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"she wants to see your dick," sokka types to aang and isn't remotely surprised when aang responds within five seconds.
"omg are you serious?" aang responds, sounding just as frantic over text as he would in real life. "what do i do!?!?! i've never taken a dick pic before!!!"
"i believe it," sokka responds, nodding to himself. he aims a smile in your direction, ignoring your puzzled look. "don't overthink it, okay? just pull down your pants, give yourself a quick tug to make it bigger and bam, take your photo!"
"make it bigger?" aang sends back. "...than it already is?"
sokka's right eye twitches because yes, he's quite aware of what aang is packing. all becauae of an accidental peek in the gym showers. the worst part is that aang isn't bragging when he says it's bigger than it already is—he's merely stating a fact.
"don't piss me off," sokka replies. "take a pic and send her a message, she's waiting!"
"okay okay!" aang disappears for a moment before coming back. "um, can i send you a pic so you can tell me how it looks."
"no...actually—"
aang's already sending the picture through.
sokka stares at it and then back at you who's nervously scrolling through your phone.
Since your inbox is open.....how about free use with roommate clark kent and reader
hi amor! y'all are quick w this. i'm gonna assume that you've also read the other roommate!clark i did for kinktober. between u n me…missed them BAD.
tags: pwp, smut, f!reader, roommate!clark, free-use themes, clark fucks reader from the back while she's cookin, lowk a lil asshole!clark (1k + wc)
—
"i'm back."
you don't lift your head at the sound of that familiar drawl. plastic bag rustling in his hands as he shucks his shoes by the doorway. "they didn't have Diet Coke. so…i got some… off-brand…spiced soda."
it was fairly easy to have set that one cardinal rule with having clark kent as your roommate — you could never, ever fuck each other. both of you had agreed that it would've been too messy to deal with. its potential fall-out, or awkwardness of running into each other on campus if you did indulge.
"not the same thing, asshole."
consequently, it was just that easy to break it.
the shuffling behind you grew closer. routine sounds you'd connected to clark's arrival. keys, bag against the floor, and then —
"jus' keep cooking." his voice comes as a heady, lazy murmur, it trails down your pulse, leaving goosebumps in its wake. you feel his weighty palms slide past the quilted apron you had on, shuddering as his thumbs skim past the hem of your shirt.
"seriously." you manage, with a shaky palm coming down to rest on the aged mosaic tiles. clark's inhaling the warm, sweaty skin at your pulse, nipping over the marks he'd left on you the day prior had begun to fade. "n-not — anywhere visible!"
he grunts at your swat, the gentle curve of his nose now tracing up your jaw and ears. "hey —" he calls out, tugging you hard against his chest, enough for you to feel the hard line of his erection poking your lower back. "water's boiling over."
you gasp sharply, chucking the wooden spoon to lay horizontal on the ceramic pot. "no shit," you manage, squirming a little as he rolls his hips against your ass. "…y-you're…distracting me."
clark only laughs at your complaint, his palm having slid upward, rested under your breast. his nail skims the soft fat there, and last your sensitive nipples. you yelp, clutching over his forearms.
"smart girl like you can't multitask?"
"t-that's…" you swallow thickly at his taunt, relaxing further into his chest at the gentle squeeze of his palm over your tits. "not...fuckin'…fair.."
"c'mon, it's gonna get all soggy." he nods his chin toward the still-boiling water, and you begrudgingly turn the stove off.
it was damn-near impossible to focus on scooping out the pasta, some of the cooked noodles falling into the sink at his wandering hands. callouses dragging down your ribs. "careful." he chides, sliding his hand down the waistband of your bottoms.
you jerk forward hard in surprise, palms pressed heavy against your clit. his two digits slides between your folds, rubbing you slowly. the spoon clatters onto the dishrack at every needy nudge of his fingers in your pussy. "fuck….kansas —"
he whistles, low, much more brazen in his touches as your arousal coats him. "shit. you're soakin' me." he coos, tugging your trousers halfway down your thighs. you don't protest, looking over your shoulder hazily to meet his gaze.
your pussy pulses around nothing at the loss of his digits, all achy for more. he grunts low, at the slight nudge of your ass against his pelvis. holding you still by your hips. "…easy now."
a shuddered breath leaves you at the press of his bare length, half-tucked out of his shorts, rested at the line of your spine.
"told you to keep, cooking…didn't i?" you feel the thickness of his girthy tip, drag past the globes of your ass, resting it flush against your folds. you whine, clutching tightly around the rag.
"a-are you kidding me?" you manage in a soft squeak, hips nudging backwards to meet the languid thrusts he provides, tip catching your clit at every move.
"m'not."
the lucidness in his words make you shudder, and you take a shaky glance toward the sauté pan he's nudged your way. you squeeze your eyes shut, hands trembling as they clutch around the handle, lifting them onto the stove.
"atta girl."
your breath stuttered at the gentle probe of his tip, pressing insistently into you. "don't stop. please." your fingers fumble to turn the stove back on, and he rewards you with an inch.
"mm—hn."
clark's palm comes up to rest at the column of your throat, tilting your head up. you don't react to the sizzle on the pan as he deposits the mise en place, laid all organized on your cutting board.
"gonna let anyone fuck you like this, huh? that easy?"
your cheeks flush at his words, locking your gaze with his as he bottoms out fully in you. rolling his hips, setting a quick and hard pace.
"you think — nngh…fuck, just anyone's got the keys to my apartment?" you pull away from his hold, resting the back of your head against the crook of his neck. every thrust felt way too fucking good despite the initial sting.
"nah…just me." he smiles to himself, pants turning much more bated at every snap of his hips. "only i get to fuck you like this, mm?"
his voice is everywhere around you, in that needy, teasing intensity that threatens the familiar roll of your eyes whenever you were getting close. "l-like that, harder." your hands clutch around his forearm, meeting his thrusts halfway.
"ugh.. squeezing me so t—ight." he lowers his head, words muffled as he mouths at your neck. biting down at your pulse, the snaps of his hips grow more frenzied and urgent. clark's palm presses down hard at your clit, rubbing you until your body goes rigid in his hold, giving his cock a delicious series of pulses down his length.
"shit, oh shit shit." clark lets you come down from your orgasm, taking in the gentle squeezes of your cunt.
your body bucks forward, dangerously close to the steam radiating off the flame, clark catches your forehead before you got too close, groaning incoherent mumbles to your cheeks as he pulls out at the very last second.
he pumps, clumsily, the sound of the wet, thick soaps as he cums with a shudder, all over your lower back. you're completely putty, slumped against his chest, and you hear the distinct click of the stove, snapping you out of your orgasmic haze.
your gaze falls to the stove, where clark's effectively turned the gas off to a pan full of black, burnt vegetables.
notes friends to lovers, slow burn, heavy pining, down horrendous neteyam, inexperienced neteyam and reader, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), dry humping
synopsis for twenty-two generations, your father’s family has guarded a sacred legacy: one woman will choose a life of solitude and remain unmated for life for the service of the great mother and the people. you decided it will be you now... except for one problem. neteyam. the boy who has looked at you with quiet and unwavering devotion since you were children.
word count 19.2k
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You sat perfectly upright in the healing pavilion, your fingers meticulously sorting herbs as Kiri hummed softly beside you, a little unfocused as she sorted her own set of herbs. She has always been a little too connected to the forest and all its creatures. Once, when you were children, she’s told you about how she can feel Eywa in every plant, and every animal that crawls and walks.
You believed her without thinking twice. You wished you could connect to Eywa the same way she does, because it is your greatest dream to follow the path of your great aunt, Äye. You could see her now in your mind’s eye, her skin mapped with the lines of nearly eighty years of wisdom. She has been serving Eywa and the people since the Tsahik that Mo’at succeeded, so her counsel is sought on all matters of faith and ritual, even by Mo’at.
For the past twenty-two generations, a woman in your father’s family chooses the same path. They are women who belonged to no man, but to the Great Mother and the people. You aspire to be just like all of them. Your great aunt is the blueprint of your soul, so at twelve years old, you had already decided to tuck away your heart, to pay attention to no boy in the clan, preparing your life for one of worship.
“He didn't even look back once,” Yaremu’s voice pulled you away from your thoughts, her chin now rested in her hands as she neglected the poultice she was supposed to be thickening. “Neteyam, I mean. He’s so focused... Remember what the elder hunters said about the sturmbeest hunt? My uncle said it was the cleanest kill he’s seen from a boy of thirteen years. Not a single wasted movement.”
“And those eyes...” Another girl, Tasi, gushed, her tail twitching with excitement. “He’s going to be such a strong Olo’eyktan one day. Imagine being the one who gets to stand beside him.”
You kept your head down, making their chatter a background sound to your more interesting work of grinding your herbs on a mortar.
“Kiri,” Tasi whispered, leaning in closer. “Since you’re the sister. Is he always like that? And what about Lo'ak? Just the other day, he teased me about my braids and I know I ought to hate it, but he’s so cute I forgot to be annoyed!”
Kiri, who was lazily braiding a length of vine, gave a lopsided grin. “Lo’ak is… well, Lo’ak. He’s a total boy. He spends half his time trying to prove he’s a man and the other half being rowdy and disobedient. He doesn't know when to be quiet.“ She rolled her eyes.
You nodded in agreement while the girls giggled.
Yaremu pressed on, “And Neteyam?”
“Neteyam is alright,” Kiri said, shrugging. “He’s the eldest, after all, so he has a lot to do. He takes care of us when Mom and Dad are not around, and since he’s a hunter now, he’s mostly out.”
“He's so handsome,” Yaremu breathed, nudging you. “Don't you think so, too? He’s always in front of you when we study. Surely you’ve noticed how good he looks when the sun hits his shoulders?”
You paused your grinding, your brows already furrowed. You did not notice that at all. You felt the weight of their gaze, three pairs of eyes curiously waiting for what you have to say. “I notice that his grinding technique is sloppy,” you said, your voice flat. “And that he distracts the circle with their nonsense. If he is to be a leader, he should learn that a healing pavilion is a place of silence, not a stage for his friends to sneaker and fool around.”
The girls exchanged looks, suppressing smiles and rolling their eyes playfully. Tasi bumped her shoulder against yours. “You’re always too serious, sister! You can always study really hard and still have eyes in your head. Everyone should appreciate a beautiful hunter.”
A sudden, raucous burst of laughter was heard from outside the pavilion, making Yaremu and Tasi sit up straighter, going back to their works in an instant. It was a sound you knew very well and it always seemed to follow a particular group. Your cheeks burned, feeling like you’d been caught talking about him even though you were just answering questions! You sat properly, your jaw tightening a little as the voices grew louder, nearing the pavilion.
“Neteyam, you almost dropped it!” a voice boomed, followed by a chorus of snorts.
“I did not! It was Lo’ak, he bumped me!” Neteyam’s voice, already deepening, carried a playful defiance.
A small, knowing sigh escaped your lips. These interruptions are now a constant backdrop to your studies, and you hated it. They weren't even supposed to be here, especially Neteyam, who had just successfully passed his iknimaya and gone through his uniltaron, yet here they were, led by him, no less. You can’t even complain because even though they are rowdy, they are not only eager to learn, this is also beneficial to them as future warriors and hunters of the clan.
Neteyam himself proved to be an exceptional student in the art of healing, which you think is simply natural for him for he excels in everything anyway. He has earned so much praise from Mo’at’s assistant healers that they are now discussing a new initiative with the senior warriors: making first-aid training a requirement for every young warrior and hunter.
The bead curtain at the entrance of the pavilion clattered as the boys spilled inside. You saw Neteyam leading the way, his stride possessing a new, grounded grace since he became a full-fledged warrior of the clan following his iknimaya last season. Close behind were Lo’ak, who was busy trying to trip Atan, while Kipey struggled to carry a bundle of practice splints. Suddenly, the pavilion felt small and their boundless energy made you dizzy. The serene atmosphere you and the girls have earlier is now all but a thing of the past.
Healers Sayka and Jahi entered the pavilion not long after, and because you were looking at them, your eyes caught Neteyam’s and saw him already looking at you. You felt the fine hair on your nape standing up, a bizarre feeling that made you smoothly roll your eyes away, greeting the healers the same time they did.
“Find your places, quickly now,” called out Sayka, the senior assistant healer, as she walked down the aisle followed by Jahi. “The Great Mother does not wait for boys to finish their jests.”
The boys scrambled to sit. Naturally, Neteyam chose the spot directly across from you and your eyes met his again which you quickly averted by looking down on your pestle and mortar. He sat straighter and every time you reached for a new herb or adjusted your posture, you could feel his gaze, not heavy or lecherous, but steady nonetheless, as if he's focusing on a single star in the night sky to properly navigate in the air.
“We heard of the incident during the hunt three days ago,” Sayka began, her eyes landing on Neteyam. “One of the hunters took a horn to the thigh. Messy business,” all of you gasped. “Neteyam took care of the first aid. Didn’t you, Neteyam?”
Your eyes drifted to him and you saw him glanced at you before he turned to Sayka to silently nod at her.
“Tell the circle what the wound look like and what you did before the hunter was brought to the Tsahik.”
Neteyam shifted his focus to Sayka, though you felt the ghost of his attention still lingering on you. “It was a jagged gash,” he said, his voice grounded. “The horn had hooked the flesh, so it wasn't a clean line. There was a lot of blood...”
You watched for any fear or anxiety on his face, but there was none, only certainty and confidence that shouldn't belong on the face of a fourteen-year-old.
“And how did you respond?” Sayka pressed.
“I used a cloth tie as a tourniquet above the wound to slow the flow,” Neteyam explained. "Then I used river water to flush out the dirt. I didn't have any paste, so I just held a soft fortune leaf over it with steady pressure until we brought him to Tsahik.”
“Good. Simple and fast,” Sayka nodded and swept around with her gaze. “A jagged wound is not like a clean wound brought by the slice of a knife. If you have observed a clean slice, it most often closes on its own, but a jagged wound is an angry one. It stays open. Neteyam did well to flush it because with a jagged wound, the first thing to do is to clean it. Dirt hides in the flaps of the skin, so you must use cool, flowing water to wash away the debris. If anything is still inside, you leave it for the Tsahik, but if there’s none, you must clean it thoroughly.”
You nodded eagerly. You haven’t dealt with wounds like that before. Mostly, it was just scraped or small cuts. You wondered what a jagged wound actually looked like and debated whether to ask Neteyam for further details after the class is over. You took a thick and waxy dapophet leaf from the bundle Jahi was distributing. As the leaves were distributed, the quiet was immediately punctured by Lo’ak’s muffled snickering. He was leaning over to Kipey, whispering something about how Neteyam sounded like a “grumpy old grandmother” when he talked about bandages.
You felt a familiar spark of irritation, looking up to to fix the boys with a reprimanding glare, but your eyes didn't even make it to Lo’ak. They crashed into Neteyam’s instead and saw him already looking. The dappled sunlight filtered through the woven roof, casting golden patterns on him and for a moment, you understood what Yaremu was talking about. He is handsome, especially when bathed in sunlight.
You felt something in you flutter. Somewhere in your belly and it tickles. You parted your lips to let out an indignant huff, snapping your gaze away to fix it on Jahi when she spoke. The girls have instilled such ridiculous notions in your head and now, this is what happens!
“The leaves in your hands have a tough outer layer, but inside it is filled with fluid. Now, each of your leaves have a jagged cut you must stitch close,” Jahi explained and you smiled excitedly, looking down at your leaf and the stitching materials being distributed. “Remember not to pierce it too deeply or pull the edges too hard, because the juice might run out. This is similar to a wounded person, you wouldn’t want to pierce them too deeply or pull their skin too hard, would you? You must be mindful to the weight of your own hands.”
You concentrated on your work, carefully stitching the leaf back together. The girls are also silent, which is something you love about them, because nothing could take away their concentration from studying, not even the boy they’ve been mooning over minutes earlier. What annoys you, though, is that you are the one distracted. You could feel his constant glances on you and you decided you’re done with it.
You lifted your head to meet his eyes and you found him with his eyes already on you, as if waiting for the contact. It was infuriating. “Is there something wrong with my stitching, Neteyam?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through the silence.
The boys froze. Atan and Kipey exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Neteyam blinked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’re perfect. I mean, I mean your technique... It’s perfect. I was just looking to see... If I’m doing it right.”
Lo’ak cleared his throat and pretended to cover his face to cough, but his shoulders were shaking, and his face and neck darkened to purple. He was laughing. What’s so funny? You tilted your head and look at Neteyam’s leaf. He was doing it right. Your own face burned in embarrassment. Perhaps, he was truly just trying to look at yours to see if he’s doing his stitching right!
“I think yours is good. It looks like a clean stitch,” you said, returning to your leaf without waiting for a response.
“Thanks...“ he said, his voice still soft.
You heard the boys snicker and from your peripheral gaze, you can see them tease Neteyam with silent nudges. You looked at them and narrowed your eyes. The healers only left for a few moments and they are so rowdy again!
Neteyam, who had been grinning at something Lo’ak said, felt the weight of your gaze. You saw him turn, his golden eyes meeting yours, and his smile died instantly. The bravado drained out of his shoulders. He sat up straighter, his ears pinning back for a second before he composed himself into a mask of sudden, intense seriousness. Lo’ak started to let out another muffled laugh, but Neteyam’s elbow caught him sharply in the ribs.
“Shut up,” Neteyam whispered at his brother before clearing his throat and looking down at his own leaf with the intensity of a scholar.
The rowdiness of the boys died down into a strained, respectful silence, all because you had looked at Neteyam. Kiri turned to you with a knowing, almost mischievous glint in her golden eyes. You fixed her with a confused look and she shook her head, softly chuckling to herself.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You stood in a drawn circle at the training ground with your bowstring drawn back against your cheek. Tasi and Yareumu had already abandoned their targets, preferring to sit in the shade and braid flowers into each other's hair, giggling as they watched the young warriors spar in the ring. All four of you decided to train in archery just last season, but the two of them, including Kiri last week, already gave up on their trainings, citing its futility in the path they are choosing.
Two years had passed and the soft roundness of your childhood had now sharpened into lean, graceful lines of a young lady. At fourteen, the weight of the path you’re forging for yourself is no longer just a dream, but more and more like a shape forming true. You wanted to be of full service to the people, not just as a healer, but as a protector as well, even though you will not be Tsahik. So now, you’re planning to tame an ikran just like Kiri had the year before.
“It’s too much work for my arms,” Tasi sighed, waving a dismissive hand at her discarded bow. “Besides, why do I need to be an archer if I am to be a healer?“
“Because a healer must sometimes be the one to keep the patient alive before the wound is attended to,” you replied without looking back, releasing the arrow. It thudded into the center of the mossy target with a satisfying thwack.
“You are always so serious,” Yaremu teased. “Look, even the boys have stopped their sparring to watch you. Jeto looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.”
You didn't spare them a glance. You think boys are stupid... Some of them have already wasted half an hour watching and hooting at your every move. The same bunch even tried to invent “accidents” in the past moons just so you would look at them. If Neteyam hadn’t scolded them, they would have continued distracting you in your trainings. Fortunately, they’ve stopped now... But the annoyance of their constant attention has not ceased.
Neteyam stood with Kiri far behind you, supposedly discussing your plan to go up the Hallelujah Mountains soon to tame an ikran for yourself, but he couldn’t help but watch you, his ears tuning out everything Kiri was saying.
You seemed so uncaring of the boys’ antics, your chin tilted high, your air always radiating that quiet, indifferent coldness that made you seem miles above the dirt of the training ground.
“She’s such a snob,” he heard one of the boys mutter behind a rack of spears.
“As if it’s your first time. Keep doing nonsense and she’ll keep ignoring you!” Another replied, followed by a chorus of laughter.
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, a familiar surge of irritation rising in him. Of course. Other boys saw in you what he saw, but he couldn't pretend you were exclusively his to appreciate. Everyone admired you, from their parents to the children, the girls and the boys. And he couldn’t claim to be so different from them...
He had known for a long time exactly what you were to him.
“Neteyam? Are you even listening?” Kiri’s voice poked through his trance. She was leaning against a wooden rack, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as if she knows a secret he doesn’t. “I said the wind currents near the mountains are shifting. If she’s going up in three days, we need to leave earlier."
Neteyam cleared his throat, adjusting the strap of his knife sheath to hide his flustered state. “I heard you. The eastern peaks. I’ll make sure the gear is ready.”
He stepped forward, his shadow touching the edge of your circle. He didn't hover or said anything stupid like the other boys. He’s a boy of sixteen years now, much more matured than the boy he used to be, and somehow, you’ve separated him entirely from the others. You respect Neteyam. He is the future of the clan after all, the next in line to the Omatikaya leadership, and nothing about his presence demanded anything from you.
He waited for you to release your final arrow before he spoke. “Your draw is getting faster,” he noted, his voice an octave lower, and Kiri couldn’t help but snicker at her brother’s attempt to make his voice sound manlier in your ears.
“I have been practicing,” you said, lowering your bow, turning to face him. Your expression was the same mask of cool indifference you wore for everyone, but your eyes lingered on him a fraction longer than they did on the others and sometimes... When it lingered too long, you can feel your belly do the thing. The crazy thing.
He tilted his head and your eyes fluttered, not knowing what to track. Dappled sunlight was on him again and his braids were longer. It annoyed you to think that no boy in the clan is as handsome as him... And perhaps your friends are right. Eywa gave the people a vision to appreciate beauty.
“I can tell,” he said, his voice soft as though he wanted only you to hear what he's saying. “But you’re gripping the bow too tightly. Your hand will cramp and it won’t be good for our climb in two days.”
“I will adjust it,” you said, tearing your gaze off of him.
“You should,” he replied, stepping a bit closer, effectively blocking the view of the snickering boys behind him. “If you’re going to tame an ikran, you can't afford a cramped hand.”
You nodded once, adjusting your hand on the bow. Neteyam watched you adjust your grip, his eyes tracing the line of your knuckles until they softened. He felt a fierce, silent satisfaction in the way his body acted as a shield between you and the persistent stares of the other boys. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way about his possessiveness... The first thing an eldest brother like him ever learned was to share... And yet.
Two days later, you found yourself climbing what seemed like a never-ending vine path upwards. You see nothing below you but mist and hear not but the splash of a distant waterfalls and heavy breathing from the three of you. From his position just behind you on the vine paths, Neteyam found it difficult to focus on the climb.
His eyes were constantly drawn upward to the way you moved. You climbed with a desperate kind of grace, your fingers gripping the ancient roots with a strength that made his chest ache. He saw the sweat beads glistening on your temple and the way your jaw remained set in that stubborn resolve.
Every time you reached a treacherous gap, he felt his own breath hitch. He wanted to reach out, to catch you or guide you, but he knew better. He knew you wouldn’t like being treated more than a casual peer, so he was careful with everything he did, determined not to be shut out like the other boys.
When you all finally reached the summit, he handed you a waterskin and a woven cloth to wipe your sweat with before he even thought of his own thirst and sweat. Though you had your own supplies, you accepted them, only realizing later as you drank the cool water that he’d given you his. He was already focused on watching the ikran, calmly assessing them without bothering to wipe his sweat.
“Hoo! That was one hell of a climb,” Kiri said, drinking from her skin. “You ready?”
You nodded, untying your own waterskin and stepping closer to Neteyam to hand it to him. “You gave me yours,” you said, your eyes sharp and reprimanding, assuming he was too tired to remember you had your own. He accepted it, but you pulled back and opened the lid for him. As your attention shifted to the shrieking, flapping ikran, you missed the way his eyes flared with surprise and intense attraction. Kiri saw it, though, and chuckled to herself. You turned to Neteyam again.
Before he could even get another sip, you huffed, your eyes eyeing the beads of sweat rolling down his temple that was, frankly, getting on your nerves. You grabbed your own woven cloth, your hand wrapping around his forearm. “Hold still,” you muttered, stepping into his personal space.
You didn't dab at him gently. Instead, you used firm strokes, wiping his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Your brow furrowed in a small scowl as you moved to his neck. He was standing perfectly still, his breath hitching as he looked down at you. He didn't care that you were practically buffing his skin raw, because to him, the rough friction felt like a brand. He wasn’t asking for reward, but don’t mind if he greedily enjoys this. He leaned into it a fraction, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm that had nothing to do with the climb you all had just finished.
“There,” you said, finally satisfied. You shoved the cloth into his hand and his fingers touched yours. “Now drink. We don't have all day.”
You turned back to the ikran, missing the dazed, lopsided grin he directed at the back of your head. Kiri, standing a few feet away, just shook her head and gagged quietly. Could there be a worse nightmare for a 15-year-old girl than watching a romance unfold between her older brother and her best friend?
“I’m ready now,” you spoke, doing small jumps on the balls of your feet.
“Good luck,” Neteyam said in a hoarse voice, staying back with Kiri.
His heart hammered against his ribs like an forest ikran trapped in a vine as he watched you step onto the rocky arena, a lone figure among the beasts.
“Choose her,” he whispered under his breath, his fingernails digging into his palms. “See her as I see her.”
He watched a forest-green ikran lunge at you, its beak snapping with lethal intent. Most would have flinched, but you didn't. Neteyam’s breath caught in his throat, he practically stopped breathing as he watched you circle the beast, a blur of blue and shadow, as you dodge each of the beast’s attempt to strike.
When you finally leaped, clambering onto the beast’s neck and wrestling it toward the precipice, Neteyam took an involuntary step forward. His stomach dropping as he watched you both tumble over the edge, a chaotic mess of wings and limbs disappearing into the white abyss of the clouds. Your name tore at his throat, a shout full of fear. He was reminded of the many Omatikaya who died trying the same thing, and for a moment he felt his heart stop beating.
Silence stretched for eternity, both he and Kiri couldn’t talk, and then, a piercing shriek broke through the mist. Neteyam’s heart soared as you flew in the air, banked in a sharp, elegant curve. A lopsided grin broke through his mouth. You are now a rider. The way you sat atop the beast, your braids streaming behind you, and your face etched with a look of pure, wild triumph, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He didn't waste a second. He whistled for his own ikran that was flying aimlessly around the mountains. He mounted in one fluid motion and pushed his mount hard, diving into the sky to join you. As he pulled up alongside you, the wind roaring in his ears, he saw you look over.
The cold indifference was gone, burned away by the adrenaline of the bond. You laughed, a sound he had heard so rarely it felt like a gift, and for a second, his golden eyes locked onto yours.
I see you. I see you. I see you.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You gripped the pestle as you grinded the dried roots on the mortar. This is one those days when your friends are not with you, leaving you alone in the quiet of the Tsahik’s tent. You’re not quite sure which version you enjoy better, and you were just deciding that you actually like the peace and quiet when the flap burst open. Kiri stumbled in, her hair a mess and her expression frantic. In her arms, a very energetic and chunky Tuk was squirming, trying to catch a glowing fly.
“Oh, thank the Great Mother, you’re here,” she gasped, nearly dumping Tuk onto your worktable. “Grandmother just sent word. She wanted me to assist her in sister Tayke’s birth, apparently it’s complicated. Mom and Dad won't be back until eclipse. I have to go.”
You looked up from the tray of dapophet leaves you were sorting, blinking in surprise. "Kiri, I have three tinctures to finish before—”
“Please!” Kiri pleaded. “Neteyam is on patrol, Lo’ak is busy training the young ones, and Tuk is… Well, I can’t bring her with me. You’re the only one I trust not to let her eat a poisonous berry or wander off and fall to her death.”
You looked down at Tuk, who was now pulling at your medicine pouch with a wide, toothy grin. You felt warmth in your chest and your eyes soften, Kiri knew you were sold. “Fine,” you sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“You’re a life-saver! Literally!” Kiri shouted over her shoulder as she vanished back out of the tent.
For the first hour, it was chaos. Tuk treated the healing tent like a playground, toddling around and stacking your mortar bowls into towers and trying to “heal” her woven doll with the rarest medicinal pastes. But as the sun began to dip, her energy flickered out. The excitement turned into a sudden realization that she was tired and her mother wasn't there. Her small lips began to tremble, then came the first sob.
“I want Mama,” she said in a small voice, sending a pang to your chest.
“Oh, Tuk-tuk, no, don't cry,” you murmured, quickly moving to her. You scooped her up, tucking her small, heavy body against your chest.
You began to pace the length of the tent, swaying slowly which you had seen the mothers do a thosuand times. You hummed a low melody that seemed to soothe the child. Slowly, the wails turned into soft hiccups, and then into the deep breathing of sleep. You stayed there, standing in the center of the tent, swaying gently and feeling a strange, quiet peace settle over you.
Until the silence was broken by the soft thuds of footsteps outside. Neteyam moved the flap open, his large frame nearly filling the entrance. He had a large, bundled wrap of fortune leaves, the ones you had mentioned needing a few days ago. He had gone straight from his shift to the high ridges just to find them for you.
He stopped mid-stride, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.
He had expected to find you hunched over your work, with your brow furrowed in concentration. This was the last thing he would have expected seeing. The low glow of the hanging firepot illuminated the side of your face and the soft curve of your arms as you cradled his sister. You looked radiant, your face devoid of the mask of cold indifference you wear like an armor. From his current view, you are something warm, something attainable, something his.
Neteyam felt a surge of heat in his chest that made his pulse thrum in his ears. He noticed, with a sudden and sharp clarity, how the last few years had finished their work on you. The slight softness of the girl he used to trail behind had vanished, replaced by the striking, lithe form of a woman. Your beauty, the confidence in the way you stood, and the depth in your gaze all felt like a challenge to everything he knew about your vows. He knew of your great aunt Äye, he knew the weight your family’s traditions. But seeing you there, swaying his sister to sleep, made his heart ache with a hunger that no amount of prayer could suppress.
You turned your head slowly, your eyes widening as you saw him. “Neteyam,” you breathed, your lips curving into a soft, genuine smile.
It didn't help with the delusions he was currently having.
For you, the sight of him was no less of a shock. You were no longer the twelve-year-old girl who was simply annoyed by a rowdy boy. Now, those “stupid” teenage flutters in your belly had evolved into something more. Looking at him now, you felt a creeping heat settle on your nape and spread down your spine.
He had grown so much. He was so much taller and broader, his skin mapped with faint scars, and his golden eyes carry a depth that made you feel exposed. You hated how handsome he had become and how his presence seemed to command the very air in the tent. You looked at the heavy muscles of his arms, then back to his face, and felt a wave of shame.
These are bad thoughts, you scolded yourself, even as your heart hammered a rhythm of betrayal against your ribs. Your skin was tingling and you were practically fighting not to hug Tuk against you harder in your attempt to quell it. A woman on your path should not hunger for the touch of a man! But as your eyes met his in the dimmed light, the ’path’ you had walked so carefully for years suddenly felt terrifyingly narrow.
“You're back,” you whispered. “Kiri said you were on patrol.”
“I was,” he managed to say. He didn't move to put the leaves down. He didn't want to break the tether of this moment. “I found what you needed. Kiri said you were planning to go and get them yourself. Don’t want you going to the ridges on your own.” His head tilted, a brow rising in challenge.
“I’m perfectly capable of navigating the ridge, you mighty warrior. Thank you very much,” you countered, though the bite in your voice was softened by the warmth in your eyes as you swayed Tuk. “I’ve had my ikran for years now. Or did you forget who beat you in that race to the mountains last moon?”
Neteyam let out a short, huffed laugh, finally moving into the tent. “I didn't forget. I merely allowed the lady a moment of glory. It’s called being a gentleman.”
“It’s called being slow,” you shot back, a genuine smirk breaking through your face.
He reached out then, his large hands moving toward the sleeping toddler in your arms. “Here, give her to me. You looked like you’ve stood here for an hour already, I’m sure your arms are ready to fall off.”
As he leaned in to take her, Tuk stirred. Instead of reaching for her brother, she let out a tiny, sleepy whimper and buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, her small fingers clutching your necklace.
“Oh,” you both whispered at the same time.
“Aww,” you cooed softly, your heart vibrating in your chest, making you almost shiver.
Neteyam echoed the sound with a look of such raw tenderness crossing his face that you had to look away. He didn't pull back; instead, he leaned down and pressed a lingering, gentle kiss onto Tuk’s forehead. His face was inches from yours, the scent of mint and the heat of his skin registering to your senses. You felt like a puddle of candle wax. Soft, melting, and utterly ruined.
“I guess I’m stuck,” you whispered, your voice slightly breathless.
His eyes lifted to meet yours, flashing a smile that made your belly go crazy. “Then let me be of use,” he said, turning to your workbench. “Since your hands are full, tell me what to do. I’m at your command.” He raised a brow playfully.
You didn't hesitate. You needed your tasks done and if he wanted to stay, you’re done fighting the pull. For tonight. “Fine. Those fortune leaves you brought needed to be stripped and ground. Gently, Neteyam,“ you said in a stern voice.
“Oh, I know gentle,“ he quickly remarked, looking down at his leaves just as quick as if he didn’t want to see how you’ll react.
You felt your face heat up at his remark. It could be innocent, you know, but because your mind has thought of many bad things when it came to him, you can’t react properly anymore! Your eyes narrowed. “Just get to work. Don't use your warrior strength on them, or you’ll bruise it.”
He sat down, hunched over the mortar and pestle. The sight was so domestic and it felt dangerously right. You rubbed the soft skin on Tuk's back when she nestled to you. Neteyam looked up and you raised a brow. “How was the western perimeter?” you asked instead. "Kiri mentioned the trackers saw fresh signs of a palulukan near the falls."
Neteyam’s ears flicked. “They did. A big one, too,” he paused to wipe a stray bit of leaf from his thumb. “Apparently, it crossed their path the other day. They had to stay up in the trees for an hour just to let it pass.”
The conversation drifted into something comfortable and domestic. You asked about the next sturmbeest hunt, and he asked about the last herbs he’s given you that you turned into cooling salves. It was so easy, so natural, that you feel nothing but comfort and warmth.
“Is this enough?” he asked, holding up the mortar. The leaves had been transformed into a perfect, dark-green paste, the scent of crushed mint rising from the bowl.
“It’s perfect,” you said, stepping closer to inspect his work. “You’ve missed your calling, warrior. You’d make a fine assistant to Mo’at.”
“I think I’ll stick to my bow,” he teased, his voice dropping into that lower, private register. “Stirring pots is much more dangerous work. I might get ordered around too much.”
“You say that as if you don't enjoy it," you countered, meeting his eyes.
He wasn’t only enjoying it. He was happy. He was more than happy. Every time he glanced up and saw you cradling Tuk, a small child who share the same features he got from his mother, his mind went to places that felt both beautiful and forbidden. He dared to imagine a life where this wasn't a temporary favor for Kiri, but a permanent reality.
The teasing died away when you heard the horn for the evening meal echoed. You walked together toward the communal clearing, the weight of the sleeping child in your arms and Neteyam’s steady presence at your side giving you a sense of belonging that terrified you.
“Your parents aren’t back yet,” you noticed, glancing at the empty dais.
Tuk stirred in your arms, slowly waking up from her slumber. Her eyes drifted to Neteyam, dazed at first but when it registered that her older brother is in front of her, her eyes widened. “Neteyam!” her tiny voice a shrill.
You chuckled, handing her over when she wriggled in your arms, her own tiny arms reaching for Neteyam who readily accepted her with a huff. “Ow. So heavy,” Neteyam playfully said, blowing a kiss on Tuk’s chubby cheek before looking at you. “You carried this boulder for hours?” His free hand shot down to hold one of your arm, instantly massaging.
You chuckled, pinching Tuk’s cheek. “It's alright,” you said, noticing the inquisitive looks some people are giving the two of you. Your cheeks burned, quickly sitting down. Neteyam immediately followed, settling Tuk on his lap. He sat close, close enough that your thighs where brushing, and as the food was passed around, you naturally began to tear off small pieces of roasted fish to feed Tuk.
Across the fire, Lo’ak was huddled with Atan and Kipey. The three of them were barely eating, their heads bowed together as they whispered and pointed.
“Look at them,” Atan snickered, nudging Lo’ak. “If I didn't know better, I’d say the Tsahik’s seat was already filled.”
“Total parents,” Kipey whispered, grinning. “Neteyam looks like he’s ready for a family at nineteen.”
Lo’ak snorted, watching you reach over to wipe a smudge of juice from a stomping Tuk’s chin while Neteyam watched you with a look of such longing and admiration it was almost embarrassing to witness. “He’s gone,” Lo’ak muttered, shaking his head. “He’s been gone for years. He’s practically just waiting for her to melt up.”
“Nom nom!” Tuk said eagerly while a piece of the meat she was holding fell on your thigh.
Neteyam’s hand shot out to pick it up, quickly popping it into his mouth. You looked at him in disbelief. “That just fell,” you pointed out as you watched him chew.
“Not on the ground, but on your skin. That makes it a blessing,” he countered, his voice hummed with a playful vibration.
A blessing? You rolled your eyes away, focusing your attention on Tuk’s messy face to hide the flush creeping up your face. “You are disgusting,” you muttered, though there was no real heat in it.
“I’m efficient,” he corrected, leaning in closer so his shoulder brushed yours. “And hungry. Patrolling is exhausting work, especially when you’re looking for fortune leaves on the side.”
Tuk giggled, sensing the shift in energy, decided to pat Neteyam’s cheek with a sticky hand. “Neteyam silly!”
“See? Even the little one knows,” you teased, finally regaining your composure. You reached for a damp cloth to clean Tuk’s hand, but Neteyam beat you to it. His large fingers gently wrapped around his sister’s small wrist, wiping her palm with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
As you basked in the laughter of the people surrounding you, the thought of the solitary path you were always so sure of your entire life suddenly feel like a cold, lonely place that you didn’t notice you were already leaning closer to the warmth of Neteyam’s arm against yours. In that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The sounds of voices and of hunters sparring in the training grounds grew louder as you hurried past, your arms filled with fresh bundles of sterilization moss and clean cloths. Mo’at had sent word about the labor of one of the pregnant women in the clan. You were in a hurry, your pace swift yet your spine remained straight, your chin tilted high, as per usual.
A hunter called your name from the weapon racks. “Careful there, the ground is uneven! Do you need strong hunter to clear the path for you?“
“She won't answer you, skxawng,“ another laughed. “Perhaps if you bring her herbs, or better yet, if you were a better warrior than Neteyam!”
“Just ask me to be the next Toruk Makto, why don’t you?” The former remarked sarcastically.
Neteyam watched from the sidelines, a senior warrior was talking to him but his gaze was busy tracking you, watching how you didn't even break your stride or tilt your head. Your chin remained high, your eyes focused on the path ahead. He had known for a long time that to you, the voices of men who call to you were merely just buzzing of summer insects, something too beneath your notice.
“I’ll work on that, brother, then I’ll get back to you,” he told the senior warrior, nodding to him seriously. The latter clapped his shoulder before walking away.
“What a shame,“ he heard one of the hunters mutter. “To have such beauty in the clan, only for it to be locked away for the Great Mother. She takes after Äye. She won't ever look at a man, let alone mate with one.”
“Unattainable,” heard another agree, sighing. “She’s like the High Peak. Beautiful to look at, but no one is meant to live there.“
Their conversation, though, halted instantly the moment Neteyam strode out from the shade. His eyes were dark and unimpressed as he looked at them, that even the hunters a few years older than him couldn’t help but look away.
“Is that what we do now?” Neteyam asked, his voice low but cutting. “Stand around the racks, bothering those on tasks for the Tsahik? Talking about our women with disrespect?”
The first hunter looked away, embarrassed. “It was just a joke, Neteyam.”
“Your mouths keep buzzing like forest insects,” Neteyam snapped, stepping forward so they were forced to look at him. “This constant hooting at her is getting old. Have you not outgrown it? She is doing important work for the clan. If I see the bunch of you doing anything other than training again, I will personally ensure all of you spend the rest of the moon cleaning the waste pits.”
They nodded efficiently, their faces the poster of good behavior, but Neteyam would remember. The next time this happens again, it won’t be just scolding they are getting. He remained standing there though, reflecting on what the hunters have said. None of it had been a lie and he’d felt the bitter, familiar spark of pride and pain flickered in his chest. They are right, he thought, you are unattainable.
He knew better than anyone the depth of your conviction. Over the past years, your quiet friendship had become the foundation of his life, but it was a foundation built on a boundary he could never cross. He had seen you at your most vulnerable and your most powerful, and in his heart, he had long ago committed a quiet kind of blasphemy. He worshiped Eywa the best he could, but you were his deity on land, one whose words he followed without question. One he guards with all of him.
Now, at twenty-one, he had become as reserved as you are, making a silent vow of his own: if you were to be alone, he would be alone with you. He would make a good Olo’eyktan but he didn’t need to be mated to ensure that. The tradition of the leaders being mated was a strong one, but Neteyam knew he could never give himself to another woman when his soul and his heart had long been claimed by a woman who belonged to the Great Mother. If friendship was all the nectar you could offer, he would live his entire life on that single drop.
He turned back to his warriors. He would lead, he would hunt, and he would protect. And in the quiet hours of the night, he would continue to love you from the distance you required, content to be the only man you didn't ignore, even if he could never be the man you held
Hours later, you are alone in the Tsahik’s tent, the adrenaline of the birth you assisted for the first time had yet to leave your system. You were wiping down a set of obsidian scalpels when the tent flap lifted, letting in the cool evening breeze that carried the familiar smell that always seemed to ground you.
Neteyam didn't speak at first, standing just inside the entrance. He had showered away the dust of the training grounds, his skin gleaming in the soft light of the firepot. You lifted your eyes, your lips still curved in a small, satisfied smile. You let your eyes do the thing they always do when he’s in front of you. Feast on. He was the very image of a future leader. Muscled, scarred, and radiating an authority that silenced most men with a single look.
“Hi,” you greeted.
His lips formed a boyish smile. “The village is finally quiet,” he said, his voice dropping into that private, velvet register. “Was the delivery alright? How was it?“
You sighed softly, and for the first time that day, your mark dissolved into a radiant, tired smile. “It was a boy,” you breathed, setting the scalpel down. “Healthy and loud. He didn't stop wailing until Mo’at placed him on his mother’s chest.“
Neteyam moved closer, leaning against a support beam near your herb rack. “And the mother?“
“Strong. She was incredible, Neteyam.” You moved to a bundle of dried leaves, your hands working quickly to sort them, your enthusiasm bubbling over. “But you should have heard Mo’at. While she was cleaning the babe, she looked at him and then looked at me and said, ‘this one is small. Neteyam, now, he was a giant. The biggest baby I have seen in all my cycles’. She said you were so large she nearly wondered if Neytiri had hidden a second child behind you.”
Neteyam’s ears flicked back, a rare flush appeared on his cheeks. He huffed a laugh, looking down at his large, callous hands. “A giant, was I? I suppose I’ve given my mother’s back quite the ache.”
You let out a genuine, silvery chuckle, the sound dancing through the quiet tent. “I truly wish I could have seen you then. You were the very first of your kind, your father’s blood... and that of ours. I’m sure you were beautiful.” you mused, your voice softening as you looked at him. You realized too late how that sounded, and you quickly turned back to your jars. “It is a wonder of Eywa.”
“Is that why you look at me so closely sometimes?“ he teased, stepping into your personal space to reach for a heavy jar on a high shelf you are struggling to reach.
“I do not look at you closely,” you lied, your heart doing that treacherous dance against your ribs as he reached over your head. His arm was a solid wall of muscle beside your ear, and the scent of mint enveloped you.
“You do,” he countered softly, handing you the jar but not pulling his hand away until your fingers were firmly around his. “You track my movements like I am a complex creature you are trying to categorize. It is quite intimidating, being under the gaze of the clan’s most devoted scholar.”
You rolled your eyes, though your hands were trembling. “You are imagining things. Why would I look at you...” Your lips pushed forward, your voice lacking bravado.
Your heart is beating too heavily against your chest and your palms are sweating. He notices. He knows your eyes are often on him. He knows you watch each of his movements, he knows you feel hot every time you see how his shoulder and chest significantly broadened and filled out with muscles, or how the sight of his muscled abdomen flexing makes your breath catch at your throat.
“Research? To see how the 'hybrid' grows?” he says, his voice too innocent.
Your teeth gritted at your attempt to stop a groan from escaping. You are going to hyperventilate! You cleared your throat. “Maybe,“ you managed to say, your voice tight as you gripped the jar he’d just handed you. “It is a healer's duty to be thorough. I simply... pay attention to detail.”
He chuckled while your face felt like it had been plunged into a firepot. Neteyam is too innocent, while your mind is filled with inappropriate thoughts that shouldn’t even be there in the first place. You are a woman firm on the sanctity of your path! For Eywa's sake, gather your wits!
“Well,” he murmured. “If the research is still ongoing, I suppose I am already here. Do you need to... measure anything else? Or is the height of the hybrid sufficient for today's report?”
Your breath caught in your throat. He was obviously teasing, his voice light and playful, but because you're guilty of your shameful thoughts, what is to him simple banter between friends is slow torture to you.
“I need to boil the nettles,” you said, abruptly turning your back you nearly bumped into a tray of obsidian.
Your hands trembled as you reached for a pot of water. Your mind, usually a home of prayer and medicinal formulas, was currently a chaotic mess. You’re both ashamed and shameless, because despite your guilt, you’re still thinking about how soft the chest on his skin looked in the light.
“You're using the cold-press pot for a boil,” Neteyam noted softly.
You felt him behind you, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades as he reached around you to get the correct ceramic vessel. For a heartbeat, you were encased in him. You could see the way the veins mapped his hands, hands that were built for a bow and arrow but also held the young with devastating gentleness.
Eywa, strike me down, you thought, squeezing your eyes shut for a fleeting second.
“Right. Of course,” you choked out, grabbing the correct pot from him with an unusual rashness that his surprised eyes flitted up to meet yours.
“You seem distracted,” he said, his voice losing some of its playfulness.
Your brows furrowed, intending to give him a sharp dismissal, but your gaze caught on the way his lower lip was slightly tucked under his teeth, a habit he’d had since he was ten. It was so boyish, so familiar, and yet, on this man’s face, it was lethal.
“No, of course, not... I’m just tired. It’s been a long day,” you said.
He nodded, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray braid behind your ear. “I’ll work on that, you can go and sit down. I’ll clean up, too,” he said, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made you want to scream. His hand wrapped around your upper arm to gently nudge you away from the hearth.
“I can do it,” you said, though your feet were already moving.
“You've been on your feet since the first light,” he countered, his voice firm with that quiet authority he had perfected over the years. “Let me do it, alright? I’ve got so much energy to spare. I didn’t have patrol today, so I’m practically a live wire.”
He turned back to the hearth, his movements fluid and confident. You sank onto the woven mat and from this lower vantage point, the view was even more treacherous. You tried to look at the ceiling. You tried to recite the properties of your herbs. You tried to pray. But your eyes kept drifting back to the way the light of the flames danced across the broad expanse of his back, and the way his tail flicked in a slow, content rhythm as he worked.
“There,” Neteyam said after a few minutes, oblivious to the spiritual crisis happening three feet behind him. He set the pot to simmer and began to move around the workbench. “The nettles are on. I’ve organized the herbs, cleaned everything, and put the scalpels back in its place. Is there anything else, or can I walk you back home now so you can get a better rest?”
“I can walk myself,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly. You scrambled to your feet, desperately trying to reassemble the fragments of your dignity. “Thank you, Neteyam. For the... assistance.”
He stood by the tent flap, holding it open for you. He didn’t press, you know he never would. You passed by him and he gave you a small, tired smile. “Sleep well,” he murmured, your name on his lips a soft caress.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The summer heat had settled over the forest like a heavy, humid blanket, causing most Omatikaya youth to retreat to the river when the sun is at its high. Today alone, half the village had migrated to the banks, the air filled with splashes of water and sounds of laughter.
You sat on a smooth, warm boulder, the rock's heat seeping into your skin. Being bare was as natural as breathing for the people held no shame in the bodies Eywa gave them. Your legs were still submerged in the cold water as you eat the snacks you brought with you. Tasi and Yaremu were wading in the shallows nearby, their voices dropped to conspiratorial whispers that still carried easily over to you.
“He didn't stop there,” Yaremu was saying, her eyes wide and dancing with a secret, frantic energy. She was describing a rendezvous with her boyfriend las night, her hands gesturing toward her lower extremities submerged in the water. “He started at my ankles, and then… well, the way his tongue felt between my legs… I thought I was going to see the Great Mother right then and there.”
Tasi squealed and giggled, leaning in for more. “Was it better than the last time?”
“Oh, it was! It seems to get better and better, you know... We are exploring and learning each other’s bodies,” Yaremu grinned.
Tasi sighed dreamily. “I could say the same. But it’s the way he breathes against my neck that gets me,” Tasi whispered, her fingers tracing the line of her own collarbone. “The heat of it. And when he finally... when he enters, it’s like your whole body forgets how to be separate from his. You are basically a single entity, moving as one—”
Yaremu giggled, splashing a bit of water. “Oh, Great Mother! And the hands! How heavy they feel when they finally stop being polite and start claiming what they want.”
They both giggled, their bodies vibrating with frantic energy. Tasi looked at you and smiled a small one, “Oh, sister! I wish you could have experienced it... But the path reserved for the Great Mother is just as good,” she said.
You made a face of theatrical disgust. “Oh, don’t feel bad for me, sister, I’m not missing out. I can’t even imagine,” you said sassily.
But oh, that’s a big lie. Your mind, usually so disciplined, had been picturing a very specific set of calloused hands, a very specific weight. You saw them on your waist, just as Tasi had described, pulling you flush against the solid warmth of a very familiar body. You imagined the “weight” Yaremu spoke of, imagining how a certain body would weigh. Your mind even completed the picture by providing you with the familiar scent of mint and woodsmoke, you could actually smell it.
It’s like their words were seeds who fell into fertile soil, and now you felt a flush that had nothing to do with the sun.
That was when you saw him.
Neteyam was waist-deep in the deeper water a few paces away, his skin glistening. He was surrounded by a few other hunters, their voices a low drone but their laughter boisterous. He was mid-laugh, but anyone can tell his eyes would wander to you every now and then, because when his gaze drifted back to where you are, his laughter died down a little. His eyes locked onto yours, and the air between you seemed to burn.
There was no boyish embarrassment in the way he stared at you, no hurried glance at the sky. He watched you with a heavy, predatory stillness it made your nape feel like it’s burning as goosebumps pricked your skin. You are not ashamed in your nakedness, the people have always swam in the river like this, and nothing is new with seeing each other naked.
But the gaze of the man across from you had given you a defiant, primitive urge. Instead of hiding, you shifted. You leaned back on your palms, tilting your head to the side to let the sun hit your neck. You arched your spine slowly, a deliberate, feline stretch that pushed your chest forward. Your breasts, firm and perky, on display as the tips pebbled. You felt his eyes track the movement. From this distance, you could see his pupils blow wide, his tail breaking the surface of the water behind him in a sharp, agitated flick. He didn't move, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.
The tension followed you back to the village, and now, even as the sun dipped below the horizon and the communal fire dimmed, the memory of his gaze still made your skin hot. You were walking back to the Tsahik’s tent, intending to collect the herbs you dried and make the poultice you’ve been meaning to make.
The walk was silent, until it was broken by the sound of familiar footsteps behind you. You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. His scent had reached you and the air seemed to tighten, enough to tell you who it is. You plastered on a calm facade before you turned around, seeing him standing in the shadows, his silhouette tall and imposing, his breathing heavy as if he had run to get here.
“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said, his voice a low, rough grate. He stepped into the light of the firepot, his expression uncharacteristically strained. “Earlier, at the river... I hope I did not frighten you.”
Your lower lip caught between your teeth. You remembered the way your body had reacted to him, the way you had arched your back, offering yourself to his eyes. The shame you expected to feel was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a blooming heat, and a frantic beating heart.
“I wasn't frightened,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. You took a small, daring step toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m... I’m glad you saw me.”
Neteyam’s breath hitched, and then a huff of chuckle escaped his lips. What you said was just the surface, small in the vastness of what he had always held for you. “I have always seen you,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
It seemed so simple, and yet it was all he could say. He wanted to tell you the truth of it, how he had been here since you were children, since the first time you ever looked at him after he had become aware of his feelings. That there was never been anyone else he truly saw. But he would not frighten you. To know that you were not frightened of him after his boldness at the river had been a relief.
You smiled softly, a genuine, aching look that reached your eyes. “I know... I also know that not everyone does...” you said, your hand lifted to press a palm against his muscled chest.
You are perceived differently by everyone in the clan. Just like Äye, you will soon be seen more as a figure of religion or the shadow of the Great Mother. But in your most private daydreams... This man in front of you sees you as a woman... But even if you know that he does, your path does not lead to him. Your palm felt scorched where it touched his chest, feeling the powerful thud of his heart against your fingertips. He was flesh and blood and heat.
He took a half-step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “They are fools...” he whispered.
You knew you should pull back. You should change the topic and speak of the cooling salves or the morning rituals. But the memory of the river, of the way he had looked at you when you were bare and unashamed, was the only thought taking over your mind.
“Neteyam,” you breathed.
You voice was so soft, so lovely in his ears, that for the first time in his life, he dared to break through the boundaries. He leaned down, his movement slow, giving you every second to turn away. But you stayed. You stayed until his forehead and nose touched yours. You heart was beating too fast it was aching in your chest. You wanted to hold him, to grab him and hold him tight to you.
When his lips finally met yours, it was a collision of years of unspoken feelings and repressed hunger. You let out a soft sound into his mouth as your fingers curled into his chest strap, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. The kiss was clumsy at first, the frantic meeting of two people who had only ever touched in dreams, but then his hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your braids to tilt your head just right.
As he deepened the kiss, his other arm wound around your waist, hauling you flush against the unyielding lines of his body. You felt the heat of his skin and the terrifying strength of his hold. For this one moment, the twenty-two generations of solitary women in your family were silenced. The path was gone. There was only the weight of his hands and the feel of his soft lips against yours.
When he pulled back, just an inch, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. He kept his arms locked around you, his chest heaving as he stared down at you with a look of pure, terrifying devotion. A huge smile sliced across your lips and he grinned, huffing a shaky laugh. You let a breathless laugh yourself, your fingers tangling in his braids.
“Are you making cooling salves? I can be of use. I make the best of them, you know that,” he said casually.
Your nose wrinkled. “I guess I’ll need the help,” you said, your eyes drifting back to his lips. “And the kisses, too.”
You startled when a thunder of laughter escaped him, pulling you to him for a more thorough hug. “Oh, my middle name has always been generous.”
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You felt his tail wrap possessively around your leg, a grounding, heavy weight as his mouth moved to the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. Your head fell back, a soft, traitorous moan escaping your lips. “Neteyam...” you muttered breathily. “Don’t leave marks...”
“Hmm?” he hummed with humor, his mouth already sucking some skin into its warmth.
“Tasi pointed out... the marks on my neck the other day,“ you said. “I can’t keep telling her it’s insect bites.”
His body shook as he chuckled, lifting his head to press a kiss on your lips. Then his lips repeated a trail on your jaw, leaving wet kisses and licks, making you smile as you held him tighter. “Why... Can’t help it. You taste so good,” he murmured.
“I’m not a fruit,” you countered.
He hummed, sucking on your skin softly. “So sweet, nonetheless.”
You cupped his face, bringing it up so you could kiss him. You both have improved significantly in the past weeks, having found a different hobby aside from talking, when you two are alone. He helps you in the healing tent, but it’s not always that your companions are not around, like today. Kiri and Mo’at are in the tent, preparing for a severe injury a hunter got from a hunt. You had told Mo’at you will search for night-blooming lilies, but your feet had led you straight to where you knew Neteyam finished his scout rounds.
And now, you’re here, half-lying against a massive tree root, under the comforting weight of a warrior who couldn’t stop kissing you. He deepened the kiss and you felt his hand hover on your waist. One of your hands lowered to hold one of them and his hand immediately move to intertwine his fingers with yours.
You smiled, but that was not your intention. You brought his hand to one of your peaks, moving your top aside so his hand could touch the soft flesh bare. You gained a soft groan from him and he lifted his head to look at you. You rose to chase his lips, pressing his hand on your boob and moaning when he began kneading it.
“Yes...“ you mumbled.
His lips lowered down and you arched your back, waiting for his lips to reach your peaks, and when it did, you fought with your entire body just so you wouldn’t shake and buck. The sensation felt so good, it made you feel even hotter. It made you want to close you thighs, but because his body was between your legs, you could only buck against him.
“Oh...” you moaned, bucking against him again when you felt a hard ridge make contact with your clothed softness. “Neteyam...”
He hummed, his mouth full of your soft flesh, sending delicious vibration across your chest. You felt his hand move down to your hips, holding you in place before his hips came down on you, dragging that hard ridge you felt earlier across your crotch. You shivered, squeezing your eyes tight as you moaned. He repeated it again and again until you felt so ticklish in that spot between your legs, feeling a warm pool of liquid gushing out of you.
“Fuck,“ you heard him say, moving away from you a little to fumble at his loincloth. You felt a warm wetness land on your thigh and he groaned. “Fuck, sorry,“ his deep voice grated and you felt his hand, but you were already lifting your head to see.
You lips parted at the sight of his erected cock on display, a gasp escaping you. It was long and thick, its wide tip a flush of dark indigo, wet with his own release. Most of the glistening essence was on the floor and some were on your thigh. You genuinely didn’t know what to focus on. Your mind wandered to Tasi’s talks and this can’t possibly be the thing that enters a woman.
You curiosity got the better of you though, your hand shot down to grab it but his hand was faster, grabbing your wrist and moving it away. Your nose flared in annoyance and your eyes lifted to glare at him, but he met you with eyes that spoke of challenge.
“That's right. Keep your eyes up here,” he said in that private, lower register, his hand putting that thing back inside his loincloth.
You groaned and pulled your wrist from him. “I just want to touch it,” you whined.
He angled his head to kiss you. “Unless you want to drive me insane, you can’t,” his hand hovered over your thigh to wipe his release off of your skin.
Your hand shot down again, but this time, to dip a finger on his release, popping it to your mouth before he could even react. You were like a kid left unattended with a food that fell on the ground and he's the adult keeping you away from it, because now, he's staring at you both in surprise and wonder. You hummed at its surprisingly good taste and he wasn’t even able to stop you when you dipped a finger the second time around, scooping more essence, and keeping eye contact with him as if daring him to stop you.
You broke eye contact to look at it, intending to scoop down again but his hand already wrapped around your wrist, stopping you. You glared at him, groaning again, but he was already wiping your thigh clean with a piece of cloth. Your lips pushed forward, sad to see the essence gone. “You’re such a kill joy,” you said in a whine, your tail moving under you in an agitated flick.
He huffed a chuckle, his face moving to kiss your pouting lips softly. “Sorry, my love... Maybe next time,” he murmured.
Your hands lifted to hold his face properly so you could kiss him better, smiling against his lips.
A week later, you found yourself standing above the plains, overlooking the valley below as you gripped your basket half-full of cliff-blossoms. Neteyam was leading a pack of young hunters on a sweep of the forest floor. From this distance, he was a vision of controlled power, commanding the space around him without even speaking. You watched him signal a halt with a sharp, fluid movement of his arm. He barked an order, his voice carrying upward, deep and resonant.
He was wearing his full warrior gear, the woven chest straps accentuating the massive breadth of his shoulders and cummerbund hugging his muscled torso. You felt a wave of heat wash over you, settling low in your belly. You were practically vibrating with a hunger that felt both blasphemous and inevitable. You imagined him coming to the Tsahik’s tent later tonight, covered in the dust of the hunt, and the way he would look at you when he finally got you alone.
“A natural leader, isn’t he?”
You jumped, nearly dropping your basket. Kiri was standing a few paces away, her head tilted, watching you with an expression that was far too perceptive for your comfort.
“The clan is in good hands,” you said quickly, forcing your voice into its usual even tone. You turned back to the cliff-side, picking at a blossom with trembling fingers.
She didn't say anything else, but the way she sniffed the air, a subtle twitch of her nose, made your heart stop. For weeks, she had been quiet, but you know how observant Kiri is; she knew the difference between the scent of night-lilies and the scent of her brother who had been spending far too much time tangled in your limbs.
Later that evening, the Tsahik’s tent was filled with the sounds of your friends’ chatters and the air thick with the smell of boiling herbs. Mo’at was away at a naming ceremony, leaving you, Kiri, Tasi, and Yaremu to manage the evening prep.
“He was so frustrated,” Yaremu giggled, crushing a handful of seeds. “I told him we couldn't go all the way, so he just... he took my hand and guided it. I didn't know a man could make those kind of sounds just from a touch of the fingers.”
Tasi leaned in, her eyes wide. “Wait, you just... with your hand? Like you were kneading dough?”
“More like stroking clay, but faster,” Yaremu whispered, her face flushed. “They get so sensitive there. It’s like they lose their minds.”
Kiri let out a boisterous cackle, throwing a piece of bark at Yaremu. “You two are so inappropriate! We are at the Tsahik’s tent!”
You stared into the boiling pot, the memory of Neteyam’s... thing... flashing behind your eyes. You had never seen it again, he made sure of that. But you remembered the way he had stopped you from touching it, the way he had claimed it would "drive him insane."
“Is it... difficult?“ you asked without thinking, your voice cutting through the laughter.
The tent went dead silent. Tasi and Yaremu stared at you as if you had just grown a second head. Even Kiri stopped laughing, her luminous eyes narrowing as she shifted her gaze toward you.
“Difficult?” Tasi repeated, stunned. “Since when do you care about the mechanics of a man’s pleasure?“
“I am a healer,” you said, your chin tilting up, though your pulse was racing. “I am simply curious about the... response. Yaremu mentioned they make sounds. Is it a reflex, or a choice?”
Yaremu grinned slowly. “Oh, it's a reflex, sister. They can't help it. If you move your thumb just right over the tip... they break. Even the strongest of them.”
You swallowed hard, your mind instantly picturing Neteyam breaking under your hand. The thought made the tips of your breasts ache against your top. “I see,” you said, stirring the pot with a bit too much force. “Fascinating. From a research perspective, of course.”
“Of course,” Kiri echoed. She moved closer to you, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Might I ask, sister, if you have been giving Neteyam your favorite lillies... Because he’s been smelling an awful lot like them lately.”
Your lips parted. You haven’t even noticed that! “M-Maybe... Maybe he uses them when he bathes,” you lied.
She pulled away with a smile, nodding as if she understood, while Tasi and Yaremu continued to gossip, blissfully unaware of what’s going on. You didn’t know whether to be worried about Kiri’s reactions or not, still thinking about it even when the evening meal was over. You went back in the Tsahik’s tent, focused on grinding a stubborn root into paste, your pestle acting as a heartbeat for the quiet room.
Your entire body seemed to melt into a puddle, though, when you heard the tent flap rustle. Neteyam stepped inside, looking exhausted but exhilarated. He had shed his heavy scouting gear, leaving only the chest strap. A small smudge of blue paint was smeared across his temple.
“Hey,” he greeted, his voice gravelly from shouting orders all day. He didn't wait for an answer before closing the distance, reaching out to tug playfully on one of your braids.
“How was the hunt?” you asked.
“Successful, except that we saw a palulukan on the way back. The Great Mother was kind, because it didn’t see us. Young Kamu was practically swallowing air by the time it was gone, the boy has forgotten how to breathe.”
You pictured the boy, one of the youth who just passed their iknimaya last season. “Cut him some slack, you mighty warrior. The boy is only fourteen,” you said, chuckling. You reached for a damped cloth to wipe the paint on his temple.
His hand followed yours, grabbing it gently and pressing a kiss on your fingers. “Your hands are shaking, baby. How long have you been at this?” he grabbed the pestle and mortar, his forehead furrowed.
“Since the sun was high. Don’t worry about it,” you said, because your hands weren’t shaking because of what he’s thinking, but yoy were grateful for the reprieve nonetheless. You leaned back against the table, watching him take over the task with effortless ease.
“Don’t worry? Your hands seem so overwork, what with that Tsahik’s tasks and your classes at the pavillion,” he reprimanded softly.
You pushed your lips forward, ignoring him as you took your damp cloth again and began to wipe the dust from his shoulders with a damp cloth, your movements lingering. “Yaremu and Tasi were talking today,“ you started, trying to sound clinical as you moved the cloth over the swell of his chest.
“About...“ he trailed after it took you long to continue, still focused on his paste.
“About how... a man responds to a certain touch. With the hand.”
Neteyam went still, and you saw his eyes zeroing in on something. “What touch?”
“They said it makes even the strongest warriors break. That they lose their minds,” you whispered, leaning in until your breath fanned over his skin. “I find the claim about reflex... questionable. I believe I need to conduct my own study. For research.”
He stared at you before letting out a choked, dark laugh. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a possessive heat. “Not here,” he whispered.
Your lips broke into a huge grin. “You’ll allow me?”
He moved to kiss the tip of your nose. “I will never say no to you,” he said.
“You did say no... Last week,” you pointed out and a deep laughter rumbled in his chest.
“I did say next time, didn’t I?” he replied, stealing another deep, searing kiss before pulling back with a wink. “I’ll finish here. Go up the higher branch, I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”
You pursed your lips and nodded, almost skipping your way out of the tent. The higher branch of the Hometree was so high in the clouds that the village sounds were reduced to a distant hum. It was a little cold but it was of the good kind, lulling the vibrations of excitement in your body as you looked far beyond the never-ending sight of the rainforest.
When Neteyam arrived, you two didn’t waste time. The moment he was within reach, he pulled you into a kiss that felt like a claim, his hands sliding down to anchor you against him.
“Show me this research, then,” he rasped against your lips.
Your hands were trembling as you reached for his loincloth, but curiosity was a more powerful force than shame. He was also trembling when he was finally bared to you, his cock looking even more formidable in the dimmed light. You caressed the length of it with your fingers first, hearing him take a swift, sharp breath, and when you wrapped your fingers around him, your lips parted at the heat and the velvet-like texture.
You remembered Yaremu’s advice, like stroking clay, but faster, and began to move. Neteyam’s head hit the bark of the tree with a dull thud as you caressed him, pumping your hand up and down high length. A low, gutteral sound tore from his throat, a raw animalistic noise you had never heard from him. His eyes were droopy but not even a palulukan could make him close his eyes right now.
"Oh, baby..." he groaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of you hips.
You watched him with fascinated eyes. He was breaking. This brave and mighty warrior was trembling under your touch, his breath coming in jagged hitches. Emboldened by your power, you moved your thumb over the wide tip, just as Yaremu had described.
Neteyam’s hips bucked uncontrollably, his entire body shuddering. "Fuck—wait, stop—"
But you didn't stop. The curiosity that had been burning in you all day reached a fever pitch. You lowered yourself, your hair spilling over his thighs, and before he could realize your intent, you took him into your mouth.
The sensation was overwhelming. The taste of him, the heat, the sheer size. Neteyam let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl, his hands flying down to grab your hair. He only let you stay there for a few seconds, his body vibrating so violently you thought he might actually fall from the branch, before he scrambled to lift your head up.
“No,“ he gasped, his face flushed, his eyes wild. He hauled you to straddle him, crushing your lips with a kiss that was almost feral. “Not yet. I can't... if you do that, I'll never let you go back to that tent.“
He held you tight, both your hearts racing and both of you gasping for air in the high, cold wind. You cupped his face, kissing him softly. Nothing mattered, not your path, nor your vow to yourself, it was replaced by the loud, screaming truth of what you were becoming to each other.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Weeks later, the celebration of the new harvest was in full swing. The communal clearing was filled of the sounds of drums, swirling colors, and the intoxicating scent of fermented berries. The elder warriors were generous with the brew, and for once, you didn't hold back. You leaned back against a carved root, a soft giggle escaping you as you watched a group of younger children unsuccessfully try to mimic a warrior's dance.
Kiri nudged your shoulder. “Careful, sister.”
“Let her have her fun, Kiri,” Neteyam intervened, though he was grinning just as widely. He held up his own bowl, the blue paint on his arm shimmering under the bioluminescent lanterns. “To the best healer-in-training and the worst berry-picker in the clan.”
“What?” you protested. “I am an excellent picker. It’s really just quality over quantity for me.” you said sassily, rolling your eyes.
“Is that what we're calling it now?” Neteyam laughed, the sound deep. He turned to Kiri. “She spent five minutes today analyzing a single fruit while I had already filled two baskets.”
“It's called attention to detail, Neteyam! You wouldn't understand,” you shot back, your eyes dancing. The brew was making everything feel warm and golden.
Kiri watched the exchange, her head tilting in that way that usually meant she was talking to the creatures, but tonight, she just looked at you two and smirked. Neteyam took a long sip of his brew, his eyes locked onto yours over the rim of the bowl, challenge sparking in them.
“I'm going to find Tuk before she tries to eat every pie there is tonight. Try not to get ‘lost’ in the woods, you two...”
She vanished into the crowd with a knowing wink. The moment she was gone, the space between you and Neteyam seemed to evaporate, and in the chaos of the festival, you were the only two people in the world.
“Another bowl?” he whispered, his tail twitching rhythmically behind him.
“I think,” you breathed, looking at his lips, “that I've had enough of the brew. I'm starting to want things they aren't offering.”
Neteyam’s grin turned slow and predatory, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh under the table. He tilted his head toward the dark periphery of the Hometree and raised a brow. You smirked, and bowed down to your food, picking a nut to pop it in your mouth. He stood up to go, and you waited before following him, your heart racing with a fluttering excitement.
By the time you reached the outskirts, the sounds of the party were a distant muffle and the cool night air hit your skin, but it did nothing to douse the heat between you. Neteyam walked closer to you, his pupils blown wide, his movements slightly sluggish and drunken, which only made him look devastatingly handsome.
He cupped your face and kissed you. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about it,“ he murmured against your lips.
“Hm?” you hummed, kissing him softly.
He trailed a hand down your side, his palm hot and heavy, before coming to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, his thumb tracing small circles. “I want to return the favor,” he whispered, his breath smelling of sweet berries and forest air.
“How?” you asked, your voice breathy, your body already leaning into his.
He leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Mouth or fingers?”
A shiver of anticipation raced down your spine. You feel like you know what this was. You looked up at him, a bold, drunken grin spreading across your lips.
“Both?”
Neteyam let out a sharp exhaled breath, a flicker of nervous energy crossing his face despite the haze of the brew. “Okay,” he whispered.
He started with your neck, his mouth hot and insistent, sucking at the sensitive skin until you knew a mark would be left for sure.
You two sat by the large root of a tree, his hands were everywhere, caressing and squeezing, until it untied your loincloth around your tail. When the fabric fell away, he didn't hesitate. He knelt before you, his golden eyes filled with a sudden, sharp clarity.
He pressed a reverent kiss there, and then he parted his lips so he could lick your slit from the base to the top, making you pull your hips away in a jerk. His hands on your hips firmly held you in place, though, keeping yoy from running away from his intense ministrations. You bit your lip but small sounds still escaped you, your thighs wanting to close, and when he added a finger, you had to cover your mouth to muffle your loud moan.
Neteyam let out a low, frustrated groan as his finger worked inside you, you were so tight. His mouth and tongue never left you and you didn’t know what hit you, you just began to tremble in his grip, your fingers tangling in his braids and grabbing hard at a handful.
“The world is spinning...” you chuckled as he kissed his way up to your body, sucking hard on your nipple.
“Yeah?“ his lips came down to kiss you softly, and then he lifted his body up, fitting himself between your parted thighs.
He stared at you, his chest heaving, his jaw set in a line of restraint. You moaned in protest when your felt his thumb rub your clit, but you didn’t pull back because it felt so good. You bit your lip and moved your hips gently against his finger. He looked, looking at your bare pussy, and how he had his hand on it, his thumb rubbing you.
And you liked it. He shivered at the reality of it all, his breath catching in his throat. If a year ago, someone told him he’d be here with you, he wouldn’t have dared to believe it... And right now, if he were only dreaming, the person who’ll wake him up will receive the punch of a lifetime.
You looked at him, watching how his pupil blew so wide it’s practically eating up the gold. You smiled breathlessly, reaching to cup his face, your heart overflowing. “What do you want to do, hm?” you craned your head up a little to kiss him sotfly. “Do it... do what you want.”
He stared at you and you yelped when his fingers pinched your folds. “Are you sure?” he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel.
You nodded firmly. With an animalistic growl, he shed his own loincloth in one fluid motion, revealing the thick, pulsing length of his arousal. You tried to sit up to see his bare form better, but he pressed you back with a hand on your shoulder, and your body tingled at how dominant he seemed to be when he’s drunk.
He didn't enter you, not truly, but he lined himself up against your folds. He began to work his hips, dragging his ridiculous length against your slit in deep strokes from base to tip.
“Fuck, baby...” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he found a rhythm.
The friction was overwhelming. The thickness of him was overstimulating your clit until every nerve ending in your body was screaming. You arched your back, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his. “So good, ‘teyam...” you moaned in jagged breaths.
He groaned, catching your mouth in a feral kiss. “I’m coming... fuck...”
He wanted to hold out so bad, to prolong the moment, but it was so fucking difficult, especially when you keep whispering in his ear. He came in a hot rush on your stomach just as you came your high again. You clung to him, your body quivering in the aftermath. As he collapsed against you, you reached down, scooping a bit of his essence and bringing it to your lips. You moaned in pleasure, while Neteyam let out a soft, tired laugh, kissing your cheek and letting you do as you pleased.
Once you’re both dressed, you chased each other out of the woods but Neteyam’s hand snaked out, his fingers catching the end of your tail as you tried to dart ahead of him. He gave it a light tickle, a sensation that sent a playful jolt right up your spine.
“That’s cheating!” you squealed, spinning around with a wide, lopsided grin. You smacked his muscled abdomen, but it felt like you hit a warm stone wall, stinging your palm.
Neteyam didn't even flinch, he just huffed a breathy laugh. “Did you hurt yourself?“ he asked, catching your hand.
“Humble bragging, aren’t we?” you teased, stepping into his space and poking a finger into the center of his chest. “I think the brew caused your head to grow bigger than it already is.”
He caught your finger, pressing a kiss to the tip of it. “If my head is big, it is only because you occupy every corner of it.” He pulled you closer, his tail winding around yours in a tight, possessive curl. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you giggled, and for a few more steps, the world was nothing but the scent of him and the dizzying joy of the night.
But as you rounded the final thicket leading back to the communal clearing, the laughter died in your throat. At the sight of your father standing just outside the Hometree’s entrance, you moved away from Neteyam faster than lightning could hit the ground. He was deep in conversation with another senior warrior, his arms crossed over his chest. The shift in the air was instantaneous and your joy was replaced with cold anxiety.
Neteyam felt it, too. He immediately untangled his tail from yours and straightened his spine, his posture shifting from the relaxed lover back to the disciplined son of the Olo’eyktan. Your father turned his head. He didn't move, and he didn't stop his conversation, but his gaze locked onto the two of you. You walked faster to get to your father, feeling the guilt rise in you a little. You wondered if there were marks on your neck, or if your hair was in disarray.
Neteyam reached your flock, raising his hand in a formal warrior’s greeting, his voice steady and respectful when he greeted your father. Your father offered a curt nod, his stare never leaving Neteyam’s face for a long heartbeat. It looked like a silent warning, one that acknowledged the rank Neteyam held, but reminded him exactly whose daughter he was walking home.
“Go inside, daughter,” your father said quietly.
You didn’t look at Neteyam, turning on your heels to walk toward the entrance of the Hometree. You felt ashamed of your feebleness, how you folded so easily at the presence of pressure. You knew your father won’t let it go and that reckoning will soon come, so when you heard the tent flap rustle one evening and didn’t smell Neteyam’s familiar scent, you turned and saw that it was your father. You straightened up, greeting him as you would greet a superior.
“You spend much time in the Tsahik’s tent at night, daughter,“ he started, touching one of the hanging braided ceremonial beads. “And you are rarely alone. Kiri is your friend, isn’t she?”
Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding. “Yes, father...”
“And Neteyam?“ he inquired.
You blinked, you knew this was coming, and yet, you weren’t able to prepare a proper excuse. “Neteyam is a good friend, father. We have been friends since we were kids,” you said, your words tumbling over one another.
He nodded. “I know that. Neteyam is a fine warrior, the pride of the Olo’eyktan... But a man of his vitality and youth does not seek out a woman of your path night after night, nor does he come out of the dark woods with the same woman.”
Your fingers tightened at the herbs. “We are friends, father. N-Neteyam helps me—”
“Friendship between a future leader and Eywa’s maiden is good, yes, but this is not it," he warned, stepping closer. He gestured to you, to the way you had begun to arrange your hair with more care, the subtle oils you used to make your skin glow. “You are becoming worldly. You are looking at the ground when you should be looking at the Great Mother. Do not forget the honor of our lineage. Do not forget the path that was chosen for you.”
That warning rang in your ears for days. You had shed tears about it, spending your days weakly. You are frightened. You fear that you do not have enough will to fight against this path that has long blurred for you. The only sight you can see is the path leading to the man you have loved half of you life. The man you will have to turn your back to in favor of your family’s honor. The man you will lose to another. You can’t even stand imagining it. He will mate someone worthy and strong... She will have him and his children, and there will be nothing for you.
Those thoughts weighed you down. It was a tragedy.
It followed you into the woods a week later, where you were meant to be foraging berries for a pie you had promised Kiri. The basket felt heavy, the vibrant reds of the fruit blurring before your eyes. You were standing in a patch of sunlight, but you felt cold, your tears freely flowing, something you couldn’t do when you’re back at the village because Neteyam will surely know.
But as if summoned, the large leaves near you shifted and Neteyam appeared, his smile was bright, his eyes searching for yours, but when he saw the tears on your cheeks, the slump of your shoulders, and the way your hands moved listlessly among the bushes, his expression shifted instantly to one of deep concern.
“Hey,” his voice murmured, coming to stand before you right away. “What is it? Did something happen in the village?”
You tried to give him a small smile. “No, I’m alright,” you said in a soft voice.
Neteyam has never seen you cry before, save for whe you are moved by wonder or by something sad happening to others. You have always been composed and laid-back, sometimes he doesn't even know if you ever get mad at all. Ans right now, you were crying, and it seemed so personal it’s breaking his heart. Gently, his lips pressed against your temple, pulling you close.
“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice so soft it made your heart spasm.
You wanted to say you’re alright again but it shattered before it even reached your lips. The dam you had built with such effort finally broke. A sob escaped you, and then the tears were falling, frantic and unstoppable. Neteyam inhaled a sharp breath, pulling you into his arms, his chest a solid, warm wall against your grief. He didn't ask questions; he simply held you, his hand stroking your hair as you wept into his shoulder, pouring out your fears on how the path now felt like a cage, how your father’s words had cut you, and most of all, the soul-crushing fear that you would be forced to watch him mate with another while you lived a life of cold, sacred solitude.
“I can't do it,” you choked out, clutching the leather of his harness. “I can't watch you take a mate. I cannot watch you belong to someone else. Neteyam, I cannot do it,“ you are crying so hard you could barely understand your own words.
Neteyam pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands. The fear in your eyes threatened to break him from the inside out. He hadn’t known you had this much fear in you, and although he knew he shouldn’t feel good about it, he still felt it, but it would never be in him to want to prolong your agony. He loves you so much, his heart could burst. He wiped your tears with his thumbs, his gaze so intense it felt like he was looking directly into your spirit.
“I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing honesty. “I have always loved you. Ever since we were children learning in the pavillion under the watchful eyes of the healers, you were the only one for me.”
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing as if in prayer.
“When I was young, I worked until my bones ached because I wanted to be worthy of you. I wanted to be a man who deserved to stand at your side. I wanted to be your mate. I wanted to be the father of your children.” His voice dropped to a reverent, shaky register, smiling at you. "But I also know the path you have chosen. And my love, listen to me, you will never, ever lose me. I have long made my decision. I promised myself I will never mate with another.”
Your breath hitched, your eyes wide with shock. “Neteyam, you are the future Olo’eyktan. You have to—”
“I can be a good leader without a mate,” he countered firmly, his eyes burning with conviction. “I have decided. If the Great Mother requires you to be alone, then I will be alone with you. I will be your shadow. I will guard you and walk your path from a distance, but I will never give myself to another woman. I have long been claimed.”
The image of him, noble, strong, and utterly alone in the dark because of you, shattered your heart into a thousand pieces. You didn't want him to be a shadow. You wanted him to be the man who held your hand in the light. You wanted it so much.
“Do you understand?” he asked, his voice low and steady. "Whatever happens, whatever choice you make, I am here. I will be here. You have me. You will always have me.”
You looked up at him and saw the absolute certainty in his eyes. It frightened you, to say the least, to know that he was willing to let the future of his bloodline wither away just to be the man who stood outside your door.
“You cannot,” you whispered. You cannot possiby be this selfish. You regretted telling him your fears for you know it only solidified his decision. “Neteyam, the clan... they expect a mother for the people. Your father and Neytiri... they want to see you happy. They want to see your children.“
“Then they will be disappointed,“ he said, his jaw tightening with an uncharacteristic stubbornness. His hands moved to cup the back of your head, grounding you. “There is no happiness for me if I am lying next to a woman who is not you. I would be a shell. How could I lead our people with a heart that is half-dead?“
“You wouldn’t be with me anyway...” you rasped, your head bowing.
He looked at you with sad eyes but still, he chuckled and kissed the tip of your nose. “You haven’t been paying attention, my love. I have long known that and I have accepted it,” he said. “I will do anything you ask of me, you know that, but you cannot ask me to be with another. I will not obey you.”
You parted your lips to breathe, gripping his forearms to feel the solid warmth of him. The selflessness of his love shamed you. What good have you done to deserve such devotion? That question lingered with you even after you two parted. You knew the answer: you have done nothing. You have never been willful your whole life.
Following your great aunt’s path, the path that twenty-two generations of women in your father’s family have taken, have never before felt like an order to be obeyed. You wanted it before you truly knew what you wanted, but now, as you looked back... Neteyam has always been there. He has always stirred your heart in the way only he could do. You have always loved him.
And you will never stop.
Driven by a desperation you couldn’t name, you found yourself at the secluded dwelling of your great aunt. The air was thick with incense and you knew this would be one of those few days where she could be disturbed from her prayers, and even now, she was a silhouette of stillness, her back to you as she whispered prayers that had been her only companions for sixty years.
You didn't speak. You simply sat behind her and began to pray, the minutes stretching into hours. You watched the way the smoke curled in the air, wondering if your life would be just like hers: sacred, hollow, and hauntingly quiet. You wanted to feel guilty for thinking it look gray, but it was what you were thinking.
When the last of the incense burned out, Äye turned slowly. Her eyes, fill of wisdom and spirit, settled on your face. She didn't see her successor; she saw the crumbling ruins of a girl in love.
“What is it that brings you to this quiet place with such a loud heart?” she asked, her voice both stern and full of concern.
“The medicinal roots in the southern ridge are coming in early this year," you said casually, your voice a dry rasp. “I’m thinking of beginning the harvest before the syaksyuk get to them."
She tilted her head, her eyes sharp and assessing. “You have been sitting here for five hours, praying to a Mother who has already answered you, yet you refuse to listen. I can see it in your face,” she reached out, tilting your chin up. “What is it? And do not tell me it is the harvest.”
You swallowed hard, the weight in your chest becoming unbearable. “I wanted to ask if... If your heart has ever stirred... For a person, I mean. Not for the Great Mother, nor for the people. For a man.” You paused, your voice trembling. “Have you ever felt... desire?“
You waited for her to look at you as if you’ve grown two heads but she didn’t. The old woman’s eyes softened, a distant. She didn't answer right away, instead, she let her hand fall to your shoulder. “Is that what is clawing at you?”
You looked away, the first tear finally breaking free. “This is my path, Auntie... I have known this my whole life. But... These feelings I have in my heart, I have carried with me long before I knew what it was. I have loved him since we were children. And this man loves me with all he is... I supposed it would be easier if he didn’t love me back. It would be easier to accept the solitary path ahead of me, but now, because he loves me, he will forsake his own duty to the clan just so he could freely love me.” You gripped your knees, your knuckles turned white. “I do not want that for him. I cannot let him be alone and empty, I cannot deny him the love I can give him...“
Äye let out a long, slow breath. “The son of Toruk Makto.”
Your eyes snapped to hers. “How... how did you know?”
A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “I have seen it, and I still see it. You have always had the boy’s eyes, and his heart. You see only now.”
“I am scared,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I look at the path laid out for me... This life of solitude and it feels like a cage. I want him... I love him. I want to give him myself...” you looked at her. “Is it wrong, Auntie? To want the ground more than the sky? To want a man more than a goddess?”
Äye reached out and cradled your face in her weathered hands.
“Is it truly the path she gave you?” she asked softly. “Eywa does not give paths, child. She simply makes us feel. What you feel here will tell you where you belong.” She smiled, her palm pressing firmly over your heart. “And clearly, your heart has been showing you the path for a very long time.”
You sniffled, leaning into her touch, a flicker of hope sparking in the dark.
“I have easily done my duty because Eywa did not see it fit to put desire in my heart,” Äye confessed, her gaze turning distant and thoughtful. “I walked this path because it was the only one I saw. But, if I had only felt love and desire for another... if I had felt even a fraction of what you described... I would have let it consume me. I would have allowed myself to be loved by someone I loved.” Her expression became fiercer. “It is a gift, child, and you must not deny yourself what Eywa has given you. You must not deny Neteyam the love that you could give him, or the life you two could live. To turn away from such a love is the only true blasphemy.”
“But my father... the clan...” you whispered.
She scoffed. “Do not worry about your father. He is handled,” she said with a small, knowing smirk. “You go to your warrior. Tell him everything you told me.”
The weight that had been crushing your ribs for years had simply evaporated. You hugged her and she patted your back. When you finally stood up, your legs feel so light, as though you were floating. You ran through the village, past the staring eyes of the hunters, straight toward the training grounds where you knew a certain warrior was spending his day.
You didn't care about the path anymore. There has only ever been one for you, and it led straight to him. The sounds of clashing practice staves and rhythmic grunts welcomed you as you reached the training grounds. You stood at the edge of the clearing, thinking about how you have never done this before even though you passed by it every single day. You’ve never even thrown Neteyam a glance when he was over here, so now, you indulged yourself to the sight of his skin glistening with sweat as he moved with lethal grace.
He was giving corrections, his voice commanding and steady, until his gaze swept toward the edge and snagged on you. He stopped mid-sentence and had to do a double look, his golden eyes widening in genuine disbelief. It was always he who sought you out, he who lingered at the edges, waiting for you to pay him attention. And now, to see you standing here, in the open light, was a surprise that seemed to steal the air from his lungs. A slow, radiant smile began to spread across his face, one that he didn't even try to hide.
The other hunters followed his gaze lazily, shocked as Neteyam was to see you standing there, looking only at him. When he signaled for a break, Neteyam practically glided toward you, his focus so intense it felt like he was pulling you toward him by an invisible thread. He opened his mouth to ask what had brought you there, but you didn't give him the chance.
You stepped forward to meet him halfway, reaching up, tagling your fingers in the braids at his nape to pull him down into a soft, lingering kiss.
The silence that fell over the training grounds was almost funny, jaws practically hit the dirt, and Lo’ak who was standing a few yards away dropped his staff, his eyes bulging.
“When will you be done?” you asked casually, your voice clear and steady. Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, grounding him.
Neteyam looked dazed, as if he were caught in a dream and was terrified of waking up. The smile on his face was huge and utterly devoted, it brought ache to your chest. “Now,” he rasped, his voice sounding hypnotized. He didn't even look back at his men. “I’ll finish this early. Right now.”
You let out a melodic chuckle, your palm pressing flat against the heat of his abdomen. “Don’t be silly. I can just wait here,” you said, gesturing toward the wooden benches.
He nodded fervently, his tail twitching with an excitement he couldn't suppress. You couldn't resist, he looked so uncharacteristically flustered and cute that you leaned in for another quick kiss before patting his chest.
“Go,” you whispered, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “I’ll wait.”
Neteyam turned back to his warriors, but the sternness was gone. The men themselves were in a state of total shock, their eyes kept on darting back to where you are. The rest of the training session was a blur and you couldn’t take your eyes on Neteyam, and you’re glad he was the opposite. He was so focused on it, even though he was less strict, the intensity of his approach did not wane.
He dismissed the session right on time, handing his staff to a young hunter and was at your side in a heartbeat, his skin still glistening with sweat. He wiped it off with a soft cloth and you stood up, grabbing the cloth to help him wipe his sweat. “I need you to come with me,” you said, fighting the urge to smirk.
He breathed, catching your hand to graze a thumb on your knuckles. “Where? The forest? The high ridges?”
“Further,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your stomach. You grabbed his hand and his fingers intertwined with yours as naturally as vines coil on a branch.
The walk was surprisingly casual, the air cooling as the forest began its slow transition into the bioluminescent glow of dusk. You stepped over a spike plant and he gripped your hand tighter. “Careful,” he said, hopping over a fallen log and reaching back to steady.
“I am a healer, Neteyam. I know which leaves bite and which ones soothe. If anything, I should be the one worried about you. You almost walked straight into a stickyplant back there because you were too busy looking at me.”
“Can you blame the warrior for admiring the view?” he countered with a cheeky waggle of his brows.
You laughed, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Getting bold, aren’t we? Must be all those pies Tuk didn't eat. I saw her trying to smuggle a third one past Mo’at at dinner last night. She looked like a prolemuris with its cheeks full of fruits.”
“She’s a menace,” he chuckled, his tail flicking with amusement. “The young these days...” he shook his head. “Just last time, I saw a young hunter trying to impress girls by showing off his battle scars. Most of them were from tripping over during drills.”
“Be kind,” you teased. “We were all young and desperate for attention once. Though some of us,” you glanced at him sideways, “didn't have to try quite so hard.”
Neteyam’s smile softened, his fingers tightening around yours. “I don't know about that. I spent half my youth trying to figure out why the smartest girl in the pavilion wouldn't look at me for more than two seconds.”
“I was busy studying!” you protested. “I had to learn the difference between a glow moss and a spice leaf. One heals a burn, the other causes a rash that lasts for three days. Imagine if I'd gotten those mixed up because I was staring at your growing muscles.”
“A tragedy for the clan,“ he joked, pulling you by the waist and pressing a kiss against your neck. “But a win for my ego,” he whispered.
You squealed and pulled away, running away from him. You heard him chuckle, chasing after you until you two reached the purple glow of the ancient sacred tree. You looked at him with a soft smile and he stared at you, his eyes softening into a reverent look as he savored the look of you bathed in purple light
“It is beautiful tonight,” he whispered, reaching out to caressed your jaw.
“It is,” you agreed, tiptoeing to kiss him again, your arms hooking on his nape.
His hands immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him as he deepened the kiss, his mouth devouring yours. You pulled him down with you onto the soft moss, laying back so he’d follow you. You spread your thighs and he settled his body between them, breaking away from the kiss as if he’d just noticed what position you had pulled him into under the sacred tree.
You smiled, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to his lips, “I love you, Neteyam...” you whispered as if it was your secret, kissing him again.
His head lifted, his lips curling into a small, yet triumphant, smile. “I love you more, baby. So much,” he said, his arm wrapping around you to pull you to him. “What’s going on?” he asked.
You smiled and kissed him again, you didn't let him break away, and as your hands moved to his shoulders, the kiss deepened. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest. You pulled back just an inch, your eyes locked onto his, and then, with a hand that didn't tremble, you reached back and brought your queue forward. Neteyam’s eyes snapped at your kuru, widening a fraction in a surprise so profound he actually moved back an inch.
“My love...” he rasped, his voice breaking. He looked from your kuru to your eyes, his face pale but his eyes dancing with joy.
You kissed him. “I want to be with you. I want to be your mate... I want to have your children...”
His smile widened, though his eyes still needed more answers. “Are you sure? Once this is done... there is no turning back to the path they chose for you. You will be mine. In the eyes of Eywa and the clan, you will be mine for life.”
“I have never been more sure of anything,” you whispered, reaching out to take his hand. “The path I chose isn't the one they gave me. It’s this. It’s you.”
Neteyam’s hand was shaking as he brought his own queue forward. The intensity of the moment was suffocating, a silence so heavy it felt like the ancestors themselves were holding their breath. “I love you so much,” he said, the words a solemn vow. “You have me, until my last breath. You have always had me, baby.”
Slowly, deliberately, the pink tendrils of your queues reached out, entwining and locking together. You gasped, your back arching when a flood of physical sensations surged through you. You felt the raw, unbridled power of Neteyam’s love for you. The years of pining, the quiet agony of watching you from afar, the fierce protectiveness, and the sheer, blinding joy of this moment. And he felt yours. The fear you had felt, the desperate need for his touch, and the struggle you fought that led to this absolute certainty that you belonged by his side.
Neteyam let out a choked sound, pulling you flush against him, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that promised he would never, ever let go. You kissed him until you were both breathless, then his lips trailed down your jaw, making you arch into his touch as a low moan rumbled in your throat. Your hands found purchase in his braids, pulling his head back up, your gaze locking with his.
“Are we doing it?” you asked, your eyes looking up at him in both apprehension and excitement.
He caressed your thigh. “Do you want to? It doesn’t need to be tonight—”
“No, I want to! I want to... Just...” you cleared your throat. “I mean you’re big and... And how did the other girls take this—”
“What?” he whisper-shouted playfully. “There have never been other girls. I’ve never kissed anyone before you...” His eyes looked away from yours to look at your lips.
“What?” you chuckled breathily, the scholar part of you panicking. “No one here knows what to do?”
“No, I do know what to do,” he said, his eyes widening a little. “Trust me.“
You smiled and reached up to kiss him, he met you halfway, his mouth descending, but hungry now, no longer sweet and hesitant. His tongue plunged and you met his fervor, your own tongue dancing with his. His hands moved, tracing the curve of your hips, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending a jolt of pleasure through you as you felt the hard ridge of his cock press against your thigh.
Your fingers fumbled with the straps of his loincloth, your fingers caressing the soft skin of his abdomen. He undid your own, hands quick and deft, discarding the simple covering the same time you shed his. His fingers found your slippery folds, caressing it as he kisses your jaw. Your hand shot down to wrap around his cock, caressing the thick and long flesh.
He huffed, his lips pressing against your cheek before he leaned down, his mouth finding your neck, his teeth gently nipping at where you’re most sensitive. You whimpered, your head falling back against the moss. His tongue traced a path down your throat, over your collarbone, until it reached the swell of your breast. He suckled, his mouth hot and wet, drawing your nipple into his mouth.
Your hips arched involuntarily. “Neteyam,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
He moved to your other breast, giving it equal attention before kissing his way down your body until you felt a long swipe of his tongue on the soft skin of your inner thigh. His fingers brushed against your slick pussy, followed by his warm tongue, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your core, his hands slid under your hips to tilt you toward him before his mouth lapped at your wetness like a man starved.
You clutched on a moss, letting yourself moan to your heart’s content until you were a shaking mess with a spinning vision. You can feel his lips and tongue working its way up your body but your mind was zeroing in on the electrifying sensation you’re feeling on your clit, your thighs jolting every time his skin grazes it.
Only when he positioned himself between your legs did you make the effort to lift you head up to look at him, catching him with his eyes darkened with desire as they devoured your nakedness. Your connected kurus pulsed brighter and you felt the jolt of excitement and ecstasy he is probably feeling. You bit your lip, looking at his cock, thick and heavy, pressing against your entrance. You looked up at him, your own eyes burning with desire, and he met your gaze, his lips curved in a small smile and his eyes suddenly became the look of longing and adoration.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice rough with need.
“Yes,” you gasped, pushing your hips up, urging him forward. “Now.”
He chuckled, his hand squeezing your hips before he thrusted, slowly at first, his thick shaft pushing past your eager lips, stretching you, filling you with a sensation so profound it stole your breath. You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure, as he pushed deeper, until he was fully buried inside you.
He paused, letting you adjust, his chest heaving, his eyes closed for a moment in pure bliss. “It feels so warm... So tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with emotion.
You hugged him, a little breathless at the feeling of being so full of him and yet, you pulled him deeper still. “You’re so big...” you groaned, clenching around him.
He opened his eyes and you saw a primal look in them as he began to move, slowly at first, a gentle motion that soon picked up pace. He pulled almost all the way out, then plunged back in, his rhythm becoming more urgent, more demanding.
“Ah!” you moaned, your body arching, meeting his thrusts with equal enthusiasm. The sounds of your skin slapping together and the wet sounds of him moving inside you filled the air.
One of his hand found your folds, his thumb parting them to flick at your sensitive nub, making you buck and pull away in overstimulation but he only leaned down, his lips finding yours to devour your cries, his tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips continued its relentless rhythm. His hands gripped your hips to lift and tilt you, finding new angles that gave you so much pleasure. His cock felt enormous inside you, stretching you to your limits, yet it was a delicious fullness, a sense of being completely claimed.
The gentle rocking turned into powerful, rhythmic thrusts, his body slamming into yours with increasing force as you felt a familiar feeling in your lower abdomen, a knot that promised release. You clawed at his back, your nails digging into his firm muscles, leaving faint red marks.
“Harder,” you gasped against his lips, your voice hoarse. “Please, baby...”
He responded instantly, his thrusts becoming even more violent, more primal. He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in with a force that made you scream, the air whooshing out of your mouth.
“You like that, baby?” he rasped, his voice raw, his breath hot against your face.
You whimpered, unable to speak, your hips bucking involuntarily to meet his every thrust. You felt your muscles clenched around his shaft, milking him, urging him on. He groaned and thrusted one last, powerful time, burying himself to the hilt, holding you tight as your body convulsed around him. Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, giving you a full body tremor that left you breathless and clutching at him. Your muscles seized, squeezing his cock, making him cry out your name.
His body tensed, then relaxed as he emptied himself deep inside you. You felt the hot gush of his seed filling you as he collapsed onto you, his weight heavy but welcome, his breath ragged against your neck. His heart hammered against your chest, mirroring the frantic beat of your own. You lay tangled together, spent and satisfied, the purple glow of the tree a silent witness to your mating.
“I swear to the Great Mother, if this were a dream I’d beat up the person who will wake me up,” he whispered breathily, kissing you.
You chuckled weakly, hugging him tighter to you and kissing his cheek. “It is real, husband. I am here with you,” you told him.
He melted in your embrace, kissing your forehead, and then your lips. “I love you so much...”
A few hours of sleep punctuated with a series of waking up only to make love later, you lay tangled in Neteyam’s arms under the glowing tendrils, your core still sore from the intensity of your last coupling. His chest was warm under your cheek, and you traced the faint, drying marks your nails had left on his shoulder. Neteyam shifted, his tail winding lazily around your thigh.
“The sun will be up soon,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hand tracing the curve of your hip with a new, possessive ease. You let out a soft sigh, tightening your hold on him. Neteyam pulled back slightly to look at you, his golden eyes clear and filled with a fierce, protective light. “I’ll face your father. I’ll tell him it was my doing. The haste, the lack of a formal ceremony. I’ll take the weight of his anger.”
You shook your head, reaching up to cup his face. “No. I made this choice just as much as you did. I won’t let you stand there like a criminal for loving me. I’ll handle him, and Äye said she would help. I’m more worried about Mo’at... I am a healer under her. Surely, she’d expect me to follow the traditions.”
“Then we face them together,” Neteyam said firmly, interlocking his fingers with yours. “As one. We are mated now. I am your husband and you are my wife.”
Those words brought you so much relief and joy, you couldn’t help but smile, especially when his eyes reflected a certain, even smug, light in them. The walk back to the village felt different, but as you approached the central clearing of the Hometree, the sight of the gathering made your heart skip a beat.
Not only were your parents already there, Jake and Neytiri were there, too, standing near the breakfast hearth, and beside them sat Mo'at and Äye. The air was thick with the smell of morning broth and an unspoken tension. Your father stood as you both emerged from the ramp, his eyes immediately dropping to your clasped hands and then to the unmistakable, glowing pride in Neteyam’s posture.
“You did not return last night,” your father said, his voice flat but not yet angry.
Äye, who was calmly sipping from a bowl of tea, let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, let the children breathe, Laykon. Do not overreact. Look at them, they look like they’ve finally found where the air is.”
Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, gently releasing your hand only to sink onto both knees before your parents. He bowed his head low, his forehead nearly touching the ground in a gesture of profound respect and apology.
“I ask for your forgiveness,” Neteyam’s voice was calm, carrying the weight of a leader. “I have acted with haste, and I have taken your daughter as my mate without the formal blessing of the clan. But I have loved her before I even I understood what it was. I ask only for your blessing now, for I will spend every day of my life proving I am worthy of her.”
You dropped to your knees beside him, your shoulder touching his. “Father, I love Neteyam, I have always loved him. This wasn't a mistake or a moment of weakness. It was the only truth I’ve ever known. I choose this life. I choose him.”
A long, suffocating silence followed. Jake looked at Neytiri, who had a soft, knowing expression on her face, one that spoke of a woman who had once made a similarly reckless choice for love. Finally, your father let out a long, heavy breath. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, urging him to stand.
“I understand that, daughter,” he told you, his voice softening. “And I do not think this kneeling and bowing are necessary anymore. Words would have sufficed. You two are already mated in the eyes of the Great Mother; what is there for me to do? To fight the wind?” He looked at Neteyam, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his stony exterior. “It is my honor to have an honorable man as my son.”
Neytiri stepped forward then, pulling you into a fierce, warm embrace that smelled of woodsmoke and motherhood. “Welcome to the family, daughter,” she whispered.
You looked toward Mo’at, your stomach twisting with nerves. The Tsahik stood slowly, her face unreadable. Jake cleared his throat, glancing at the matriarch. “Mo’at? Perhaps, you can... give them the official blessing?”
Mo’at let out a sharp, huffed breath, reaching into the woven pouch at her side. To everyone’s surprise, she pulled out a bowl of ceremonial oils and a bundle of sage that had clearly been prepared in advance.
“Why do you think I am sitting here with these?” she asked, a rare humot flickering in her eyes as she looked at Äye. “Some people in this family cannot keep a secret. Come here, you two. If you are going to be mated, let us do it properly so the ancestors don’t think I’ve gone lazy.”
As Mo'at began the rhythmic chant of the blessing, marking your forehead and Neteyam’s with the cool, fragrant oil, you looked at your husband. The fear was gone. The gray path etched on sand was blown by the wind, leaving only the path forged by the Great Mother.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The council meeting had dragged on for hours, with the elders debating trade with so much meticulousness that Neteyam can’t believe it’s starting to annoy him that the second Jake signaled the end, Neteyam couldn’t have exited the council hall faster than anyone. He moved through the village with a restless, joyful energy, his heart pulling him straight to the healer’s tent.
And when he pulled back the flap, the golden afternoon light spilled over you, hunched over a mortar, the same sight that had greeted him for years, but now, strapped to your chest in a soft woven wrap was your months-old son.
“Hello, baby,” Neteyam caressed your arm, leaning down to kiss you. He cupped your jaw and deepened the kiss.
You’d chucke at his eagerness if your son hadn’t let out a soft, melodic cry. It was as if he could sense his father has arrived before Neteyam even greeted him. Neteyam looked down at his son, his large hand caressing the boy’s head.
His face split by a wide, devoted grin. His large hands gently lift the bundle from your chest and you gave him his son, watching him settle the boy into the crook of his arm, his thumb tracing a tiny, rounded cheek. “How was he? Did he give you trouble while I was on patrol?”
You chuckled, wiping your hands on a cloth. “He is just a baby, ma ‘teyam. He slept almost the entire day, only waking to eat and then falling back to sleep.”
Neteyam let out a deep, vibrating chuckle that made the baby’s eyes fly open. “You’re the hungriest boy in this village, do you know that, hm? The biggest baby, too. You’re growing so fast, my son, look at you.”
You leaned against the worktable, watching them with a chest full of warmth. You reached out to tickle your son’s ear, watching his tiny shoulder shrug in reflex. “Remember when Mo’at said you were the biggest baby she’d ever seen?” you laughed. “She said your boy rivals you. Look at his tummy. So full, aren't you, sweet boy?”
The baby suddenly let out a tiny, gurgling chuckle, his first real laugh.
Your eyes snapped to Neteyam’s in shock. You both froze, breath held for seconds, before you both bursted into a quiet laughter. The boy stretched, his chubby limbs sprawled across his father's powerful arm, looking utterly content. As you looked at the small person you had created together, your eyes began to glisten with unshed tears and when you lifted your eyes to meet Neteyam’s his own eyes were pooling with tears.
Neteyam leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Have I told you how thankful I am that you chose me?”
You grinned, cupping his face. “You do every day, 'teyam. But I am more thankful to you. I couldn't imagine not living this life... you made me realize what I truly wanted.”
“I love you so much,” he mumbled against your lips.
“I love you more, ‘teyam—”
“That couldn't be possible—”
“Uhhmp!” A sharp, demanding shriek from your son broke the moment. His tiny hand had clamped onto your beaded top, his neck craning with singular focus toward your chest.
You laughed, booping his nose. “Hungry again?“
Your smile was huge as you reached for him. Neteyam gently handed him back, chuckling as you settled the boy and eased your top aside. The baby latched in an instant, a rhythmic, quiet sound filling the tent. Neteyam sat beside you, his gaze fixed on the sight.
He remembered being in this same tent years ago, watching you hold Tuk in your arms and drowning in a forbidden pining. Now, you are his wife, and the child in your arms is one you two created. He was no longer your shadow, he is now the man whose life is inextricably woven with yours. Your cold indifference was long gone, and in its place was a woman full of his love and the promise of his future.
a/n: I swear the next Clark post will be something requested for Adventures in cape wearing childcare, but I got too lost in the sauce. Also remember to vote for upcoming content! EP-4000
Summary: Fueled by cheap wine and even worse decisions, you turned heartbreak into a performance. Somewhere between the punchlines and the public humiliation, you realized the only thing worse than what you saw…was how easily you could make a spectacle out of it.
Classification: Comedic angst and fluff | Alcohol consumption, smoking, sexual innuendos, jealousy, heartbreak, arrest and coping through humor
Word count: 10.5k
Divider by me ;)
You sat at the opposite end of the bar, one that pretended it wasn’t sticky while discreetly gluing your elbows to every surface, eyes fixed on Clark as if you could bore a hole straight through that stupidly charming skull of his.
He laughed, head tipped back just enough to show off that big, farm-boy grin that could probably convince a tornado to reconsider its trajectory. It warmed your insides in a way that would’ve been romantic if it wasn’t currently competing with the acidic churn of jealousy and cheap rum sloshing around your stomach. And then there was Lois, draped against him like she’d been created to ruin your evening, her hand resting a little too comfortably on his arm as they laughed…together, like some kind of infuriatingly attractive sitcom you hadn’t agreed to star in.
You took a last, aggressive swig of your mojito, less “sip” and more “act of war” and tapped the glass on the bar with the finality of someone signing divorce papers.
“You know, you’d think with how different they are they wouldn’t get along so well.” Jimmy started beside you, his voice cutting through your internal spiral like a cheerful little knife. You startled because tonight your nerves were strung tighter than the bouncers' patience. “And she’s not even that drunk yet.”
“That makes two of us,” you murmured, already waving the bartender over with the urgency of a woman about to make several regrettable but entertaining decisions. “I need something stronger. Dry martini, two olives.” You sniffled, eyes tracking his every movement like this drink was about to determine the fate of your entire emotional stability. You leaned forward conspiratorially. “As dry as you can make it. Think…that time you probably tried to jerk off beside your snoring roommate in college or like that girl I believe you tried to impress earlier by shaking her cocktail too hard before the shaker slipped from your hands. Bone dry.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the nearby patrons, a low, delighted chuckling that said oh, this is going to be a night. Your attention flickered away from Clark, blessed with temporary relief, toward the small audience you’d accidentally acquired.
“Babe, I don’t think that’s gonna help him get it right.” Cat said, nudging your side with her elbow, her tone equal parts amused and concerned. She was practically watching a train wreck, hoping it might somehow end gracefully.
You leaned even closer to the bartender, lowering your voice like you were sharing state secrets instead of actively ruining his evening. “I’m glad you changed your shirt, by the way, I wasn’t a big fan of the print on it. I mean…I almost jumped right back in the cab when I saw it, but whatever…You should know that the drink splashed on the front of your pants.”
You watched him glance down, his expression shifting into something between horror and existential dread. The stain did, in fact, look deeply unfortunate. It looked like he ejaculated in his pants.
“It’s fine, I don’t think she saw it and if she did, I can fix it with a quick talk to her and hopefully get you a phone number by the end of the night. You might still get fired for the mess though, so you might want to hurry up on that drink.” you added helpfully, pointing toward who you assumed was the bar owner, a woman who looked like she ate weak men for breakfast and tipped herself.
“Hey–” Jimmy tapped you, dragging you back before you could escalate into full public menace. You sank back onto your stool, posture loose but eyes still sharp. “Didn’t you say you’d take it easy tonight?” he pushed, clearly unaware he was negotiating with a woman currently fueled by heartbreak, alcohol and spite.
You turned to look at him, actually considering it for half a second, just long enough to make it dramatic. “Right…” Then you pivoted back to the bartender with renewed conviction. “Let’s change it up then. I’ll take an Inferno Martini with that. Maybe that’ll help me die faster.”
“What’s up with you tonight?” Jimmy asked, his voice softening as confusion knitted his brow. “I thought we were celebrating.”
“You are!” you said brightly, patting him on the back with the exaggerated enthusiasm of someone definitely not fine. The bartender set the dry martini in front of you and you immediately took a large gulp, letting it burn all the way down, trying to cauterize your feelings. “Being the most read newspaper in several states is big. I’m here for moral support.”
“As a great friend to all of us.” Cat insisted beside you, her tone warm, sincere and unfortunately timed.
“Friend.” You repeated, the word rolling off your tongue like it had personally offended you. You finished the martini with impressive speed and went for the olives just as the inferno martini was placed in front of you, its color practically daring you to make worse decisions. “Seems like it’s all there is for me, isn’t it?” you said, sarcasm dripping thicker than the alcohol. You chewed the olives with unnecessary intensity. “Feels like playing twister with that one guy in your friend group who gets boners for everyone except for you…me, in this case.” You turned to her, eyes deadpan. “Even I get boners for you and I don’t have a dick.”
She paused as if her brain had to take a second to process the sentence, then burst out laughing with the very kind of laugh that made people turn their heads and wish they were in on the joke.
You reached for your inferno martini and downed it in one go, your expression flat as you stared at her over the rim of the glass as you realized you were the punchline.
“Do you want me to go get Clark? Maybe he could drive you home?” Jimmy insisted, his voice threading through the haze in your head like an annoyingly reasonable suggestion and against your will…truly, against your better judgment…both of your eyes lifted toward where Clark stood beside Lois.
He was talking to her softly, his posture bent just enough to suggest intimacy without quite crossing the line, and oh, that was new!...his ears were pink. His ears were actually pink and he was leaning in like gravity had requested his participation for the first time in his darned life and your brain, already swimming in alcohol and bad decisions, latched onto that detail like it was evidence in a trial you were absolutely losing. Why was he leaning in? Why were his ears pink? Why did that feel like a targeted attack?
You forced your eyes shut because if you didn’t, you were fairly certain you’d either start crying, screaming or delivering an unsolicited monologue to the entire bar about emotional negligence and farm boys with selective blindness.
“Nope! I’ll walk myself home.” You said abruptly, grabbing your purse with the determination usually reserved for heist movies, your fingers fumbling inside until you pulled out a handful of crumpled bills that looked about as put together as you felt.
“Don’t. He brought you here, I can go get him–” Jimmy insisted, already moving, pushing through the crowd like a man on a mission he absolutely should not be on.
“No. Can’t have him playing hero again and keeping me from diving into goddamn traffic, tonight of all nights–” you shot back, pushing your stool away in the tiny pocket of space you occupied, your balance questionable but your intent crystal clear.
“What!?” His eyes widened, his entire body halting mid-step as he turned back to stare at you like you’d just announced a career pivot into arson, which might’ve been the better option.
“Don’t look at me like that, James! It’s a joke! Can you take a fucking joke?” you insisted quickly, though the words sloshed slightly with the alcohol as you stumbled forward, catching yourself on the bar with a gracelessness that would haunt you later. “Holy fuck…he might not be able to give a show but those hands sure were easy on the gin.”
“That was a terrible joke.” he said far too loudly, his face contorting as he groaned through it as though he could physically feel the secondhand embarrassment.
“Well thank god I’m not a fucking comedian then.” you exclaimed, louder than necessary and with the confidence of someone who had, in fact, just been unintentionally workshopping a set all night. You pushed through the crowd, shoulders bumping into strangers, laughter and chatter fading behind you like a curtain dropping on a performance that had gone wildly off-script.
The door gave way under your hand and suddenly you were outside, the cold air hitting your face with a slap that felt both deserved and deeply appreciated. The noise of traffic replaced the bar’s chaos, it was less intimate, more indifferent and for a moment you just stood there, breathing in and out, trying to remember how lungs worked.
You nodded to yourself, once, as if that settled anything at all and started walking.
Your steps were quick, fueled by something between anger and humiliation, heels clicking unevenly against the pavement as they struggled to keep up with the pace your emotions had set. You made it past another shop before your stride faltered, your balance wobbling just enough to force you to stop, arms dropping slack at your sides as the adrenaline began to argue with the alcohol.
“Don’t be a dick.” you muttered under your breath, the words aimed squarely at yourself as logic began to seep back in through the cracks. You’ve known him for years. That one landed heavy. He’d never hurt you. That one hurt worse. So what if he makes her laugh? Your jaw tightened.
You almost stomped your heel into the ground like a petulant child denied dessert, the internal argument reaching a boiling point before your brain, traitorous thing that it was, made the decision for you.
You turned around. Fine! You’d go back, you’d be normal. You’d say a proper goodbye, maybe even make a joke that didn’t make Jimmy look like he was reconsidering your sanity and then you’d leave with dignity or at least something wearing dignity’s coat.
Be the bigger person, right?
You walked back toward the bar, each step dragged, approaching a scene you already knew you wouldn’t like. You stopped at the front window, peering in through the glass as your eyes searched the crowd and of course found them immediately because your misery apparently had a tracking system.
Just in time, they turned toward each other, the movement smooth and seemingly inevitable and Clark’s lower back met the edge of the bar as he leaned down…slowly, as though the world had narrowed to a single point that was Lois and your stomach dropped in perfect synchronization.
Lower…and lower, his head tilting to the side, surely sporting that stupid, soft expression on his face, one you’d memorized even though it had never once been directed at you, until…
You turned fast. So fast it almost made you dizzy, breath catching sharply in your throat like it had hit a wall, your body already making the decision your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
You fled and it was far from graceful. You just turned in the opposite direction you’d originally chosen and moved, your legs carrying you rapidly down the sidewalk, heels clattering against pavement in uneven rhythm as you tried and failed not to hyperventilate. The air felt too thin and your chest too tight, each breath coming in shorter than the last as the image replayed anyway.
You walked and walked, surely mumbling under your breath like a madwoman whose entire concept of romance had been shattered, thoughts racing so fast they tripped over themselves, circling the same humiliating, nauseating image until it practically burned behind your eyelids.
You turned corners without thinking, pacing up and down familiar blocks like your body had taken over navigation while your brain hosted a very loud, very unhelpful panel discussion and before you fully registered it, your spiraling mind had dragged you somewhere you knew far too well, lit far too brightly, stocked too chaotically and staffed by a man who had unfortunately seen you at your absolute worst more than once.
You pushed the door to the bodega open with more force than necessary, the bell above it jangling loudly and immediately your tongue got loose. Tonight your dignity had taken a day off.
“He kissed her.” you announced to the man behind the counter, not even bothering with a greeting as you stepped around the poor guy in front of you who was just trying to buy a deeply depressing frozen dinner and a six-pack. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, sir. Small store! I told him to relocate but he won't listen.” you added, nudging him aside with the urgency of someone who believed her crisis outranked his groceries. You leaned over the counter, peering down as you spotted Ricky crouched beneath it like a man hiding from an active shooter. “Ricky, are you hiding from me?”
“What’d’ya think?” he shot back as he straightened up with the weariness of someone who had absolutely predicted this exact scenario. He began scanning the man’s items mechanically. “I could hear ya yelling from around the street. You’re scaring potential customers.”
You turned, giving the man beside you a slow, assessing once-over before shrugging dismissively. “He doesn’t look scared. This is a grown man,” you said, as if that alone granted him immunity from your chaos. Then, pivoting with alarming speed, you added, “Lovely shirt, though. Color suits you. Don’t you think, Ricky?”
Ricky groaned, already regretting every life choice that had led him here, as he shoved the man’s items into a bag. “Why were ya yelling?” he asked, finally glancing up at you and immediately recoiling. “And what the fuck happened to your face? It’s terrible.”
You blinked, momentarily thrown, before wandering toward the back corner of the shop where that slightly warped mirror hung, one Ricky used to keep an eye on potential shoplifters but which now served as a brutally honest witness to your current state. You looked up and winced. Mascara had run down your eyes in uneven streaks, staining your cheeks like abstract art made entirely of poor decisions and it hit you that you hadn’t even noticed when you’d started crying.
“Bad taxi drivers,” you muttered, as you wiped under one eye with the back of your hand, only making it worse. “I almost got run over because my heel got stuck on a sewer grate and the guy was in a rush.” You kicked off the offending and now damaged heel and carried it back to the counter, holding it up under the fluorescent lighting and presenting evidence in a very petty trial. “Vintage Prada…all fucked because he kissed her, Ricky. Can you believe it?”
“The taxi guy kissed your vintage shoe lady?” Ricky asked, not even looking up as he handed the bag to the customer, who now seemed deeply invested in staying as long as possible…but he still left.
“Mrs. Alston? No, she’s seventy-nine, can you fucking focus for a second?” you snapped, your patience hanging by a thread that had clearly been cut several blocks ago.
He leaned forward on the counter, fixing you with a look that said he was about two seconds away from charging you by the hour. “Y/n, I’m not your goddamn therapist and if you need me to be it that bad, it won’t be for free,” he drawled, his tone slow and unimpressed.
You groaned, already digging through your purse with frantic, uncoordinated movements, pushing aside receipts, lipstick and what might have been a granola bar from last year as you did a quick mental inventory of your finances. Your eyes flicked up to the shelves behind him…Hennessy, twenty-eight dollars, Vodka, thirty-three before taxes…Jack Daniel’s, thirty…Jameson, also thirty and you winced, realizing that heartbreak was not budget-friendly.
You still needed money for a cab home, assuming you didn’t dramatically collapse somewhere before then and after a moment of aggressive mental math, you landed on two crumpled twenty-dollar bills.
So you slapped one down on the counter in a way that suggested negotiations were about to get weird.
“I have twenty dollars and murderous ideation…your move, broski,” you said, staring at him with unwavering intensity. This was a completely reasonable business proposition and definitely not the beginning of yet another story Ricky would absolutely tell at your expense.
“Broski? He’s really got you fucked up.” Ricky mumbled, giving you a look that suggested he was reconsidering ever learning your name in the first place. He turned, reaching for a bottle and set it down on the counter with finality, his hand lingering on the neck like he didn’t trust you not to lunge for it like a raccoon in a convenience store.
“Wine?” you questioned, staring at it as if it had just insulted your entire lineage. “Are you kidding me? What kind of fucking therapist are you? I’m heartbroken.”
“You got a twenty, lady. This is the only thing you can afford.” he shot back without missing a beat, his tone flat, unimpressed and deeply committed to financial realism.
“I thought we were friends,” you slurred slightly, your indignation wobbling just enough to betray the alcohol in your system. “I was gonna tell you to put it on my tab.”
“Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out as he leaned both hands on the counter, locking eyes with you like a disappointed accountant. “Last time I let you open one, it took you three months to pay 147 dollars and 98 cents and honestly, it looks like you’ve had enough to drink.”
You reached for the bottle anyway because boundaries had clearly stopped applying to you sometime around your third drink but he pulled it back just out of reach.
“You’re just terrible, awful,” you muttered, your voice dipping. “I’m mourning here.”
“Great. Let all of Metropolis know about it on the bodega’s Google reviews,” he replied dryly, not even flinching. Then he glanced down at the bottle, then back up at you, his expression changing just enough to suggest he was actually paying attention now. “Where are you headed with this?”
“Home,” you said immediately, too quickly and when he raised an eyebrow like he’d just caught you in a lie you hadn’t even fully committed to yet, you doubled down. “I’m going home. Do you really think I want to be seen out like this?” you insisted, gesturing vaguely to your face, your shoes, your entire unraveling existence.
He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you and you stared back, the two of you locked in a silent standoff that lasted exactly long enough for your composure to betray you completely.
You broke first.
A hiccup escaped you, followed by another and then your throat tightened in that awful, familiar way that meant you were about to cry whether you liked it or not. You tried to hold it in…you really did but your eyes burned and your shoulders started to shake and suddenly you were crying anyway, right there under the unforgiving fluorescent lights.
“I saw…” you managed, your voice catching as you wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, smearing mascara further into something tragic. “He kissed her and I was there. I was gonna tell him tonight.” Your shoulders trembled harder now, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting all evening for this exact moment.
Ricky exhaled slowly, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a reluctant surrender.
“Look, kid,” he said, his tone losing some of its edge. “If he didn’t consider your presence, then he ain’t worth your tears in the first place. Do you hear me?” His eyes moved over you carefully, taking in the smudged makeup, the disheveled hair, the single shoe in your hand like a symbol of everything that had gone wrong tonight. “Now I know you probably spent the damn afternoon looking for a nice dress and those Prado shoes and thank fuck someone convinced you not to wear those fucking hats of yours like we’re back in the fifties, but–” he added, shaking his head as if the mere thought exhausted him.
“Prada,” you corrected quietly, your voice small but firm. Even in emotional ruin, you had standards.
“What?” His face scrunched, equal parts confusion and annoyance.
“It’s Prada. With an A, not Prado. You’re thinking about that Toyota SUV you’re always talking about,” you explained, the correction almost comforting in its familiarity.
“Whatever,” he waved it off, already over it. “My comment still stands.” He nudged the bottle toward you again, this time actually letting it go. “Now take this…and fuck off home. When he calls…because he will, tell him Ricky told him to fuck off too.”
“He doesn’t deal well with profanity,” you added, your grip tightening around the bottle.
“What is he, the pope?” Ricky shot back immediately. “This is Metropolis, give me a fucking break. You tell him to watch what he does around you before you end up locked up for murder. I don’t like dressing up to go to court…for nobody, not even you,” he added, pointing a finger at you for emphasis. “And I’m a terrible liar.”
“And therapist too,” you muttered, finally pulling the bottle fully into your possession, clutching it like it was both a prize and a coping mechanism. You turned toward the door, your movements slower now. “Thanks, Ricky.”
“Get outta here before my customers go do business somewhere else,” he called after you, his tone gruff and dismissive but not unkind. Somewhere underneath the sarcasm and complaints, it translated clearly enough to ‘Take care of yourself.’
You didn’t bother waiting to get home before opening the cheap bottle, patience had clearly abandoned you several blocks back, so you twisted the cap off with clumsy determination and took a long, unapologetic sip right there on the sidewalk, the wine sloshing a little too freely as you started walking again.
It wasn’t graceful, none of this was, but it was effective in the way a bad idea sometimes is when you commit to it fully.
You made it a good forty steps before you remembered with a delayed spark of practicality, that you were still missing a shoe, so you stopped, wobbling slightly as you fumbled the heel back onto your foot, steadying yourself against a lamppost. Then you kept going, your path home becoming noticeably less straight with each step and each sip, your body drifting slightly left and then right while you negotiated with gravity instead of obeying it.
It was good, though…dangerously good. Your mind, which had been screaming all evening, finally quieted into fuzz, like Ricky had thrown a heavy blanket over your thoughts and told them to sit down and behave. The sharp edges dulled, the replaying images slowed and you were fairly certain…proudly so, that you had stopped crying at least a block ago, which in your current state felt like a remarkable achievement.
The city seemed to change around you as you walked, the traffic thinning out, the noise softening, everything lowering in volume and intensity until it felt like you’d wandered into a different layer of the night entirely.
Which was probably how you ended up there.
The club loomed ahead of you, its neon sign cutting through the dark with confidence. The Talon, bright enough to make you squint, its glow practically swallowed the street, casting everything in that artificial, slightly seedy light that suggested whatever was happening inside was either very interesting or a terrible mistake.
Naturally, you headed straight for it.
You stumbled down the stairs, one hand brushing the wall for balance, your heel catching slightly on the edge of a step before you corrected yourself with a muttered curse. You pushed toward the entrance, already halfway inside in your mind, when a voice cut through the narrow hallway and stopped you mid-step.
“Lady! Access is ten dollars and you have to hand in your phone.”
You blinked, turning toward the source of the voice. A guy stood behind a small window cut into the wall of an adjacent room, his silhouette was framed by dim light and a steady curl of cigarette smoke that filled the hallway.
Your eyes widened, even through the haze of alcohol. “Ten whole dollars? And why would you need my phone?” you demanded, the outrage arriving right on schedule, even as your hands were already digging into your purse with the resigned motions of someone who knew she was going to pay anyway.
You pulled out your last twenty-dollar bill and slid it through the opening in the wall.
“Artists’ club,” he said, shrugging as he took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling lazily as he gave you a slow once-over. “It’s out of respect for their craft or whatever bullshit.”
You stared at him for a beat, then handed over your phone. “Fantastic,” you muttered. “I’m being robbed with consideration. How cute.”
“You’ll get it back after,” he added, already unconcerned.
In exchange, he handed you a ten dollar bill and a bracelet with a number on it, reaching to fasten it around your wrist with surprising care as this seemed to be the most legitimate part of the entire operation.
“You also can’t go in with that,” he said, nodding toward the wine bottle still clutched in your hand.
You lifted it slightly. “Will I also get this back after?” you asked, your words slurring just enough to make the question feel deeply sincere.
“It’s unlikely,” he replied, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m kinda thirsty.”
You groaned dramatically, the sound echoing slightly in the narrow hallway as you reluctantly handed it over, your fingers lingering on the bottle for a second before letting go. He took it without hesitation, already victorious but you didn’t move.
You just stood there, swaying slightly, eyes drifting to the cigarette between his fingers, the glowing tip cutting through the dimness like a tiny beacon of bad decisions.
“Can I get one of those?” you asked, tilting your head toward it, your voice hopeful.
You walked inside the club with a freshly lit cigarette wedged between your fingers like you’d been doing this for years instead of, quite literally, not since that one disastrous college party where you coughed so hard everyone thought you needed medical attention.
You took your first drag anyway, committed and determined…and immediately regretted every decision that had led you to this exact moment.
“Holy shit–” you choked, coughing violently as the smoke hit your lungs, whole body recoiling as your eyes watered all over again for entirely new reasons. It did, however, wake you up in the most aggressive way possible, your nervous system having been slapped back online without consent.
Between the thick haze of smoke hanging in the air and the dim, shifting lights that seemed designed to disorient rather than illuminate, you were effectively blinded for a moment, the room coming into focus in uneven fragments.
Low laughter rolled through the space and you quickly realized it wasn’t directed at you which was a small mercy but at the guy on stage, who seemed to command the room from where he stood.
You moved between the tables, weaving slightly as you went, your hip brushing the backs of chairs and the occasional person who either didn’t notice or didn’t care. You approached the bar out of instinct more than intention, then immediately reconsidered as your brain did a delayed financial audit and came up with absolutely not. Your pace slowed as you began mumbling under your breath, quietly cursing yourself for your increasingly impressive ability to make irresponsible choices in rapid succession.
Right as you were spiraling into that thought, scattered applause filled the room, rising and falling as someone new was apparently called on stage.
That, however, gave you a different reason to approach the bar. “Hey, excuse me?” you called out, leaning slightly over the counter as another round of applause echoed behind you. “Hi, sorry, could I–”
“What?!” the woman behind the bar snapped, whipping around rapidly. “You’re not the only drunk walk-in. If you want to throw up, there’s a shared bucket in that far corner. Try not to be too loud while you do it and do not choke, it always fucks up the mood.”
Your gaze followed the direction she pointed in, landing briefly on what you could only assume was the bucket, before slowly returning to her, your expression caught somewhere between offended and impressed.
“I don’t want a drink,” you clarified, blinking slowly as your eyelids threatened to stage a full shutdown. “I’m actually trying to sober up.” Your speech was, objectively, slurred but since you couldn’t hear it that way in your own head, it didn’t count. You took another drag of your cigarette, this time slightly more cautious while you negotiated terms with it.
“Well, lady, you might be too far off for that,” she said, giving you a long, assessing look from head to toe, taking in your stance and smudged makeup. “Not even prayer can help you, though I can slap you across the face for free if you’d like.”
You blinked at her.
“Sure you’re not lost?” she added.
You very much ignored the slap offer, mostly because you suspected she’d follow through without hesitation. “What’s this place?” you asked instead, your curiosity cutting through the fog.
“Did the big sign up front not give it away?” she shot back, already turning to wipe down glasses with a rag that had seen better days. “It’s a club. Live music, comedy, cheap booze and a good time.”
“And a communal bucket of vomit, apparently,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes drifting around the room again as you tried to recalibrate your situation. You rubbed your temples, attempting to calculate just how far a drunk, emotionally compromised version of yourself could reasonably walk in high heels and a broken heart. It wasn’t looking promising.
“How far are we from Midtown Metropolis?” you asked, the cigarette now resting between your lips as your words came out slurred.
“Midtown?” she repeated, her eyebrows lifting before she let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Honey, we’re below downtown.”
Your eyes widened, the realization hitting you with sobering clarity. The ten dollars you had left wouldn’t even get you halfway to where you needed to be. “By ‘downtown,’ you mean ‘downtown’ downtown or just…downtown?” you pressed, each repetition of the word somehow sounding like a completely different concept.
“You saying it with a different inflection every time doesn’t change the meaning of the word,” she said flatly, though there was a flicker of concern in her expression now. She filled a glass and set it in front of you with a soft but decisive clink. “We’re probably as close to purgatory as it gets.”
“Vodka?” you asked automatically, already picking up the glass and downing it in one go.
“Water,” she corrected dryly, watching you like she’d seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times before. “And guess what? It’s on the house.”
You set the glass back down, exhaling heavily as you took another drag of your cigarette, your shoulders rising and falling as you tried to settle yourself. “Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter now, gaze drifting back toward the crowd, toward the stage and the man currently holding the room in the palm of his hand. “Hey!”
“You don’t need to scream. I’m right in front of you,” she snapped immediately, barely even looking up.
“Where, exactly?” you asked, waving your hand vaguely in front of your face like you were trying to clear up fog. “You have two heads right now…and six eyes if I blink too fast.”
“Focus on a single pair then,” she shot back. “Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head right now.”
“Right,” you hummed. You stubbed your cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar with exaggerated care, missing slightly the first time before correcting it, then lifted your hand and pointed toward the stage…about to make a terrible decision again. “How much do I get if I go up there?”
She followed your gesture, her gaze landing on the stage where the current performer was wrapping up, then flicked back to you with a look that hovered between curiosity and concern. “Singer?” she asked.
You shook your head.
“Dancer?”
You shook it again, this time with enough enthusiasm that your balance betrayed you entirely, your body tipping sideways before she reached over the bar and grabbed your arm to steady you.
“A simple no would suffice,” she muttered, letting go once you were upright again.
“No…” you said, dragging the word out as you tried to organize your thoughts into something resembling coherence. “Just need money to get home.”
“Well…” she considered, tilting her head as she assessed you, a questionable investment. “Given you don’t know where you are, I’m guessing you don’t have a slot.”
Your face scrunched immediately, your brain latching onto the wrong implication with impressive speed. “Not one I’d like to show you right now. No offense,” you added, raising a hand slightly as if that softened anything. “I was hoping for someone else tonight.”
“A time slot,” she corrected flatly, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice. “You can check with that guy over there,” she added, pointing somewhere into the crowd. “He’s next. He might give you five minutes of his…five minutes on stage if you’re lucky.” She paused just long enough for the sentence to almost behave, then added, “Maybe shake your tits at him and the odds might just be in your favor.”
Your hands immediately flew to your chest in a defensive reflex.
She continued anyway, unfazed. “While you’re up there, we pass a basket and you can keep anything in it. Again, if you’re lucky, you’ll get all of five dollars. They’re pretty stingy with the tips around here.”
“Tits up, then,” you said, straightening as much as your current condition allowed, which was… optimistic at best. There was a flicker of determination buried under layers of alcohol and emotional damage but present nonetheless!
You pushed through the crowd toward the guy she had pointed out, weaving between tables and shoulders but somewhere between your third step and your fourth, your attention derailed completely. The previous performer stepped off the stage, applause scattering through the room and instead of finding the guy, you found the stairs…and then you were on the stage.
Just like that.
You stepped behind the mic, blinking rapidly as the bright lights hit you full force, momentarily blinding you but, surprisingly, in a way that helped, because at least now everything was just bright instead of doubled.
“What a fuck-awful night to not pick waterproof mascara but have the neurons to pick a matching set of lingerie,” you muttered to yourself, squinting into the lights as you tried to force your eyes to adjust.
The microphone caught every word and a ripple of laughter spread through the room, soft at first then building as your private misery accidentally became public entertainment.
“Hey, it’s my turn!” a guy complained from somewhere off to the side, his voice cutting through the moment.
“Shut up!” someone yelled from the back aggressively, earning another round of laughter.
Your gaze drifted across the room, moving from table to table, taking in the audience in uneven fragments. From people in their twenties to thirties, to a couple of exhausted-looking moms who had clearly escaped something loud and sticky at home, a handful of lonely men clutching drinks like emotional support objects and then, front row, slightly to your right a couple…kissing.
It wasn’t polite at all…no, this was a full commitment, her legs draped over his, his face buried so deeply into hers it looked less like affection and more like a medical procedure.
“Not even the dentist looks that deep,” you said, mostly to yourself, your voice drifting into the mic again. “Or that thoroughly either and that’s coming from someone who enjoys having fingers in her mouth.”
The couple pulled apart abruptly, blinking like they’d just been yanked out of a dream, as laughter filled the room spreading from table to table. Your eyes followed the sound, widening slightly as you realized what you were doing.
“Talk into the mic, sweetheart!” someone called from the back, their voice carrying easily through the room.
You looked toward the darkness where the voice had come from, then down at the microphone before you lifted it properly. “I said that my favorite part about the dentist was the fingers in my mouth,” you repeated into the mic, clearer this time and the reaction was immediate. Whistles, laughter and a few claps thrown in like punctuation.
Your gaze drifted back to the couple, who were now sitting a respectable distance apart, exchanging soft, affectionate looks as if they hadn’t just been publicly dissected.
“That’s what I thought I’d be doing tonight,” you added, pointing lazily in their direction. “I put on this killer dress, matching lingerie…got out of the house and went to meet friends at a bar to celebrate an achievement that isn’t even mine.”
You nodded to yourself, a little too firmly, as if sealing a deal with your own unraveling thoughts, your gaze sweeping across the crowd now that you could actually see them.
“I’m hot, young, got a good style, some great tits and a personality I’m sure any man could bear…except for my father. There’s no fixing that.” you said, the line landing with a clean ripple of laughter that rolled through the room, encouraging in a way you hadn’t expected. “And apparently the guy I liked…the guy that I still like, because a half-drunk twenty-dollar bodega plastic bottle of wine couldn’t take that away.”
The laughter came again, louder this time and you felt it settle into you, cutting through the haze more effectively than the cigarette had, sharpening your thoughts enough to keep your footing mentally, if not physically.
“So this guy…Kent.” you continued, pacing slowly across the stage, your steps uneven but purposeful, your hand occasionally brushing the mic stand as if to steady yourself. “We’ve known each other for a while. Grew up together when my parents didn’t have me shipped off to some faraway country and I’ve sort of always liked him.” You paused, squinting slightly as you gathered your next thought, your brain catching up in pieces. “Have any of you ever been around a farm boy?”
The reaction was immediate with whistles, scattered cheers, a few enthusiastic claps. You pointed toward the loudest offenders, your face lighting up with vindication.
“Yeah…whew… hot, right?” you said, fanning yourself once for emphasis as people called back in agreement. “But way too damn respectful and I mean aggressively respectful, the kind that makes you question whether every mirror is lying to you. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve had my eye on him. Time passed…we moved to the city…I dated other people while he…” you paused, letting the beat stretch just enough, “...spent time at a local animal shelter. It’s adorable, it is! I can’t blame him.”
That earned a bigger laugh, rolling across the room as you nodded solemnly, as if confirming a tragic fact.
“And he’s…he’s gotten glasses since and he still can’t see me,” you went on, your tone sharpening with amused disbelief. “Trust me, he has good sight…great sight, even and the second we turned eighteen, I started pushing my luck. Changing in front of him was normal until I grew these–” you grabbed your boobs without hesitation, “–and even before that, he’d turn around, close his eyes, cover them with his hands and stand as close as he could to the opposite wall. So imagine what could have happened if I started dangling them his way!”
You demonstrated it, pivoting dramatically, pressing yourself toward an invisible barrier with exaggerated stiffness, a hand clamped over your eyes and the room burst into laughter again, even louder than before and clearly more invested.
You turned back around, shaking your head. “I pulled out the big guns tonight…No! I didn’t show him my boobs at the bar, relax!” you added, digging into your dress with zero shame as the crowd chuckled, your fingers disappearing for a second before reemerging with a handful of small crystals that caught the stage lights. That did it and laughter erupted instantly.
“The girls know, right?” you said, pointing toward a group of women who were already nodding, some of them laughing so hard they were leaning into each other. “Rose quartz, garnet and carnelian…Now I know what you’re thinking…‘Why the hell would you have those in your bra if you were hoping he’d take it off?’ Which is a fair question, I’ll give you that.”
More laughter rolled through it was practically continuous now.
“I was actually hoping he’d be brave enough tonight to get a little handsy,” you admitted, lowering your voice slightly as if confiding in them. “He’s the kind of guy who gets red when you tell him you like his tie.” You nodded, dead serious. “Then he’d feel the lumps, panic and insist on a closer inspection. Genius, right? I don’t know if that’d make him an empath or a pervert.”
The whistles came back, mixed with laughter that bounced off the walls and for a moment, you stood there in it, letting it wash over you.
“But no.” You cut it clean. The room followed you into silence almost instantly, the shift so sharp it felt planned even if you weren’t entirely sure how you’d done it. “He was too busy talking to his coworker.”
A dramatic chorus of boos erupted and you nodded slowly, savoring the solidarity.
“While I sat across the room at the bar…already five drinks in, and guess what?”
“What?” voices called out, uneven and overlapping as people leaned in, curious and obviously invested.
“His ears were pink!” you declared and the reaction hit like a wave with laughter, shouting, people clapping too hard and you lifted a hand, pacing again, riding it.
“So I left…” you said, pausing just long enough to let the room tilt forward with you, “but then came back!” That got them shifting in their seats as their attention tightened. “And I saw them kissing!!”
The explosion of sound that followed was bigger than anything before it and for a brief, dizzying second, you felt it surge through you, lifting you like you were standing on something higher than the stage.
You nodded, slower now. “I thought I was gonna marry that guy,” you said, your voice threading between humor and something just a little too honest for a stage like this. “Even if our lives are so…so fucking different. I mean, I’m here in Metropolis hiding out from my parents because it’s 2026 and they still want to marry me off to some aristocratic family and with all of the confidence in the world, I said–” you straightened, pitching your voice upward in mock defiance, “–‘No, daddy! I want to marry the farm boy!!’ from Kansas, at that! Lovely but…it’s still Kansas.”
The laughter that followed was deep, almost overwhelming, a few people doubling over as it hit them and you let it breathe before snapping back in. “Well, fuck that!”
That nearly broke them. “I’m still not going back to my parents, though,” you added, pacing again, your voice gaining strength as you went. “Because if there’s anything I hate more than being wrong…it’s them being right.”
More laughter came, punctuated with whistles and applause.
“So fuck it,” you said, leaning into the mic now, your tone sharper and bolder. “And fuck him too!…in a way that would bring him no pleasure at all.” A wave of approval rolled through the room then. “I’ll think about letting this go when I’m less drunk and less tempted to use that communal bucket in the back there,” you added, pointing vaguely behind you, earning another round of laughter as heads turned instinctively.
“But tonight,” you went on, your voice settling, “with what’s left of it and of me…I’ll be Mrs. Kent.”
You nodded once, firm. “Because there isn’t a scarecrow alive filling out a dress like this,” you added, gesturing down at yourself with a crooked sort of pride. “You can’t un-plow that field.”
The room erupted and it wasn't just the same laughter from before but actual eruption. It rattled through the floorboards and bounced back at you twice as loud, it filled every inch of the space until it felt too big to hold…and you were right in the center of all of it.
You felt cold first in an awfully deep and uncomfortable way, followed closely by the slow, punishing awareness of your own body.
Your head pounded even in your sleep, a dull, relentless ache that throbbed behind your eyes and your skin felt tight, stretched thin from dehydration as if your entire system had been wrung out and left to dry overnight.
Somewhere in that haze, your mind tried to bargain with you, softening the edges of reality into something kinder. This was a dream…it had to be. One of those strange, vivid dreams where if you concentrated hard enough, if you reached far enough back into memory, you could summon something better like endless Kansas fields stretching under an open sky, the rich smell of wet dirt after rain and an angel-faced boy who, inconveniently, looked far too much like Clark to be considered harmless.
All that hope simmered to nothing as something loud and metallic shattered it entirely.
The noise cracked through your skull unforgivingly, dragging you violently out of whatever fragile peace you had managed to find. Your body jerked and before you could even orient yourself, you were falling, literally, off the narrow surface you’d been sleeping on, landing with a graceless thud onto a floor that smelled so aggressively unclean it felt historical, as though it hadn’t been properly washed since the fifties and had simply been accumulating regrets ever since.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your limbs heavy, balance questionable and vision still struggling to catch up with reality and then you saw them…the bars.
You were in a cage.
It took a second…several, honestly, for that to fully register, your brain lagging behind your eyes as you stared at them in confused silence. Somewhere in that delay, your body apparently decided to act on instinct, because before you even realized what you were doing, you were standing there…saluting.
The officer on the other side of the bars looked at you with a mixture of concern and poorly contained amusement.
“At ease, showgirl,” she said, laughing as you slowly lowered your hand, your brain choosing that exact moment to implode inward on itself as if someone had struck it with a frying pan.
You sank back down onto the bench behind you with a groan, moving carefully only to immediately press your hand into something wet which made you freeze.
“What the–why’s that wet?” you asked, your voice hoarse, eyes squeezing shut because every light in the room felt like an interrogation lamp and every sound echoed directly through your skull, including her laughter, which now seemed entirely too loud for the circumstances.
“You know, I’ve never seen someone sleep so soundly in a holding cell…or drool like that while doing it,” she replied, her tone somewhere between impressed and horrified.
There it was again, that metallic clanging sensation in your head, each word rattling around painfully even as you could tell she was attempting, unsuccessfully so, to take it easy on you.
“Come on,” she added after a moment. “You made bail.”
“What did I do to end up here?” you asked, pushing yourself up again with significantly less enthusiasm this time, your body protesting every movement. “Is it incriminating to ask? I can’t afford a lawyer.”
She stepped closer, reaching out as if to steady you, though you suspected she was also trying not to laugh again. “What didn’t you do would be the easier question,” she breathed shakily… which didn’t help.
The entire process of signing out passed in a blur, your brain catching fragments but failing to assemble them into anything coherent. Names, papers, a pen that felt too heavy in your hand…until you reached the stairs. That’s when your focus snapped back, sharp and immediate, because something felt off. You looked down and realized you weren’t wearing your heels…In fact, you weren’t wearing shoes at all.
You turned toward the last flight of stairs, your mind finally starting to catch up with your body before you saw him at the bottom. Any other day, you would’ve said there was nothing worse than running into your parents unexpectedly but in this moment, with your head pounding, your dignity in shambles and your entire night hanging over you like a bad smell, this was worse.
He was…so much worse.
“Where’s the communal bucket when you need it?” you muttered to no one in particular, forcing yourself to move anyway, each step down the stairs feeling heavier than the last.
“Are you okay?” Clark asked, already moving toward you, taking the last few steps quickly as he reached out, his hand hovering just close enough to help. You could almost hear him sniffing you. “Are you smoking again?”
You snatched your arm away before he could touch you. “I’m good,” you said, the words coming out sharper than intended as you brushed past him, heading straight for the front desk where a plastic bag of your belongings waited. “And mind your business.”
Your purse was there, mercifully intact, though its contents felt…questionable. You rifled through it, discovering a handful of crumpled bills that you were fairly certain had not come from your own bank account, forty-five dollars and a few coins that looked suspiciously sticky, which you chose not to investigate further. Your heels were inside the plastic bag, along with a club bracelet, your bra…which raised several questions you were not prepared to answer and your collection of crystals, now significantly less mystical under morning lighting.
“You’re clearly not good,” Clark added behind you, his voice careful.
“Excuse me?” you cut in quickly, ignoring him entirely as you looked up at the man behind the counter. “I didn’t have a phone when I came in?” You could feel Clark’s eyes on the side of your face, searching and somehow that made your headache worse.
“You don’t have your phone?” he asked in disbelief. It was practically part of your being.
“Do I look like I have a phone, Jonathan?” you snapped, the name landing with more bite than necessary, your frustration shifting direction and settling into defensiveness, which felt easier to hold onto than whatever else was underneath it.
The man behind the counter glanced down at a sheet of paper, then back up at you, his expression carefully neutral. “No, ma’am,” he shook his head. “It says here that you were clutching your purse and shoes…some colorful rocks and…wearing nothing else on top.”
That tracked…unfortunately.
“Yeah, so what?” you shot back, your voice still rough from sleep, dehydration and the sheer audacity of your own situation. “I allegedly let the girls breathe. Is that a crime?”
“Clearly–” the officer began, already halfway into what promised to be a very official and very unhelpful explanation.
Clark’s jaw tightened before he could finish, his expression going from concern into shock. “Allegedly?” he echoed, his voice low but firm and coated in layers of disbelief. “They’re charging you with public indecency and you don’t remember it?”
“Oh, so now you want to know all about my boobs, huh?” you snapped, the words coming out sharper than intended but far too satisfying to take back. “What are you even doing here? Go to work or something…don’t you have some squirrel to save? Or some other girl to–”
Clark’s hand came up fast, covering your mouth before you could finish, your voice muffled instantly as a few nearby heads turned, drawn in by the rising volume of your spiral. His other arm moved just as quickly, gathering your scattered belongings and pressing them against your chest until you had no choice but to hold them yourself.
“Out. Come on,” he muttered, already steering you toward the exit with urgency, his grip firm but not rough.
The moment you stepped outside, the air hit you hard. It was cool, sharp, sobering in the worst possible way and you immediately smacked his hand away from your face, shoving him once in frustration. It did absolutely nothing. He barely moved, his focus locked entirely on you, his expression tight with worry that felt offensive in its sincerity.
You huffed, crossing your arms awkwardly around the pile of your own belongings. Oh, your poor, painfully earnest farm boy.
“You disappeared,” he accused, his voice was intense like you’d never heard before. “And I couldn’t find you.” You could almost hear a hint of fear in his voice, someone like him, who had never had trouble finding anyone, couldn’t find ‘little old’, newly expendable, you.
“Meaning you looked,” you shot back, a crooked smile pulling at your lips despite everything. “Finally! That’s great, Kent. It means we’re making progress. Anything else?” You looked at him expectantly, as if this were a conversation you could win, completely ignoring the fact that you were barefoot on a busy Metropolis sidewalk, clutching a plastic bag that contained your bra and what remained of your dignity.
“What happened?” he asked, cutting straight through your performance.
“I went to get a drink somewhere else,” you said with a shrug that aimed for casual and landed somewhere closer to reckless.
“And ended up in prison.”
You nodded firmly and unapologetically. “It was a holding cell, not Belle Reve.”
“Without your phone,” he added, brows furrowing. Another nod. “Or shoes.”
That earned a groan. You sighed after, clearly done with this line of questioning and shoved your belongings into his arms with far more force than necessary, mimicking what he’d done earlier. He took them automatically, barely reacting as you pulled your heels from the bag.
Balancing proved more difficult than anticipated. You wobbled as you slipped one on, then the other, body still not entirely on your side. Clark stepped closer on instinct, his hand hovering near your arm, ready to steady you.
“I can do it alone,” you snapped, the word sharper than the situation required, actually, it was sharper than you meant but you didn’t take it back, it was becoming a pattern. Once you were done, you straightened up and snatched your belongings right back.
“Who are you? And where’s my girl?” he asked genuinely, not recognising the person standing in front of him. Not the smudged mascara, the smell of your skin or overly harsh tone.
The question wasn't accusatory, you could actually hear the confusion he was experiencing. It still caught you off guard though, because even now, especially now, he wasn’t matching your edge. He was trying to understand it.
Fuck little old you.
“Like I have an answer for you…” you muttered, your face tightening briefly, the frustration turning inward for a split second before you pushed it away, before a much worse thought cut through everything else. “Did you call my parents?”
That landed harder than anything else had so far, your stomach dropping as you looked at him, the fear sharp and immediate. That would’ve been it, the real betrayal, being handed back, neatly packaged, to expectations you had already fought so hard to escape.
“I got here as fast as I could,” he admitted, voice certain. You didn’t need him to elaborate. You knew how fast ‘fast’ actually was for him, how far he would push it and how little the rules of distance or time applied when he was worried. “You know I would never give you up.”
You looked at him squarely for the first time today and for a moment the anger faltered. He hadn’t gone home, that much was obvious. His clothes were the same, his posture just slightly too rigid, his eyes tired in a way that didn’t come from lack of sleep alone.
“I don’t know anything anymore,” you admitted, the words suddenly less guarded, though still heavy with everything you hadn’t said. There was a long pause before you added, almost automatically, “I’ll pay you back...for bailing me out.”
Your tone softened just enough to make it clear you meant it, even if money wasn’t really the point. You didn’t have much anyway, all because you like a boy.
“I don’t want your money,” he reminded you, shaking his head as he took a step closer, careful this time. He could hear your heartbeat, the way it skipped, the hesitation in your breathing and still, he didn’t push too far, not physically that is.
“I’ve always wanted you to be okay,” he continued, with a tone of voice that made it harder to deflect. “And you do know that. This could never change that.”
That was the problem, it did.
“So, how was the party?” you asked carefully, the question coming out quieter than anything you’d said so far, as if you were testing the ground before stepping on it. The nausea twisted in your stomach again and for a brief, vivid second you imagined yourself folding right there onto the pavement if he said it had been wonderful, if he told you about laughter, about Lois and about a night that had continued perfectly fine without you.
“I wouldn’t know,” he confessed. The answer itself landed strangely between you. “There’s things I can’t do when you go missing.”
You straightened at that, it wasn’t out of pride but instinct, your spine pulling taut as if to reassert something that had never really been questioned except by you. You didn’t need saving, you had never needed saving. You had chosen to leave, chosen every step that had brought you here, even if those choices had been fueled by love.
“How guilty does Jimmy feel?” you murmured, tone detached. He had tried to stop you from leaving alone and you had ended up in prison, which you were sure he believed he could have stopped singlehandedly.
“He stayed up looking for you too,” Clark replied. “I told him to go home.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing that, your gaze drifting somewhere past him, unfocused. “I’ll give him a call.”
“Without a phone?” he questioned, one brow lifting just slightly.
You rolled your eyes, the motion slower than usual but no less intentional, already turning away from him as you began to walk. “I know where it is!” you insisted, your voice gaining strength as distance became your ally again. “About five blocks from where I lost my damn dignity!” you called over your shoulder, not bothering to check if he was following because of course he was. The subtle shift in the crowd said enough, pedestrians unconsciously parting around the two of you as you moved, your pace sharp and steps purposeful.
“Could you just talk to me?” he pressed, closing the distance without effort, his tone insistent. “Isn’t that what we do? You walk away from me, I act like I can’t catch up for a few minutes until you get tired and slow down and then we have breakfast together. So talk to me.” He was practically begging. “Sweetheart, you can’t just–”
You turned sharply, so fast it forced him to stop mid-step, your eyes locking onto his with a clarity that hadn’t been there before. The movement snapped the moment in half, cutting off whatever he had been about to say.
“Did it feel good?” you asked carefully, eyes narrowing in honest curiosity. “Before you realized I was gone? Were you having fun?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He thought about it, his expression changing as he considered your questions instead of deflecting them. Then he nodded. “I–yes…yeah, I was having fun.”
You nodded in return, the motion small and mature, as if you were filing that answer away somewhere permanent.
“That’s good,” you said, your voice softening just slightly, though your eyes betrayed you, glossed over with tears you refused to let fall. “Number one newspaper…soon to be nationwide, I’m sure.” A faint, strained smile pulled at your lips as you pointed at him. “You guys did that, not me. Steve, Jimmy, Cat…Lois.” You paused there, the name catching in your throat for just a second before you swallowed it down. “And you.”
You exhaled slowly, collecting your thoughts.
“I don’t need you to pull me to the top with you,” you continued, firmly now. “Your friend group doesn’t have to be mine, because your passion isn’t either. So I’m sorry I messed up your night but it isn’t the first time I’ve run away. I did it from my parents to go to college for you and from college to come here with you.”
You paused again, watching him and seeing how hard he was trying to piece it together. Your words, your tone and the source of all of this sudden, disjointed honesty.
“I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.” You concluded.
The words settled between you and before he could respond, before he could try to fix it, question it or soften it, you stepped forward, closing the distance in a single, decisive motion.
You rose onto your tiptoes, unsteady but determined and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He instinctively leaned down just enough to meet you halfway, his willingness making it easier and harder all at once.
It didn’t linger. You pulled back immediately, the moment already slipping away and turned before you could reconsider, before your body could betray you again. You started walking.
Behind you, you could hear him call your name, his voice cutting through the noise of the street but you didn’t stop.
“Go home, Clark,” you said without turning, your pace steady now and shoulders set. “I’ll find my way back. I always do.” And you kept walking.
Clark stood there, unmoving, watching as you disappeared into the morning rush. The city was already alive with people flooding the streets in that restless, unrelenting rhythm that swallowed everything eventually. He watched until you were no longer distinguishable from the crowd, until the space you occupied became just another gap filled by strangers.
He had more questions now than when he had found you and worse than that…
He had the sinking certainty that somehow, even standing right in front of him, he hadn’t found all of you.
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Pairing: Eddie Munson x female! Henderson reader (No use of y/n)
Summary: A steamy first time in the back of a van. It's exactly what it looks like folks.
Series Warnings: Explicit sexual intercourse, dirty talk, praise play, first-time sex, tobacco use, semi-public sex (in a vehicle), size/power dynamics between characters, sort of corruption kink if you SQUINT (Eddie is sweet I swear), mentions of reading porn, oral sex (female receiving).
Disclaimer: In an effort to be a better neighbor to all my readers, I am working to keep my descriptions sensation-based. As I navigate this learning curve, some white-coded/specific language may still be present. I’m sharing this so you can curate your reading experience with that in mind!
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: 14k
Author's note: This was inspired by THIS post from @starrieststarrystarrystar! I had a some time and figured why the hell not. Not quite a “quickie” but ya girl can’t keep things short if I wanted to. I've missed our boy while I've been working on Sam. So here's a small return to Hawkins. Not properly edited because I’m on a road trip. Peace and love folks ~ Mae
Masterlist
Dustin Henderson had long realized that his social equity was largely comprised of a revolving door of sudo babysitters, self-appointed mentors, and siblings. Growing list ranging from his sister, an unlikely friend in Steve, and Mr. Clark. With the daunting, jagged horizon of Hawkins High looming over him, Dustin’s nerves weren't just frayed; they were unspooling.
He had heard the gospel of high school survival from his older sister for years. She’d described the transition from the familiar halls of Hawkins Middle to the asphalt expanse of the high school parking lot as a brutal demotion. For the socially unranked or the academically obsessed, the shift was less of a walk and more of a gauntlet. Previously, Dustin hadn't paid much heed to her cynical warnings. His sister was an anomaly in the social ecosystem of Hawkins: smart enough to be dangerous, friendly enough to avoid being a target, but possessing a ghost-like ability to inhabit the periphery. She was the girl with her nose buried in a paperback, tucked into the back corner of the library, wearing flared jeans and a quiet armor of indifference. People didn't shove her into lockers because they barely realized she was there.
But the "Summer of ‘85" had changed the weight of her words. After surviving interdimensional horrors, navigating a secret Russian subterranean base, and enduring traumas that should have been reserved for war veterans, Dustin had stopped viewing her advice as "big sister nagging" and started viewing it as actual insight. Then there was Steve Harrington. Steve had become the pseudo-older brother Dustin had never asked for but desperately needed in the absence of their father. Naturally, Dustin’s first instinct had been to play matchmaker. He’d told them both, with the bluntness only a thirteen-year-old can muster, that since Nancy Wheeler was out of the picture, his sister was the next logical choice. Neither had bitten. Steve was still nursing a bruised heart and a shattered ego over Nancy, and his sister? Well, Steve Harrington simply wasn't her type. She’d had enough run-ins with Tommy H. and Carol over the years to know that the "King Steve" era carried a stench she wasn't interested in, and no amount of Steve taking hits from Russians or swinging a nail-studded bat was enough to bridge that aesthetic gap.
The BMW pulled up to the curb of the Henderson house, its engine purring with a domesticity that felt at odds with the tension in the air. Their mother was out of town, tending to a sick aunt in Kersey, leaving Dustin to rely on Steve to skirt the edges of his curfew.
"Where’s your sister?" Steve asked, his brow furrowing as he scanned the darkened house. There was no warm glow from the living room lamp, and the window to her bedroom was a void of shadows. The typical reading light extinguished.
"Probably out," Dustin sighed, adjusting his hat.
"Out? Out where?" Steve asked incredulously. To Steve, she was a constant, fixed point in the Hawkins map. She was the girl who sought sanctuary in the back of the library or the furthest table in the lunchroom, safely cocooned by her Walkman. "Your sister is always home. I’ve seen her leave the house for exactly three things: school, the library, and occasionally to save our lives from certain death."
"Not since July," Dustin replied, his voice dropping an octave. The events at Starcourt Mall hadn't just shaken her; they had cracked the shell she’d lived in for years. In the wake of that trauma, something entirely unexpected had bloomed.
"Is she... okay? Like I know she cracked some ribs and all but, is she lonely, or...?"
"I’d say she’s more than okay," Dustin replied, casting a side-eye at Steve, a humored, almost smug expression crossing his face.
"Then why isn't she home?"
"Date," Dustin said. He looked bored, genuinely confused as to why Steve was treating this like a front-page headline. In the last month, he’d grown accustomed to the shift. There had been no clandestine sneaking around. Just a week after the Fourth, she had walked through the front door on a Saturday afternoon, hand intertwined with a stranger's. Their mother had been ecstatic, thrilled to see her daughter finally engaging with the world of the living. Especially given the suitor's theatrical, albeit genuine, promise to have her home by the stroke of midnight before her glass slippers faded away.
Even Dustin found he didn't mind the guy. He was a refreshing change of pace. Someone who didn't talk down to him, who understood the intricacies of a D20 roll, and who could actually debate the merits of high-fantasy lore. During a three-person outing for ice cream and a stint at the arcade, Dustin realized the guy wasn't just tolerating him for the sake of it. He actually seemed to like hanging around. He wasn't just putting in time to get under his sister’s skirt.
"A date?" Steve repeated, his voice climbing an octave. "Your sister? The notorious 'do not touch me with a ten-foot pole, I find boys tedious' Henderson? She’s on a date?"
"Yes, Steve. Keep up."
"With who?"
Steve didn't have to wait for the answer. The silence of the suburban street was shattered by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of a dying muffler and the screech of old brakes. A beat-up GMC van, more rust than paint, came rattling around the corner, its headlights cutting through the dark like twin spotlights. It pulled up to the curb with a dramatic jerk, idling aggressively adjacent to Steve’s pristine BMW. Steve stared at the van and then at the silhouette visible through the driver's side window. His jaw tightened as the realization hit him like a freight train.
"You are shitting me." Steve deadpanned.
Dustin didn’t even look at Steve. He just leaned back against the headrest, his eyes fixed on the rusted GMC as the engine gave one final, hacking cough before falling silent. "Not shitting you, Steve. It’s been three weeks. Get with the program."
Steve’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. "Munson? Eddie Freak Munson? Dustin, tell me you’re joking. Tell me she’s doing some kind of rebellious social experiment."
"You sound jealous," Dustin remarked casually, reaching for the door handle. "It’s a bad look, Steve. Makes your forehead do that weird crinkle thing."
"I am absolutely not jealous!" Steve hissed, whipping his head around to glare at Dustin. "I am concerned! There is a massive, gaping chasm between 'being protective' and 'watching your friend’s sister climb into a van that definitely smells like the set of a Cheech and Chong film.' She needs to be careful. She’s smart, usually anyways, so why is she hanging out with a guy who can’t graduate high school?"
Dustin let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Steve, relax. Eddie’s a good guy."
"A good guy?" Steve bristled, his voice rising an octave. "I’m sure your mom doesn’t know, otherwise she’d be reeling."
"He’s nice to my mom," Dustin countered, his tone turning uncharacteristically firm. "He actually listens when she talks about her garden. He’s kind to her. And he’s kind to my sister. Do you know how rare that is? Most guys in this town look at her like she’s a piece of furniture or a puzzle they can’t be bothered to solve. You included."
Steve slumped back, his bravado momentarily deflated, but he wasn't ready to let it go. "Dustin, he’s a stoner. He sells drugs behind the wheel of that rolling tetanus shot. And he’s repeating his senior year for the second time. Pretty sure he’s got a criminal record. He’s a dead-beat."
Dustin paused with his hand on the door, his expression softening into something more serious. "It’s her business, Steve. Not mine, and definitely not yours. And for the record? He makes her laugh. Like, actually laugh. Not that polite little 'huff' she does when she’s being nice, but that loud, messy sound she hasn't made since before the mall. Since before everything went to hell."
Steve opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked back at the van, seeing the faint, flickering orange glow of a lighter through the windshield. He remembered the haunted look in her eyes after they’d climbed out of the wreckage of Starcourt. The way she’d retreated so far into herself he wasn't sure she’d ever come back.
"Look," Dustin said, breaking the silence as he pushed the door open. "I’d like to get inside before I have to witness my sister necking with her boyfriend in the front seat of a GMC. I’ve seen enough trauma for one year. See ya, Steve."
Dustin hopped out, slamming the door and jogging toward the house without a backward glance. Steve sat in the idling BMW, the engine purring in stark contrast to the rattling beast parked twenty feet away. He watched the van for a long beat, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of a wild mane of dark hair leaning toward the passenger side. "Unbelievable," Steve muttered under his breath, a mix of genuine confusion as he peeled off the curb, headed home.
๋࣭ ⭑🎸⊹ ࣪ ˖
Inside the van, the air was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco, old upholstery, and the lingering musk of teenage boy. The dashboard was a chaotic graveyard of cassette tapes, crumpled gum wrappers, and dice that rattled with every vibration of the engine. She leaned back against the worn vinyl seat, the metal of the door cold against her shoulder, watching the way the streetlights caught the rings on Eddie’s fingers as he drummed them against the steering wheel. He wasn't looking at the road anymore; he was looking at her, a lopsided, mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" She asked, voice barely a whisper.
"Like what?" he countered, his eyebrows shooting up toward his chaotic fringe.
"Like you’re waiting for me to do something impressive. Or like you’re trying to memorize my face for a police sketch."
Eddie chuckled, the sound deep. He reached out, his hand hovering before he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his rings cool against her skin. "Neither. I’m just looking at you because you’re really pretty. Is that a crime now, Henderson? Am I going to be hauled off to Hawkins’ jail for being an appreciator of beauty?"
It was still so strange, the way he said things like that without a hint of irony. For years, Eddie Munson had been a fixture of the Hawkins background. A loud, abrasive blur of denim and hair who occupied the same social strata as the ghost she pretended to be. He’d been in Steve’s grade originally, but after two failed attempts at graduation, he was set to be a second-time repeat senior just as she was starting her own final year. Before July, she had effectively ignored him. She’d seen the boy who barked at people in the hallway and lived for the theatricality of being an outcast. Yet now she felt like an idiot, realizing how much she’d had let the noise of his reputation drown out the man beneath.
Everything had changed a few days after the mall. She had been a shell of a person, her body aching and mind fractured by the memory of the Starcourt shadows and the cold sterile walls of that Russian elevator. Needing to escape the suffocating concern of her mother and the frantic energy of Dustin, she hiked out to Skull Rock. At night, it was a den for wandering hands and cheap beer, but in the harsh light of a humid afternoon, it was a sanctuary.
Or, it was supposed to be.
She found Eddie there, tucked into a jagged crevice with an acoustic guitar and a pack of Marlboros. He’d looked up, ready to snap a witty remark at whoever was invading his territory, but the words had died on his tongue when he saw her. Her face was a map of the week’s horrors. A fading purple-and-yellow bruise blossomed across the cheekbone, a gift from a Russian soldier's fist. She had prepared a lie about a bike accident or a fall, the same one her and Dustin told their mother, but Eddie hadn't pressed. He’d simply moved his guitar to make room on the stone.
"Rough week?" he’d asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.
"Rough year," she replied, clutching the copy of The Hobbit to her chest like a shield.
He’d spent the afternoon with her, playing soft, meandering chords while she read. He didn't ask for the story behind the black eye, though his gaze lingered on it with a sort of quiet, protective anger. At one point, he’d looked at her and sighed exasperatedly. "You know, it’s really unfair," he’d murmured. "Most people look horrible when they get beat up. You? You manage to look even prettier, Henderson. Very distracting for a man trying to practice his scales."
That was the moment the wall started to crumble. They bonded over Tolkien when she told him how her dad used to read The Hobbit to her and Dustin before he walked out. And Eddie had listened with an intensity that made her feel like the only person in the world. He was roguishly handsome in a way that felt somehow safe. He was sweet. Not the performative sweetness of guys like Steve, but a raw, honest kindness that didn't expect anything in return. And when he’d tentatively asked her on a date a week later, stuttering over the words, she hadn't even hesitated. And the rest, as they say, was history.
The silence of the van felt electric with the memory of the night. A greasy pizza shared under the flickering fluorescent lights of a booth, and the feeling of his hand constantly finding hers. A movie complete with the warmth of each other pressed close after throwing up the bar between their seats. Eddie’s fingers tracing mindless patterns on her shoulder from where it sat.
"Earth to Henderson," Eddie said softly, snapping his fingers. "You’re doing that thing where you go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Want a map back to the present?"
"I'm here," she smiled, leaning across the center console. Then she reached out, her fingers disappearing into the wild, dark thicket of his hair. It was soft, despite the chaotic appearance, and smelled faintly of the rain that had started to mist outside. She found a stubborn knot near the nape of his neck and began to gently work it through with her thumb. Eddie let out a low, contented hum that vibrated through the small space, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before he caught himself. "Careful there, Princess," he rasped, though he didn't pull away. "You really shouldn't go poking around in that rat’s nest. You might lose a finger. Or find a guitar pick I lost in '84."
She scoffed, tugging playfully on a frizzy curl. "It wouldn't be a rat's nest if you actually brushed it once in a while. Or used conditioner. I’ve seen your shower, Eddie. One bar of soap for everything? It’s a miracle you have hair at all."
"Brushing? Proper maintenance?" He gave her a look of mock horror. "That wouldn't be very rock and roll of me, would it? The aesthetic requires a certain level of... let's call it unrefined grit. Besides, I’m just glad your mom isn't one of those pearl clutching parents who thinks long hair is a sign of moral decay. I half-expected her to demand I put a pair of scissors to it before I was allowed to take you out."
"She likes you," she reminded him, finally smoothing out the knot and running her fingers down the length of his hair until she found his upper back. "She thinks you’re charming. Probably because you pull that 'polite young man' act out of your pocket whenever she’s around."
"It’s not an act. Well entirely," he insisted, though his grin suggested otherwise. He shifted, his leather jacket creaking as he turned more fully toward her in the cramped space. His expression grew a bit more focused, his dark eyes searching her own."So," he began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial rasp. He leaned back against the driver’s side door, watching her intently. "Since the Henderson matriarch is away and the curfew is... shall we say, more of a suggestion tonight... How do you want the rest of this evening to go? I am at your service, oh captain, my captain." He turned back to the road, his voice dropping into a lower, more deliberate register. "We could go back to the trailer, and just put on a record or I could just sit here and let you keep de-tangling me until I fall asleep behind the wheel."
She felt a surge of boldness, fueled by the lingering adrenaline of the date and the way his leather jacket smelled like cheap cologne. She leaned in further, her lips hovering just inches from his jawline, voice dropping into a low, deliberate purr. "I don't know, Eddie. It’s a nice night. Maybe we could drive back out toward the woods? I hear Skull Rock is particularly... scenic this time of night."
Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Scenic? Princess, it’s pitch black. You can’t see the rock, let alone the view. The only reason anyone goes out there at this hour is to make out in the back of a car or–" He stopped mid-sentence. The gears shifted visibly behind his eyes, his mouth falling open slightly as the implication finally landed. He looked at her, his usual bravado momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of uncertainty.
"Wait," he stammered, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Are you... are you saying what I think you’re saying? Because, look, I’ve done that... once. And it wasn't exactly a cinematic masterpiece if you catch my drift." He looked at her with an earnestness that made her heart ache. "I just... I didn't think you’d be ready for that yet. I didn't want to be the guy who pushed."
She reached out, cupping his face and forcing him to look her in the eye, silencing his spiraling thoughts as he pulled to a crawl outside her house, "Eddie," she said, voice firm and warm. "I want to. I trust you."
Eddie didn’t move immediately. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling in a quick, shallow rhythm that betrayed the nerves beneath his cool exterior. He looked like he wanted to say something profound, something poetic and Tolkien-esque, but instead, he just let out a shaky, breathless laugh. "Okay," he whispered, the word more of a promise than an acknowledgement. "Okay, Henderson."
He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, pulling out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. His hands, usually so steady when shredding a guitar solo, had a slight, endearing tremor as he flicked his lighter. The flame cast a sharp, amber glow across his features. Th high cheekbones, the dark intensity of his eyes, and the way his lips pulled back as he took a deep drag. He held the smoke for a second, then exhaled it in a long, slow plume that joined the mist curling against the windshield.
He leaned over the center console, his body casting a shadow over hers. He pressed his lips to hers, tasting of tobacco and the cherry Icee they’d shared earlier. It wasn't the chaste, sweet kiss of their earlier dates; it was hungry, desperate, and laden with the "three weeks of holding back" that was finally snapping.
As he pulled away, he pressed the cigarette to her lips, letting her take a drag while his other hand found the ignition. The van roared to life with a violent bang, vibrating with a raw energy that seemed to mirror the heat in the cabin. Eddie threw the GMC into gear and floored it, the tires chirping against the asphalt as he tore away from the curb. The suburban houses became blurred streaks of grey and white through the thickening fog. Inside, the atmosphere was thick and heady. Eddie reached over, taking the cigarette back from her, his fingers lingering against her chin.
"You have no idea," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that made her toes curl. He glanced at her, eyes dark and predatory, before snapping them back to the mist-shrouded road. "How many times I’ve sat in this van after dropping you off, just... staring at your front door like a total loser, wondering if you were gonna stop being so polite and start being this dangerous."
"Dangerous?" she echoed, a small, daring smile playing on her lips.
"Fucking lethal," he corrected. He passed the cigarette back, his thumb grazing her lower lip. "You’re sitting there looking all soft and quiet, and then you say something like that? Makes me want to do such horrible things to you Henderson."
He shifted gears, his movements fluid and aggressive. The engine groaned as they hit the incline leading toward the outskirts of town. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic thump-thump of the tires and the crackle of the radio playing a, distorted hair-metal ballad.
"You know what I’m gonna do when we get there?" Eddie asked. He didn't wait for an answer. One hand stayed on the wheel, while the other moved to her thigh, his fingers digging into the denim of her jeans. "I’m gonna find out if you taste as good as you smell. Because right now, Henderson, you smell like vanilla and trouble, and it’s driving me absolutely insane."
He squeezed her leg, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric, and for a second, the only sound was the rumble of the GMC. The fog was a wall now, turning the world into a claustrophobic, private chamber.
"Tell me something," he said, his tone shifting. It was still low, still heavy, but a flicker of that gentle, inquisitive Eddie who sat with her at Skull Rock rept back in. He glanced at her, his eyes searching hers with a soft intensity. "What’s the tally, Princess? And don't give me the polite version. I mean... what have you actually done? How far have the boys of Hawkins gotten before they hit the 'no entry' sign?"
She bit her lip, the ghost of the cigarette smoke still on her tongue. "Not... far. Nowhere, really. Just some fumbling at a party once that I ended before it even started."
Eddie let out a breathy, knowing laugh, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her knee. "Yeah. I figured. I’d bet my last guitar string that you’re a virgin." He didn't say it like a judgment. "But," he added, his voice dropping into a playful, seductive rasp, "I also bet you’ve got the most active imagination in this entire zip code. All that reading, all those hours tucked away in the library... you’re not just reading about hobbits and dragons, are you?"
He leaned a little closer, the scent of his leather jacket filling her lungs. "Come on. Tell me. What does that brilliant, beautiful brain of yours do when the lights are out and you’re all alone? I want to know the things you think about. The things you’re too shy to even whisper to your pillow."
He looked at her with such genuine, wholesome wonder, like she was a mystery he was honored to solve. "I bet you read it, don't you? The smut. The stuff the librarians keep behind the counter. The paperbacks with the embossed gold letters and the shirtless guys on the cover. I bet you’re too scared to actually watch it but you read it."
She felt the heat flare in her neck, a deep, tell-tale crimson. She gave a small, jerky nod, suddenly finding the dashboard very interesting. Eddie’s grin softened into something incredibly sweet, his fingers moving up an inch, his touch reassuring and light. "Hey, look at me. It’s okay. It’s actually... it’s hot, Henderson. It’s really hot that you have this whole secret world inside your head." He tilted his head, his dark curls spilling over his brow. "So, be brave for me. Tell me one thing you read. Something that made your heart race. Something you’ve read on a page and thought, 'I wonder if that feels as good as it looks.' What’s something you’ve always wanted to try out?"
He waited, his expression a perfect, dizzying blur of a boy who wanted to take care of her and a man who wanted to ruin her, his hand staying perfectly still on her thigh to let her know the choice was entirely hers. She took a shaky breath, her gaze flickering from the fog-slicked windshield to the rings on his hand, still resting heavy and warm against her thigh. The vulnerability of the moment felt sharper than any physical threat she’d faced that summer.
"I remember reading about a guy," she started, her voice barely audible over the rattling of the van's loose muffler. "He didn't just... it wasn't just about him. He went down on her. And the way the author wrote it, it wasn't like a chore. It was described like he really got off on doing it. Like her pleasure was the thing that made him lose his mind."
Eddie’s hand jerked slightly, a silent, physical reaction to her words. He let out a low, whistling breath, his eyes darkening as he processed the image. "Why that, Henderson?" he pressed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a thick, velvet sandpaper. "Of all the things in those dusty books, why does that one stick in your brain?"
"Because," she whispered, finally finding the courage to look at him. "Everything in this town feels so one-sided. Guys want to score, so they can brag. But in that story, it was like he was worshipping her. It felt... deliberate. And intense."
Eddie’s lopsided grin returned, but it was softer now, devoid of its usual mockery. He looked at her with a quiet awe. "Deliberate. I like that word," he murmured. He shifted the van into fourth gear as the road began to wind upward, the trees closing in like a canopy. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. What else? Don't stop now, Princess. You’re on a roll."
She twisted a loose thread on her blouse, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I like the dialogue," she admitted, her voice gaining a tiny bit of strength. "I like when they talk. Not just moaning. I like how it is when the guy guides the girl. Especially if she hasn't, you know, done it before. I like when he’s caring, but he’s still in charge. Like he’s teaching her a language only the two of them speak."
Eddie pulled the van toward the shoulder of the road for a brief second, his eyes never leaving hers even as he steered with practiced ease. He reached out, his thumb catching her chin and tilting her head up. "You like a guide, huh?" he asked, his voice a soothing, seductive hum. "Someone to show you the map so you don't get lost in the dark?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a fleeting, tender second. "I can do caring, Henderson. I can be the sweetest guy you’ve ever met. But you have to know, if I’m the one guiding you, I’m not gonna stop until you’re shaking. I’m gonna talk to you the whole time. I’m gonna tell you exactly how beautiful you look when you’re coming apart, and I’m gonna make sure you know that every sound you make is better than any song I’ve ever heard."
He pulled back just enough to see her pupils blown wide, mirroring the darkness of the woods outside. "Is that what you want? You want me to talk you through it? To tell you where to put your hands and how to breathe while I’m taking my time with you?"
His hand slid a little higher on her thigh, the heat of his palm a searing brand. "Because I’ve been thinking about this since the day at Skull Rock. I’ve been imagining what it would be like to be the first one to see you like that. To be the one who gets to be careful with you, but also the one who gets to... well, let's just say I’m not just interested in the 'worship' part, though there’s gonna be plenty of that." He shifted back into gear, the van lurching forward as they neared the turn-off for the lookout. "I’m gonna guide you, Princess. Every step of the way. And I promise you, by the time we’re done, you’re not gonna need those books anymore."
The mist swallowed the GMC as they turned onto the gravel path, the crunch of the stones beneath the tires sounding like a countdown. "Tell me one more thing," he said, his voice a low, commanding purr as the van slowed. "When you read those stories... do you imagine the guy looks like me?”
She didn't hesitate this time. The bashfulness was still there, a soft glow beneath her skin, but it was being overtaken by a raw, quiet honesty. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand where it gripped the gear shift, tracing the prominent veins and the silver rings that felt like ice against her feverish skin.
"It’s always been you. Since that day at the rock, Eddie," she whispered, her voice steadying as she found the words. Eddie’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles straining, but he stayed silent, hanging on her every word.
"I think about your hands," she admitted, her touch traveling up to his wrist, feeling the frantic skip of his pulse. "I think about how they look when you’re playing guitar. How fast they move, how strong they are. I’ve spent so many nights wondering how they’d feel if they weren't on a guitar, but on me instead. If you’d be just as… precise."
Eddie let out a jagged, shaky breath, his chest heaving under the layers of denim and leather. "Precise," he choked out, the word sounding like a prayer. "Jesus, Henderson."
"And your hair," she continued, her voice growing more rhythmic, almost hypnotic as the van slowed to a crawl at the edge of the clearing. "I think about losing my hands in it. I think about how it would feel falling over my face, or how I could pull on it to bring you closer when you're... doing those things I read about. I like that you’re messy. I like that you’re loud and that you don't fit into the boxes this town built for us. When I'm alone, I don't think about a hero in a book. I think about the way you look at me like I’m the only thing that matters in this entire world."
Eddie cut the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, filled only by the tink-tink-tink of the cooling metal and the heavy, synchronized breathing of two people who had run out of road. He turned toward her, unbuckling his seatbelt with a violent click. He didn't move to touch her yet; he just sat there, looking at her with an expression that was so painfully sweet it made her throat ache, yet so predatory it made her stomach flip.
"You have a very dangerous way with words, you know that?" he said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. He reached out, his hand finally leaving the wheel to cup the back of her neck, his thumb sliding behind her ear to tangle in her hair. "You like my hands? You like the way I look at you?"
He leaned in until their noses brushed, the heat radiating off him in waves.
"I’m gonna go slow, just like your books, and I’m gonna talk you through every single bit of what I’m doing to you. And if you want to pull my hair? You go right ahead."
He slid his hand from her neck down to the first button of her blouse, his rings clicking softly against the plastic. "But first," he rasped, his eyes locking onto hers with a burning, protective intensity, "I want you to tell me you’re sure. Because once I start, I’m not gonna want to stop until I’ve worshipped every part of you that you’ve been keeping hidden."
She didn't speak; she simply nodded, a sharp, decisive movement that broke the last of his restraint. Eddie’s hand slid from her button to her jaw, his thumb hooking under her chin to pull her into one last, kiss before he scrambled over the center console. She followed him, limbs tangling in the cramped space between the seats, the friction of denim on vinyl squeaking as they tumbled into the cavernous, darkened rear of the GMC.
The back of the van was a den of shadows, smelling of stale patchouli, motor oil, and the dampness of the fog clinging to the exterior metal. There was a mattress of sorts. A thin, lumpy thing covered in a heavy, scratchy wool blanket. The moment she settled against it, Eddie was over her, his weight a sudden, grounding reality that pinned her to the floorboards.
He didn't start with words. He started with the devastating, physical press of his mouth against hers.
It wasn't a soft landing. It was the collision of two people who had been vibrating at a high frequency for miles. His lips were chapped and hot, molding against hers with force. He tasted of the acrid tang of the Marlboro and the lingering, synthetic sugar of the cherry Icee, a combination that felt illicit and intoxicating. When he tilted his head, his teeth grazed her lower lip. A sharp, accidental spark of pain that immediately dissolved into a surge of heat.
Eddie groaned, a low, tectonic sound that she felt in her own chest as he pried her mouth open with his. His tongue was a restless, rhythmic intruder, slick and heavy as it swept past her teeth to claim hers. The kiss became a messy, uncoordinated battle of suction and friction. She could feel the damp slide of saliva coating her lips, the wetness blurring the line where his mouth ended and hers began. The air in the van grew stifling, humid with their shared breath. Every time he pulled back for a fraction of a second, a thin, glistening string of spit stretched between them before he crashed back down, more desperate than before. His hair was a wild, static-charged curtain falling around her face, the coarse strands tickling her cheeks and forehead, creating a private, lightless tent.
His hands were exactly as she had described: precise and unrelenting. One was buried deep in the hair at the base of her skull, his fingers knotting into the strands to hold her steady for the onslaught, while the other was splayed flat against the small of her back, pulling her hips upward to meet the hard, heavy line of his thighs.
The intensity escalated until the "sweetness" he had promised was buried under the raw mechanics of desire. There was the audible, wet slap of their mouths meeting, the occasional jarring clink of his rings against her teeth when he reached up to cup her face, and the rhythmic, frantic panting that filled the small space. He sucked at her tongue, pulling it into his mouth with a strength that made her head swim, his own tongue darting deep to explore the roof of her mouth with a feverish intensity. He broke the kiss for a second, his face hovering barely an inch from hers, both of them gasping for the oxygen that had been sucked out of the van. His lips were swollen, slick and shining in the dim light filtering through the foggy glass.
"God, Henderson," he rasped, the sound torn from the back of his throat. He didn't look sweet anymore; he looked wrecked, his dark eyes blown out until the irises were just thin rings of mahogany. He let his head drop into the crook of her neck, his hot breath blooming against her collarbone. "You move like that again, and I'm gonna forget all about being a gentleman. You're fucking ruining me."
Eddie didn’t give her time to catch her breath. He shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels with a fluid grace that made the van’s suspension groan. "Come here, gorgeous," he rumbled, his voice dropping into that low, chest-vibrating register. He reached out, his large hands spanning the entire width of her waist, and hauled her forward until she was straddled across his lap.
The heat of his thighs through both their denim was a shock, but before she could process the friction, he was reaching for the hem of his black Megadeath shirt. In one jagged, impatient motion, he whipped the fabric over his head and tossed it into the front seat. The air hit his bare skin, and she froze, her breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp. In the dim, milky light filtering through the fogged-up windows, Eddie’s torso looked like a map of another world. The ink was dark and aggressive against his pale skin. The swarm of bats trailing up his forearm, the demonic imagery, and the jagged lines of the spider. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of art and rebellion.
Eddie caught the look on her face and a low, melodic chuckle vibrated through his chest. He leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his elbows, the muscles in his stomach rippling with the movement. "Relax, Princess," he teased, his eyes dancing with a mix of pride and affection. "I promise they don’t bite. I don’t either, unless of course you ask me to."
Seeing her still rooted in place, he reached up and took her wrists. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the heavy-metal aesthetic of his skin. He guided her hands toward his chest, pressing her palms flat against the ink. "It’s okay," he murmured, his voice softening into something deeply endearing. "You can touch them. I’m not made of glass, Henderson. Go on, explore the gallery."
She let her fingers roam, her tips tracing the raised, slightly scarred texture of the black lines. She followed the curve of a bat’s wing, the dip of his collarbone, and the hard, flat planes of his pectorals. The skin was hot and she could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart beneath her right palm. Eddie watched her with his head tilted back against the side of the van as he let her take him in.
"I’d really love to see you too," he whispered, the playfulness in his voice replaced by a thick, heavy sincerity. "If you'll let me." She nodded, a quick, nervous jerk of her chin. Her heart was a trapped bird in her chest, but when she looked into his eyes, she found nothing but a steady, grounding heat.
Eddie reached for the first button of her blouse. He didn't rush. He made a point of maintaining eye contact, his dark pupils blown wide, capturing the faint light.The first button slipped through the hole. He watched her reaction, his thumb grazing the hollow of her throat. The second gave way, revealing the pale curve where her neck met her shoulder. His movements were methodical, deliberate, turning the simple act of undressing into a ritual. When the last button was undone, he gripped the collar and slid the fabric down her arms, letting it pool on the wool blanket behind her. The cool air hit her skin, causing a shiver to race down her spine, but Eddie was already there to warm her.
He didn't grab. Instead, he extended a single finger, and began to trace a slow, agonizingly light line from her collarbone down toward the center of her chest. The physicality of it was electric. The scrape of his nail against her soft skin creating a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "You're so beautiful," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being pulled through gravel. His gaze dropped to the lace of her bra, his breath hitching. He leaned in, his nose brushing against the swell of her breast, the scent of her skin making his head swim.
"Please," he whispered against her skin, the word a ragged plea. "Let me take this off too. I want to see all of you. I want to feel you against me, no barriers. Can I, Princess?"
His hand moved to the clasp at her back, his fingers fumbling slightly with the metal hooks. A humanizing, sweet break in his seductive armor as he waited for her silent permission to finally close the distance between them. She didn't speak, her voice lost to the thick, humid air of the van, but she arched her back slightly, a silent surrender that gave him the access he craved. Eddie didn't need another hint. With a deft, practiced flick of his fingers, the tension of the clasp gave way. The moment the barrier was gone, he didn't immediately move to touch her. He just looked, his chest heaving. Then, he leaned forward, closing the final inch of space.
The sensation of their bare chests meeting was a physical jolt. The contrast was staggering: his skin was hot, slightly damp, and textured with faint hair on his sternum; hers was smooth, cool from the night air, and soft as silk. As they pressed together, the friction of skin on skin created a static-like heat that seemed to radiate through her entire body. She could feel the hard, solid muscle of his pectorals crushing against the yielding softness of her breasts, their heartbeats slamming against one another in a frantic, syncopated rhythm.
Eddie let out a long, shuddering groan into the crook of her neck, his hands sliding down her back to grip her waist, pulling her even tighter into his lap. He stayed there for a moment, just breathing her in, before he pulled back, his dark eyes fixated on her chest. "I told you," he whispered, his voice a jagged ghost of a sound. "Fucking lethal."
He lowered his head, his dark curls spilling over her skin. He started with the lightest of touches, his tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe across the swell of her breast, the moisture cooling instantly in the drafty van. Then, he opened his mouth. His lips, hot and swollen from their kissing, encircling her nipple. The sensation was overwhelming. The wet, high-pressure heat of his mouth was a sharp contrast to the cool air. He didn't just bite or suck; he used his tongue with a deliberate movement. He swirled it around the sensitive peak, the texture of his tongue sending sharp, electric jolts straight to her core.
He began to suckle, pulling her deep into the heat of his mouth. She felt the distinct, pulsing suction as he used his lips to create a vacuum, his tongue flicking rapidly against the hardening tip. It was a heavy, concentrated sensation, the tugging causing a deep, low ache to bloom in her hips. Every time his teeth grazed her in just a hint of a sharp edge, she gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, her nails scraping against the ink of the bats on his arms.
He was relentless, his breath hot and damp against her skin as he shifted his focus, his lips sliding over the sensitive underside before returning to the center. The sound of the wet, rhythmic noise of his mouth on her filled the quiet of the van. He looked up at her through his lashes, his eyes dark and glazed with a terrifying level of hunger, watching her face crumble as he continued to worship her exactly the way she had read about, but with a physical intensity no book could ever truly capture.
The friction of her shifting hips against the rough denim of his thighs sent a jolt of clarity through her that was almost as sharp as the pleasure he was grounding into her chest. As she moved, the slick, heavy heat between her legs made itself known, a dampness that had saturated the thin lace of her underwear. She let out a broken, jagged gasp, her back arching instinctively away from the sensation, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself. Eddie felt the hitch in her breath, the way her body suddenly stiffened and then melted in a different, more desperate direction. He pulled back, his lips wet and glistening, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he watched the realization dawn in her eyes. He didn't have to ask; the way she was trembling, the way she couldn't quite meet his gaze, told him everything.
"Henderson," he rumbled, his voice a low, vibrating purr that seemed to echo in the very floorboards of the van. "You're shaking. And I think I know why."
He reached down, his large, ringed hand sliding between their bodies, his palm flattening against the denim of her jeans right over the apex of her thighs. He didn't move it; he just let the heat of his hand sink in, feeling the unmistakable dampness that had already begun to seep through the heavy fabric. His eyes darkened, the mahogany turning to a scorched earth black.
"Look at me," he commanded softly. When she finally lifted her gaze, his expression was a dizzying mix of that "guide" authority and a raw, primal hunger. "Remember that story you told me? The one about the guy who really got off on doing it for her? The one who wanted to taste her more than he wanted to breathe?" He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers, his breath a hot, humid cloud. "Will you let me do that? Will you let me eat you out, Princess? I want to see if you taste as sweet as you smell."
She couldn't find her voice, so she simply nodded, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Eddie didn't waste a second. He shifted her weight, guiding her back onto the scratchy wool blanket while he moved to the foot of the mattress. He reached for the button of her jeans, his fingers surprisingly steady as he worked the metal through the hole. The sound of the zipper was deafening in the quiet of the foggy woods. He didn't just pull them off; he dragged them down slowly, his eyes never leaving the map of her legs as they were revealed. When he got to her underwear, his breath hitched. The lace was translucent with her own heat, a dark, damp patch marking the center.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, sliding them down her legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation. Once they were off, he didn't toss them aside. He held the small, damp scrap of fabric in his hands, his fingers tracing the lace. He brought it to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat.
"You mind if I keep these?" he asked, his voice a thready whisper. He looked up at her, his expression stripping away the bravado, leaving only a raw, honest want. "I’d love to revisit this later. When I’m stuck in that trailer alone, thinking about the way you looked right now..."
He folded the lace and tucked it into the pocket of his discarded vest, his eyes softening as she buried her face in her hands. "Hey," he murmured, crawling back up the mattress until he was hovering over her again, his bare chest a wall of heat. He gently pried her hands away from her face, his touch as light as a feather. "Don't hide. You're fucking precious, you know that? Every single part of you."
He kissed her forehead, a sweet, lingering gesture that felt like a promise, before his gaze drifted back down. His hands found her inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive, pale skin there, moving upward in slow, rhythmic circles. "Now," he whispered, his voice dropping back into that seductive, authoritative rasp. "Let's see if I can't make you forget how to speak entirely."
Eddie didn’t hesitate. He moved with a focused, hungry intent, sliding down the length of her body until he was kneeling between her spread knees. The cool air of the van rushed over her exposed skin for only a second before the heat of him replaced it. He draped her legs over his shoulders as he leaned in. When his mouth finally made contact, it was a revelation of pure, wet heat.
He started slow, the tip of his tongue tracing the very outer edges of her, testing the waters. He was incredibly thorough, his tongue flicking and swirling with a rhythmic pressure that mimicked the way he played his guitar: calculated, fast, and devastatingly accurate. The texture was a contrast of slickness: the soft, velvet glide of his tongue against the sensitive, swollen folds that were already weeping for him.
She let out a high, thin wail, her head tossing back against the lumpy mattress. As if on cue, the light mist outside finally broke, and a sudden, heavy downpour began to lash against the metal roof of the GMC. The sound was a frantic, metallic drumming, a chaotic percussion that seemed to sync up with the wet, rhythmic sounds Eddie was making between her thighs. He grew bolder, his mouth opening wider to draw her in. He used his lips to tug at her, his tongue working a frantic, fluttering pace against her clitoris. The physicality was all-consuming: the scrape of his stubble against the inside of her thighs, the hot, humid clouds of his breath hitting her skin, and the way his fingers dug into her hips to hold her still against the onslaught.
"Eddie," she choked out, her fingers tangling in the wild, damp mess of his hair, pulling him closer.
He didn't stop. If anything, the rain hammering on the roof seemed to drive him harder. He delved deeper, his tongue long and insistent, exploring every inch of her. She could feel the dampness of his own saliva mixing with hers, a slick, hot slurry that coated everything. The pressure was constant, a building tension that felt like a wire being pulled taut.
Every time she thought she couldn't take any more, he would shift his angle, his tongue flat and heavy one moment, then sharp and precise the next. He was drinking her in, his throat working as he swallowed, making good on his promise to worship her. The van rocked slightly with his movements, the sound of the storm outside muffling her cries as he drove her toward a ledge she had only ever read about in the quiet of the library, now made terrifyingly, beautifully real by the man who refused to let her go.
The tension inside her was a bowstring pulled to the snapping point, her heels digging into his shoulders as her hips began to stutter in a frantic, involuntary rhythm. The hammering of the rain on the van’s roof reached a deafening crescendo, a wall of white noise that made the space feel like a tiny, vibrating island in the middle of a storm. Just as she reached the precipice, her breath catching in a jagged, suspended sob, Eddie suddenly pulled back just an inch. The loss of that direct, searing contact made her whimper, her hands clutching at his hair to pull him back down.
"No, no," he rasped, his voice a thick, dark command that cut through the sound of the rain. He looked up at her, his face a mess of slick moisture and blown-out pupils, his jaw set with a hard, focused intensity. "Look at me. Don't fight it, Henderson. Don't you dare hold back."
He slid his hands under her, lifting her hips higher, his thumbs pinning her open as he leaned back in. He didn't go back to the slow swirls; he used his tongue in a flat, heavy, relentless stroking motion, firm and rhythmic. "Let go," he groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice buzzing through her. "Right now. I've got you."
The command was the final push. The wire snapped. Her entire body convulsed, a violent, beautiful shiver that started in her toes and crashed through her spine. Her vision whited out, the sound of the rain turning into a dull roar in her ears. She felt the heavy, wet heat of his mouth stay pinned to her through every internal pulse, catching every drop, refusing to let the sensation fade until she was completely spent. Her muscles turned to water, her legs sliding off his shoulders to thud limply against the mattress.
The silence that followed, save for the rhythmic drumming of the storm, was heavy and thick. Eddie didn't move for a long minute. He stayed there, his forehead resting against the inside of her thigh, his breathing coming in ragged, labored hitches. Finally, he crawled back up the length of her body, the movement slow and deliberate. He looked wrecked, his hair a tangled curtain around his face, but as he settled beside her, the predatory edge had vanished, replaced by a soft, glowing warmth.
He pulled the scratchy wool blanket over both of them, shielding them from the drafty air of the van, and hauled her into his side. Her head landed on the hard, tattooed plane of his chest, her ear pressed right over his heart, which was still hammering like a trapped bird. "Jesus," he whispered, his hand shaking slightly as he smoothed her hair back from her sweaty forehead. He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering there. "You taste so good, Princess. You hear me? So fucking good."
His voice was a low, soothing hum, a complete departure from the gravelly seduction of minutes before. He reached down, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers, his rings cold but his palm searing.
The wool blanket was a rough, warm cocoon against the cool air of the van, but beneath it, the air was still charged with a residual, static electricity. She shifted against his side, her movements slow and languid, like someone waking from a heavy dream. While her ear tracked the thudding rhythm of his heart, her free hand began to wander. She let her fingertips graze the line of his stomach, feeling the way his abdominal muscles instinctively rippled and tightened at her touch. Slowly, almost tentatively, she reached lower. Her fingers found the heavy brass buckle of his belt, the metal cold against her knuckles.
Eddie’s breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that hitched in his throat. He didn't pull away, but he did go still, his hand pausing its gentle stroking of her hair. "Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly register that was more protective than provocative. He looked down at her, his dark eyes searching her face in the gloom. "Henderson... look at me. You don't have to do that. Tonight isn't about some fair-trade agreement, okay? I’m perfectly happy just holding you until the sun comes up."
The rain outside seemed to underscore his sincerity, a steady, rhythmic wash against the GMC’s metal skin. She looked up at him, her eyes clear . "I know," she whispered, her fingers curling more firmly around the leather of the belt. "But I want to, Eddie."
Eddie stared at her for a long beat, his expression a complex map of uncertainty, heat, and a profound sort of gratitude. He wanted to make sure she wasn't acting out of a sense of obligation. He searched for any flicker of hesitation, any shadow of doubt, but found only the same quiet resolve that had carried her through the summer’s horrors. "You're sure?" he pressed, his voice barely a breath. "We can stop right here. We can just listen to the rain. I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm sure," she said, her voice small but unwavering.
A slow, breathless smile broke across his face. The kind of lopsided, genuine grin that made him look like the boy she’d first met at Skull Rock. "Okay," he breathed. He sat up slightly, the movement causing the van to rock on its old springs. With a fluid, practiced motion, he unbuckled the belt and began to shimmy out of his heavy denim jeans. The friction of the fabric against the mattress made a dry, rasping sound that filled the small space. He kicked them off his ankles, leaving him in nothing but his plaid boxers.
He paused then, his knees framing her hips as he hovered over her. He reached down, his hands trembling just a fraction as he gripped the waistband of the boxers. But instead of pulling them down, he stopped, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart skip. "Actually," he rasped, his voice thick. He took her hands and guided them to the elastic waistband, letting her fingers feel the fabric. "I want you to be the one to do it."
She didn't hesitate. With her heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs, she hooked her fingers under the elastic of his plaid boxers and slowly slid them down the long, lean line of his legs. As the fabric fell away, the air in the van seemed to vanish. Eddie sat back on his heels, his hands braced behind him on the lumpy mattress, exposing himself to her with a raw, vulnerable honesty that felt louder than the rain. In the dim, shadowed light, his manhood was a stark, imposing reality. He seemed impressive even if she didn’t have anything to compare it to. A coarse, dark thicket of hair grew at the base, curling upward toward his navel in a thin, enticing line.
Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingertips grazed the very tip of him before sliding down the smooth, velvet length. Eddie let out a sharp, jagged gasp that was almost a cry. His head snapped back, his throat working as he swallowed hard, and the muscles in his arms corded with the effort of staying still. "Jesus, Henderson," he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. "Your hands... you have no idea what that feels like."
She grew bolder, her palm cupping the weight of him, feeling the way he pulsed and jumped against her touch. He was searingly hot, the blood thrumming through him with a life of its own. Every time her thumb swiped over the sensitive tip, a low, guttural vibration started in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated friction.
He watched her for a moment, his eyes glazed and dark, watching her small hand against his skin. The physicality of watching her stroke him seemed to be the thing that finally pushed him over the edge of his restraint. "Wait," he rasped, gently catching her wrist to stop the movement. He leaned forward, his forehead briefly dropping to her shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. "I want you. God, I want you so bad. But I need to be a responsible 'guide' for a second." He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, his rings clicking as he ran a hand through his hair. "Don't go anywhere. I’ve got a stash in the glovebox."
He scrambled over the center console, his bare back rippling in the shadows. The van rocked as he leaned far forward, the glovebox clicking open with a plastic snap. There was the frantic sound of him rummaging through cassette tapes and loose change before he let out a triumphant "Aha!"
Eddie scrambled back into the dark cavern of the van, the small foil packet clutched in his hand like a prized treasure. But as he knelt before her, the cool, collected "Dungeon Master" persona was fraying at the edges. His fingers, usually so nimble when dancing across the fretboard of his guitar, were visibly trembling. The foil crinkled and slipped in his grip as he fumbled to tear the notched edge, his breath coming in short, erratic hitches that betrayed just how much the sight of her had unmoored him. He let out a frustrated, self-deprecating huff, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red. "Okay, so maybe the 'cool and collected' act is a bit of a stretch right now," he muttered, his rings clinking as his hands shook.
She reached out, her fingers steady as she gently pried the packet from his grasp. "Give it here, Munson," she whispered.
Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale, sinking back onto his heels and watching her with wide, reverent eyes. A flicker of his usual mischief returned, though it was softened by the vulnerability of the moment. "Oh? Does the Princess know her way around a prophylactic?" he joked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Or are we just winging it like a first-level rogue?"
She didn't look up, her focus entirely on the careful task at hand. "You aren’t the only one who had to sit through Coach Higgins’ health class, Eddie. I remember the banana demonstration perfectly well. Though, for the record, this is a significant upgrade from a piece of fruit."
Eddie let out a jagged, genuine laugh that vibrated through the floorboards. "You flatter me fair maiden," Once the barrier was in place, Eddie didn't rush. He moved forward, his bare, tattooed chest a wall of heat as he guided her back onto the scratchy wool blanket. He hovered over her, his arms braced on either side of her head, his dark hair falling like a curtain to seal the world away. The rain outside was relentless now, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming against the metal roof that felt like the heartbeat of the forest itself.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice dropping into that seductive, authoritative register. "I want you to listen to me. Close your eyes for a second."
When she complied, the world narrowed down to the tactile and the auditory.
"Focus on the details, Princess," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Listen to the rain. Hear how it hits the roof? It’s loud, and it’s messy, and it’s exactly like us right now. Feel the weight of me. Feel how my skin is sticking to yours because of the heat in here. Smell the old upholstery and the smoke. Feel how hard I am? This is all for you." He shifted, his lower body pressing against hers, the physical reality of him finally closing the distance. He moved with an agonizingly slow deliberation, his hands sliding down to lace through hers, pinning her palms against the mattress.
"I’m gonna go slow," he promised. "I’m gonna guide you through every second of it. You just keep listening to the rain and feeling the way I move. If it's too much, you tell me. If it's not enough, you pull on my hair. You’re the boss tonight, Henderson."
He nudged her knees further apart with his own, his eyes locked onto hers with a burning, protective intensity as he prepared to finally bridge the gap, the sound of the storm outside providing the only soundtrack to the moment they had both been waiting for.
"Eyes on me," he commanded, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel from his throat directly into her bones. The first contact was a shocking contrast of textures: the latex barrier, the slickness of her own readiness, and the heavy, blunt pressure of him finally finding his mark.
As he began to slide in, the world narrowed to a singular, piercing point of physical awareness. It was a slow, stretching invasion. The feeling of being filled, inch by painstaking inch. She felt the internal friction of him, the way her muscles tensed and then yielded to the sheer, solid bulk of him. A sharp, gasping sound escaped her, her head falling back as her fingers dug into the wool blanket, the fibers coarse and scratchy beneath her nails.
"Deep breaths," Eddie urged, his own voice sounding wrecked. He caught her mouth in a wide, open kiss, his tongue sweeping deep to catch her moan. He tasted like the dying embers of a cigarette and the iron-sweet tang of desire. The sound of their mouths was muffled by the violent rat-tat-tatof the rain hammering the metal roof just inches above them. The air in the van was thick with the scent of rain-damp leather, the metallic tang of the old GMC, and the musky, salt-sweet aroma of their joined bodies. Eddie’s hair fell forward, a wild, dark thicket, brushing against her cheeks and neck.
He paused when he was halfway, his body trembling with the Herculean effort of restraint. His forehead pressed against hers, and she could see the erratic pulse jumping in his neck, the way his jaw was locked tight. "You okay?" he rasped, the word barely a breath. "Talk to me, Princess. Tell me what you feel."
"Full," she managed to choke out, her voice a thready whisper. "I feel... everything."
"Good," he groaned. He began to move again, finishing the distance until they were flush, hip-to-hip, his pelvic bone a hard. The sensation of being completely occupied by him was overwhelming, a heavy, pulsing ache that felt like it was radiating through her entire nervous system. He stayed still for a moment, letting her body adjust to the new, staggering reality of him. Then, he began to pull back before sliding back in with a slow, rhythmic grind. The sound was unmistakable: the wet, sliding friction of skin on skin, the creak of the van’s old springs, and the heavy, synchronized panting of their breathing.
He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he picked up the pace, his voice a dark, encouraging hum. "That's it. Focus on the rain, Henderson. Focus on how I feel inside you. Just you and me in a tin box in the woods. Nobody else exists."
Every thrust was a deliberate lesson in physicality. She could feel the way his thighs bracketed hers; the way his rings felt cold against her shoulders when he reached up to brace himself; the way the humid air seemed to vibrate with every sound they made. He was a force of nature, guiding her through the dark with a steady, unyielding hand.
The rhythm of the rain on the roof intensified, shifting from a rhythmic drumming to a chaotic, deafening roar that seemed to wall them off from the rest of Hawkins. Inside, the air was a thick, sweltering soup of oxygen and salt. Eddie increased the pace, his movements losing their initial hesitance and gaining a raw, driving power. Each thrust was a heavy, sliding thud of contact, the sound of their bodies meeting becoming the only thing she could hear over the storm.
"Look at me, Henderson," he gasped, his voice straining under the weight of his own pleasure. He braced his weight on his forearms, muscles quivering with the effort of maintaining his rhythm while hovering over her. "Tell me you can feel that. Tell me exactly how I’m stretching you out right now."
He didn't wait for her to answer, his hips rolling into hers with a slow, agonizing grind that made her toes curl into the scratchy wool. "You’re so tight," he groaned, the words vibrating against her lips as he leaned down to capture them in another messy, saliva-slicked kiss. "Like you were made just to hold me like this. You hear that sound? That’s you, Princess. That’s what you do to me."
The physicality was staggering. She could feel the hard, corded ridges of his abs pressing against her stomach with every downward stroke. The sensations of him were everywhere. An intoxicating mix of his cheap cologne, the metallic scent of his rings, and the primal, musky heat of their shared exertion. When he moved, she could feel the slide of his sweat-slicked skin against her own, a frictionless glide that made the friction inside her feel all the more intense. "Focus," he whispered, his voice a dark, encouraging rasp in her ear. "Right here. Just the rain and the way I’m taking you. I want you to remember the weight of me. I want you to remember the way my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest because of you."
He began to drive harder, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and more urgent. The van rocked violently on its tired suspension, the old metal groaning in protest, but Eddie was oblivious to anything but the woman beneath him. He reached down, his fingers lacing through hers and pinning her hands back against the mattress again, his rings biting slightly into her skin. "You're doing so good," he panted, his eyes blown wide, watching the way her face fractured with every hit. "Talk to me. Make some noise for me, Henderson. Let the whole woods know you’re mine tonight. Tell me you want more."
"I want more," she finally broke, the words torn from her throat in a jagged, breathless sob that was instantly swallowed by a particularly violent roll of thunder. "Eddie, please, more."
The request was the final match in the powder keg. Eddie’s eyes went feral, a low, guttural growl vibrating deep in his chest as he shifted his grip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips to anchor her for the final, desperate sprint. The pace turned frantic, a blurring sequence of heavy, sliding friction and blunt impact that made the van’s frame shudder. "That's it," he choked out, his voice a broken, rhythmic chant against her neck. "Take it. Take all of it, Henderson."
She could feel the exact moment the tide turned. Her internal muscles began to pulse in involuntary, frantic waves, clamping down on him with a fierce, rhythmic suction that sent Eddie’s head snapping back. His movements became staccato, his breath hitching into short, sharp gasps as the friction inside her became a searing, white-hot localized sun.
Then, the world simply ceased to exist.
She felt the first wave of her climax crash over her. A physical, tensing jolt that started in her core and radiated outward until her fingers were clawing blindly at the skin of his back. She screamed into the humid air, the sound raw and unpolished, her back arching so sharply that only her heels and shoulders touched the blanket.
Seeing her break was the final trigger for Eddie. His body went rigid, his muscles locking into hard, straining cords under his ink-stained skin. He delivered one last, deep, agonizingly slow thrust, bottoming out with a heavy thud of pelvic bone against pelvic bone. A loud, visceral groan was ripped from his lungs. He held himself there, pinned deep inside her, his entire frame vibrating with the force of his own internal earthquake.
The sensation was total sensory overload: the slick, hot dampness where their bodies were fused; the stinging scrape of his chest hair against her breasts; the taste of salt on her lips as she kissed the sweat from his shoulder. They stayed locked together as the pulses slowly ebbed, the silence of the van rushing back in to replace the noise, save for the frantic, wet sound of their struggling breath. Eddie finally collapsed forward, his strength spent, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He was a dead weight, heavy and hot, his sweat soaking into her skin as they both trembled in the aftershock. The rain continued its relentless assault on the roof, but inside, the air had gone still and heavy.
He didn't pull away. He stayed merged with her, his heart hammering a frantic, muffled code against her ribs, his breath hot and damp against her collarbone. Slowly, he reached up, his shaking hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together, pressing her palm into the scratchy wool. "Holy... shit," he whispered into her skin, the words vibrating through her entire body. He let out a wet, breathless laugh.
The violent intensity of the last few minutes ebbed away, leaving behind a heavy, syrupy bliss that felt like being submerged in warm honey. The van grew quiet, the frantic drumming of the rain softening into a steady, rhythmic patter that hummed against the metal shell. Eddie shifted, his movements slow and ginger, as if he were afraid he might break the spell if he moved too fast. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and rolled onto his side, reaching for the discarded denim vest crumpled near the mattress. With a slight tremble still lingering in his fingers, he fished out the crumpled pack of Marlboros and a lighter.
As he sat up, the cool air hit his sweat-slicked back, causing the dark ink of the wyvern on his arm to ripple. He flicked the lighter, the small flame casting a sharp, amber glow across his sharp features and the messy, wild halo of his hair. He took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing like a lonely star in the dark, and exhaled a plume of smoke that swirled into the misted interior.
While he sat there, grounded and quiet, she shifted on the wool blanket. The back window of the van was completely opaque, a thick wall of white steam from their shared heat. Reaching out a hand, she pressed her fingertip to the glass. The condensation gave way easily, leaving a clear, dark streak. With slow, deliberate movements, she traced the curve of a heart into the steam, the moisture beading and rolling down the pane like a silver tear. Eddie turned his head, catching the movement. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at his mouth. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. He just reached back with his free hand, squeezing her knee in a silent, affectionate pulse.
She sat up behind him and moved closer until her chest was pressed against his warm back. She began to reach into the tangled mess of his hair. It was a disaster. Matted from the humidity and the way he’d been throwing his head back, full of knots and static. She began to work through the tangles with her fingers. Eddie’s head tilted back instinctively, a low, contented hum vibrating through his shoulder blades and into her. He took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes fluttering shut as she gently unpicked a stubborn knot near the nape of his neck.
"You're a mess, Munson," she whispered, her voice a soft, raspy thread in the dark.
"Yeah," he murmured, the smoke curling around his head as he leaned back into her touch, his voice thick with a drowsy, post-climax warmth. "But I'm your mess tonight, Henderson. Don't go fixing me too much."
She smiled against his skin, her fingers continuing their rhythmic, soothing work, finding peace in the quiet aftermath of the storm.
๋࣭ ⭑🎸⊹ ࣪ ˖
The drive back through the winding veins of Hawkins was a blur of silver and grey. The GMC rattled along the lightless roads, its headlights cutting weak, yellow tunnels through a fog so thick it felt like the world had been erased, leaving only the two of them in their metal sanctuary. The rain had settled into a steady, rhythmic drizzle that hissed against the asphalt. Eddie drove with one hand draped over the wheel and the other locked firmly with hers on the center console, his thumb tracing mindless, possessive circles over her knuckles. He looked different in the dashboard’s faint green glow. Softer with the sharp edges of his theatricality worn down by the weight of the night.
When the van finally groaned to a halt in front of the Henderson house, the silence of the suburban street felt heavy and expectant. The house was still dark, a silent witness to their return. Eddie killed the engine, and the sudden absence of the muffler’s roar made the sound of the rain against the roof seem deafening. "Back to reality," Eddie murmured, though he didn't let go of her hand. He turned to her, his eyes dark and searching. "You still with me, Henderson?"
"I'm here," she whispered, though her body felt heavy, her limbs humming with a dull, pleasant ache that made the prospect of moving feel like a monumental task.
Eddie reached into the back, grabbing his oversized leather jacket. It was heavy, smelling of the night and the unmistakable musk of him. "Come here," he said, and as she leaned over, he draped the jacket over her shoulders. It was far too big, the sleeves hanging limp, but the warmth of his body heat still trapped in the lining felt like a second skin. He hopped out first, the cool, damp air rushing into the van, and rounded the front to open her door. When she stepped out, her knees buckled. A sudden reminder of the intensity of the hours prior. Her legs felt like jelly, the muscles uncooperative and weak.
Eddie caught her instantly, his hands firm on her waist, pulling her flush against his side to steady her. He let out a low, playful chuckle, his breath ghosting against her temple. "Whoa there, easy. Legs a little shaky, Princess?" He looked down at her, his grin lopsided and brimming with a mix of pride and genuine concern. "What’s the matter? Do I gotta carry you the rest of the way, or can you manage the twenty feet to the porch?"
"I can walk, Eddie," she huffed, though she leaned into him heavily, letting him take most of her weight as they navigated the slick grass.
"I don't know," he teased, his arm tightening around her shoulders, pulling the leather jacket closer around her. "I think I might’ve broken you just a little bit. I should probably just sling you over my shoulder to be safe. Very 'caveman' of me, I know, but it gets the job done."
They reached the shelter of the porch, the overhang providing a brief respite from the drizzle. He turned her to face him, his back to the street, shielding her from the misty wind. He reached up, his rings cold against her cheeks as he cupped her face. The sweet Eddie was back, the one who looked at her like she was the only fixed point in a chaotic universe. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a long, quiet beat.
"Tonight was..." He paused, struggling for a word that wasn't too goofy for the moment. "It was everything, Henderson. I hope you know that."
He kissed her then. A slow, deep, and lingering goodbye that tasted of the rain and the remnants of the night. It wasn't the hungry, desperate clash of the van; it was tender, a promise of more to come, a seal on the secret they now shared. When he pulled away, his eyes were soft, his thumb grazing her lower lip one last time.
"Get inside. Get warm," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I'll call you," Eddie promised, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the steady hiss of the rain. He stayed on the top step of the porch for a moment longer than necessary, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw as if he were trying to burn the image of her into his permanent memory. "First thing in the morning. Or, well, afternoon, since I’m probably going to sleep like the dead."
He took a slow step backward into the encroaching mist, the darkness of the yard beginning to swallow the lower half of his silhouette. She turned the key in the lock, the heavy click echoing in the quiet foyer, and pushed the door open. The warm, stagnant air of the house rushed out to meet her, smelling of floor wax and the mundane reality she had left behind hours ago. She paused in the threshold, one hand on the brass knob, and looked back. Eddie was standing at the edge of the porch’s yellow light, his damp hair clinging to his neck in dark, chaotic coils. He caught her eye and offered a sharp, theatrical two-finger salute before turning to disappear into the fog toward the idling van.
She eased the door shut, the latch catching with a finality that felt like the end of a long, feverish chapter. The house was silent, but her internal world was a riot of noise. Leaning her back against the wood, she let out a long, shaky exhale that puffed out in the cool hallway. It was only then, as the silence settled around her, that she realized the weight on her shoulders. She looked down and saw the cracked, heavy leather of his jacket still draped over her, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. She hadn't even thought to give it back, and he hadn't asked for it.
She pulled the lapels closer, burying her nose in the collar. The smell hit her. It was the pure, concentrated essence of the last few hours. It was the sharp tang of Marlboros, the musk of his skin, and the damp, earthy aroma of the rain-soaked woods. It was a sensory map of Eddie Munson, and it was wrapped entirely around her. She walked toward the stairs, her movements still heavy and uncoordinated. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else, a lingering, pleasant weakness that made her climb the steps with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Passing the hallway mirror, she caught a glimpse of a stranger: her hair was a wild, damp disaster, matted at the nape where his fingers had spent so much time, and her blouse was haphazardly buttoned, the fabric wrinkled and clinging to her skin.
She reached her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to turn on the light. The darkness was better; it allowed the memories to play back against her eyelids in vivid, high-definition flashes. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips against her nipple, the slick, hot friction of him between her thighs, and the way the van had rocked in time with the storm.
She reached into the pocket of the leather jacket, her fingers brushing against a loose guitar pick and a crumpled receipt, before she simply curled up on top of her blankets, still wearing the jacket, still covered in him. Outside, the rain continued to weep against her window, but for the first time since the mall, the shadows in the corner of the room didn't feel like monsters. They felt like the dark, wild curls of a boy who had promised to call, and for the first time in her life, she didn't need a book to tell her how the story ended. She fell asleep with a lopsided smile, the taste of salt and smoke still lingering on her tongue.
Tag list? Just ask babes
(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)
The apartment looked less like a home and more like a fashion magazine had exploded inside it.
Garment racks stood beside the couch. Fabric swatches spilled across the coffee table like fallen petals. Shoes were arranged in neat rows near the door, some elegant, some ridiculous, all dramatic.
And in the center of the chaos sat Yuji.
A very small, very patient Yuji.
He was perched on the couch like a tiny king while his mother adjusted the miniature coat around his shoulders. The coat was black and white, patterned with bold streaks that looked suspiciously like something straight out of a villain’s runway fantasy.
He was perched on the couch with his legs sticking straight out in front of him, looking oddly regal despite the fact that he was barely tall enough for his feet to touch the cushions. His round cheeks were slightly pink from the morning air drifting through the window, and his soft hair stuck up in small stubborn tufts.
He had learned something very important about mornings in this household.
If Mom says “hold still,” you hold still.
Even if she walked around you in slow, sometimes concerning circles.
Even if she tugged at sleeves and collars.
Even if she leaned back every few seconds with narrowed eyes like a sculptor evaluating their masterpiece.
Right now, you were kneeling in front of him, carefully adjusting the miniature coat resting on his shoulders.
It was black and white, cut with sharp little angles that made the pattern look bold and dramatic. The fabric shimmered slightly when it caught the light from the window, and the long lines running across it gave it that unmistakable high-fashion look that people either adored or were too intimidated to comment on.
On Yuji, it somehow looked both ridiculous and perfect.
You smoothed the lapel between two fingers, tilting your head as you studied the silhouette.
“Hmm,” you murmured.
Yuji blinked at you with wide, trusting eyes.
You tugged the sleeve down a fraction of an inch, then adjusted the tiny scarf you had wrapped around his neck earlier.
“There we go,” you whispered, mostly to yourself.
Yuji kicked his feet once in approval.
You leaned back on your heels and let out a satisfied breath.
“Perfect.”
Yuji looked very proud of himself, despite having absolutely no idea what he had done.
For a moment he stared at you, processing something with the intense focus that only babies seemed capable of.
Then he opened his mouth.
“Ma.”
The word came out soft and slightly drooly, but unmistakable.
And you froze.
Your eyes widened.
“Sukuna!” you called, spinning toward the kitchen with dramatic urgency. “Did you hear that?!”
From somewhere past the hallway came the sound of a cabinet door closing.
A few seconds later, Sukuna’s voice drifted into the room.
“I heard.”
There was the slow shuffle of footsteps.
Then Sukuna appeared in the doorway.
He looked… extremely different from the rest of the apartment.
Where the room was full of deliberate style and theatrical detail, Sukuna looked like a man who had rolled out of bed and decided that effort was optional today.
He wore loose black sweatpants that hung low on his hips and an old dark T-shirt that had clearly survived several years of questionable laundry cycles. His pink hair stuck out messily in every direction, and he hadn’t bothered with shoes.
He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, his eyes moving slowly from you… to Yuji… to the coat.
Silence stretched for a moment.
“…Why does the baby look richer than me?”
You turned toward him immediately, offended by the accusation.
“He’s not richer than you.”
You gestured proudly toward Yuji, who was currently chewing thoughtfully on the end of his scarf.
“He’s styled.”
Sukuna pushed himself off the wall and walked closer, curiosity creeping into his expression despite his best effort to look unimpressed.
Yuji spotted him instantly.
His whole face lit up.
“Da!”
He kicked his legs excitedly, tiny boots thumping against the couch cushion.
Sukuna crouched down in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees as he examined the outfit like someone trying to understand an expensive art piece.
“Look at you,” Sukuna muttered.
Yuji grabbed one of his fingers immediately.
“He’s dressed like he’s about to attend a board meeting,” Sukuna continued, lifting one eyebrow. “Or run a fashion empire.”
“He could,” you replied without hesitation.
Yuji responded to this praise by drooling slightly.
Sukuna glanced up at you.
“…You dressed him up to go nowhere again, didn’t you.”
You gasped, clutching your chest like he had just insulted your entire career.
“We are absolutely going somewhere.”
“Where?”
You paused.
Just for a moment.
“…The grocery store.”
Sukuna stared at you.
Then at Yuji.
Then back at you again.
“You dressed our son like a runway model,” he said slowly, “for milk and eggs.”
“It’s called presentation,” you replied with dignity.
Yuji slapped Sukuna’s hand happily, like he agreed with you.
Sukuna leaned closer to him.
“Kid,” he said quietly, “your mother is insane.”
Yuji giggled.
Traitor.
You scooped Yuji into your arms before Sukuna could start undoing any of the carefully arranged layers.
“Don’t listen to him,” you whispered dramatically, pressing a kiss to Yuji’s forehead. “He has no appreciation for art.”
“Art?” Sukuna repeated.
“Yes.”
You turned slightly so Yuji could see the tall mirror near the door.
“There,” you said softly. “Look at you.”
Yuji stared at his reflection.
For a second he just blinked.
Then his face slowly broke into a delighted grin, like he had just realized the tiny, stylish person in the mirror was him.
Sukuna watched the scene, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…I’m underdressed,” he muttered.
You looked at him.
Slowly.
Your eyes scanned him from head to toe with the careful precision of a fashion editor preparing a very critical review.
Sukuna immediately sensed danger.
“No,” you said thoughtfully.
“No?” he asked.
“No.”
You gently set Yuji back onto the couch.
Then you turned and walked toward Sukuna with quiet determination.
“Oh no,” he said immediately.
“Oh yes.”
You grabbed his sleeve.
“We’re fixing you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re wearing a shirt older than our child.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“You’re a father now,” you said seriously, as if that explained everything.
Yuji watched the entire interaction with deep fascination.
Sukuna looked at him.
“Help me out here.”
Yuji clapped.
Five minutes later Sukuna stood in front of the mirror wearing a long black coat you had forced onto him.
The coat hung perfectly from his shoulders, its sharp tailoring giving him a sleek, intimidating look that matched his natural presence a little too well.
He stared at his reflection.
“…I hate that this works.”
You crossed your arms proudly.
Yuji sat on the floor between you both, happily chewing on a piece of discarded fabric.
You knelt beside him and adjusted his scarf one last time.
“Alright,” you declared.
“Family outing.”
Sukuna grabbed the car keys with a long sigh.
Yuji raised both arms in the air like a tiny champion.
And somewhere between the milk aisle and the cereal shelves, a very confused stranger was absolutely going to wonder why a baby dressed like a tiny fashion icon was riding in a shopping cart while his intimidatingly handsome father carried a basket of groceries.
his pace isn't nice, its straight mean as he pounds his thick, meaty cock into your drooling warmth, desperate to put a baby in your womb. he's not gentle about it either, mind racing and going dumb at the thought, hastily working to make it happen.
your tummy bulges with the way he sheathes his entire bulbous cock in your tight hole, spongy walls constricting around him, feeling every ridge and vein as you hug him tight. his angry, red tip punches against your cervix, ready to spurt his thick load into your sweet cunt.
he knows you'll let him, you'll let him do whatever he wants as he fucks you stupid, jackhammering deeper and deeper with relentless pace. the backs of your thighs reddening and your plush rear bouncing against his hips. his full balls slap against your clit, making you cry out into the bedding, saliva leaking from your lips.
above you, he moans incessantly, pussy-drunk and whipped as he mindlessly humps you, large, rough hands grabbing at your hips, so tight it might bruise.
he mumbles words you can't quite hear, feeling drooling saliva drip from his lips down onto your bare shoulder, running down your back. his jaw is slack, head tilted back and pupils blown.
it doesn't take long for him to fill you full of his seeds, spurting thick ropes of his white, creamy cum to fill your sweet pussy, coating your walls and leaving you full and satisfied. he pulls out to watch it drip out of you, calloused hands pulling your cheeks apart as he watches your slit leak with his release and drip onto the bed. he takes two thick fingers, smearing it across your folds before fucking it back inside you, hoping it takes.
The reader is a foreigner, i made sure not to describe where she's from
Synopsys: In which your betrothed is always silent or silenced
Word count: 4k
Warnings: None
The letter had been written on parchment so fine it felt like silk, sealed with wax the color of dried blood and stamped with a three-headed dragon. You had read it seventeen times.
My dear Yn,
I am told we are to be married. I hope this news does not displease you. The gardens of the Red Keep are said to be beautiful in spring. Perhaps you would like to see them when you arrive. I should like to show them to you.
Yours, Valarr Targaryen
It was not a love letter, precisely. It was too brief, too formal for that. But there was something in the turn of phrase—I should like to show them to you—that had made your cheeks warm the first time you read it, and the seventeenth time as well.
Your mother had noticed. Your mother noticed everything.
"You're smiling at that scrap of paper again," your mother had said, not unkindly. "Shall I have it framed?"
You folded the letter quickly and tucked it into your sleeve. "I am merely attempting to decipher his handwriting. Some of these letters are quite peculiar."
"Mm. And that explains the blush, does it?"
That had been nine moons ago. He wrote about the weather, mostly. About a white horse he'd had as a boy. About a tournament he'd once attended where a knight broke his lance so spectacularly that everyone laughed. He wrote about his little brother Matarys, who apparently collected beetles and kept them in tiny boxes under his bed. He wrote about his father, Prince Baelor, with such obvious affection that your heart squeezed reading it.
He never wrote about himself, his looks specifically.
What does he look like? you had asked in your third letter, as delicately as you could manage.
His response had taken six weeks to arrive. I am told I resemble my father, but slighter. My hair is brown, mostly. There is a streak of silver in it that my brother says looks like someone spilled milk on my head. I have not decided whether this is an insult or mere observation.
That was all.
When you pressed further—surely there are portraits?—his next letter had been almost apologetic.
Portraits are not so common here as I understand they are in the Free Cities. The artists we have tend to paint kings and queens, not second sons who are second sons only until their father becomes king. I could commission one, but it would take months and you would be here before it was finished. Perhaps it is better that you meet me in person. I am told first meetings are more honest than paintings.
You stared at that paragraph for a very long time.
It was the kind of thing a person wrote when they had something to hide.
"He's ugly," you announced to your empty chamber one evening, three weeks before your departure. "He's definitely ugly. That's why there are no portraits. That's why he won't describe himself. He's probably covered in warts. He probably has three eyes."
But then you would read the part about the white horse again, and the bit about his brother's beetles, and you would think: even if he has three eyes, at least he's kind.
By the time the ship departed from the harbor of your home city—wherever that city might have been, some prosperous mercantile power with excellent banking institutions and very good pastries—you had worked yourself into a state of resigned acceptance.
You were sixteen years old. You were an only child, which meant you would inherit everything: the banking houses, the trade routes, the warehouses full of spices and silks and dyes. The marriage alliance with House Targaryen would make your family untouchable. It was a good match. A brilliant match.
Your future husband could have three eyes and warts on his warts, and you would still marry him with a smile on your face.
(Though you did pack an extra vial of rosewater facial tonic, just in case.)
---
The voyage took nineteen days.
Nineteen days of watching the horizon, of practicing your High Valyrian with your tutors, of having your mother remind you constantly to sit up straight and not fidget with your sleeves. Nineteen days of your father reviewing the terms of the marriage contract for the four hundredth time, muttering about dowries and inheritance rights and the precise legal status of any potential children should the worst befall the Targaryen line.
By the time the ship passed through the Gullet and into Blackwater Bay, you were so thoroughly sick of maritime travel that you would have kissed solid ground even if it were made of broken glass.
You were not prepared for King's Landing.
The city rose from the shore like a fever dream, sprawling, chaotic, and impossibly loud even from the water. The Red Keep perched on its hill like a dragon settling onto a carcass, all crimson walls and towers that caught the afternoon light.
And the smell. "Oh," you said faintly, pressing a handkerchief to your nose. "Oh, dear."
Your mother, who had visited Westeros once before as a girl, looked entirely too smug. "I did warn you."
"You said it was 'quite aromatic.' You did not say it smelled like someone died in a fishery and then the fishery caught fire."
"That's Flea Bottom on a good day. You'll get used to it."
"I will never get used to it. I will live in the Red Keep with my windows sealed forever. I will commission a glass garden and only breathe air that has been filtered through roses."
Your father patted your shoulder absently, still reading his contract. "That's the spirit."
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was exactly as overwhelming as you had feared.
Dragon tapestries lined the walls, their eyes following you as you walked the length of the hall. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, a monstrous thing of melted swords that looked nothing like the elegant seat you'd imagined. Torches flickered. The floor was stone worn smooth by centuries of feet.
At the foot of the dais stood the royal family.
You recognized King Daeron II immediately—an older man, dignified, with a kind face and the violet eyes that marked his bloodline. Beside him stood a woman you assumed was the queen.
But it was the younger man who caught your attention.
He stood slightly apart from the others, as if he wasn't entirely certain he belonged in the family portrait. He was slim, fine-boned, with dark brown hair. And running through it, catching the torchlight like a thread of moonlight, was a streak of pure silver.
He was not ugly.
He was not covered in warts.
He was, in fact, quite possibly the most beautiful man you had ever seen.
Oh no, you thought, as your stomach performed a complicated maneuver that felt rather like a dragon taking flight. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Your eyes met across the hall.
He smiled. It was a small smile, a little uncertain, a little hopeful. It was exactly the smile you had imagined when you read his letters about white horses and beetle collections.
You smiled back. You couldn't help it.
And then your father was propelling you forward, and there were introductions to be made—endless, tedious introductions, with King Daeron greeting you in passable Valyrian and Queen Someone-or-other complimenting your dress and a prince named Aerys (cousin? uncle? you couldn't keep them straight) asking about the interest rates in the Free Cities as if that were an appropriate topic for a first meeting.
Through it all, you kept trying to catch Valarr's eye.
He kept trying to catch yours.
You never quite managed it.
---
"You must be exhausted from your journey," Queen Myriah was saying. "We've prepared chambers in Maegor's Holdfast—"
"Your Grace, if I might—" Valarr stepped forward, but his grandmother was still speaking.
"—with windows facing the gardens, as I understand you're fond of—"
"Grandmother, I only wanted to—"
"—and we've arranged for a bath to be drawn, of course, after such a long voyage—"
"Grandmother."
Queen Myriah paused, turning to look at her grandson with the particular expression of a woman who was not accustomed to being interrupted. "Yes, Valarr?"
Valarr opened his mouth.
"I'm sure the prince was merely expressing his thanks for your hospitality," your mother cut in smoothly, with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent her entire life navigating diplomatic situations. "We are all most grateful."
Valarr closed his mouth.
You stared at him.
He looked at you, helpless, and shrugged very slightly.
That's odd, you thought. Why didn't he just say what he was going to say?
--
The welcome feast lasted four hours.
You sat at the high table, surrounded by Targaryens and Martells and various other noble houses whose names you couldn't possibly remember, and you watched your betrothed attempt to speak to you approximately seven times.
The first time: he leaned toward you, opened his mouth, and was immediately drowned out by Prince Maekar (another uncle? brother? you were losing track) banging his cup on the table and demanding more wine.
The second time: he got as far as "I hope the journey wasn't too—" before a servant dropped an entire platter of roasted peacock directly behind you, creating a crash that made you jump and Valarr wince.
The third time: someone—his brother Matarys, you thought, a gangly boy with the reddish hair grabbed his arm and began whispering urgently about a beetle he'd found in his pocket.
The fourth time: Queen Myriah asked you a question about Essosi fashions, and by the time you'd finished answering, Valarr was being pulled into conversation with one of the Dornish cousins.
The fifth time: he actually managed to complete a sentence—"I wanted to ask if you'd like to see the gardens tomorrow, perhaps after—" but at that exact moment, a dog ran through the hall chased by three small children and a very angry-looking septa, and everyone turned to watch, and when you looked back at Valarr he had given up and was staring at his wine cup with an expression of profound resignation.
The sixth time: you tried to initiate the conversation yourself. "Prince Valarr, I was wondering—" but Prince Baelor chose that exact moment to stand and propose a toast to the happy couple, and by the time everyone had drunk and cheered and drunk again, the moment was lost.
The seventh time: the feast was ending. Guests were rising, stretching, preparing to retire. Valarr stood, took a breath, and turned to you with obvious determination.
"Lady Yn, I—"
"Valarr." King Daeron appeared at his grandson's elbow, looking fond and apologetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but your father wishes to speak with you before he retires. Something about the seating arrangements for tomorrow's council meeting."
Valarr looked at his grandfather. He looked at you.
He looked at the ceiling, as if asking the gods why they had abandoned him.
Then he bowed to you—a proper bow, graceful despite his obvious frustration—and followed his grandfather away without having spoken a single word to you all evening.
You watched him go. Huh, you thought. That's strange.
---
The next day, there was a tourney.
Not a proper tourney, apparently—just a small exhibition, some knights practicing for an upcoming event, but the royal family attended anyway because that was what royal families did. You found yourself seated in a shaded stand between your mother and a princess whose name you kept forgetting (Rhaenys? Rhae? Something with an R), watching men in armor crash into each other with enthusiasm and very little grace.
Valarr was down in the lists, mounted on a black horse that you recognized from his letters as the descendant of that white horse he'd loved as a boy. He rode well, you noticed. His armor was black, and he moved like someone who'd been training since he could walk.
Between jousts, he looked up at the stands.
Your eyes met.
He started riding toward your section.
"Oh, look," your mother said brightly. "Here comes your intended. How lovely."
Valarr reached the edge of the stands, dismounted, and removed his helm. His hair was damp with sweat, the silver streak standing out brightly against his forehead. He smiled up at you—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.
"PRINCE VALARR!"
A knight came galloping up, armor clanking, horse lathered with sweat. "My prince, you're needed! The hand—"
Valarr closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked at you with an expression of such profound suffering that you nearly laughed.
He bowed. He remounted. He rode away.
You stared after him.
That's seven times, you thought. Eight if you count the feast last night.
The princess beside you—Rhaegar? No, that wasn't right—leaned over. "He's usually more talkative. I'm not sure what's got into him."
"He's usually talkative?"
"Oh, yes. Chatty, even. Drove his tutors mad as a boy, always asking questions." The princess shrugged. "Perhaps he's nervous. First betrothed and all that."
Chatty, you thought. He's supposed to be chatty.
---
That evening, there was a smaller dinner. Just family, supposedly, though your family counted, so it was still nearly twenty people gathered in a solar that was somehow even more opulent than the great hall.
You had dressed carefully. Your best silk, your mother's pearls, a touch of the good perfume. You were determined to speak to your betrothed if it killed you.
Valarr, for his part, looked equally determined.
You were seated across from each other. Close enough to talk, if you leaned in. Far enough that you'd have to raise your voices slightly over the general dinner conversation.
Valarr leaned forward.
You leaned forward.
"I wanted to apologize for—" Valarr began.
"DID YOU SEE THE JOUSTING TODAY?" Prince Matarys had apparently inherited his brother's poor timing. He was leaning around his father, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "SER ARLAN UNHORSED THREE KNIGHTS! THREE! I've never seen anything like it!"
"That's wonderful, Matarys," Valarr said, with the strained patience of an older brother. "I was just—"
"And then Ser Gerold's lance broke, and everyone gasped, and—"
"Matarys." Baelor's voice was gentle but firm. "Let your brother speak."
Matarys subsided, looking abashed.
Valarr took a breath. "Thank you, Father. Lady Yn, I only wanted to say that I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to—"
"Valarr, dear." Queen Myriah smiled at him from the head of the table. "Would you be a love and pass the salt?"
Valarr passed the salt.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
Nine, you thought. This is actually impressive in its own way.
---
Three more days passed.
Three more days of near-misses and interruptions. Three more days of Valarr opening his mouth at precisely the wrong moment. Three more days of you watching him be pulled away by relatives, servants, urgent messages, unexpected visitors, and once—memorably—a cat that ran across the path just as he was approaching you, causing him to trip and spend several minutes apologizing to both the cat and a nearby septa who had nothing to do with anything.
By the fourth day, you had developed a theory.
It was a ridiculous theory. An impossible theory. A theory that made absolutely no sense.
But you couldn't shake it.
"He's mute," you whispered to your mother that night, after yet another dinner during which Valarr had been interrupted approximately fourteen times.
Your mother, brushing her hair at the dressing table, paused mid-stroke. "What?"
"The prince. Valarr. He's mute."
"He is not mute. I heard him speak at least three times today."
"No, you didn't. You heard him start to speak. You never heard him finish. Did anyone hear him finish? I certainly didn't. He starts sentences and then something happens and he never gets to complete them. It's been four days, Mother. Four days, and I have never heard his voice."
Your mother resumed brushing. "That's because you're both being constantly interrupted by his enormous, overbearing family. It's not because he's mute."
"How do you know? Have you heard him complete a sentence?"
Your mother's hand paused again.
"That's what I thought." You flopped back on your bed, staring at the canopy. "He's mute. He's been mute this whole time. That's why there were no portraits, not because he's ugly, but because he can't speak and they didn't want me to find out until I was already here."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Why would they hide that he's mute? It's not exactly something you can conceal forever."
"Maybe they thought I wouldn't notice. Maybe they thought I'd be too dazzled by the dragons and the castle to realize my betrothed never actually says anything."
"Yn."
"Maybe he's not just mute. Maybe he's also illiterate, and someone else wrote those beautiful letters about white horses and beetle collections. Maybe I've been deceived. Maybe this whole marriage is a lie."
"Yn."
"Maybe—"
"Yn." Your mother turned on the bench, fixing you with a look. "He is not mute. You are being dramatic. Go to sleep."
You went to sleep.
You dreamed of a brown-haired prince who opened his mouth and produced only silence.
---
The next morning, you decided to take matters into your own hands.
If you couldn't speak to Valarr in the presence of his family—which seemed physically impossible, given that they materialized out of thin air every time he tried to form a sentence—you would speak to him away from his family.
The gardens. He'd mentioned them often in his letters, telling her how he would have taken her to walks every day. He'd tried to mention them again at the feast, before the dog incident. The gardens were clearly significant to him. If you went to the gardens, surely he would eventually appear.
It was, you admitted, not the most sophisticated plan. But it was a plan, and after four days of frustration, you'd take what you could get.
You found the gardens easily enough, they were exactly where the servant said they'd be, through a covered walkway and down a set of stone steps. They were beautiful, too, full of roses and fountains and carefully trimmed hedges. Not as elaborate as the gardens back home, perhaps, but lovely in their own way.
And there, standing by a fountain in the shape of a dragon, was Valarr.
He was alone. He was looking at the water, one hand resting on the dragon's stone snout. He hadn't heard you approach—the fountain was too loud—so you had a moment to simply look at him.
He was even more beautiful up close. The silver streak in his hair caught the sunlight. His profile was sharp, elegant, exactly the sort of profile that belonged on a coin or a portrait. His shoulders were tense, though. He looked tired.
You cleared your throat.
He spun around.
For a moment, you simply stared at each other.
Then Valarr smiled—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.
"Lady Yn. I—"
"Before you say anything," you said quickly, holding up a hand. "I just want you to know that I don't need you to speak. I mean, I'd like to hear your voice eventually, but if you can't—if there's a reason you haven't been able to—it's fine. Really. We can communicate other ways. Writing. Gestures. I'm very good at charades. My cousins used to say I was the best charades player in the family, and we had some very competitive games during the—"
Valarr was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"—festivals," you finished lamely. "So. Yes. Whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me however you need to tell me."
There was a pause.
"I'm not mute," Valarr said.
You blinked.
"You're not?"
"I'm not."
"But you never—every time you try to speak, something—and I've been here four days, and I've never heard your voice, and I thought—"
Valarr's lips twitched. "You thought I was mute."
"I thought you might be mute. Yes."
"Because my family keeps interrupting me every time I try to speak to you."
"Because your family keeps interrupting you every time you try to speak to me."
You looked at each other.
Valarr's lips twitched again.
You felt heat rising to your cheeks. "This is embarrassing."
"It's not embarrassing. It's—" He stopped, and then he laughed. It was a warm sound, genuine and unguarded. "It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and also completely understandable. I've been trying to speak to you for four days. Four days, and I haven't managed a single complete sentence."
"Seventeen attempts," you said. "I've been counting."
"Seventeen?"
"Eighteen if you count the time with the cat."
Valarr groaned, but he was smiling. "The cat. I tripped over a cat."
"It was very graceful. You apologized to the cat. I've never seen anyone apologize to a cat before."
"The cat looked offended."
"The cat was definitely offended."
You stood there for a moment, grinning at each other like idiots. The fountain burbled. Somewhere, a bird sang.
"I'm glad you're not mute," you said finally"
Valarr stepped closer. "I'm glad that you came looking for me. Despite thinking I might be mute. Despite seventeen interrupted attempts. Despite the cat."
"I almost didn't. I thought about just accepting that I'd never hear your voice and we'd communicate exclusively through written notes for the rest of our lives."
"A romantic tragedy."
"A comedy, really. Two people in love, separated by an overbearing family and a surprising number of cats."
"In love?" Valarr's voice was soft.
You felt your face go warm again. "Well. Potentially. I mean—" You gestured vaguely. "The letters. The horse. The beetle collection. I might have developed a small fondness for the person who wrote those letters. Even if that person turned out to be mute and covered in warts."
"I don't have warts."
"I can see that."
"And I'm not mute."
"I can hear that."
Valarr took your hand.
It was a small thing. Just his fingers curling around yours, warm and gentle. But it felt enormous, standing there in the garden with the roses blooming and the sun warming your faces.
"Yn," he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"I'm going to kiss you now. If that's all right."
"It's more than all right."
He leaned in.
"BROTHER!"
You jumped apart.
Matarys burst through the hedge like a small, enthusiastic cannonball, face flushed with excitement and—yes—a beetle cupped carefully in his hands.
"You have to see this one! It's iridescent! It shines in the sun! I've never seen anything like it! Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere! Grandmother wants you for dinner, she says you're not to be late again, and also there's a message from the Master of Coin about something, and—"
Valarr closed his eyes. You started laughing.
Matarys was still talking.
"—and it's not just any iridescent beetle, it's the rarest kind, the kind that only comes out after rain, and I had to follow it for ages because it kept flying away, and then it landed on a rose bush, and I thought, this is it, this is my moment, and—"
Valarr stood there, eyes closed, hand still loosely holding yours. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the battle between brotherly affection and profound frustration.
You squeezed his hand.
He opened his eyes and looked at you. There was something new in his expression now, a determination that hadn't been there before.
"Matarys," he said.
"—and the way the light catches its wings is like nothing you've ever—"
"Matarys."
His brother finally paused, beetle cupped carefully in both hands, looking up with the innocent confusion of a puppy who doesn't understand why no one is throwing the ball.
"Yes?"
"That's a remarkable beetle."
Matarys beamed.
"And I would very much like to hear all about it. But first—" Valarr turned to you, and there was a glint in his mismatched eyes that made your breath catch. "First, I need to finish something."
He let go of your hand.
For a terrible moment, you thought he was leaving. That Matarys had won again, that the interruption had done its work, that you would be left standing in the garden with nothing but the memory of almost being kissed.
But Valarr didn't walk away.
He stepped closer.
And then his hands were cupping your face, gentle and warm, and his lips were on yours, and the world narrowed to nothing but this: the softness of his mouth, the faint scent of something clean and pleasant, the way your heart stopped and then raced to make up for lost time.
It was a brief kiss. A handful of heartbeats, no more.
But when he pulled back, you were quite certain you would never be the same.
"Finally," you breathed.
Valarr's smile was incandescent. "Seventeen interruptions. I refuse to let it become eighteen."
Behind him, Matarys made a small sound of realization. "Oh. OH. I—should I—do you want me to—" He looked down at his beetle, then back at the two of you, then down at his beetle again. "I'm going to go. With my beetle. Somewhere else."
"That's probably wise," Valarr said, not taking his eyes off you.
Matarys fled. For a moment, you simply looked at each other. The garden was quiet again, save for the fountain and the birds. Your lips were still tingling.
"So," you said. "That happened."
"That happened." Valarr's thumb traced a slow path along your cheekbone. "I've been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you walk into the Great Hall."
"Since then?"
"Since then." His smile turned slightly rueful. "I had a whole speech prepared. About how beautiful you were. About how your letters had been the best part of my days for the past year. About how I hoped you wouldn't be disappointed when you met me in person."
"I was not disappointed."
"Good." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so tender it made your chest ache. "I was terrified, you know. That you'd take one look at me and—"
"And what? Run screaming from your warts?"
He laughed, that warm unguarded sound you were already coming to love. "I don't have warts."
"I know. I checked. Very thoroughly, just now."
"You checked for warts while I was kissing you?"
"A lady has her priorities."
He was still smiling, but something softer had crept into his expression. "Yn. I'm sorry it took four days. I'm sorry for every interruption, every near-miss, every time I opened my mouth and someone—" He glanced in the direction Matarys had fled. "Someone appeared."
"You can't control your family."
"No. But I can control what I do now." He took your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. "I'm going to take you on a walk. Tonight. Before dinner."
"Are you?"
"I am. We'll go through the gardens—the real gardens, not just this little corner—and I'll show you all the places I wrote about. The rose arbor where the bees get drunk on nectar and stagger around. The fountain with the fish that my brother tried to catch when he was five. The bench where I sat and read your letters, over and over, until I'd memorized every word."
Your throat felt tight. "You did that?"
"I did that." He squeezed your hand. "And then, if you're willing, I'll take you to dinner. And I'll sit beside you, not across from you, so that when I want to speak to you, I can simply lean over and do so. And if anyone tries to interrupt—"
"Yes?"
"I'll kiss you again. Right there at the table. In front of everyone."
You laughed. "You would not."
"Try me."
The look in his eyes suggested he was absolutely serious.
"I'll hold you to that," you said.
"Please do." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I should go. Matarys is probably waiting with his beetle, and if I don't admire it properly, he'll be hurt. But I'll come for you at sunset. We'll walk. We'll talk. No interruptions."
"Sunset," you agreed.
He smiled, that hopeful, uncertain smile that had made your heart turn over in the Great Hall, and turned to go.
He took three steps.
Turned.
And kissed you again.
This one was longer. Deeper. His hand slid into your hair, and yours found the front of his tunic, and when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing a little faster.
"Just in case," he murmured against your lips.
"In case of what?"
"In case something happens between now and sunset. A falling chandelier. A sudden invasion. Another cat."
"Another cat?"
"The Red Keep has many cats."
You laughed, breathless. "Go. Admire your brother's beetle. I'll be here at sunset."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kissed your forehead—a soft, reverent thing—and then he was gone, striding through the garden with a new lightness in his step.
You touched your fingers to your lips.
They were still warm.
Sunset, you thought. Sunset couldn't come soon enough.
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Thinking about Eddie being so not jealous, it’s annoying...
He’s just incredibly confident in his relationship with you, and it's made him physically incapable of feeling jealousy—much to your chagrin.
Sometimes a girl just wants to feel desired! Sometimes being claimed so publicly is sexy!
Though, it’s not that he doesn’t proudly claim you. He talks about you all day long—everyone he’s ever met knows your name.
Really, the issue is that he doesn’t step in when a guy talks to you at the bar.
Of course, he’ll do so if you’re clearly uncomfortable, but for the most part, he looks at every guy walking up to you as just another person making idle chit-chat.
You asked him, before, why he doesn’t get all huffy, even when they’re clearly hitting on you. His response was a lazy shrug and, “I mean, I can’t blame ‘em. I think you’re really hot, too.”
One time, at a house party, Eddie was talking to a few buddies he knew from high school. He introduced you, but he could tell you weren’t the most interested in hearing about the audible difference between steel guitar strings and nylon, so he let you step out of the small circle.
The conversation was flowing, you were people-watching, and he was keeping you in his peripheral vision—just in case you wanted him back.
Then his ears perked up when a guy introduced himself to you, and his grin widened at every stilted response you gave.
The guy was trying so hard, it almost made him feel bad. He knew it could be daunting to talk to women, but he also knew body language was learned. So he let it run its course.
When he finally surrendered, opting to leave you alone after many attempts to pique your interest, Eddie gave him a not-so-gentle pat on the back as he passed by, calling out a smug, “Better luck next time, bud.”
You almost thought he was actually jealous, but when you brought it up later, he scoffed.
"Oh, please! Like stumbling up to you at a party and complimenting your top is what’s gonna get you," he snorted, chuckling at the idea of the drunk guy's pitiful excuse for game actually managing to turn your head.
You smirked, thrilled to finally get some semblance of a reaction from him. "I don't know, Eddie, he was kind of sweet..."
"No, don't even lie, you're not that easy," he said, shaking his head, a warning finger pointed your way. "I had to work for this shit! You had me dancing around like a fucking court jester just to get a second of your attention! Sweetheart, I was like a male bird flaunting everything I got, and nothing! Zip! Nada! You were unshakable."
"Aw, Eds—"
He threw his hands up. "Then, one day, you just snapped your fingers and my clothes were off—"
A shocked laugh escaped your parted lips. "That’s so not how our relationship started!"
You and Joe have been friends ever since you joined the cast in season two- best friends. By the time season five comes around, everyone knows it's not just a friendship anymore. Requested here!
It had started as many good things do: with a hello and a smile. A table read for Stranger things two- a chance for everyone to get reacquainted and for the next cast members to get to know each other.
Sadie Sink, Dacre, Sean Austin and you.
You remember it like it was yesterday. Sean Austin was sat with David Harbour across the table from you, Sadie was down a row next to Millie, Dacre on her other side. You were placed next to Joe Keery.
That's how it began. Since that day you hadn't gone a year, hardly a month without seeing him. Every day texts were exchanged, a bond deep in your bones settling there.
GQ magazine - Joe Keery ten things he can't live without
"This ring-" he took it off his index finger, the one he always wore it on and showed it to the camera. To anyone else it was simple design, a silver band that really didn't hold much to it. "A co-star of mine got it for me, whilst filming season five- actually on our last day of shooting. Um, yeah it means a lot to me, I don't take it off ever- except to show the camera-"
The camera didn't focus on the ring and it was for sure the thing nobody was focusing on when they watched the video. They watched Joe's face as he spoke about the ring, holding it tenderly.
"Yeah, she got it for me. We have matching rings, she has one. And um, inside there's an inscription but you don't need to know what it says," he laughed, making a display in sliding it back onto his finger.
He carried on like the rest of the video would go normally.
Everyone knew in the comments, there was only one who he could be talking about. They all named and shamed you, each other wondering what the inscription could have been.
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Y/n: throwback Thursday or whatever
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Finnwolfhardoffical: it’s Wednesday
Gatenmatarazzo: it’s Wednesday
Milliebobbybrown: it’s Wednesday
Y/n: I hope my character fucking dies in the next season
You remembered third season, when other cast members joined but one night, you and Joe had steeled away to a bar down Atlanta. A September night together, nothing un-common.
Yet, the unspoken feelings in your soul, that knowing of him in your bones rose with the vodka. The two of you were sat at the bar, drinks in hand- drinks number whatever you'd gotten up to. He was looking at you. You were looking at him, messing with your hair just to put your hands somewhere on yourself, not him.
And Joe was looking at you with a thousand things to say.
"You know, this is good," he'd said that night.
"What?"
He looked at you like you knew the obvious, head tilting. "C'mon."
You chuckled. "Joe-"
"Is it awkward, I've made it awkward?"
"No, no-"
It was drunken slurs with sober thoughts, a desperation to get words on papers. To see if the wavelength was shared.
"You know," he said, peering close at you, his knee pumping yours with his entire attention on you. "You know, right?"
Of course you knew. That not every touch should've lingered like it did, that every glance got slightly longer and longer. That being one of the first to hear the music he was working on wasn't something he did sparingly. That nights out when (as much as you loved them) the rest of the cast were not invited.
You nodded, a sly smile on your lips. "I know."
You knew there were a thousand things Joe did that could've invited you into him, but they weren't invitations. They were just him and you falling helplessly.
Joe looked to his glass, chuckling to himself and rubbing at his eye. "Okay. So we... we both know that this-" he gestured between the two of you, dropping his hand on your knee.
You took a second, sipping your drink.
"I know that this could be bad," you said.
"Bad? What?"
You lifted your shoulders in a shrug, clasping his hand that was slightly higher on your 'knee' then you realised. "What if things went badly? I mean- one thing co-stars should never do is date, and on a franchise."
Joe was listening to you as he always did tipsy or otherwise.
Maybe you were making the greatest mistake of your life. Admitting your feelings to him, your closest friend only to tell him that you didn't want to date. You did. But it was scary. Scarier even the fact you'd see him every day, work with him, getting lost in movements and characters.
"If things went badly, if we weren't sure we'd have to carry on like it didn't.... hurt," you rambled. "And you are love, you a love personified in a human. I don't want to lose that ever in my life."
It went back and forth a little more, hashing it the feelings you both felt, the draw whether it being sexual or not. Hashing out the fears you both had and finding them similar. In the end, you carried on with a couple more drinks, got different cars to take you back to your apartments and it went on as always. A respect and understanding that lasted almost three years.
But when it was announced Stranger Things, season five, the end... well, rules went out the window.
Capital FM interview
You and Charlie sat, gently kicking yourself side to side on your spiny chairs, careful not to get the wires of your headphones tangled.
"So, y/n," they addressed you.
Your eyes went wide, your heels stopping on the chair.
"How annoyed were you when you found out Joe had written a song about Charlie?" they asked.
Charlie laughed, pulling away from the mic.
You chuckled but quickly feigned a serious hurt. "I don't speak to Joe anymore."
They all laughed.
You broke out into a smile as Charlie hit the back of your chair. You laid your hands out on the table, a certain ring kept on your index finger catching the light. "No, I actually heard Charlie's Garden before Charlie so there's that. If I didn't want that song out it would not have been out-"
"You have that much of a say in the process of the album?" they asked, eager to do their jobs at get the dirt with what fans loved to speculate about. Were you and Joe in a relationship or not? It was on every fans of yours and his mind.
"Yeah," you said. "But I love that song- I mean, I love every song on the album and we lived- while filming season five- right across from Charlie and Natalia and they got the best garden so we would always be over there, hanging out and yeah, it deserves a song."
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Djotime: whatever man
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User1: THELAST PICTURE OMG
User2: is that y/n in the last picture?!?!?
Y/n: ❤️
↪️ Djotime: ❤️
Joe picked you up from your place, his role as the designated driver of you and maybe another when they needed it had been going since season two. There was a reason he was known as the best driver in the cast.
There was no reason for him to get out the car and greet you as he did. He saw you yesterday at a read through before filming began but he wrapped his arms around you like he hadn't seen you in weeks. Months. His arms were tight around you, squeezing you into him as his hand swept up and down your back.
You got into his car, talking, only slightly watching him drive from the corner of your eye. A hand on the wheel, his eyes on the road but his attention all on you as your body turned to him in the passenger seat. You knew it in the way he played with his bottom lip, pinching it between his finger and thumb.
By the time you guys got to set there was scripts ready to hand out for the day, a camera crew filming for the documentary you knew was being done.
Joe got out first, hurrying around to get your door for you.
He was smiling as you got out.
"Morning guys," she greeted as she handed you guys the scripts.
Joe already had an arm around your shoulder, drawing you in as you took the scripts on account of him also having his bag slung over his shoulder and yours in his other hand. "Good morning."
"Last first day," said the camera man.
It was like that every morning of the filming for season five, a compilation created of you and Joe walking onto set, arm around your shoulder, yours going around your waist.
Everyone noticed. Everyone had been rooting for you since they saw the way you looked at each other when filming your 'platonic' scenes together. Everyone rejoiced when you always sat next to him at readings, your head going to the crook of his shoulder like it was made to fit there.
As the months went on it just got better.
Your friendship hanging on a thread. With the early morning drives no matter if you had an early start and Joe didn't. He was there like clockwork. The touches got longer, the glances lingering more. The dinners became more frequent, a hand falling on your thigh or his knee nudging yours every time.
The park dates were an almost every time thing when you both had days off.
Nobody saw you or Joe without the other.
Noah, Gaten, Caleb and Finn interview,
"Do you guys have any crazy rumours you've heard about yourselves, or anyone on the cast?" asked the interviewer, holding her cards to her chest as she looked at each other.
They were silent while they thought.
"I've seen some crazy ones," said Gaten. "It's like when I look myself up and they have those options up top, I go straight to news."
There was a confusion and silence.
"I'm too scared to look myself up, I don't do that anymore-" said Noah.
"Sorry, I thought you said nudes-"
"I thought you said nudes," said Caleb, agreeing with the interview.
Gaten straightened. "Oh, no, Jesus Christ- news."
"That's a rumour we don't want to start," said the interviewer.
"I dunno, I think I've seen some crazy rumours," said Noah, looking around at them.
"Noah-"
"Noah-"
They all warned in chorus, knowing his reputation as the spoiler, even if he did it by accident half the time.
Noah blushed, chuckling. "No I was just gonna say I don't get how people don't think Joe and Y/N are dating, remember there was that rumour they hated each other."
Caleb smirked. "Oh yeah."
It was well known between all the cast, especially the kids that you and Joe were practically dating and, as of filming that interview, were official to their delight. But not everybody knew that.
"Yeah, that's true," said Finn stretching out.
Gaten and Caleb shared a small look at the prospect of the secret being out.
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Djotime: that’s a wrap baby
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User1: djotime being a fan account to y/n is so real
User2: y’all can’t tell me they’re not in love that you seen their interviews?!
Y/N: ❤️
The wrap party was huge, large, held in a warehouse in a secret location that had been hard enough to find. There were people you were sure you'd never even seen on set there. Crew and cast, families and trusted friends of both adding to the number.
The bar was large and free for the night and where you went first.
It was manic, crazy, a tacky disco ball somewhere ahead of you shining down.
It had been five minutes, a personal best for you before you started searching the crowd for Joe. Maybe he wasn't there yet or maybe he'd brought his sisters and they'd all got lost in the crowd. It was possible.
You integrated yourself into the party, sipping your drink and chatting, laughing. Tears that had shed on the last day of set turning to smiles as you all remembered times together.
It must have been an hour in when you got away to the bar.
You'd just ordered a drink when an arm, strong and warm wrapped around your waist and squeezed, spinning you.
Joe. "I've been looking for you all night," he said, half yelling over the 50-cent song playing.
"And you didn't think to check the bar?" you laughed, hugging him back.
You felt his smile against your skin as his head dipped. He sighed like he was in relief at having you in his arms.
"You look beautiful," he said into your skin, the words tattooing there.
The two of you forgot about the bar, forgot about your friends begging for attention as you bathed in each others presence. You leant on the bar without ordering, leaning in to each other to hear, his hand steady at your elbow as he dipped his head.
You had no idea how long you guys were standing there, talking about everything and nothing with the heavy knowing sitting with you that Stranger Things was over. It would come out in less than a year and then you'd be free to... well, too ruin a friendship with your favourite person.
"I got you something," you said over the music, reaching into your purse while Joe waited, admiring you.
The box you pulled out was small, big enough for a ring only.
Joe took it, keeping a hold on your wrist with one hand and opening it with the other.
A band of silver sat there, polished and glorious. It seemed pretty simple at first, an easy statement.
"It's beautiful," he said, taking it out the box and looking at it in the low light.
"It has my name inside," you told him, breath fanning his ear.
He looked to you and then grabbed out his phone, not to take a picture- he'd never need a picture as every picture of him from that day forward had him and had the ring featured- he used the torch to shine inside of it.
In his hand writing there was your name engraved in the curve of the band.
Joe was speechless, only moving to look at you.
You were sliding off a gold bond that you hadn't worn till today and showing him. It was just the same as his, gold and in your handwriting his name followed the curve.
He only stared at you.
"If it doesn't fit or it's not your style don't worry. You don't have to wear it, it was just sentiment and-"
Joe had the ring slipped onto his thumb were it sat snug but it was the first place he thought to place it as he grabbed your neck and kissed you.
It was desperate and slow, eager to get the taste of you on his lips but knowing, finally, you had all the time in the world to enjoy the feeling. His lips were soft and your lipstick was smearing over him as his hands cupped at your jaw and worked your mouth open, the cool band of his ring slicing the burning heat on your face.
Your arms went up to his back, pulling him in closer.
Some Taylor Swift song started playing but you could hardly feel the rhythm over the feel of Joe and the pounding of your own heart.
It could have been another hour, or maybe the party was over when you pulled away. But finally you did to catch your breath.
"I got all of that on camera by the way!"
The two of you turned, realising almost half the cast had gathered, witnessing your make out.
Millie was grinning wide looking like she might shed a tear with her phone out, recording the two of you.
At her side Noah was making kissy noises.
Gaten and Finn had their arms around each other, jumping up and down like children.
"Shit, has this turned into an engagement party?" asked Finn when he caught sight of the bands.
No, it wasn't but it turned into a celebration of the ending of almost a decade of story telling and seven years of yearning turning into you and Joe entwined with each other.
Interview,
"So after ten years of all of you guys," said the interview as Maya, Charlie, Natalia, you and Joe all sat together, slightly cramped on a small sofa.
"Most of us," joked Maya with a grin.
You laughed with her, reaching over a hand and holding it up for a high five. "Late comers, baby!"
She did so, laughing, hand catching the gold band you wore on the opposite hand of Joe's own.
You returned back into you seat, shuffling between and settling in, Joe's leg almost on top of yours. He'd leant as far back into the corner as he could, stretching out his arm over the back of it just so he could un-knowing to the camera mess with your hair, taking a strand between his fingers.
Well, the both of you thought it was discreet but the fans wondered why you're hair was moving like that and where Joe's hands were disappearing to.
"Was there a party to celebrate?" asked the interviewer. "Or a get together."
Unknowingly all heads turned to you and Joe.
"Oh, there was a party," Maya chuckled.
"There was a party," agreed Charlie, looking down to where his hands clasped at his knee with a sly smirk.
"Yeah, it was crazy," said Natalia.
"There was a massive party in a warehouse, in a very secret location," Joe described. "We were all there." He looked down the sofa, giving a small nod to you. You nodded back.
"A lot of memories made," you agreed, leaning back into the sofa, un-consciously leaning in closer to your boyfriend.
"A lot," he agreed, with a wide grin on his face as he playfully tugged at your hair.
Maya laughed at the two of you. "But there was a strict no phones allowed to avoid, like, spoilers, I guess."
Charlie looked aghast. He laughed. "Was there?"
You all knew full well they had plenty of pictures of you all and you and Joe more so. After the rings were put on both of your fingers you each took turns in snapping shots every second: shaking hands stupidly with the bands on show, fingers wrapped around a glass or in each others hair.
They spoke of the party but Joe got your attention, splaying out his hand and you knew he was indicating for you to do the same. It was a little game the two of you played, putting hands next to each other to keep tabs on the rings.
Fans had noticed, of course they had and the next day after the interview was published, it was almost everyone's knowledge what had gone down at that party.
I would just like to say thanks for the continuous love on these little fics. I see ALL requests and though I can’t type quickly enough to get the all out just know I’m working on most and am having so much fun (I have never wanted someone as bad as I want Joe Keery)
it started innocently enough. laundry day. leggings inside out, hoodie that smelled like him, bra tangled in a mess of your bedsheets— all of it thrown into the gaping mouth of your apartment’s shitty front-load washer.
but the problem began when you dropped your lip gloss.
the fenty heat you’d just bought. it fell behind the drum, somehow, and for some unholy reason, you thought i can totally reach that.
so now?
“gojo,” you hiss through clenched teeth, ass up, arms wedged deep inside the washer’s metal cylinder, “i’m fucking stuck.”
no response. of course not. he’s probably on the couch eating pocky and watching reruns of his favorite shows again.
“satoru!”
“what?” he calls from down the hall, lazy and muffled. “i didn’t leave the stove on this time if that’s what you’re yelling about.”
“i’m stuck in the washing machine, you idiot! get in here!”
you hear something drop. a shuffle. a door creaking open. and then—
“oh.”
a pause, thick with implication, like his brain just caught up to what his eyes were seeing.
“ohhh.”
you don’t even have to turn around to know he’s grinning like a perv.
“don’t even think about it.”
you hear him step closer and instantly regret everything. should’ve just let the damn lip gloss go.
“think about what?” his voice is all mock-innocence as he pads into the room, but you can already feel the heat of his body behind you, towering presence radiating smugness. “i was just coming to help my sweet, helpless little girlfriend.”
you glare over your shoulder. “you better help me out, not help yourself, you manwhore.”
but instead of pulling you free, he drops to his knees behind you and blows a cool breath across the curve of your ass.
“hmm,” he hums, tapping a finger to his chin. “maybe i should take a look at what’s causing the problem.”
“i swear to god—”
his hands squeeze your hips, thumbs rubbing circles just beneath the band of your shorts. “looks like the problem’s got a fat ass and a loud mouth.”
“gojo—”
“shhh,” he interrupts, dragging your shorts and panties down to your knees in one swift tug. “lemme focus, baby. i’m diagnosing.”
“you’re diagnosing my ass?”
“with my mouth, yeah.”
you shriek in indignation, but it quickly dies out when his tongue presses a long, slow stripe over your folds, warm and unreasonably talented.
“satoru—!”
“mm?” he hums into your pussy, one hand coming up to grip your thigh as his nose nudges your clit. “can’t talk with my mouth full, angel. you know that.”
you squirm, stuck in a stupid fucking washing machine while your equally stupid boyfriend tongues you like he’s trying to win a contest.
and he’s fully aware of what he’s doing to you.
you let out a shaky whimper when his tongue flattens and circles your clit just right. he chuckles low against your cunt.
“bet you’re regretting yelling at me now, huh?”
“fuck off,” you grit out, breath hitching when he slips a finger in without warning.
he starts slow, curling it deep and fucking it into you at a maddening pace. you can feel him watching, taking in every stutter of your breath, every twitch of your thighs.
“you look so cute like this,” he coos, adding a second finger. “bent over and needy and stuck- god, this is like one of my search history tags.”
“you’re disgusting.”
“and you’re dripping,” he smirks, fingers pushing deep and pulling slick from your soaked pussy. “jesus, baby. what if your neighbors hear?”
“they’ll hear you getting kicked out if you don’t finish what you started,” you spit, though your hips are already rolling back into his hand, shame heating your face.
he grins like you just made his whole week.
“so demanding. and in such a vulnerable position, too…”
“you’re unbelievable- ah!”
his mouth is back on you in an instant, tongue swirling and tapping, fingers thrusting deep in a rhythm that makes you clench around him helplessly. your moans turn breathy and desperate, barely muffled by the drum of the washer you’re half convinced you’ll die in.
“gojo, ’m close, don’t stop!”
“not planning to,” he purrs, licking into you harder, faster, until your thighs are shaking and your vision blurs at the edges. “give it to me, sweetheart. cum all over my face while stuck in your lil appliance prison.”
“you’re such a freak, oh my god—”
you come with a strangled cry, legs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers while his tongue helps you ride it out. he groans into your pussy like he’s enjoying this just as much— probably because he is.
you slump forward, brain scrambled, still halfway inside the damn washer.
and then you feel him slide your shorts completely off.
“what the fuck are you doing now—”
“round two,” he shrugs, pushing his sweats down just enough to free his dick, already hard and leaking. “can’t waste a perfectly good opportunity. i mean, how often does your girlfriend get stuck in the washing machine ass-first?”
“this is not a porno, satoru.”
“not with that attitude.”
you don’t even get the chance to argue before he’s nudging your legs wider, cockhead smearing precum along your folds.
“at least pretend to try and unstick me,” you hiss, bracing yourself against the machine.
he just laughs. “after. promise. i’ll help you… real good.”
then he sinks in.
a broken gasp escapes your throat, hands scrambling against the cold metal drum as his cock splits you open inch by slow, greedy inch. he gives you no time to adjust— just buries himself to the hilt in one fluid thrust, until his hips are flush against your ass and you’re whining like he’s knocked the air out of your lungs.
“shit, baby,” he groans, gripping your waist tight, thumbs pressing into your hips. “still so fucking tight. you missed me, huh?”
you grit your teeth. “you literally ate me out two minutes ago.”
“yeah, but your pussy missed my dick,” he mutters, giving a shallow thrust that makes your knees buckle.
he doesn’t wait after that.
starts pounding into you so hard he’s damn near trying to shake the washing machine off the wall, rough and hungry, cock dragging along your walls with ruthless precision. the sound of skin slapping echoes off the laundry tiles, mingling with your ragged moans and his breathless groans.
your body jolts with each thrust, still bent awkwardly inside the washer but way past the point of caring. the coil in your gut tightens fast— too fast— and he knows it. of course he knows it.
“look at you,” he pants, dragging your ass back onto his cock with one hand, his grip firm and unrelenting. “trapped in a washer and still begging to get fucked stupid. lucky for you, i’m a generous boyfriend.”
“you’re not,” you spit, whining when his pace stutters just enough to tease.
he grins. “say that again and i’ll make you cum so hard you forget how to spell your name.”
you try. really, you do. but the way his cock bullies into your sweet spot over and over again makes your brain fizzle, mouth dropping open in a silent scream.
“‘toru, mmphh fuck- i’m- i’m gonna—”
“yeah, you are,” he growls, fucking you harder. “go on, baby. make a mess on my cock.”
you shatter around him with a cry, pussy pulsing tight, thighs trembling as your orgasm hits like a wave. he groans, hips jerking at the way you clamp down on him, losing his rhythm just long enough to grab a fistful of your shirt and yank you back onto his dick with a low grunt.
“fuck, you feel too good, gonna fill you up, sweetheart—”
you moan something unintelligible, hazy with pleasure, your body still trembling from the rush of release.
“yeah? want me to cum in you? fill you while you’re all bent over and helpless?” he’s panting heavier now, reckless, one hand landing a sharp slap to your ass as his thrusts grow sloppier. “don’t even need to pull out, huh? you’re already stuck.”
your pussy flutters at his words, a whimper spilling from your lips— and that’s all it takes.
he buries himself deep one last time with a strangled groan, cock twitching as he floods you with thick, hot, creamy ropes, stuffing you full with every pulse. he stays like that for a second— just breathing, your soaked cunt spasming around him, milking every last drop untill his cum’s dripping out around the base of his cock.
and then, with a smug little sigh:
“okay. now i’ll help you out.”
“fuck you,” you mutter weakly.
he chuckles, already pulling out. “you just did, sweetheart.”
"what in fucks name have you done to me, brat." sukuna accuses you mid thrust.
it was an honest accident. you were trying to play a silly little prank on him. dosing each cookie with a bit of aphrodisiac. he was only supposed to eat one cookie to feel the effects! you didn't expect him to eat half of the batch.
so here you were, suffering the consequences of your own actions. your poor hole has been getting abused by his hard cock relentlessly. he has you laying on your side, with one leg hooked over his shoulder while he plows into you.
"a-accident! was an accident, kuna!" you wail.
"you don't accidentally drug your boyfriend, fuckin' hell." he grits his teeth.
his arm latches around your thigh, gripping onto the plush flesh. his hips move frantically, like he's chasing relief that's nowhere to be found.
"s'not my fault y-you ate so many cookies." you cry out between thrusts, trying to clear your name.
"haah? are you seriously trynna blame this on me?" he says incredulously. his hand roughly smacks at your left breast and then he squeezes it harshly for good measure. sukuna has been taking it easy on you the whole time, but that comment ticked him off.
his pace becomes rough, thrusts are sloppy. it's animalistic, the way he's rutting balls deep into your syrupy cunt. your leg is dropped down and your body is turned to lay on your back. missionary style with sukuna is usually when he's feeling somewhat sweet, however. this is anything but that. his hands sneak behind your body, roughly grabbing onto your asscheeks and pulling you forward with every thrust.
"god, i'm so fuckin horny. tight cunts suckin' me in sooo good." he slurs his words. half because he's pussy-drunk and the other half due to the aphrodisiac fog in his brain.
your pussy stretches around his thick cock, leaking with every movement he makes. even though he's being rough, you can't deny the pleasure you're feeling from this. your head lolls back and your lower stomach begins to tighten up. you climax in the arms of sukuna, who fucks you through your orgasm.
he follows suit. his balls tighten and twitch and his body jerks forward. he thrusts into you with fervor as he chases his high. he spills his seed into you, deep and hard. he pulls out of your gummy walls only to be shocked.
"how the fuck am i still hard?" his hands grip at his pink hair, frustration coursing through his body. he thought that after thoroughly fucking you, the effects would wear off.
you slowly inch up on the bed, scooting away from him as you watch his angry cock twitching for relief.
his angry eyes immediately lock onto you, his hand snatches your ankle and drags you back towards him.
"oh no. no, no no. you're not going anywhere until this gets fixed." he says while pointing down at his dick.
you sigh and brace yourself. it's gonna be a long night.
Synopsis. Do you want to change the world? Do you see those poor, endangered hybrids and wish you could do something to help them? Join us now at www.HYBRIDBR33DINGPROGRAM,69 to help your hot local hybrids put a baby in you!
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, hybrids AU, pheromones, knots, bréeding, FÉRAL JJK men, matíng presses, fuII neIsons, fíngering, spítting, p talking, p sIapping, chokíng, HEADLOCKS, aIpha!Toji, manhandIing, making it fit, creampíes, marathons, Iactation (Sukuna), mates, dúmbifícatíon, cúmfIation, cúmpIay, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. Tony’s backkkk with delicious things piled up for you babygirls heheh-
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Wolf
“So now I have to warn you-” You’re turning your head towards the primly-dressed lady that was leading you through the maze of corridors.
She’d been the first to meet with you after weeks of interviews and medical exams and waiting around the telephone ever since you’d entered…the program. Your match-maker, almost. With an appointment finally set up, you made your way through the official-looking building.
Listening to her intently as she debriefed you on the hybrid you’d been set up with. “-the hybrid we have paired you with, according to your sheet and your scent vials, is a wolf hybrid.” She looks at you closely, “An alpha wolf hybrid.”
Your heart races, “Oh.”
“And as you may know, alpha wolves are quite known for their…intense…ruts.” The two of you stopped before a tall door, it almost looked like a hotel entrance. “But the thing is- with this speciman, Toji, you’re the first one he’s ever accepted during his rut.”
“Oh.”
She rattles off something about how your scent was the only one he’s ever reacted to, how ever since then he’d been dying to meet you. Thrown into the throes of his rut all over again, practically. Clawing at the walls. Restless.
And before you know it, the door is opening and you’re being ushered inside. Left alone. With him.
Toji’s feverish body is on you immediately.
He’s gasping you in. Gnawing on your neck. Pressing his hips against yours like he was trying to meld your two bodies together—
“Oh, pretty doll…” The straight line of his nose drag-drag-draaaags down the side of your scent glands, huffin’ in your sweetened scent. “Pretty, pretty doll.” Breath hitching, Toji pins you harder against the wall and you feel something so long and rock-fucking-hard crush up against your front. “Do you have any fucking idea how long I’ve been waitin’ for ya? I could smell you the second you stepped in the building- fuck, damn near broke down these walls to find ya myself.”
“O-oh.” Your eyes almost bulge out of your skull as you get an impression of his sheer size. Tall. Hulking. He really was a wolf hybrid through and through, tail swishing impatiently behind him. “You’re so…big.”
So swollen with need that the mere feeling of your warm body made him twitch.
And the thing is- he could smell your cute cunt getting wetter. Guttural voice whispering against your ear, “And you’re not walking outta here until you take every single inch.”
In just a few split-seconds, you’re on the bed by the corner of the room. You’re on all fours. You’re being pushed down by one of his clawed hands knobbled on top of your scalp, manhandling you.
His giddy weight hovers over you, rasping to himself. “Won’t be- hah, walking outta here at all, actually.” His abs plaster against your back as he leans over to kiss down the line of your spine. “Gonna- fuck, make you forget how to walk.” Smooch after sultry smooch. Open-mouthed. “Gonna hafta fuckin’ carry you outta here- oh, m’gonna ruin you, mama.”
You’re squealing at the top of your lungs when his fingers slither down to tear off your sticky panties. Weavin’ the fabric between his digits, he brings it up to his flared nostrils and sniffs.
A great, big whiff that makes Toji’s scarred mouth drop into a soft ‘oh.’
“F-fuck-” He’s wrenching out a primal grunt, just catching sight of your glistening hole. “Oh my-”
Cutting himself off by spitting down onto your wettened pussy, the line of saliva smacks against your slit and drips down in a puddle.
And he wasn’t just spitting from behind - Toji was drooling. A thin line of it trickling down the side of his curved lips as he immediately spreads your sheeny thighs, immediately ruts against the folds of your cunt.
Immediately let his thick, globular tip start swipin’ his way inside your pussy.
“Oh-oh my god…” Toji’s head falls once he starts easing inside, husky baritone breaking mid-sentence. And your toes curl at the incredible feeling of his plump, puckered tip squeezing all inside your snug entrance. Shoving inside. Bullying inside. You clench and you think he damn near shivers- “Wait o-ohhhh, go easy on me, lil’ omega.”
“Omega?” You’re questioning, “You can tell?”
“Oh fuck, I don’t even know right now, doll- just hold on- let me…” The gluey surroundings of your cunt were just sucking him up. Swallowing. Each heavy inch being slid inside—and Toji wasn’t just thrusting, he was rutting.
Just to fit inside. Just to feel more n’ more of your velvety walls sucking him up - you swear you can feel the exact moment the line of his swollen tip grazes your g-spot and Toji himself breaks.
“Oh my god- fuck, oh my god, it can feel this good?” His stern lips wobble, that sleazy smile from before nowhere to be seen now. And there’s a slight tinge of madness in his voice, one that makes his gruff tone pitch higher.
And suddenly you’re being reminded that this was the first ever time that he’s spent his rut with anyone.
He was just so sensitive. “No- no, that should be fuckin’ illegal.” Toji grabs the back of your neck and pulls you back into his vein-covered cock. “It can’t be- it c-can’t—”
Letting your drippin’ wet pussy sloppily sluuuuurp back into his long, long length. Toji has the audacity to swipe the pair of panties in his hands down where your syrupy wetness was smearing. Drenching it just a lil’.
Before bringing it back up to his nose and sniffing, hazy peripherals rolling to the back of his head. He spreads apart his meat thighs even further and moans out as he pushes. “Who the fuck let you hold out on me for this long, huh?”
He was going crazy. He was drilling into you like a madman.
Again and again and again.
Not even waiting for you to adjust. Not even faltering. Heavy, half-thrusts to open up every drivelling orifice inside your cunt. To pinpoint even your tiniest hidden spots with his strawberry-red divot- fuck, it was almost like he was out of control.
So was this what it felt like to be…pussydrunk?
Toji feels you slipping away with the recoil of his jackhammers and he uses his inhuman strength to jerk you back up to him.
You’re choking out, “I wasn’t- fuck.” You’re grabbing ahold of the silken sheets, bucking your hips stupidly into his. The lewdest squelches ring out every time you do, synchronizing with your own sinful noises. “S’not my fault.”
“Then whose is it, hm?”
He moves his left hand over to spank the side of your ass cheeks, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your mouth lolls open stupidly upon impact and he bends over to spit straight into his wide-open target.
“Tell me- hah, tell me, little omega.” He’s tightening his hold on your throat and you yelp. Absolutely useless against the way his vein-covered girth stretches out your every nook n’ cranny, his rose-colored tip was pushing even deeper into your gooey insides. “Who let you hold out on me? Who said this pretty pussy could f-feel so good? Where the fuck have- you- been- all my life?”
“I don’t- ngh, could’ve found me sooner- ngh, then.” You’re biting back, your mind dizzy with all these questions and his thrusts. And oh, he liked that.
Having you talk back to him like that - it only made his thick length swell up even further, making your pussy let out such a carnal squelch once he finally, finally pistons towards the back of your cervix.
Slick and tight.
The probin’ push of his mushroomy tip drives deep, like he was trying to burrow into your very lungs. His globular end is driven in, in, in—all round n’ achingly hard, filling you out from the inside so much that you swear you could see stars.
Fuck, he’s gnawing down on the edge of his bottom lip and staring. Taking hefty gulps of the pheromones you were letting out each time his creamy cock pistoled back in.
“Mmm, you’re right.” Toji snickers. And he gives the wobblin’ side of your ass cheek yet another mean swat, leaving it there for a few seconds to grope you. “You’re s-soooo fuckin’ right, mama. Always are, hm?” Oh, he was thoroughly pussydrunk - to have such a big, proud alpha admit defeat? Fuck, he might just kneel at your feet next.
You’re whimpering once his thumb reaches over to swipe down your treacly slit, pressing down on your clit. “Oh yeah? M’right after I manage to- hck! take it all?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say all…” Wouldn’t say all? In shock, you swivel your head around and catch Toji’s filthy, filthy grin. The way he was looking down at where the two of you were connected with half-lidded eyes. “There’s just a-” The hybrid crushes his toned v-line against you. “-little more.”
And that’s when you feel it.
That’s when you realize it: with Toji being a wolf hybrid, his prolonged length won’t be the only thing you have to take. You forgot about the plump, thickened knot at the base of his cock - pulsing wildly away where he kissed your pussylips with it.
Toji growls, “You’re not walkin’ outta here without carrying my pups, mama.”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - Jaguar
“Are you alright, my love?” The blond-haired man hushes out from above you just as soon as his thick, reddened tip manages to bulge against your cervix. Manages to bottom out. Hot and sultry. Just drippin’ with fresh wads of precum and need.
He’s running his thumb down the side of your temple, tenderly wiping away a few trickles of sweat. “Breathe in– breath- atta girl. This pretty pussy of yours feeling, mmm, alright?”
Your hips buck with a whimper once he grazes his roverin’ fingertips down your swollen slit. Teasing rolling over your sensitive clit so you’ll make those pretty, pretty noises for him once more. “Yes- hck! fuck fuck fuck, yes, Kento. You can keep moving now…”
“O-oh.” His handsome maw drops. And something in him seems to shake at the very notion. Something in him seems to crack. You watch as Nanami’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs, his throat parched. “Keep moving, darling?”
“Mhm—” You’re nodding, brows furrowing. “That is the whole point of the program, after all- isn’t it?”
NAME: NANAMI KENTO
AGE: 27
OCCUPATION: OFFICE WORKER
HYBRID TYPE: PANTHERA ONCA
You’d read his profile multiple times. You could tell from the very second you’d been escorted inside this tidy bedroom that Nanami Kento was the predatory type. The type that could break you in half. The type that could leave you without the ability to walk for weeks at a time without even trying - and yet, he was treating you like glass.
So gently.
Nanami had spent hours overstimulating your poor, bawlin’ pussy before you’d even started taking his incredible size. Spent hours tugging n’ prying apart your delicate pussylips just so that he could fit each solid inch.
His girth was so massive that the mere feeling of him bullying inside your gooey channel, molding you to him, made your toes curl.
Your nails clawing down the expanse of his broad back as you pull him even closer to you, “C’mon Kento.” You jut out your lips into a pout, and he shivers at the sight. You’re just so sensitive. So needy that you could cry. “Don’t you wanna, ngh, breed- oh fuck!”
He’s shutting you up.
He’s roughly pulling back his powerful hips to strike the ends of your pussy with a great, heaving thud! Coating your cervix with a few stringy wads of pre, his curly blond hairs tickling your clit.
Anything. Everything just to get you to—
“Sh-shut up—” Nanami unhinges his sharp jaw just to puff out, his clouded breath hitting your face. And then he’s gasping, then he’s realizing what he’s just said and fighting back a groan.
Slowing down the ravenous cadence of his hips to something slow n’ sensual. Nanami cups your cheek, biting down on his wobbly lower lip. “F-forgive me.” He begs, “I spoke out of turn- I- hngh, acted out of turn.” He’d just gone out of control.
The thought makes you wetter - and Nanami’s nose crinkles at the sweetness as he can smell it. “But m’not complaining, y’know?” You’re insisting, arching your hips up into his. It was just so cute that he was so considerate, but you wanted something…rough. “I wouldn’t mind if you-”
“Don’t.” He cuts you off. And you’re suddenly getting punished by a thorough few probes of his circular, wet tip against the roof of your pussy. “Don’t talk out of this pretty pussy, darling. You don’t know what m’capable of-”
“I do.” Batting your teary lashes, “I read all your profiles—promise! Did my own research, too. I just want you to- hngh, use me, Kento.”
Something in him looks like it had just snapped.
He whispers - barely even audible to you. “U-use…”
And you’re nodding furiously, slidin’ away your plush walls to meet his every thrust. Now, Nanami’s tempo had grown slightly harder, slightly out of time—slightly like his restraint on himself was slowly slipping away. So you let out the finishing blow - “Wan’ you to use me as your hngh! cumdump, please?”
Fuck, you’d even added manners.
Nanami Kento was gone.
Nanami Kento was ruined.
Nanami Kento was throwing your legs over his muscular shoulders in a second - fuck missionary, he was putting you in a damn mating press. Snapping his hips down until your capped knees hit your tits, and his globular cocktip scrapes your womb.
So hard that you swear he’s leaving nail marks on your skin, your hamstrings stretching like never before, a few of your joints popping!
With a few slurping sounds, he’s fucking his girth into with thud after thud after thud. Looong, rapid thrusts that leave you with your mouth comically ajar, spit drivelling out pathetically. Puddling. “Yes-” You whine, white-hot pleasure running through you. “Yes yes yes- just like this, Ken, ngh-”
“Ah ah-” And suddenly, one of his firm hands finds its way ‘round your throat. Blocking off your airway, “Shut up and fucking take it since you wanted to so bad.”
You’re whimpering- “But it feels so- oh.”
Only for Nanami to lunge over and sink his lengthy canines against the side of your throat, “What did I say?” He murmurs, the vibrato of his bass making your skin tremble. A stern tone. “Cumdumps don’t talk.”
Fuck.
Again and again.
You press your lips together, trying to hold back all the broken crackles and pleas that threatened to break through each time Nanami was pummeling away his massive length. Red-hot. Ravenous. He throbbed all the way near the clingy bottom of your pussy, drenching it in so many webs of his sap.
Flooding each tight orifice inside you, forming your heart-shaped cunt around him- and then barely even letting you squirm after each recoil of his thrusts. Barely letting you bounce away.
Weighing down on you. Glissading his abs. Every time you moved, he’d tighten his arm on your throat and drag you back.
Another one of his strong hands slides down your front - he’d been tenderly massaging your core before. Now the hybrid only pushed down where he could feel his thick cylindrical length probin’ through, feeling for himself as he fucked you.
“Oh, yes. Remember what you hah- asked for, my love- fuck, I mean…” Harder. Firmer. Nanami was pinpointing your every sweet spot with wads of precum so rudely, “-my pretty, pretty cumdump.”
You’re shrilling as he leans in with a purr to nuzzle your throat, one of his wild slams slaps your cervix so hard that you think your eyes pop out of your skull. “I-ngh, keep going like that and I’ll-” Forgetting that you weren’t supposed to speak - and if you couldn’t listen to him, he’d make you silent.
He’s spitting straight between your jabbering lips, swiping away the purposeful splatter on the edge of your lips. “Cumdumps cum quietly.”
And you’re so far gone that you aren’t just cumming with a few more vulgar strokes - you’re splashin’ out and squirting. Soaking splosh after splosh of your miry high, it sticks to his tannish skin and creates a tiny pool between your bodies.
Nanami was pistoning away oh-so-frenzily, and he expected to hold you down so that you could stay. So that you could take it.
Each n’ every one of your peaks being pounded through by his rovering cock.
Your pupils swirl maddeningly, body shaking with the twitches of your orgasm. “Mmm, didn’t know cumdumps could squirt, too.” He snickers rudely as you see stars, your vision shattered. And before you know it, he’s emptying out a few droplets of precum into your womb - you swear his twitching knot at his base only grew fatter. Oh, he was just getting started.
“Wh-what do you mean?” You’re whining up at him, with wide eyes—shit, did he say that out loud?
Nanami smiles a sleazy smile, his long canines peaking out. “M’cumdump needs to be full of cum now, doesn’t she?”
♡ GETO SUGURU - Sssnake
The slithering slurps were just lecherous.
Each time after Geto slid his flexible fingers in and out of your folds, tapping the slick-glazed tips against your inner thighs. “Hmmm…that should do it. Don’t you think, gorgeous~?”
“Sh-shit-” And for just how calm, cool, n’ collected he was - you were practically shattered. Feeling the sparks of your high escape right under your nose, Geto had edged you for about the fifth time tonight. Ruthlessly. You clamor to hold onto his wrist, “You’re so mean, Sugu- fuck-”
“Oh, so you don’t want my cock?” His dark brows furrow, faux-pouting. And oh, you damn near shed a few tears at the way he’s dragging his puckered cockhead between your folds, before pulling away—“Alright, guess I can give this pretty pussy just my fingers then-”
“N-nooo—” You sob out, “Please-”
“Ssso you don’t want my fingers either, huh?” Pretending to gasp, pretending to drive you to the end of your sanity (he actually was). “Well then I can just go and tell the organizer that you’d rather have another hybrid- f-fuck.”
You’re not even thinking twice - you’re not even hesitating before you suddenly press against Geto’s toned body. Pinning him down. Straddling his naturally chiselled hips and letting your ready cunt siiiink down his fat cock.
Oh.
He was just so thick, n’ covered in so many winding veins that tickled your sensitive insides. Extra. “Oh my god- I m-meant that I want your, ngh, cock in me.” You’re blurting out, your head throwing back dazedly. “Want you all up inside- ngh.”
“Oho?” And serpentine hybrids weren’t just sly - you’re coming to find out that they knew exactly how to drive you wild. Exactly how to use their numerous snaking tendrils.
Before you know it, Geto drags his gigantic tail around your waist to pin you down to his pelvis. Human for most of his body, but his true form did peak out during times like this. “Sss’that so?” He’s humming out, grin widening. “So is it my mating season or is it yours, gorgeous?”
“Y-yours–” You mewl out, stubbornly. After all it had been you that was specifically assigned to the massive boa constrictor to help him through his season of need. His heat.
His time of year that makes him all but whimper the very instant Geto’s slick cock starts fucking in and out of you. In smooth, long thrusts - there’s so much power behind his actions that the front of your pussylips start to bruise already.
Geto’s brows furrowing as he hisses between his fangs, “Mhm, then why don’tcha act like it, hmmm–?” Hitting your g-spot dead-on, your hips move restlessly and his tail pins you down immediately. “Drippin’ so much, sucking me up like such a ssssslut.”
He’s smiling oh-so-meanly as he pokes and probes you every hidden spot. Not just your g-spot, it’s like he’s somehow mazing his vein-decorated cock everywhere. Anywhere.
Again and again.
His slimy, curved tip sticks against the edge of your cervix and makes you whine.
“Take me so well like this n’ I might just give you my second cock, gorgeous.”
Your eyes snap open, “S-second?” And without another second of hesitation, you tilt your head down and- oh, lo and behold, there was a line along the middle of Geto’s happy trail. Right where his rock-hard erection was, a second length was starting to perk upright. Two.
Two needy shafts that filthily kissed your hole, the more you’re bouncing atop him- the closer his weeping cockhead gets. Anticipating. Eager.
“Mhm, didn’t you know?” Geto tuts, “Serpentine hybrids tend to have double the cocks-” And suddenly, he’s swipin’ aside your puffy folds to take a gooood, long look at your clamping hole. “-double what this sssslutty pussy wants. And if you’re good- heh, I’ll give it.”
“I’ve been so good.” You beg, your hand reaching for his double shafts- only for Geto to slap it away.
“I just gave you my first and now you want my second?” He rolls his dazed amethyst eyes, “Try riding this one ngh, proper and we’ll see about-” Oh, he doesn’t even have to finish his damn sentence to have you gyratin’ your hips wildly.
With your sultry figure-eights swerving and swerving.
Faster. Harder. You arch your spine into the perfect curvature and let his textured length stir against your cute pussy. Filling out your every nook n’ cranny—“I am, see-” Spit splashes down your chin, and Geto’s forked tongue comes out to lap at it. “T-taking it- ngh, they paired me with you so that means I must be able to take a second-”
“‘Must’, hmm–?” It was just so fun to tease you. To slow his bucking hips down and watch as your trembling, needy body ruts down animalistically to chase his globed tip. “And so that means-”
“Yes-”
“-that you must take my kids, riiight?” He narrowed his greedy gaze, and you’re struck with the sudden thought - oh, mating season. Geto was going to fuck you pregnant.
He was already pounding upwards like he aimed for it. Already shoved the fat crown of his shaft to poke your womb, so hard that you’re sure to feel that soft flesh bruise. Thudding. “That you’re gonna- mmm, let me cum inside you with both my big, fat cocks.” You feel a hot splash against your outer pussy, and realize that he’s holding his matching length with one hand. Angled straight towards your entrance- “Let me fill you up until you can’t even remember your name—”
“O-oh my god-” Your pupils swirl in the whites of your eyes, feeling the circle of your cunt get stretched out maddeningly. Like elastic, he was probin’ away his honed cocktip inside. “Yes- wan’ it please, Suguru-”
“Actually-” As he slightly stalls his cadence, “-can you even remember your name? Right now?”
You don’t even care at this point. Don’t know anything but the way he was filling out your geysering orifice with such wet slurps, “I don’t know I don’t know- just want it-”
“So you can’t even remember your name?” Seething, voice pitched even higher. There was a sort of crazed glimmer in Geto’s peripherals when he realized the effect his double cocks had on your poor body. Your poor self. “C-can’t believe- hah! You seriously don’t fuckin’ remember your own name? My cocks have that much of an effect on you, hm?”
Push after push. Now he’s a solid few inches inside your velvety cunt and you think you might just cum from the sheer stretch of him. The way he was holding you down- one hand plastered on top of your sweaty scalp now.
Geto’s using his strength to force down his swollen shafts, his zig-zagged veins pliably letting him slither his way in-
“S’okay, gorgeous.” He’s finishing off once his matching tips bottom out with two matching thwacks! All the way opening up your womb- “You don’t need any other name- hah, there’s only one you need.”
“And wh-what is that—?” You shiver once his pointed fangs trace your skin, scorched breath panting out.
“My mate.”
♡ CHOSO KAMO - Bunny!
“P-please, I’ll be good…” Choso’s broken whimpers grace your eardrums like the prettiest song, and he’s also letting off such lewd slurps any time he tap-tap-taps his red, swollen cockhead against the front of your pussy.
So loud. So filthy. The twitchy hybrid smears aside the drops of cum that were on top of your folds, like some white glaze.
His half-lidded eyes look down at the mess he was making and he groans, feeling his mouth start to salivate at the sight. “Mmm, so delicious, baby.” Before you can respond - before you can even think - Choso has the audacity to swipe his fat thumb down your slit and dab on a bit of sap for him to suck. “Won’t you let me- hah, fill this cunt up all over again? Please?”
And oh, you’d heard of the incredible prolonged stamina that bunny rabbit hybrids have - you just didn’t expect it to be like this.
Because it’d been hours since you were led into this very room by the organizer lady. Hours since you’d first met the hybrid you were paired up with, and had him cream his poor pants simply by his first kiss with you.
Hour since he’d first begged to put his cute, flinchin’ cock inside and fucked you like he never ever wanted to pull out.
Still rutting into you like such an animal- the slightest half-thrusts that leaves him whimpering. “P-please?” Choso whines, his handsome cheek staining with a line of tears. “Do you need me to beg on my knees again, baby?”
Your breath hitches, “I’m just wondering whether you aren’t- hah, tired yet, Cho? I’m sure it’s already ahem- taken, so to speak.”
“Oh, but we won’t know for sure now- will we?” And of course you wanted him more. Of course you still teased him. Watching his doey, brown eyes tear up, long ears flopping. “And m’not dead yet so- don’t worry, no matter how many times I cum, my cock is always- ngh, hard for you, baby.”
And he meant it.
He was slightly pulling out of your geysering hole - fuck, it almost killed him to - rutting and humping into your wettest depths wildly. He wanted to get you pregnant badly.
And as soon as you’re nodding needily for him to go on- Choso immediately perks his toned hips back n’ plunges inside your cunt once more. His ruby-red cocktip swipes aside your dewy walls, and as soon as his hulking size swivels inside, Choso groans.
He gasps.
He throws his head back and can’t stop himself from fucking cumming all over again, just from feeling your cutely heart-shaped walls.
You squeal as you feel his hot syrup fill you out from the inside, sploshin’ against all the other wads of cum he’d left over hours prior. “Sh-shit—” You’re clawing down his pale back, sure that it was ravaged with so many lines of red by now. “See? What did I tell you, Cho-”
“And what did I tell you?” He whimpers out, tears beading in his widely-opened eyes. “No matter how- haaaaah, many times- I- cum-”
Each one of his words was punctuated by a rugged thrust. Not only was he fucking in his treacly wads of seed inside, he was also draaaagging every ridge n’ line of his shaft along your sweetest spots. Leaning in close so that he can nibble on the underside of your jaw. Whispering. “-I’ll always be hard for you, baby.”
“O-oh my god—” Your eyes sprint all the way to the back of your skull - because Choso was fast. A rapidly slamming tempo that left his own pelvis all red. Nails digging deeper. “Shit, it feels so—Cho, are you crying?”
He’s blinking back his tears. “Fuck-” So overstimulated. So rubbed raw on the channel of your cunt that he found himself hatching out sobs at the back of his throat. “I didn’t, ngh, realize…I am.”
It’s only then that Choso’s fully registering himself.
The way his back was bleeding with how hard you were latching onto him. The way he could barely focus his dilated eyes. The way that every time he harshly pistoned his cock into you, Choso’s entire body twitched with something primal.
Your pussy was so good that it’d overstimulated him to tears.
You gasp as you notice the state he was in - and he only swabs his plumpened, red tip even harder. “I don’t mind, baby, m’just a little- n-ngh, sensitive right now.” Choso reassures, and you move your hand down from his muscular back to his waist. “Promise I can still fuck you all- oh.”
Only for your trembling fingertips to graze - just graze - his fluffy bunny tail. And oh- if you thought he was sensitive before, then Choso was so sensitive there that he damn near whimpers.
“D-don’t touch me like that~” He’s whining from the back of his throat, core tensing and flexing each time he drilled forwards. Faster. Filthier. “Don’t blame me if it makes me go even harder, okay, baby?”
“Well, m’not to blame. You’re the one that insisted.” You’re biting back.
And a dopey grin spreads across his face, “I did.” It was almost like he was reminiscing just moments prior. Chasing the softness of your pussy, he veers forwards and thumps your cervix loudly. “H-heh, n’ I think I’m gonna…oh…cum again.”
“A-again?” You gasp - you just felt so damn full. Stuffed all the way to the brim, glittery wads of cum spill out of you every time he’s thrusting in. And yet- fuck, and yet Choso still wasn’t done.
Still wasn’t letting up. Still wasn’t slowing down once he leans down to kiss your puffy lips. Your own high was nothing more than a few tingles, driving you half-mad with pleasure when you feel his glissading tip pulse against your cervix. “Did you just- oh, cream ‘round my cock?” He shallowly breathes, “Again?”
You can only nod and nod.
And Choso can only crinkle his nose in bliss, his entire body shaking viscerally when the mere notion throws him over the edge once more.
“O-oh.” He pants out, “Gonna blame me for, ngh, cumming so much when s’your fault.” Before you know it, you feel scorched wetness flood your cunt once more. It’s all sticky, gluing your pussylips together with his ivory sap.
And Choso fucking beams as he watches the glaze of it seep out of you and drench his dark happy trail. Creating a puddle of wetness that he swipes his hand down, lovingly.
Before reaching up and pressing on the cum-inflated bulge he was fucking into your tummy.
“Please give me a baby, baby–?”
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - BULL
You’re stopped in your tracks just before you can open the door.
That official-looking lady who’d accompanied you now held onto your hand, her expression of slight concern breaking the cool façade you’d been met with ever since you entered the program. She says, “I must make sure you know- you only need to give us a call, and we’ll be here in a second.”
“Yes?” You question her sudden worry.
“Oh, it’s just that-” She looks over your shoulder, as if trying to make sure that whoever was inside (the hybrid you’d been assigned to, Sukuna, you heard) couldn’t hear. “-we’ve had many candidates get paired with this particular hybrid, and all of them had broken off the pair before a match could be made. It seems he really needs help - he’s desperate with his rut.”
You’re furrowing your brows, “How come?”
She shuffles uncomfortably in front of you. “See- it’s just that this speciman seems to be a little…big.”
“Oh.”
“And rough.”
“Oh.”
“And he has certain attributes that often put him a step above other hybrids- especially ones in rut.” She explains to you, and your hand trembles on the door handle. “So, just letting you know-”
THUD-THUD-THUD!
It sounded like a storm. Like a whirlwind. Like something just broke down the polished, mahogany door in front of you - and left you dwarfed next to the towering bull hybrid you’d been paired up with. You don’t know what type he was; but he was over eight feet tall, pink hair, covered in swirlin’ black tattoos, with a massive bulge in his thin, off-white trousers.
Oh, he was in rut alright.
You look behind you- only to find that your escort had already disappeared.
And before you could register a single thing more, the hybrid- Sukuna has one of his four hands wrapped around your wrist. Tugging you inside the room. Manhandling.
All but tearing into your flimsy skirt- “Fuck.” He spits, between his clenched canines - you notice with a jolt that he had a piercing through his septum. It glimmers in the dim lighting as he huffs raggedly in and out, “Fuck- you’re gettin’ wet, aren’t ya?”
“I-I am?” You gape, affronted.
He sniffs at your throat and snickers, “Oh yeahhh, you are. In fact-” With only a single, sharp riiiip he’s torn off your drenched panties. Absolutely gone. And he breathes in even deeper, “-yer ovulating, mama.”
You didn’t know bulls could smell that - hell, you didn’t know any hybrid could smell that.
But before you can even think of asking him anything of the sort, Sukuna has your thighs smeared apart on his meaty hips, your cunt being speared thoroughly by his thickened shaft.
Right then n’ there on the bedroom floor, he’s taking you.
His round, bludgeoning tip entering your tiny hole- the stretch of it surrounding your pussy is incredible. A sheer sting that renders your eyes closed, your mouth speechless - meanwhile Sukuna’s just jerking his hips back and pushing and pushing. “Fuh-fuuuuck!” You shrill pathetically, feeling him open up even your most hidden orifices and head straight towards your womb. “Oh- oh my god, who let you be so damn ngh- big?”
“You’ll say—” Sukuna’s crimson eyes narrow in amusement, and he uses one of hands to flick at your swollen clit. The other two lacing on top of your scalp and tuggin’ you down roughly, “-and yet- you’re the only one to take me like this.”
“Th-the only one?” You gawk.
“The only one ta even make it this far.” He snickers, before interrupting himself with a gulping gasp of your scent. “And I’ve never smelled a human so- mmmm—” Sukuna grins and- oh, and now you’re realizing that he has two mouths.
One on his face, the other slashed across his heavily chiselled abs.
“-so delicious.”
Shivers run down your spine, “And what do I need to- ngh-” Your entire body felt weak with the way he was fuckin’ you oh-so-vulgarly open. Your pussylips were pried apart to the maximum, dribbling wet ribbons of slick. “-to help you through this rut of yours, then?”
“Oh, you just need to take it.” He grins, his pinkish tongue sticking between his teeth - both of them. That second cursed mouth of his salivates down your core, sticking just between your folds, pressing on your clit.
And every time you twitch with his rolling tastebuds, Sukuna can feel you clench. “Just lemme fuck you- oh, yeahhh, just like that. Never felt anything better.” He hiccups, two of his hands now move from your head and onto the sides of your waist. “Just take it alllll, lemme use this pretty pussy and- o-oh.”
Moving you. Teasing you. So much so that your entire body was starting to go limp - and it was exactly that boneless state of yours that made you rest your head down between the valley of his chest.
Exactly what made your mouth loll open with a puddle of drool, your hands gripping his pecs and squeezing—
“Oh sh-shit.” Sukuna groans gruffly, and you don’t know what you’re more shocked by: the cracking tone of his voice, or the way that a slight pearl of whiteness beads out of Sukuna’s pecs the moment you grope them. “Look what you’ve made me- ngh, oh fuck, brat. Fuck.”
“I-is this part of your…” Without even finishing your sentence - almost as if on instinct - you’re veering your mouth over to lick at the sap trickling out of him. And—
Oh.
Oh, Ryomen Sukuna was lactating.
“You can- this is milk?” You gasp, and before he can respond, you’re trying to urge more out. Letting the sweetened ivory sap fall into your agape maw, “I didn’t know even bull hybrids could lactate, Kuna.”
“So what?”
You look up at him through your lashes, every time he’s thrashing his cock inside you, you’re sucking on his pretty pink pecs. “I like it.”
“T-tch—” Sukuna tries to sound tough - fails. Because you could already make out the way his breath shook, his flexed core tensed.
Any time your textured tastebuds sizzled on top of him, Sukuna shivered. Was forced to attempt not to close his eyes and bite down on his lips - you’d never have thought that lactating would make the big, bad hybrid putty in your hands.
He blushes all the way down from the tips of his ears, down to his honeyed pecs, down to the globular edge of his shaft. Hitting up into your soft cervix with a bang—
“I-in about nine months, you’ll be lactating, too…” He whimpers.
♡ INO TAKUMA - Puppy
“Does it feel good, pretty?” Ino’s innocent chocolate eyes sparkle, and you swear you could see from where you were that his cute tail was wagging.
Rough thrusts being punctured by the cutest lil’ whimpers, Ino moans into your mouth just as soon as he feels you clench your heart-shaped insides ‘round him. “Ohhh, th-that means it feels good right? M’I doing a good job–?”
“Yes- yes yes yes–” You’re crying out, drunken saliva puddling on top of your pillow beside you. Each one of his roverin’ wet thrusts left your mind all emptied of thought.
And the thing is, you never even expected Ino to be this good.
NAME: INO TAKUMA
AGE: 21
OCCUPATION: UNIVERSITY STUDENT
HYBRID TYPE: CANIS LUPUS FAMILIARIS
When you’d first been notified that you were paired with a dog hybrid, you’d assumed that it would be a simple task. An easy task. They weren’t particularly apex predators, right? So how hard could it be—
That is, until you were running on the fifth round with Ino shovelling his heated cock inside you for the nth time. His silken ears drooping as he sniffs the side of your throat, trying to smell out your arousal- “So this pretty pussy’s likin’ it? Ngh, how else could I make you feel good, sweetness?”
“You’re already making me feel s-so good, Taku.” You gasp, feeling his slender fingers dip down to pinch your clit.
And just as he hears your words, Ino’s entire body perks up. Face beaming. His bulbous cock twitching at the very end, Ino drives it in even deeper against your g-spot with a damp squelch. “Oh yes? Then–” He looks down shyly, the cutest strawberry blush taking over his face. “-then could you say the special words, pretty?”
“Hmmm…” You pretend to think, “We’ll see, Taku.”
He all but whimpers.
Ah, those special words - it’d been an accidental discovery, really. The fact that Ino would be so affected by two specific words was a discovery that you hadn’t expected to stumble across during your research beforehand.
And he’s doggedly pounding his hips into yours, as if he was trying to fuck that very pet name from your mouth. “B-but I’ve been so good, don’t you think?”
As if to prove his point, Ino lightly swats your perky clit - just to show how bad he could really be.
“Now now–” Your breath hitches, thighs shivering ever-so-slightly at the sparks of bliss that suddenly explode behind your eyelids. He was drilling himself in so deep, stretchin’ out every sweet, slick-filled orifice. “-keep going like that and I won’t say it at- ngh, all.”
“Oh- please-” Don’t even mention it. Don’t even think of it. He lurches forwards to capture your lips in his, and Ino was always so sloppy with the way he kissed you.
Just letting his long, salivating tongue taste you. Ino’s lecherous sounds crack at the back of his throat, the vibrations humming along your skin. And his pretty cock just squelches out precum at the feeling, “But I’ve been so good, sweetness. Haven’t I been makin’ this pretty pussy feel all n-niiice and—” Instead of spanking your clit this time, now he’s rolling his thumb over it. Feeling the sultry wetness. “-wet, hm?”
“You have.” You tease, your face turning faux-thoughtful at the excitement in his eyes. “But I don’t know if you deserve that-”
“D-do I just need to fuck you harder, sweetness?” Ino pleads with you. And before you know it, one of his hands plaster onto the side of your hips, tuggin’ you close to him. “I can do that, y’know?”
Your brows raise, “Oh you c- oh.”
Not only is he pounding you even harder - enough that the formal bedsprings creak, enough that your vision shatters with tears - but he’s also makin’ his tempo even sloppier. Loooong, miry drags of his shaft that poke your very sweetest spots.
His blossoming red divot sticks up against the roof of your pussy and draws lil’ circles, edging towards your g-spot. “S-see? I can do harder.” He looks down at the place over your stomach, where his bulbous girth was swipin’ against your cervix. “I can also fill you up, mmm, deep inside with my ngh- cum, if you’d like?”
You swear you’re gushing out so wetly that it creates a ring of white ‘round Ino’s bulky hilt. All sappy and glistening with need.
And before you can even formulate a coherent answer inside your mind, Ino slightly raises his nose into the air and sniffs. And lets his mouth drop. His Adam’s apple swallowing. “And I can a-also smell if it’s taken, sweetness…”
“Taken?” You ogle at his words, “What do you mean-”
“You know…taken.” Ino looks at you meaningfully with this pussydrunk, half-lidded eyes of his. Every thrust of his leaves his aching knot slamming against the front of your pussy. Vicious.
“And ah- has it taken?” Asking, out of genuine curiosity - that was the entire point of the program, was it not?
“Well…” Ino elongates his throaty murmur, and for a few more strokes he lets his twitchy cock do all the talking. Smooch after smooch against the slimy door to your womb, he stirs aside the webs of cum from rounds prior. Whiffing down at your scent glands as he does- “I think just one more should n-ngh, do it.”
“Oh my—” Your mouth falls open, and you drag a hand through the tawny brown locks of Ino’s sweaty scalp. You could feel something primal building up in your stomach, in his thrusts. “Good boy.”
And there you said it.
It’d slipped out, really. Something your stupidly buzzing mind had been thinking for the last few jackhammers but hadn’t said out loud yet.
Something that Ino Takuma himself had been dying for you to say - you’d said it.
And it’s all that Ino has to hear to shove himself all the way to his thick hilt inside your pussy and cum. Deep, deep inside - like he was aiming for his gooey white ribbons to reach the very door to your womb, and you swear you could feel it slipping ‘round like just so.
Sloshing n’ squelching every time he pulled his hips out to thrust back in- “Good boy-” Ino gasps, breathless. He was hammerin’ into you vulgarly and still managed to find the time to babble out. “You called me ‘good boy’- you called me- oh…”
You blink your vision back from its daze as Ino’s voice hitches, “Yeees–?”
And he only blinks his teary lashes, looking up at you with the most needy puppy-dog eyes while he still ruts his cock into your deepest depths. “M’your good boy, aren’t I?”
♡ GOJO SATORU - Snow Leopard
The room you were led to had been sectioned off.
It had been padlocked twice.
It had you stumbling back at the ice-cold pheromones that hit you the moment that door opened - and when you looked into Gojo Satoru’s expressionless face—oh.
You weren’t making it out of here alive.
One hour later.
You still think the same- “F-fuck, ngh…” Your mouth gapes ajar, saliva sploshing down the side of your mouth every time he thrusted in. Long, vicious hammers of his ravaged cock that left you all stupid.
Flat on your back. You looked up through your teary lashes at his flushed face, drunken eyes. “Toru, how are you- hck! still going?”
“I don’t know.” He replies, simply. And his voice is deep, his voice wavers. Sounding as if he was genuinely in disbelief as to how he hasn’t stopped yet.
Still fucking into you like a madman - you didn’t need to talk right now. Why would you need to talk?
A sudden, sharp laugh bursts out of Gojo’s puffy lips when he registers the fact that you could still form coherent sentences: he needed to fix that. Now.
And before you know it, one of his overlarge palms clasp down on the top of your scalp and you’re being drag-drag-draaaagged back down. Down to where he was working on mazin’ his slimy wet cockhead repeatedly past your folds, pinpointing your tiniest orifices.
Your breath hitches as you look back down to where he was pummeling you- then up to stare deeply into his glowing blue eyes.
“Enough talking.”
Three hours later.
“Oh p-please, Satoru—” You shrill out, loud enough that you’re sure the whole establishment could hear you by now. On all fours by now, with your back arched wildly into his chiselled abs.
You swear you could count all eight of them, flexing and rippling, each time his honed hips slapped into yours. Slap after slap after slap- Gojo’s crowned tip reaches for your womb and you find your legs shaking. Head falling forwards-
“Ah ah-” Your vision flashes in front of you as something firm grabs onto the back of your neck. Only a few more strokes later, you’re realizing that it was his damn bicep - curling around your neck in a headlock. “I need to scent you.”
“But you’ve been ngh- scenting me for hours already- oh.” Your words strangle up in your throat as soon as you feel yourself crashing into your high once more. For the nth time tonight.
Every white-hot burst of your high that Gojo can practically smell on you, his feline capabilities can sense just when your orgasm has peaked. And he’s pushing his vein-covered cock in maddeningly, “And I don’t hear you complaining.” You’re startled by a sudden spank down on your clit, finding that his tail had wrapped ‘round your sheeny thighs to pull them apart. Enough for him to slap your weeping pussy- “I don’t hear her complaining.”
You gawk, your spittle creating a glazed layer on top of his biceps. “Y-you can understand- oh.” Only for him to tighten his restraint. Choking you with his beefy arms—fuck.
“Of course I can, sweetheart.” Gojo purrs out, as if it should be obvious. “M’a big cat, after all. N’ I can talk to- heh…kitties.”
“Oh.” He was utterly pussydrunk. Gone.
Barely even registering when he trickles out a few gluey wads of cum to stick upon either side of your walls, all webbed up. But he wasn’t done yet - far from it, you think you can feel Gojo’s knot at his base start to swell even bigger-
“And this kitty says that she’s not done yet.”
Seven hours later.
“Please-”
“Come back-”
“Oh—” You’re being caught steadily. The bed had long since broken, and if you thought that you were stuck in the dilemma between running away from his cock and gyratin’ back for more, more, more then Gojo was already making the choice for you.
Already pulling you back with his inhuman strength, he folds you underneath him.
You’d only had the time for a brief snack break, stocked on the bedside cabinet as if the organizers knew that this was going to happen - it was Gojo’s first time in the program, though they must have known an apex predator’s stamina.
Such incredible, incredible stamina.
You had your head against his collarbone by now, your body bent into the meanest full nelson physically possible. Gojo was bending you to his lecherous whims so easily, tugging you back so you turn your face and gnaw down on his throat.
Whining, “P-please—” You let sobs wrack your throat, your entire body shaking sensitively as he shovels his long, solid inches into you again. And again. And again and again and again. “And she–” You might just be losing it as much as he was. “-says she’s not done still?”
“Mmm, let’s see…”
With a purr, Gojo’s powerful spock-marked tail wrenches apart your thighs. He snickers after one of his hands comes down to leave a solid spank!
So hard that glittering specks of slick n’ cum splatter all over your thighs. And Gojo himself finds his breath catching at the lewd sight of it- “Not yet.”
“F-fuck…” Your mouth lolls open stupidly in a silent scream - at least, you think it was silent. Because just then Gojo pulls out his entire girth to fuck back into you deeper, and it lets out the most deafening slurp. “But what if it doesn’t fi-”
“Shhh, sweetheart.” He already knew what you were going to say: that his generous helpings of cum might not fit anymore. And you didn’t need to think about that - you didn’t need to even imagine that.
What do you mean it might not fit? Hah! As if—“This kitty tells me that sh-she can take, ngh- one more.” You could practically hear the grin in his raspy tone, “In fact, she tells me she can take my knot.”
Your eyes bulge open, “That- what?”
And he’s only nodding along - not to you, but to the sultry sounds your pussy was making. As if he was in conversation with your slick-glazed pussylips. “Mhm, my knot, sweetheart.” As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He pants, “Haaah—get ready.”
It’s the only warning you get.
Before you know it, your toes curl with such an incredible stretch.
A stinging sensation that burns all the way from your parted thighs and up your spine- you wriggle your body around, and Gojo pulls you back using his trusty headlock once more. “C’mon-” He whispers between his prolonged canines, “C’mon c’mon c’mon-”
“Shiiiit—” You trill, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull as he uses his other hand to pry apart your sticky folds. Plugging a finger in to swivel inside n’ fit his swollen knot, “It’s so big- it’s so- oh my-”
“Yeah- yeah yeah yeah, biiiig stretch, ain’t it?” Gojo chuckles darkly, and you’re completely pinned down while he eases inside. “Say it w’me now, m’gonna make it fit. Hah, biiiig—”
“S-stretch-” You mutter out thickly. Your head throws back with every slight centimeter of circumference he’s managing to squeeze inside. Bullying inside. “S’a big- stretch- ngh-”
“That’s it, that’s it- big stretch.”
Gojo’s just so thick that it takes you more than a few aggressive strokes to finally shove his hefty knot inside with a wettened plop! It fits in so deeply, molding your tight walls - you swear he’s so plump there that you can count each throb of his pulsations.
“Count- can you?” He’s humming after you and oh- did you say that out loud? Slowly, sensually, Gojo starts to grind his wads of cum inside.
Primally.
While you’re stupid on the stretch, he finishes off - “Let’s see if you can count how many kits I fuck into ya, sweetheart.”
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Hawk <3
“Oh, honey…” Higuruma puffs out breathily from between your legs, his slick tongue lapping up n’ down your slit at a frenzied pace. “Oh, angel- oh, sugar- oh.”
“Please, Hiromi—” Your thighs shake from either side of his handsome face, where he made sure that you were practically glued to him. Your cunt sliding down his mouth, his hooked nose. “I wan’ you…hck.”
“Think she’s all ready f’me again?” One of his large hands comes up to pat your ass cheeks, tenderly- though his mouth was the complete opposite.
Shoving straight between your puffy pussylips to dig against the side of your orifice. It’s only once you’re all clean from the wads of cum stuck to you that Higuruma actually moves from underneath. His dark locks tickling the side of your thighs, “Now, turn ‘round and bend over f’me, angel?”
And the voice he’s saying it in isn’t even particularly stern - but you’re clamoring to listen to him in an instant.
Oh, a hawk hybrid: one of those rare types that you were honestly lucky to be paired up with.
But, the thing about being with such a highly endangered species (especially during his peak, his rut) was that their primal instincts told them to breed. And they were going to breed. Right now.
Smack!
“Pay attention, angel.” Higuruma doesn’t even apologize for the hand he has swatted to the side of your hips. Holding you still as he quickly swipes his ruby-red crown down your slit a few times, gathering the beads of slick that drip out of you. “You hafta pay attention when m’fuckin’ you all full of my- hah, kids, alright?”
You whine, your teary lashes fluttering- “Y-yes I- oh!”
Yet another smack!
“Ah ah, what did I tell you?” You can’t reply - he doesn’t let you. Because in an instant, Higuruma’s proud girth starts pushing in. Probing.
He’s so thick that he has to spread his meaty thighs and fuck upwards to help squeeze his split-ended tip inside. Like a spotlight, he mazes his lengthy cock inside- “Hafta what?” You feel his scalding breath puff out from behind you, and it takes you a few more half-ruts to realize that he was talking to you. “You have to what now, angel?”
“Pay attention-” You’re fisting at the sheets.
“Exactly.” And Higuruma’s swollen cock twitches just a little bit hearing you say the correct answer. “Pay attention f’me while I breed you- ngh, okay, sugar?”
“Y-yes, sir-”
Oh, it slips out without you even realizing. Without you even wanting to.
You honestly don’t know where it even came from (perhaps from your slight research about hawk hybrids beforehand? Perhaps from the whole official-feeling vibe of the building? Perhaps just from him?)
But Higuruma certainly wasn’t complaining. In fact, just the mere sound of your addressal makes him arch his back, throw his head, and it makes his powerful wings twitch.
Attached to his muscular shoulder blades, there’s a sudden whooshing sound as they suddenly flare out. Wingspan so wide that they touch either side of the dimly-lit room, and even Higuruma’s aching cock jolts.
Flinches.
Spurting out a translucent wad of pre that slickly slides down to your womb- “Y-you can’t-” Immediately, he clears his throat but it’s no use - you already hear the way that Higuruma’s voice just cracked at the very tail end of his sentence. “You can’t just call me- oh.”
“Yes, Hiromi?” Looking behind your shoulder, with those pretty eyes and that pretty voice. Honestly, he can’t handle it.
And your face is suddenly being forced forwards by one hand ‘round your neck. A headlock.
Used solely to keep you in place, he’s drilling into you from behind like a madman, the feathery ends of his wings jolting. His thick thighs shaking. Plastering every veiny inch of his cock alllll the way inside- “S’all your fuckin’ fault.” And you don’t know whether he’s talking about the way his length was pummeling even harder, or whether his wings seemed to be oversensitive. Flapping wildly. “That m’like th-this- fuck! Why do I feel like m’going so- ngh, out of control…”
Almost as if he’s babbling to himself.
Bit bit bit, probe by probe. His plump cock fits into even your smallest orifices, filling you up from the inside out and making you keen. “S’not my fault-”
“Of course, s’not- just you and this hngh-” He grits his teeth, nose sliding down the column of your throat so he can bask in your scent. “-pretty pussy, and this preeeetty scent and- and…”
“Yes?” You question, as he trails off.
And it takes a few more pressurized pushes before the stern man can finally answer, almost shyly. “-call me that again. Please, sugar?”
Oh, he was asking so nicely. So how could you possibly say no?
“Please- I want you to c-cum inside–” You swerve your peaking eyes around, eyes wet with tears. Just the mere sight itself - just those words already - enough to make Higuruma slam his riding hips, so hard that it almost hurts. “-sir?”
You feel something flutter. Something flap.
Before you’re crashing into your high, and Higuruma is right behind you - pour after stringy pour of cum. Clinging down from the edge of your cervix all the way down your folds, it formulates the cutest white ring that he takes such pleasure in smearin’ on your flesh.
Your toes curl, and you buck your hips back at a steady pace to meet his oncoming thrusts. Perfectly timed with every high mountain of your high, he fucks you oh-so-perfectly through your bliss.
Thinking that that melody of your moans was the prettiest fuckin’ thing he’s ever heard. “Oh my g-god—” Higuruma’s struggling to catch his breath, you left him shaking. “M’gonna hafta find a way for you to pay for this- fuck.”
“But you asked—” You whine in righteousness, blinking back the tears in your eyes once most of the haze has dissipated. And you’re seeing—all brown?
A glossy, dark brown that was practically black in some lighting. It’s soon after that you realize that Higuruma’s wings had been protectively encircling the two of you right as you hit your orgasms, like a curtain of long feathers.
He shivers n’ grunts as he pulls his wings back- honestly, it’s like they couldn’t be apart from you.
“Hawks are protective of their nest, you see.” He gruffs out, by way of explanation. Still trickling in gooey wet wads- “Especially of things that should be in their nest.”
