings around campfires, family stories flowed — Jake recounting war losses, including your father's, his hand on your shoulder. “He fought bravely. You honour him every day.”
Dreams multiplied, ranging from a simple kiss in front of the clan or escaping duties to explore one another.
Yours: Neteyam binding you with vines, spanking your ass before he knelt, hands roaming your body as he licked your pussy, tongue thrusting inside, sucking your clit to orgasm. Watching as your body shook under the skilled hands of the man who you were sure hated you. Then he rose, moving your pliant body as he entered you slowly before fucking you hard, cock slamming deep until you squirted as moans ripped from your throat.
His: You laying him against the soft mossy floor, kissing down the expanse of his chest as the bioluminescent dots on his body pulsed in time to his wildly beating heart before you straddled him. You slid down his hardened cock, riding him to the rhythm of the forest, pussy clenching his cock, then in dreams, shifting to the tight ring of your ass, the forbidden tightness making him shudder at the sensation of you wrapped around him as he came explosively.
The breaking point loomed during the RDA skirmish. Scouts warned of encroachment; Jake led the assault, Neteyam at his side. You joined on your ikran, diving into chaos — bullets zipping, explosions blooming. You targeted a saboteur at a vital root vein, arrow flying true, but his dying twitch detonated charges. The blast hurled you from your ikran, world tumbling.
The world dissolved into fragments — shrapnel's white-hot kiss, the jarring impact of Neteyam's ikran beneath you, his arms locked around your waist as blood soaked his chest, warm and sticky against your skin. Consciousness ebbed in waves, each beat of your heart pushing more of your life force through the wound in your side. The wind roared past as he dove, his voice distant, frayed with panic.
"Stay with me. Stay with me."
You tried to answer, but your tongue was thick, throat dry. The canopy blurred into smears of green and gold, and then you were moving — not flying, but running. Neteyam had dismounted mid-stride, cradling you against his chest, his long legs eating up the ground toward the healers' tents. Each jostle sent fresh agony through your side, and you whimpered, your hand weakly gripping his shoulder.
"I'm here," he gasped, voice cracking. "I'm here, I've got you. Just hold on."
The tent flaps whipped open. Mo'at's sharp voice cut through the haze — commands, reassurances, the clatter of bowls and the acrid smell of burning herbs. You were laid on soft furs, hands pressing against your wound, and Neteyam's face swam above you, pale as moonlight.
"Don't leave," you whispered, though you weren't sure the words made it past your lips.
"I won't." His hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "I'm not going anywhere."
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Neteyam sat vigil, holding your hand. Pain ebbed under the tonics, but your face — pale, skin torn from the shrapnel — cracked his heart.
The first day passed in fevered fragments. You drifted in and out, never fully awake, never fully under. Mo'at worked tirelessly, stitching the jagged tear in your side, packing the wound with numbing pastes and healing moss. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Your breath steadied into a shallow rhythm.
Neteyam didn't move from your side.
He sat cross-legged on the furs, your hand clutched between both of his, thumb tracing absent circles on your wrist. His eyes were fixed on your face; the flutter of your eyelids, the occasional twitch of your lips, watching for any sign of returning consciousness. The healers bustled around him, but he was a statue, unyielding.
By the second day, the tent had become a pressure cooker of tension. Lo'ak came, then Kiri, then Jake. They tried to coax him away, to make him eat, to make him rest. He refused.
"Neteyam, you need to–" Jake started.
"I'm fine."
"You haven't slept. You haven't eaten–"
"I said I'm fine."
His voice was clipped, sharp as a blade. Lo'ak tried a different approach, settling beside him with a bowl of broth. "Come on, bro. You're no good to her if you collapse. Just a few mouthfuls."
Neteyam's golden eyes flashed. "I told Mo'at I'd stay. I'm not leaving her."
"You're not leaving her," Kiri said softly, crouching opposite him. "But you have duties. The patrols need direction. The young warriors look to you."
"Let them look elsewhere." The words came out bitter, almost snappish. He didn't look at her. "I have one duty right now. This one."
Lo'ak opened his mouth to argue, but Kiri placed a hand on his arm, shaking her head. They left the broth beside Neteyam, uneaten, and retreated.
By the third day, he was a frayed rope. Dark circles carved hollows under his eyes. His queue hung limp, unbraided. Neytiri came, her face unreadable as she watched her son, her strong, steady, reliable son, crumble at the bedside of a girl he'd spent years claiming to despise.
"Son," she said, her voice gentle, "you must tend to yourself."
"I can't."
"Eywa gives us strength, but even the strongest tree bends before it breaks."
"She needs me." His voice cracked. "I can't– if she wakes and I'm not here–"
"She will wake." Neytiri's hand settled on his shoulder. "But you need to trust the healers. And trust her."
He shook his head, jaw tight. Neytiri sighed, but she didn't force him. She simply sat beside him, silent, offering presence instead of words.
On the fourth evening, Mo'at finished her examination of you and turned to Neteyam with a look that brooked no argument.
"You will walk with me."
"I can't–"
"You will." Her voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "The girl is stable. The spirits have spoken. She will live."
Neteyam’s breath caught. A tremor ran through his shoulders. "She– you're certain?"
"I am Tsahìk. I do not speak uncertainly." Mo'at's weathered hand took his, pulling him to his feet. "Come. There is something you must hear."
He followed her out of the tent, into the dusk that painted the forest in shades of violet and amber. They walked to a quiet grove, the bioluminescent plants casting soft light on their faces. Mo'at turned to face him, her ancient eyes studying him with a knowing that made him feel like a child again.
"You love her."
It wasn't a question. Neteyam flinched as though struck, then slowly, painfully, nodded. "I do."
"Then why have you fought it so long?"
He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion bleeding through. "Because I am the future Olo'eyktan. Because my duty is to the clan. Because I thought–" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought I could bury it. That if I kept her at arm's length, I could focus on what mattered."
"And what matters, Neteyam?"
He looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. "She matters. She's always mattered. I just– I was too afraid to admit it."
Mo'at was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the canopy above. "The Great Mother does not gift us feelings by accident. Love is not a distraction. It is a foundation. A leader who cannot love is a leader who cannot lead with his whole heart."
"But the clan–"
"The clan will see what I see: a young man willing to sacrifice his own well-being for another. That is not weakness. That is the heart of a true leader." She stepped closer, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. "You have choices, Neteyam. You can continue to hide, to pretend, to let duty consume you. Or you can choose her. Choose to mate her, to bond with her, to make her your partner in leading this clan. That is not abandoning duty — it is enriching it."
He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking into his chest like roots into the earth. "And if she doesn't want me?"
Mo'at's lips curved into a faint smile. "Then you will survive. But I think you know her heart better than you admit."
She left him there, standing alone in the grove, the night settling around him like a cloak.
You woke to the soft glow of firelight and the weight of a hand in yours.
Your head felt stuffed with tree sap, thoughts slow and syrupy. You turned your head, wincing at the pull in your side, and found Neteyam slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head bowed, braids falling over his face, his hand wrapped around yours as if terrified to let go. He was asleep, chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted breaths. Even in slumber, his brow was furrowed, tension etched into every line of his face.
You didn't move. You just watched him — the way the firelight played across his features, the faint scars on his arms, the way his thumb was still pressed against your pulse point, as if checking that you were still alive.
A surge of emotion — gratitude, confusion, something deeper and hotter — swelled in your chest. You squeezed his hand.
He jolted awake instantly, eyes snapping open, locking onto yours. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just stared, as if afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.
"You're awake." His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
"I'm awake." Your own voice sounded like gravel, dry and cracked. "How long...?"
"Four days." He lifted your hand and pressed his forehead to it, a shudder running through him. "Four days. I thought– I thought I'd lost you."
"You stayed."
"Of course I stayed." His laugh was broken, raw. "Where else would I be?"
You should have said something sarcastic, something sharp to break the tension. But the look in his eyes — vulnerable, open, unguarded — stole your words. Instead, you just let your fingers curl around his, a silent promise.
The next few days were a strange, awkward dance.
Neteyam was still at your side constantly, but now that you were awake, the closeness felt charged, electric. He brought you broth, adjusted your bandages, and helped you sit up. His touches were gentle, lingering — a hand on your back steadying you, fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. But whenever your eyes met, he looked away, jaw tightening.
You tried to needle him, falling back on old patterns.
"You know, you could let someone else fetch the water. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm fine."
"You've said that four times today."
"Because it's still true."
You raised an eyebrow, and he huffed, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. But the teasing felt different now, lighter, but weighted with something unsaid. Every barb was a deflection, every laugh a shield against the truth that hung between you like a held breath.
Kiri visited, her knowing smile driving you mad. "You two are insufferable," she said one afternoon, helping you walk outside for fresh air.
"Excuse me?"
"Neteyam hasn't left your side in days. He's been a terror to everyone — snapping at poor Lo'ak for breathing too loudly. And you-" She poked your arm. "You watch him like he's the sun when you think no one's looking."
"I do not."
"Do too."
You scowled, but your cheeks burned.
On the fifth day of your recovery, he found you sitting by a stream, watching the glowing fish dart between rocks. He settled beside you, close enough that his tail brushed your ankle.
"You should still be resting."
"You should stop telling me what to do."
A pause. Then, softly: "I don't want to fight with you."
You turned to look at him. His profile was sharp against the fading light, his jaw set. "Neither do I."
The silence stretched, filled with the sound of water and the distant calls of night creatures. His hand inched across the moss between you, stopping just short of yours.
"I was so scared," he whispered. "When you fell. When I saw the blood. I thought-" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought Eywa was taking you from me before I ever had the chance to-"
He broke off, shaking his head. You reached out, your fingers brushing his.
"Chance to what?"
He turned, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. "You know what."
Your heart hammered. The words hung in the air, fragile and precious. But neither of you moved further. Not yet.
Three days later, you were well enough to walk the path to the Tree of Souls.
Neteyam had suggested it; a pilgrimage, he said, to give thanks for your recovery. But the look on his face told you he meant more. You agreed without hesitation, your pulse quickening as you walked through the forest, following the familiar trail to the sacred grove.
The Tree of Souls stood in the centre of a clearing, its tendrils cascading like waterfalls of light. The air hummed with Eywa's presence, thick and alive. You stepped into the grove, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Atokirina drifted down around you, glowing seeds of light that danced through the air like stars. Some brushed your skin, warm and tingling, and you gasped as they settled on your shoulders, your hair, your arms.
Neteyam turned to you, and the seeds landed on him too, cocooning you both in a gentle, shimmering embrace.
"This is–" you started.
"Eywa's blessing," he finished, his voice reverent. "I've heard it's happened once before. At the bonding of my parents."
Your breath caught. He stepped closer, the atokirina swirling around you both, creating a barrier of light and warmth. His hand came up, fingertips brushing your cheek.
"I can't pretend anymore." His voice was raw, stripped of all pretence. "I've tried. For years. I've told myself you were a nuisance, a distraction, something I had to watch over and tolerate. But every time I saved you, every time you argued with me, every time I watched you laugh with Tuk or teach the young ones, I fell deeper. And I didn't know how to stop."
"Neteyam–"
"I don't want to stop." He stepped closer, his body inches from yours. "I want you. As my mate. As my partner. As the one who drives me mad and makes me whole."
The atokirina pulsed, humming with energy. Your hand found his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm.
"I've hated you," you said, your voice trembling. "Because hating you was easier than admitting I dreamed of you."
His eyes widened, a flash of emotion passing through them. "Dre– You dreamed... Of me?"
"Every night. You, in my arms. Your mouth on mine." You pulled him closer, your lips a breath away from his. "Show me I'm not dreaming now."
He didn't hesitate.
His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and hungry, all the pent-up longing bursting free. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and you opened to him, tasting the salt of tears — yours, his, you couldn't tell. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you moaned into the kiss as his teeth grazed your lip.
The atokirina swirled faster, a vortex of light and approval.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his braids, tugging him closer. "Neteyam-"
"I need you." His voice was rough, desperate. "I want to bond with you. Tsaheylu. Here. Under Eywa's eyes. If that is what you want also."
"Yes."
You reached behind you, shaky fingers gasping your queue as he mimicked your actions. His hand outstretched as your queue was already reaching for his, the tendrils intertwining before either of you could think. The tsaheylu snapped into place, and the world exploded into sensation.
You felt everything. His racing heart, the ache of his longing, the overwhelming tide of love he'd buried for years. It washed over you, through you, drowning you in warmth. And then you felt him feel you. Your own tangled emotions, your fear, your desire, the love you'd denied so fiercely. His forehead pressed to yours as you both took in the new sensation, the intense experience of being one in mind and soul as his eyes stayed on yours.
"Oh," you breathed, tears streaming down your face. "Oh, Eywa–"
He kissed you again as he lowered you to the moss, the atokirina blanketing you both like a living quilt, moving around you in a silent, ancient dance as they rose and fell in time with your shuddered breaths. His hands moved over your body, reverent and urgent, pulling at your loincloth, baring your skin to the night air. You did the same, your fingers shaking as you untied his.
When he entered you, it was slow, measured, his eyes locked on yours.
The tsaheylu made everything feel magnified, like your body wasn't your own. Every inch of his cock sliding into your pussy sent pleasure-pain sparking through your shared nerves. You gasped, your fingers curling around his forearms as you felt him push in further, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck.
"I can feel you," he gasped, thrusting deeper. "Every part of you. Fuck–"
He thrust in, slow and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cried out, nails raking his back as he bottomed out, balls pressing against your ass. The rhythm built, powerful strokes that filled you completely, his hips snapping forward. “So tight... made for me,” he panted, one hand pinning your wrist, the other teasing your clit in circles.
The sensations amplified. The pace raw and primal. He fucked you with abandon, no pretence, no restraint. His hips snapped against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the grove, mingling with your moans and his growls. The tsaheylu amplified every wave of pleasure that crashed through you, doubling each crest, each clench, each shudder.
You flipped him, straddling, sinking down to ride him. Breasts bouncing, you ground your hips, clit rubbing his base. He gripped your ass, thrusting up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing in the sacred space. You came first, your pussy clenching around him, pulling a cry from your throat that echoed across the clearing. He followed, hips stuttering, spilling his seed deep inside you with a roar that shook the trees.
But he didn't stop. He pulled out, licked the mess from your thighs, then flipped you over, entering you from behind. The new angle hit deeper, and with the bond still humming, you felt his pleasure as he thrust into you, felt the coil of your own orgasm building again.
"You're mine now," he rasped, hand fisting your hair gently, pulling your head back. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Forever."
"Forever."
The second orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and he followed, filling you again. Then he turned you onto your back, lifted your legs over his shoulders, and took you again, slow and deep, your sweat-slick bodies sliding together.
The night stretched, endless, sacred. By the time the tsaheylu finally released, you were tangled in each other, breathing in unison, the atokirina settled like crowns on your heads.
You woke to the soft grey of pre-dawn, the air cool against your skin, and the solid warmth of Neteyam wrapped around you.
His arms were around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm on your neck. The Tree of Souls loomed above, silent witness to the night's passion, its tendrils glowing faintly. You felt heavy, sore, but deeply content.
You stirred, and he tightened his arms, a sleepy grumble escaping his lips.
"Don't move."
"Need to breathe."
"No."
You laughed softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes were still half-lidded, hair a tangled mess, a lazy smile curving his lips. He looked ruined—in the best way.
"Good morning, mate," he murmured, the word sending a thrill through you.
"Don't get used to it."
"Get used to what?"
"Me being nice." You poked his chest. "I still think you're insufferable."
His grin widened. "And I still think you're reckless, stubborn, and impossible."
"Yet you mated me."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then his hand slid down, cupping your ass with a playful squeeze. "Now, about those dreams you mentioned..."
You shoved him, laughing, as he tumbled onto his back, pulling you with him. You ended up sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
"We should probably go back," you said, without conviction.
"Probably."
"Tuk will be worried."
"She's fine. Kiri's probably told everyone the atokirina showed up."
You lifted your head, a mock glare on your face. "You planned this."
"I hoped." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I didn't know if you'd–"
"I would." You kissed him, soft and quick. "I did."
He smiled, and for a moment, the world was perfect. Then his hands wandered lower, and his grin turned wicked. "We should probably offer thanks to Eywa properly."
"You're insatiable."
"You have no idea."
He spread hot kisses across your neck and the curve of your breasts.
Dawn painted the forest in a soft golden glow as you and Neteyam finally stirred, now fully awake. The Tree of Souls is still humming with the memory of your union. The atokirina had scattered with the rise of the morning light, leaving only the moss and the lingering warmth between you.
Neteyam helped you sit up, his hand lingering on your lower back. "We should go back before they send a search party."
"Lo'ak probably already knows," you muttered, stretching your sore muscles. "He's insufferably nosy."
"He's also insufferably bad at keeping secrets." Neteyam's grin was soft, almost shy. "So maybe we... keep this between us? For now?"
You raised an eyebrow. "You want to keep me a secret?"
"I want to keep us a secret. Just for a little while." He traced a pattern on your thigh, gaze dropping. "I want to enjoy you without the whole clan watching. Without my parents' expectations. Just... us."
Something warm unfurled in your chest. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Fine. But I'm terrible at hiding things."
"So am I." He laughed, pulling you closer. "We'll be terrible together."
summary: You and Jason broke up 2 years ago because of him constantly pushing you away. You see Jason on a date with a new girl whilst out on yet another date. Even after the date, when you're under your date in the back of his Cadillac, all you can think about is Jason.
pairing: Jason Todd x black!f!reader
warnings: Angst, arguments, messy breakups, bad coping mechanisms (sex and drinking), Jason is emotionally stunted, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, car sex
note: Based off of the song Rhythm of Love by Cil
word count: 2,062
🎶 While I'm wasted in the back of a Cadillac
Under somebody, somebody, somebody
It makes me sick to watch you fall into the rhythm
And I'm nobody, nobody nobody 🎶
The leather of the Cadillac's back seat is cool against your bare thighs. The man above you —what was his name? Derek? Matt? — moves with a rhythm that should feel good, should pull you under, should drown everything out like it always does. His mouth trails down your neck, his fingers digging into your hip as he positions himself between your legs. The windows are fogged, the city lights bleeding through in smears of gold and red.
But your mind is somewhere else entirely.
You close your eyes, and instead of the weight of this stranger pressing you into the upholstery, you feel his weight.
Jason.
The memory of his hands, calloused and warm, sliding up your ribs. The way he used to whisper your name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. Two years. It's been two years since you walked out of his apartment, since you told yourself you were done crying over a man who wouldn't let you in.
And yet here you are, lying in the back of a Cadillac, letting a man you barely know fuck you into the leather, pretending it's enough.
The date had started like all the others. A nice dinner at that Italian place downtown, the one with the dim lighting and the overpriced wine. Marcus — yes, Marcus has to be correct — had laughed at your jokes, held the door open, told you you were beautiful in a way that felt scripted but sincere enough. You wore that red dress, the one that clings to your curves like a second skin, the one that always makes you feel powerful. You sipped your Chianti and talked about your job, your hobbies, the way you'd always wanted to travel to Greece.
And then you saw him.
Jason Todd, sprawled in a booth across the restaurant, his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with honey-blonde hair and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his chest, and Jason — your Jason, the one who never let anyone touch him like that — was letting her. Leaning into it. Smiling that crooked smile you hadn't seen in two years.
Your chest caved in. You felt it, a physical collapse, like someone had reached inside you and pulled out your ribs. Marcus was still talking, something about his boat, but the words were underwater. All you could see was the way Jason's fingers traced lazy circles on the blonde's shoulder. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking forever.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to march over there and slap that smile off his face, or maybe slap yourself for still caring. Instead, you finished your wine, excused yourself to the bathroom, and stared at your reflection in the mirror until your hands stopped shaking.
You're on a date. You're moving on. You're fine.
But you weren't fine. You were never fine.
The first time you slept with someone after the breakup, it was a guy you met at a bar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw that reminded you of Jason in the worst way. You took him home, let him fuck you against the headboard, and when it was over, you lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where satisfaction should have been.
That became the pattern.
One-night stands.
Blind dates.
Friends with benefits.
You threw yourself into every bed that opened its doors, hoping that if you fucked enough people, you'd eventually fuck the memory of Jason out of your system. You told yourself it was liberation. This is what moving on looks like. But every time a man groaned your name, every time his hands grabbed your hips, every time he buried himself inside you, you found yourself comparing. He doesn't kiss like Jason. He doesn't hold me like Jason. He doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart and coming together at the same time.
No one ever did.
After the restaurant, Marcus suggested a drive. "Got the old man's Cadillac," he said, grinning, his hand on the small of your back. "Plenty of room in the back seat."
You knew what that meant. You knew it the second he said it. And you agreed, because that's what you did. You said yes to the drinks, yes to the charm, yes to the sex that followed like a well-rehearsed script. You let him take you to the parking lot behind the restaurant, let him open the door for you, let him slide in beside you.
Now his mouth is on your collarbone, his hand sliding up your thigh, and you're staring at the ceiling of the Cadillac, counting the tiny perforations in the fabric. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...
"Okay?" he murmurs against your skin.
"Mm-hmm."
He takes that as encouragement. His fingers find your cunt, and you gasp — not from pleasure, but from the shock of it, the intrusion. You're wet, because your body doesn't care about your heart. Your body is a traitor. It responds to touch the way it's been trained to, opening up, welcoming him in.
He pushes inside you, and you close your eyes.
And then you're gone.
You're back in Jason's apartment, the one in the Bowery with the busted radiator and the stack of books on the floor. It's late, maybe two in the morning, and you're straddling his lap on that worn-out couch, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth hot and hungry on yours.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he growls against your lips.
You laugh, breathless. "Good. Then I'll have you all to myself."
He flips you onto your back, pins you to the cushions, and looks down at you with those eyes — green and fierce and so full of want it makes your stomach flip. "I love you," he says, and he says it like it hurts. "I love you so goddamn much it scares me."
"Then don't push me away," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Let me in, Jay. Please."
He doesn't answer. He kisses you instead, deep and desperate, and you let him. You let him because you think that's enough, that his body can say what his mouth can't. He fucks you slow that night, like he's memorising the shape of you, every curve, every sound. When he comes, he buries his face in your neck and shudders, and you hold him, convinced that this time will be different.
It wasn't.
Marcus is moving faster now, his breath ragged, his grip tightening. "God, you feel good," he grunts.
But you don't feel it. You feel nothing except the ghost of Jason's hands, Jason's mouth, Jason's cock. You didn't mean to compare every guy to Jason, you tried not to.
You remember the way he used to take you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into him. You remember the way he'd whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made you blush and burn and come undone. You remember the way he'd hold you afterwards, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your shoulder, his voice soft: Stay. Don't go. Please don't go.
But you always went. Because staying meant seeing the walls he built, night after night. It meant watching him shut down, push you away, lock himself in his own head. It meant loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.
So you left.
And you've been running ever since.
The breakup happened on a Tuesday. It was raining, because of course it was. You'd been fighting for a month straight — stupid things, really. He forgot to call. You were too clingy. He said you "deserved better." You said you didn't want better, you wanted him. But he wouldn't hear it. He'd already made up his mind, the same way he made up his mind about everything: alone, in the dark, without consulting anyone.
"Just go," he said, standing in the doorway, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's better this way."
"For who?" you wailed, tears streaming down your face. "For you? Because it sure as hell isn't better for me!"
He didn't answer. He just stood there, a statue carved from grief, and watched you walk away. You waited for him to call you back. You counted to ten, twenty, thirty. But the door clicked shut, and that was it.
Two years.
Two years of waking up alone. Two years of pretending you were fine. Two years of letting strangers fuck you into mattresses and back seats and kitchen counters, hoping that if you filled yourself with enough bodies, you'd forget what it felt like to be filled with him.
But you haven't forgotten. You'll never forget.
Marcus is close. You can tell by the way his rhythm turns frantic, the way his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm gonna... fuck..."
"Come inside me," you say, because that's what you're supposed to say. That's the script. The words fall out of your mouth like a reflex, hollow and rehearsed.
He groans, thrusts deep, and stills. You feel the warmth spread inside you, and you close your eyes, trying to feel something, anything, but there's only a cold, yawning void. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, his weight pressing you deeper into the leather.
"Wow," he mutters after a moment. "That was..."
"Great," you finish for him. "Yeah."
He lifts his head, looks at you with that post-coital softness. "You okay?"
No. I'm not okay. I'm never okay. I'm lying in the back of a Cadillac, covered in a stranger's cum, and all I can think about is the man who broke my heart two years ago, and I hate myself for it.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "I'm good."
He kisses your forehead, and you let him. You let him pull you closer, let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, let him pretend this means something. Because that's what you do. You let them pretend. You let yourself pretend. And when it's over, you go home, shower until your skin is raw, and start the cycle all over again.
But tonight, something is different. Tonight, the illusion cracked. You saw Jason with someone else, and it sliced you open in a way you didn't think was possible. You thought you'd numbed yourself enough. You thought the sex, the drinks, the constant motion had sanded down the edges of your grief.
But all it did was polish it. Make it shine brighter. Make it hurt more.
You slip out of the Cadillac an hour later, after Marcus has dressed and driven you back to your apartment. He kisses you goodbye, asks if he can call you again, and you say yes, because why not? Another name in your phone. Another body in your bed. Another night you'll forget by morning.
But when you get inside, when you're alone in the dark of your empty apartment, you don't head for the shower. You don't pour yourself a drink. You sink to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.
You cry for the girl you used to be, the one who believed in love, who thought that if she loved hard enough, she could break through anyone's walls. You cry for the woman you've become, the one who fucks strangers to feel whole, who smiles through the pain, who tells herself she's fine when she's falling apart. You cry for Jason, for the way he looked at that blonde, for the way he never looked at you like that in the end.
And you cry because you know, deep down, that you'd still take him back. Even after everything. Even after the years of silence, the hurt, the walls. You'd crawl back to him on your hands and knees if he asked.
But he won't ask. He never does.
The memories play in your head, over and over again. Like a movie premiere replaying the worst moments of your life on the big screen for your personal viewing displeasure.
You press your palms to your eyes and let the darkness swallow you.
