The motel room was bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp, its light fighting against the encroaching darkness of the evening. Dean stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set in that particular way that meant he was about to argue a point he knew he'd lose. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, a thick lore book balanced on his knees, his brow furrowed in concentration. And you were sprawled out beside your brother, your own book resting on your stomach, your eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.
Castiel stood near the window, his presence a quiet anomaly in the cramped space. His head was tilted slightly, that perpetual expression of divine confusion painted across his features as he listened to Dean's latest protests.
"The seal is in St. Louis," Dean was saying, pacing now. "We've got maybe three days before Lilith tries something. We need to mov-—"
"Move where?" Sam interrupted, not looking up from his book. "We don't even know what the seal is yet, Dean. You want to just wander around Missouri until something happens?"
"Better than sitting here reading-"
"I'm hungry." you announced suddenly, your voice cutting through the tension like a warm knife through butter. You stretched, your spine cracking pleasantly as you set your book aside.
Dean's entire demeanor shifted. The argument drained from his shoulders as he turned toward you, and Castiel watched the transformation with muted fascination. It was remarkable, really, how quickly Dean's focus could pivot from divine missions to his little sister's stomach.
"Your sandwich is in my bag," Dean said, jerking his thumb toward his duffel bag near the door. "From lunch. Should still be good."
Sam's head snapped up, his expression shifting from focused hunter to concerned older brother in the span of a heartbeat. "Wait, you didn't eat lunch?"
"She said she wasn't hungry," Dean defended, already moving toward his duffel bag. "What was I supposed to do, force-feed her?"
"Yes!" Sam's voice rose just as he did from the bed, frustration bleeding through. "Yes, Dean, that's exactly what you're supposed to do! How many times do I have to tell you? She needs to eat three meals a day. Three. Not two, not one and a half—three!" He counted, holding out a finger for each number.
"Hey, I offered it! She refused!"
"She needs to eat! She's a growing girl, Dean! Do you have any idea-"
"She's sixteen, Sam, I think she's grown enough to know when she's-"
"Her body is still developing! And with her condition-"
"I know about the condition! I was there-"
"It doesn't seem like you were there if you're letting her skip-"
"You're blaming me for this? She's the one who-"
Castiel's head swiveled between them, like a viewer on a tennis match watching the ball go from player a to player b, his vessel's brow creasing deeper with each exchange. This was… strange. He understood conflict, of course. He had witnessed millennia of wars, battles, arguments between celestial beings that had shaken the very foundations of Heaven. But this was different. This was born not of anger or pride or any of the other sins that typically fueled discord among humans. This seemed to spring from something else entirely. Something soft and warm that had twisted itself into sharp edges.
Care. They were fighting because they cared.
It was one of those human paradoxes that continued to baffle him.
You, meanwhile, had reached Dean's duffel bag and were rummaging through it with the single-minded determination of a very hungry teenager. You found the sandwich—wrapped in slightly squashed foil—and straightened up with a triumphant noise.
"See? Found it. Crisis solv-... ed.."
You froze.
The words died in your throat. The sandwich slipped from your fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Your eyes went wide, unfocused, and your hand reached out blindly as if searching for something solid to anchor yourself.
Castiel saw it happen in fragments. The way your body suddenly went still. The way your weight shifted unevenly on your feet. The way your expression crumpled into confusion, like you weren't quite sure where you were anymore.
And then Dean was moving.
Castiel barely registered the motion. One moment Dean was halfway across the room, and the next he was right beside you, his hands closing around your arms with practiced efficiency.
"Sam," Dean said, his voice a low command. "It's happening again."
Sam was already there, his book abandoned, his earlier frustration transformed into something sharp and focused. "I see her. Dean, get her down."
"Right, I know how to do this, I've done it before-"
"Then stop talking and do it!"
Dean's hands tightened on your arms. "Hey, sweetheart, he, I've got you. We're just going to go down nice and slow, okay? Just like we practiced."
Your knees buckled.
Dean caught you fully, now your whole weight resting on his arms, easing you down to the floor with an expertise born of experience. But by the time your back touched the ratty motel carpet, your eyes were closed, your body limp in his arms.
"Damnit, Dean! I told you-"
"I know what you told me! She wasn't hungry!"
"She's never hungry!"
"Forgive me for not wanting to shove a sandwich down her throath!"
Castiel had not moved.
He stood frozen by the window, his blue eyes wide and fixed on the scene before him. The angel, who had faced demons and monsters and the very wrath of Heaven itself, was utterly paralyzed. His vessel's heart—a human heart that had been beating steadily for decades—now hammered against his ribs with alarming speed.
Because from his perspective, from the divine lens through which he viewed the world, something had just gone horribly wrong.
One of his charges. One of the fragile humans he had been tasked with watching over. The youngest one. The one who was smaller than her brothers, softer, more in need of protection.
She had simply… stopped.
She had been standing, speaking, living, and then she had stopped.
Her vessel had collapsed, her consciousness had flickered, and Castiel had felt something that he had not experienced in the long eons of his existence. Something that was not quite fear and not quite terror and not quite grief but hovered somewhere in the space between all three.
"The child," he said, and his voice came out strange. Thicker than usual. Rougher. "She is—"
"She's fine, Cas." Dean was already shifting, trying to make you more comfortable on the floor. "She's just passed out. It happens."
"It happens?" Castiel's head snapped toward Dean, and the hunter actually recoiled slightly at the intensity of the angel's gaze. "You mean this is a common occurence?"
"Uh… yeah?" Dean looked at Sam, who nodded grimly. "I mean, not all the time. But every now and then-"
"And you did not think to inform me of this vulnerability?"
"Man, it's not a vulnerability, it's just—it's a medical thing." Dean waved a hand vaguely. "It's not like she's dying or anything."
Castiel didn't wait for further explanation. He was already moving, crossing the room and dropping to his knees beside you with none of the grace that usually accompanied angelic movements. His hands hovered over your prone form, and a low sound of distress escaped his lips.
"Something is wrong with her body." Castiel's eyes were darting over your form, cataloging, analyzing. "Her vessel is not functioning properly. I can sense a deficiency. A lack. But I cannot identify-"
"Cas, calm down—"
"DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Castiel's voice boomed through the motel room, and for just a moment, the lights flickered, just shy of exploding into a cascade of sparks. Dean and Sam both flinched back, their hands raised in instinctive surrender.
Castiel's chest was heaving. His hands were trembling. He looked down at them, those hands that had smote demons and healed wounds and once held the very fabric of time, and found them shaking.
This was wrong. This was all wrong.
"Her vessel is flawed.." he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more horrified. "There is something.. wrong.. with her blood. I can sense it. Her blood is… thin. Inadequate. It lacks something essential."
"Alright, that's actually pretty accurate." Sam said cautiously. "She has iron deficiency anemia. Her body doesn't store enough iron. It makes her-"
"Iron deficiency?" Castiel repeated the words like they were foreign.
"Uh…" Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged helplessly. "Yeah, um, Iron. It's a mineral? It's in food. You need it to make hemoglobin, which carries oxygen in your blood."
"Oxygen," Castiel repeated. His eyes had gone very wide again. "Her blood lacks oxygen?"
"Not exactly—"
"You mean to tell me." Castiel's voice had become dangerously quiet. "That this human has been walking through this world with blood that is starved of oxygen?"
"Technically, yeah, but-"
"And you have allowed this?" Castiel rounded on Dean, his eyes blazing with a fury that made both hunters flinch. "You allowed your charge to develop such a deficiency? You did not feed her sufficient iron?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" Dean held up both hands. "First of all, I didn't allow anything. She's had this since she was a kid. Since before I even knew-"
"Since childhood? This affliction has persisted since childhood?"
Dean realized he was lowkey making everything worse the more he opened his mouth.
"Yeah, but we've got her on supplements now. She takes them every day. Sam makes sure of it."
"Clearly not effectively enough!" Castiel gestured toward your limp form. "She passed out. Her vessel shut down. Because she did not consume this- this iron you speak of."
"Man, it's not like I forgot to give her food. She just wasn't hungry. And if she doesn't want to eat, I can't force her-"
"Forgive me for my bluntness, Dean Winchester, but you clearly can." Castiel's voice had an edge of something that might have been panic. "If the alternative is her vessel shutting down, then yes, you must force her. You ensure she consumes whatever her body requires to remain functional. This is not a difficult concept."
Castiel lifted his eyes from your body and realized Sam looked like he was trying very hard not to smile and Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
He looked between them with growing frustration.
"Something about this situation is humorous to you?"
"No, no, man, it's just-" Dean's composure cracked, and he let out a short bark of laughter. "You're really freaked out about this, aren't you?"
"Of course I'm freaked out!" Castiel's voice had risen again. "One of my charges just lost consciousness in the middle of a completely non-dangerous activity! She was standing. She was speaking. And then she was not. And you are not concerned?"
"We are concerned." Sam said, his voice gentle. "But we've been dealing with this for a while now. We know what to do. She'll wake up in a few minutes, and then we'll make her eat her sandwich, and she'll be fine."
"Make her eat her sandwich." Castiel repeated slowly. "You are certain this will restore her?"
"As long as she keeps up with her supplements, yeah. It's a manageable condition, Cas. It's not going to kill her."
Castiel stared at Sam for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, very slowly, he turned back to look at you.
You were still unconscious, your face peaceful in a way that was somehow more alarming than if you had been grimacing in pain. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Your skin, Castiel noticed, was pale. Paler than it should be. Paler than it had been just moments ago, before—
Before you had dropped like a stone.
"You must teach me." Castiel said suddenly.
Sam blinked. "Teach you what?"
"How to ensure she consumes enough sustainance. I will… I will make certain she eats. Every day. Multiple times per day. She will not skip meals. She will not- she will not collapse again."
It was such a practical, logical solution that Castiel could not understand why Sam was looking at him with that strange expression. And Dean—Dean was definitely laughing now, though he was at least trying to hide it behind his hand.
"Cas," Sam said, and there was a warmth in his voice that Castiel did not quite understand. "You want me to teach you how to make sandwiches?"
"I want you to teach me how to make anything that prevents this situation." Castiel's brow furrowed. "If the deficiency is caused by a lack of this mineral in her diet, then the solution is simple. I will ensure she consumes it in adequate quantities. I will monitor her intake. I will-"
"Cas." Sam's voice was soft. "You know you don't have to do that, right? We've got it handled."
"You clearly do not." Castiel's voice was flat, deadpan as can be. "She collapsed. Under your watch. She collapsed because you did not feed her appropriately."
"Ouch," Dean muttered. "Right in the ego, man."
"You are not listening to me." Castiel was growing more agitated, his vessel's heart still racing, his grace pulsing with anxiety. "I have a duty. I have a purpose. Which is keeping the Winchester Sibiligns alive, Heaven's orders. And if that purpose involves standing guard over a fragile human child to ensure she consumes the necessary nutrients to maintain her vessel, then that is what I will do."
He turned back to you, and something in his expression softened.
"She is so small," he said, almost to himself. "So fragile. You twoy are also fragile, but she is… she is younger. Younger and smaller and more vulnerable. And she has been walking through this world with oxygen-starved blood for years. How is that possible? How has she survived?"
"Adaptation," Sam said. "Kids are resilient. Her body just kind of… adjusted to it."
"It should not have had to adjust." Castiel's voice was fierce. "She should have been cared for. Protected. FED."
"Yeah, well, our dad was kind of—" Dean made a vague gesture that conveyed about a thousand words of frustration. "..He wasn't exactly the nurturing type."
"Then it falls to you." Castiel's eyes met Dean's. "And it falls to me."
Dean's expression had shifted. The amusement had faded, replaced by something more serious. More appraising.
"You really care about her, don't you?" he said quietly.
Castiel hesitated.
The question was not one he had expected. Care was a human concept, a human emotion. Angels did not feel things the way humans did. They existed in a state of divine purpose, of celestial duty, of-
And yet.
And yet, when he looked at you.. he felt something that was not quite duty. Not quite purpose. Something that made his vessel's heart beat faster and his grace thrum with a need to protect.
"Yes," he said finally. "I suppose I do."
Sam was smiling now, a soft, almost fond expression that Castiel did not quite know what to do with.
"Alright," Sam said. "I'll teach you how to make her favourite sandwiches. And I'll show you the supplements she needs to take. And you can help make sure she doesn't skip meals."
"I would appreciate that," Castiel said, and his voice was steadier now. "I would appreciate that very much."
Dean was grinning now, slapping Castiel on the shoulder with a force that would have staggered a normal man. "Look at you, Cas. A regular mother hen."
"I do not appreciate that comparison." Castiel said flatly.
patrick jane truly is a character of all time. he's arrogant. he's broken. he's haunted. he's funny. he's genuinely delighted by small pleasures. he likes breaking and entering. he's a tea snob. he's tortured frequently on screen. he flinches every time a gun goes off. he hides behind his female colleagues when he gets scared. he's a sociopath. he's a liar. he does magic tricks. he has basically no moral compass and will do anything to catch the guy who killed his wife and child, including lie to and use everyone he cares about. he sleeps on a mattress on the floor in the room his family was murdered in, with the calling card of their killer still on the wall. he loves children. he's very empathetic. he's the reason his family is dead. he loves setting traps and catching people in lies. he hates rich people and doesn't care when they get murdered. he's a card shark. he always knows what everyone is thinking. when people piss him off he makes their lives miserable. he hypnotises people all the time. he's a con man. he's the most honest guy you'll ever meet. like literally where else do you find a freak like that.
Yeah yeah this happened actually , Sam and Jess and a great life and there were no monsters or apocalypses!!! And Dean and Bobby came to Visit all the time and everyone lived!!!
hii! i just started watching house last week- and i noticed there isn't many authors that write for house anymore and i was wondering if you could do sick greg house (he's got fever and stuffy nose and whatever's going on inside his head😭😭) so he gets clingy to his wife (reader) and won't let her go to work and demands cuddles (you don't have to write this but THANK YOU!!)
>>>Sick and Clingy<<<
Summery: Gregory House does not get sick. His immune system is superior. His mind is superior. His everything is superior.Except today he has a fever, a sinus headache, and the emotional regulation of a toddler.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: domestic fluff • hurt/comfort • sick!house • grumpy husband • caretaking • married life • house being dramatic • soft house moments
Gregory was never silent in the morning. He complained about the light. The coffee. The news. The concept of mornings. Existence.
But today?
Nothing.
You step out of the bathroom, towel-drying your hair, and find him still in bed. On his back. Staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.
That’s terrifying.
“Greg?”
A pause.
Then, hoarse and gravel-thick:
“Cancel work.”
You blink. “You’re not my boss.”
“I am your husband,” he says weakly. “Higher authority.”
You walk closer.
His hair is mussed, eyes glassy, cheeks faintly flushed. He looks… soft. Disarmed. Human.
You press your hand to his forehead.
Hot.
“Oh my God,” you breathe. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m dying.”
“You have a cold.”
“It’s meningitis.”
“It’s not meningitis.”
“It could be.”
You lean down and kiss his forehead anyway. He closes his eyes immediately, like you’ve just given him morphine.
“…Don’t go,” he mutters.
You pull back slightly. “I have clinic.”
“Call in sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You’re about to be,” he threatens, attempting to pull you down with one arm.
He succeeds.
You land against his chest, and immediately he tightens both arms around you like you’re the last life raft on the Titanic.
“Greg,” you laugh softly. “I have patients.”
“They’ll live.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’m the genius diagnostician. They’re all dramatic.”
He buries his face in your neck.
And freezes.
“…You’re cold.”
“Yes. That’s how normal body temperature works.”
He groans and presses closer, sliding one leg over yours, trapping you completely.
“You’re staying.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes.”
“Gregory.”
“Wife.”
The way he says it is petulant and affectionate at the same time.
You try to sit up.
He makes an offended noise and clutches tighter.
“Unacceptable.”
“You’re acting like a koala.”
“I’m a very sick koala.”
“You’re a manipulative koala.”
“Same thing.”
He shifts, dragging the blanket up around both of you, cocooning you together. His nose is stuffy, breathing uneven, warm breath against your collarbone.
And then—
He sniffles.
You freeze.
Did Gregory House just—
He sniffs again. Irritated.
“This is humiliating,” he mutters.
“You’re adorable.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m a terrifying medical icon.”
“You’re a congested medical icon.”
He groans and presses his face against your chest to hide.
You feel it then—how warm he is. How tired. His usual sharpness dulled by fever.
“…My head hurts,” he mumbles quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
That’s when your heart caves in.
You thread your fingers into his hair and gently scratch his scalp.
He melts.
Actually melts.
A soft, involuntary exhale leaves him.
“Traitor,” he whispers.
“What?”
“My body. It likes that.”
“Your body likes affection from its wife. Groundbreaking.”
He shifts again, hand sliding under your shirt just to press his palm against your bare waist. Not sexual. Just anchoring.
“Don’t go,” he repeats, softer now. Not commanding.
Asking.
You hesitate.
He opens one eye and looks up at you.
And God, he looks wrecked. Fever-bright eyes. Pink nose. Vulnerable in a way he almost never lets himself be.
“…You’re really not going to let me leave, are you?”
“No.”
“You have a hospital full of competent doctors.”
“They’re idiots.”
“You trained them.”
“Which says more about them.”
You sigh dramatically.
He tightens his grip in response.
“You love me,” he says, muffled against you.
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is.”
“It’s emotional blackmail.”
“It’s effective.”
You try one more time to shift upward.
He immediately whines.
Actually whines.
“…Cold,” he mutters when the air hits him.
“Oh my God.”
“Cruel woman. Abandoning her dying husband.”
“You are not dying.”
He sniffles again.
“…Prove it.”
“How?”
“Stay.”
You look at the clock.
Then at him.
Then at the way his thumb is absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your side like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“…Fine.”
He stills.
“…Fine?”
“I’ll text in. Half day.”
He goes quiet.
Then slowly tightens his arms around you and presses a fever-warm kiss to your shoulder.
“Marry me again,” he murmurs.
You laugh. “I already did.”
“Do it again.”
“You’re delirious.”
“Probably.”
You feel him relax fully for the first time since you woke up. His breathing steadies. His grip softens but never lets go.
After a few minutes, he mutters, half-asleep:
“…If you get sick too, we can both stay home.”
“Gregory.”
“Worth it.”
You pinch his side gently.
He makes a sleepy protest noise and pulls you even closer.
And as he drifts off, still tangled around you like you might disappear if he loosens his hold, he whispers one last thing—
Could i request one with patrick jane where the reader just joined the CBI and he kind of takes her under his wing like a mentor(?)
It could even be like where the readers oblivious to his advances even tho the whole team can see it and it just ends w smut and they get tgt
Love your patrick writing by the way its usually so so hard to find fics of him
The Final Lesson
Thank you so much for your request and for the kind words 🤍 it really means a lot, especially since I know how hard it is to find fics of him on here. I really hope you like it!!
Contains: smut, car sex, praise, dirty talk, teasing, fingering, piv, age gap (not specified)
⤷ NOW PLAYING: ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။•
The transition from the academy to the CBI was supposed to be a rigorous professional milestone, but within forty-eight hours of joining Teresa Lisbon’s unit, your career path had detoured into the orbit of Patrick Jane.
He didn't just meet you; he appraised you, his blue eyes darting over your shoes, the way you held your coffee, and the slight nervous twitch of your pen. From that moment on, you were his shadow.
He took it upon himself to be your mentor, though his "lessons" usually involved dragging you to high-end tea shops or making you sit in silence for hours in the attic while he lay on his brown leather couch.
You followed him diligently, soaking up his advice on micro-expressions and the psychology of the "tell," completely unaware of the way his voice softened whenever he spoke to you or how often his hand would find the small of your back to guide you through a doorway.
The rest of the team watched the spectacle with a mix of amusement and exhaustion.
Cho would watch from his desk as Jane leaned over your shoulder to "help" you read a case file, his face so close to yours that he was practically breathing in your scent. Rigsby and Van Pelt had a running tab in the breakroom on how many times Jane would find an excuse to touch your hand during a briefing. Even Lisbon had given up on the "no fraternization" lectures, mostly because you were so genuinely oblivious that the lectures felt redundant.
You simply thought he was being a dedicated teacher, an eccentric genius who was finally sharing his secrets with a worthy protégé. You’d tell the team, "Jane is just being supportive," and they would share a collective, pained look.
The turning point didn't happen in the busy bullpen or the quiet attic, but in the cramped, velvet-lined interior of Jane’s Citroën.
The visit to the Victorian house on the cliffside had been brief and professional—or at least, as professional as any interview with Patrick Jane could be. You had finished questioning the witness, a nervous man with too many clocks in his hallway, and made your way back to the car.
A sudden, violent downpour had turned the California afternoon into a gray blur, forcing the two of you to pull over to the side of the narrow coastal road, only a few yards from the edge of the witness's gravel driveway. The house sat behind you, its porch light a dim, fuzzy amber through the sheets of rain that made it impossible to see the road ahead.
For once, Jane wasn't talking. He was leaning back, his head resting against the window pillar, his gaze fixed on you with a heavy, unblinking focus that made the air in the car feel thick.
You were busying yourself with the witness statement, your pen hovering over the paper as you tried to ignore the way his knee was firmly pressed against yours in the small space.
"You're doing it again," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to cut through the sound of the rain.
"Doing what?" you asked, not looking up. "I'm reviewing the motive. Like you taught me."
"No. You’re hiding," he countered. He reached out, his hand moving with agonizing slowness, not to grab the file, but to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear.
His fingers lingered there, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin of your jawline.
"You’ve spent months learning how to read everyone else's secrets. Tell me, what do you see in here, right now?"
"I see a rainy car and a very long wait," you replied, your heart starting a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You kept your eyes fixed on the dashboard, terrified that if you looked at him, the fragile glass house of your "professional relationship" would shatter.
Jane didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, the scent of his cologne and Earl Grey tea enveloping you.
"I taught you better than that," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic register he used when he was peeling back a suspect’s layers. "I taught you to look past the surface. To see the pulse in the throat, the dilation of the pupils, the way a person leans in when they’re hungry for something they aren't allowed to have."
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the case file until the paper crinkled. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jane".
He let out a short, dry breath that was almost a laugh, but it lacked his usual mirth.
"Another lie. And a clumsy one at that." He reached out, his fingers grazing the underside of your wrist, hovering right over your racing pulse. He didn't grab you; he just felt the frantic thrum of your blood.
"Either I am a truly terrible mentor, or you are an absolutely miserable liar. Which is it?"
"I’m not lying to you," you insisted, your voice trembling slightly as you finally turned to face him. The proximity was dizzying.
It's not like you've never noticed his behavior before. You simply thought that was just Jane being Jane. He's charming, he's tactile, he walks into people’s personal space like he owns the floorboards. You thought you were just another person in his orbit.
You let out a shaky breath, looking down at where his fingers still hovered over your pulse.
As if reading your mind, Jane’s expression shifted, the sharp, analytical edge softening into something almost pained.
He didn't pull back; instead, he closed the remaining gap, his hand sliding from your wrist up to the crook of your elbow, pulling you just an inch closer. "You think I spend four hours a day in a drafty attic with just anyone? You think I buy expensive Lapsang Souchong for the office staff?"
He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that stripped away all his usual theatrics. "I’m a consultant, not a saint. I don’t give this much of my time away for free."
"I thought you were being a mentor," you whispered, the word feeling small and inadequate in the heavy silence of the car.
"I was," he murmured, his thumb now tracing the sensitive skin of your inner arm. "Maybe I'm a bad mentor, indeed. A good mentor maintains boundaries. A good mentor doesn't spend his nights wondering if you're thinking about him as much as he's thinking about you." He paused, his eyes dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back to yours.
You swallowed hard, the tension in the car so thick it felt like it was stealing the oxygen from your lungs. "Then you should have taught me how to handle that," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the rhythmic drum of the rain. "Because you left that part out of the curriculum."
Jane’s gaze softened, a flicker of something raw and remarkably honest breaking through his usual playful facade. He leaned in until the tip of his nose brushed against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Some things can't be taught," he whispered, his voice dropping to a velvet hum that made your pulse leap.
"They can only be felt."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He closed the remaining distance with a sudden, fluid grace, his hand sliding from your arm to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. When his mouth finally crashed against yours, it was a hungry, desperate claim that had been months in the making.
The kiss was a collision of suppressed tension and unspoken truths. It tasted of peppermint and the cold, damp air of the storm outside, but the heat of it was staggering. His tongue swept against yours with a possessive rhythm, silencing every logical thought left in your head.
You found yourself reaching for him, your fingers clutching the lapel of his charcoal vest to pull him closer across the center console. Jane groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, as he shifted to press you back against the seat.
The rain continues to lash against the Citroën, but the world outside has ceased to exist. The windows have long since fogged into a solid white veil, trapping the two of you in a space that feels too small, too warm, and dangerously charged.
Before you can even process the shift in the air, Jane reaches across the center console. With a sudden, fluid strength that catches you off guard, he hooks his hands under your arms and pulls you over the gear shift, settling you firmly onto his lap.
You straddle him, your knees pressing into the leather of the driver's seat on either side of his hips. The professional distance that defined the last few months hasn't just been crossed—it has been incinerated.
Jane pulls back just an inch from the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. His usual composure is gone, replaced by a frantic, jagged breath that matches your own. His hands, usually so steady and controlled, move to the hem of your sweater, his fingers lacing through the wool fabric. The "mentor" is nowhere to be found; there is only the man who has spent far too many nights imagining exactly this.
"Jane," you breathe, the name a broken plea.
His fingers graze your bare skin as he pulls the fabric over your head, discarding it into the shadows of the floorboards. The sudden contact of the cool car air makes you shiver, but his touch follows immediately, searingly hot.
His eyes meet yours, and for the first time, you see it all—the years of loneliness, the months of pining, and a pure, unadulterated lust that he no longer bothers to hide. His gaze scans you, his hands trailing over the lace of your bra, mapping out the reality of you.
"You’re fucking breathtaking," he breathes out, the words sounding like a confession he’s been dying to make.
Jane lets out a low growl, his hand sliding down your body and stopping where your jeans meet your hip. He doesn't rush; he kneads the denim-covered skin of your legs, his thumb grazing the inner seam of your thigh in a way that makes you feel like you could burst. It’s a slow, agonizing torture.
"Jane... don’t be a tease."
He lets out a dark, breathless chuckle against your neck. "Patience, baby."
His hand shifts up, sliding slowly between your thighs. You shudder, falling into him as his middle finger begins to circle the rough fabric of your jeans, pressing right against your heat. You gasp, grinding instinctively into his hand.
"Goodness," he whispers, his lips ghosting over your ear. "So needy for your mentor."
With a sudden, decisive move, he fumbles with the button and the zipper of your jeans. The metal teeth hiss open in the quiet car, and he rids you of the denim and your lace panties in one fell swoop, tugging them down your legs.
His fingers return, entering you at an abnormally slow pace—one finger, then a second—watching your face as you throw your head back. He stays focused on you, reading your expressions like he reads a crime scene. He can feel himself straining against his trousers, but he doesn't stop. He finds that sweet spot, his rhythm increasing as if he can read your thoughts.
"Jane, please…" you whimper.
"Tell me," he murmurs, his thumb dropping to your clit in slow turns. "Tell me what you want."
"Faster. Please."
He smirks, the brilliant consultant returning for one fleeting, wicked second before he obeys. He digs deeper, hitting the mark that sets your nerves on fire. Your hips buck into his hand, your fingers clutching at his charcoal vest until your knuckles turn white.
"That’s it," he husks, his forehead leaning against yours. "You gonna cum for me, baby?"
The pressure builds into a roar, a flame igniting in your core that leaves you sobbing his name. You come down hard, your body racking with the force of it, while he rides out the high with you, his fingers only slowing when you’re slumped against his chest, breathless and spent.
Jane's fingers are soaked, and you watch with a dazed, hungry intensity as he cleans them, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight is poison; it sends a fresh flood of desire through your brain.
Your mouth searched for his.
"I need... I need you," you gasp against his lips.
"I know, baby. I know," he replies, a wicked, triumphant grin curving his lips.
He shrugs off his jacket and vest, discarding them into the dark.
You fumble with his belt, tugging at his trousers. Jane watches you, letting out a dark chuckle. "Someone’s eager."
You look up through hooded eyes. "You’re the one who had to do this in the car."
He laughs, pulling your lips back to his. He cradles your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline as you work his pants down. When his cock springs free, red and pulsating, your breath hitches. You spread your legs wide in the cramped space, inviting him home as his cock brushes against your entrance.
"Say it," he whispers into your ear, his voice thick with a sudden, raw vulnerability. "I need to hear you say that you're mine."
"I’m yours, Jane" you breathe.
"Good girl," he mumbles, before filling you completely, a low groan escaping him with every centimeter. He stalls for a moment, letting you adjust to him, his heart hammering against your chest.
Then, he begins to move your waist, his hands guiding your body. He meets you there, his thrusts finding that sweet spot with a precision that only he could possess.
"Fuck," he shudders, his hands squeezing your waist, leaving marks that will surely need explaining.
You cry out as he snaps his hips faster, the sound of skin on skin lost to the rain outside. He watches you, his thumb finding your clit once more to match his pace, and the added sensation sends you over the edge for the second time.
You cling to his neck, your lips pressed to his shoulder as you come, and Jane follows seconds later. His thrusts turn slow and sloppy as he grunts out your name, officially coming undone inside you.
Neither of you moves. The silence of the car returns, broken only by the slowing thud of two hearts beating as one.
Jane lets out a soft, broken laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans his forehead against yours.
"God," he whispers, catching his breath. "You’re... unbelievable."
He didn't pull away. Instead, he settled his arms around your waist to hold you securely against him. You remained perched on his lap, your legs still draped over his hips, the heat of his skin cooling against the damp air of the car as both your hearts finally found a steady rhythm.
He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the pulse point at your throat. "I should have done this sooner," he murmured, his voice returning to that melodic, playful hum, though it was colored with a newfound tenderness. "I would have saved myself months of agonizing over the way you chew your pen when you're thinking."
You laughed softly, shifting slightly on his lap, making him let out a small, satisfied huff. "You were agonizing? I thought you were just 'observing' me."
"Oh, I was observing," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray smudge of mascara from beneath your eye with a touch so delicate it made your breath hitch all over again. "I observed the way your hair catches the light in the bullpen. I observed that you're the only person who actually listens to my theories without rolling her eyes."
Jane nudged your nose with his, his blue eyes bright and strikingly clear in the dim light of the dashboard. He kissed your forehead, then each of your eyelids, his hands sliding up from your waist to cup your face.
"You know, this was technically a very poor use of CBI resources," he teased, his thumbs rubbing small, affectionate circles over your jawline. "Very unprofessional. Lisbon would have my head."
"You're the one who pulled me onto your lap, Jane. You're the one who started the lesson."
"And I’d do it again," he whispered, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious for a moment. He smoothed your messy hair back, his fingers lingering at your temple. "But as much as I enjoy the interior of this car... I think I'd like to see you somewhere where there isn't a steering wheel in the way and a witness's house across the street."
He tilted his head, that familiar, mischievous glint returning to his eyes.
"Come to dinner with me. Not a 'working' dinner where we talk about blood spatter and motives. A real dinner."
He gave your hips a playful, possessive little squeeze. "I want to take you somewhere where we can actually hear ourselves think, and where I can look at you for as long as I want without Lisbon giving me that look."
He paused, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "What do you say?"
"Sounds perfect to me," you whispered, a slow smile spreading across your face as you leaned down to close the gap between you.
Jane met you halfway, his hands sliding from your hips to the small of your back to pull you firmly against his chest once more. This kiss wasn't like the desperate, frantic one from before; it was slow, deep, and tasted of a quiet sort of promise. It was the kind of kiss that confirmed everything had shifted, in favor of something much more real.
You melted into him, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, the fogged-up windows of the Citroën still shielding you from the rainy world outside.
He pulled back just an inch, his lips lingering against yours, a soft, contented hum vibrating in his throat.
For a moment, the silence in the car was perfect.
Then, the shrill, persistent buzz of a cell phone on the dashboard shattered the atmosphere.
Jane groaned against your mouth, his eyes flickering shut in mock annoyance. He reached out with one hand, still keeping the other draped possessively over your waist, and grabbed the device.
The bright glow of the screen illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows over his features.
"It's the fun-killer," he sighed, tilting the screen so you could see it.
Lisbon: Jane, I know you’re 'mentoring,' but the witness says you've been parked in his driveway for forty minutes. Stop messing around and get out of there.
Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it.
Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart
Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.
Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)
1
“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.
“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”
After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.
Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.
Focus.
You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”
“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.
Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.
“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”
Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”
You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.
God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.
Handsome. Not rugged.
Competent. Doubtful.
Caring. Well, caring enough.
“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.
“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?”
The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —
“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.
He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”
His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat.
Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”
“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?
“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost.
“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.
“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.
Jack huffs. “Just go.”
You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.
Well.
Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.
As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.
“Penlight. Incoming.”
You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.
You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.
The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.
“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.
“Nick seems like a good guy.”
“Noah.”
“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”
You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.
“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”
“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”
A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.
“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.
“Yes, you just sai —”
“Only care about yours.”
That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.
Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.
You quickly regain your senses to retort.
“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.
“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.
The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”
You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.
Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”
"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."
"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.
"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.
"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."
He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”
“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after.
“She prefers lattes, by the way.”
2
Bzzzzzzz
“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”
Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.
Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today.
“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.
“Yolanda, you listen to music?”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”
Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second.
“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”
Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.
“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.
“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”
Huh, Strange.
***
The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —
Bzzzzzzzzz.
You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”
The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.
You hate loud. So much.
You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.
Look at you being fiscally responsible.
“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you.
Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.
“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys.
“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.
“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks.
In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.
You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.
Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”
“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”
Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”
“Only women?”
“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”
“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush.
In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face.
You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."
“Oh, I tried.”
You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —
“Did he forget his Roblox password?”
You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.
“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.
Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”
You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.
You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.
You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.
You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.
Does he want you to hold…?
“Your phone, nurse.”
Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.
“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”
His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.
“You're not a teenager.”
“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.
Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.
Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.
“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.
He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”
With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.
Kid.
You need a chair.
3
“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.
“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.
Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.
You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.
“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.
Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”
“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.
Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.
“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”
You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.
“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.
“How much is a while?”
This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.
“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.
“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.
It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.
You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left.
“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.
“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”
Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.
You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear.
Is nobody watching this?
You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.
His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.
“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair.
Oh. Oh. OH.
“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.
You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.
***
You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.
“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.
“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”
“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.
Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.
“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”
“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”
“Thanks, sir.”
A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”
“Hm?”
“Where he took you. Nick.”
“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.
“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”
“What?”
He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.
“I'm an anything person, really.”
Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.
“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.
Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.
“I know.”
He says your name.
Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.
Please say my name again.
“I know, kid.”
“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another.
You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.
You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.
By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.
“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”
Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.
You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though.
Desperation.
You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.
+1
“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.
You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.
The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”
“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.
Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.
Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.”
For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.
No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.
You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier.
Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.
Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?
As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.
Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”
The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.
9 missed calls from Noah.
“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.
“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.
“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”
“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.
“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”
You take a deep breath.
“What do you want?”
“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”
“No.”
“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”
That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.
“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears.
When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.
You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”
“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.
You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.
This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!
Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.
You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.
“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”
The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.
“Jesus, Jack.”
“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.
Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.
“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.
“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”
“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”
“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.
“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.
“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.
In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.
“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”
He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.
“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.
“I know that. Do you?”
“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.
“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.
Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.
Nurse, there's people that are dying.
“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.
“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically.
“Why do you care so much?”
“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”
Sweetheart.
“You're killing me.”
“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders.
A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.
“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”
You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.
The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.
“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.
Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.
“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.
Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.
“I asked you something, kid.”
You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes.
And, oh.
His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.
He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.
“You can continue yelling at me now.”
In and out. Deep breath.
“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.
“As I said —”
“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.
A pause.
“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.
“Jac —”
“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”
His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.
“Me? What about me?”
He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”
You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip.
He thinks that?
Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.
“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.
He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.
“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.
“What? You're my senior, you're older —”
He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.
“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."
You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.
You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.
You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.
“Why haven't you sent it?”
“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”
Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.
“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”
With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.
His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”
Deep breath. In and out.
You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow.
Send.
You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him.
You did that. You.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.
He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.
But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”
“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.
“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.
“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”
You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.
Fuck.
Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.
Just as you try to move your lips against his —
“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle.
“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.
His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt.
“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.
“That's a lot.”
“What can I say? I like paying for things.”
His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.
Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later.
“One hand, wow.”
“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”
He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.
He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.
You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.
“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.
“Yes, doctor.”
He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his.
“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.
“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.
“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.
“Yes, doctor”
“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.
Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.
I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3 i also need to know if yall blushed reading this, if yes, WHEN
just read all of @viaaluvs jjk text stories again i am in TEARSSSSS. can i just say they are the funniest person in the world and literally nobody will ever compare. i actually couldn’t breathe because of how hard i was laughing i wish i was lying. bro got me like this over fake texts with characters PLEASEEEEE. just wanted to say how much i love their work in case anybody forgot. goodnight everyone.
When a young, methodical FBI specialist is embedded with Lisbon’s team, the friction with Patrick Jane is instantaneous. He views your federal protocols as a fragile shield for your youth; you view his confidence and charm as a dangerous distraction. But as the case deepens, the biting remarks begin to feel less like insults and more like a dare, where the only thing left to dissect is each other.
Contains: smut, fluff, comfort, age gap ( +/- 10 years), enemies (?) to lovers, forced proximity , angst
notes secret baby, second chance romance, mentions of contraceptives, cutest toddler in the world (neteyam’s fictional babies are always the cutest), grovelling, jealous and yearning neteyam as per usual🙏🏻, neteyam creating his own problems by overthinking, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), [no, she’s not mated]
synopsis the war against the sky people had taken everything from neteyam. he never thought he’d had the chance to be with you again... but now that he’s back, he’s willing to everything to get you back. there’s only one hiccup... you are mated and a mother now.
word count 22.5k
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You stared at Neteyam, your arms crossed and your trembling hands brushing the cold away from your skin as you desperately tried to catch the gaze he refused to give you.
“Neteyam, we don’t really need to end this,” you pleaded, your voice cracking under the weight of impending abandonment. “I can wait for you, however long, I will be just here. I can even visit you in Awa’atlu and be with you, I can—”
“Do you think war is a game?“ he cut you off, his voice sharp and cold. He snapped his head toward you, his golden eyes narrowed into a hard, unfeeling look. “And visit me how? The RDA kills anyone on sight these days, so how do you think you can fly to Awa’atlu and not be killed?”
He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, fighting with every ounce of his strength to keep his face from crumpling. Seeing you stand there, so small, so frightened, and so utterly devastated by his sudden cruelty, was tearing his soul apart. I love you. I love you so much, his mind screamed. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms and tell you he was just joking, that he was not really mad, but he had to do this, for you. So he could live with himself knowing that what could happen to him in the war will not hurt you as much as it would if he allowed you to hope.
He needed you to hate him. He needed you to move on and let go of him. He did not want you to wait for nothing if he ended up dead in the war, because the thought of you wasting your youth mourning a ghost was a fate worse than Eywa's judgment.
So, he delivered the final blow, letting the venom drip from his tongue.
“And who's to say I won't meet a Metkayina woman I would want to actually mate and settle down with?” He said, watching you rear your head back as if you had been slapped. “We’re not... that serious, Y/N. Surely you know that? You're not really thinking that I would like to keep you knowing that there is more to life than here, do you?”
Your breath hitched, staggering a step backward, the words striking you like a physical blow to the gut. Hot tears pooled in your eyes, blurring the silhouette of the man you had given your heart to.
“Why are you being so mean?” You let out a breathless, desperate laugh, trying to play it off as a misunderstanding, but the illusion shattered as the first tear spilled over your cheek.
Neteyam didn't respond. He balled his hands into tight fists, his claws digging painfully into his palms to stop himself from reaching for you. I love you so much, baby. I love you so much.
“Do you mean that?” you asked in a small, fragile voice when he didn’t respond. Your lower lip quivered, and the sight nearly brought him to his knees.
He swallowed the lump of what seemed like obsidian blade in his throat, forcing his voice an octave deeper to mask the tremble threating to expose him. “Yeah. It’s common sense.“
You nodded slowly, the harsh truth settling deep into your bones. Reaching deep down for whatever pride you had left, you managed to form a smile onto your face.
“Then... have a good life... and I wish you well,” you said, your voice breaking entirely on the final words. “I love you... so much. Even if yours was not real, mine is, Neteyam.”
Before he could break, you turned on your heel and walked away. He watched your shoulders slumped, shaking with violent, silent sobs. The moment you rounded the thick roots of Hometree, out of his sight, you broke into a desperate run, fleeing into the dark alcoves of Hometree with no idea where you were going.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The rhythmic sound of your pestle grinding against the mortar filled the healing pavilion. The air was thick with the sharp, clean scent of crushed roots and soothing eucalyptus leaves.
But the quiet was soon disrupted by the sound of urgent footsteps, too light to belong to an adult, and you knew what was to come.
“Ma? Ma!“
A tiny, high-pitched voice echoed outside, making your lips twist in a smile. You stopped your grinding and lifted your head up to give your son your whole attention, immediately seeing his small and chubby form bound into the pavillion. He was clutching his Toruk plaything.
You raised a brow at him as you watched him heave, knowing he ran his way up here from only Eywa knows where. “Where were you, Ervo?”
“Mama, Toruk Makto is back! My friends... My friends... I saw him!” he jumped on the soles of his feet, showing the Toruk toy right up to your face. “Toruk is this big!” the boy chirped, his round, golden eyes wide with pure, innocent excitement.
You smiled, lifting a hand to cup his small face. “Were you so excited?” you asked. “Did you see Toruk Makto, too?”
Your son nodded enthusiastically, making his little toy dive-bomb into a pile of uncounted herbs. To him, Jake Sully was a legendary figure from the stories told around the communal fires, a hero who came from the stars. He was excited about the idea that his favorite hero once lived in this Hometree, so now you could barely comprehend his joy about Toruk Makto finally being home, sleeping under the very same canopy as him.
He plopped down to sit in front of you. “With his family!” he said. “He.. He has a big son.”
Your fingers froze just as you were reaching for the covered bowl of his fruit snacks. Your head tilted, hardening your resolve and grabbing the bowl for your son. “Now, you need to eat fruits. Toruk Makto doesn’t like kids who don’t eat healthy food.”
The boy eagerly grabbed the bowl and started munching on the cut up fruits. You grabbed a soft woven cloth to wipe his sweat off with it. At twenty-two, you were now far from the girl left weeping in the roots of the forest. You had survived the worst from the clan, the whispered gossips, and the subtle shunning due to your unique situation.
Of course, there are single mothers in the clan, too, but all of them were simply widowed by war. None of them were an unmated, nineteen-year-old girl whose child was fathered by an unnamed man. But your people were nothing but progressive, and so you were not really openly disrespected, but you knew that Mo’at’s choice to make you her tsakarem was met by a strong opposition by the council.
You watched your son eat, hoping against hope that the son he was talking about was Lo’ak. The Great War had ended weeks ago and peace was supposedly returning to Eywa’eveng, but until this exact moment, the reality of what that meant hadn't truly pierced the quiet bubble you had built for yourself and your son.
You didn't know if he was among them. For all you knew, he had stayed true to his word. Perhaps he had long since met a Metkayina woman he would actually take as a mate and not simply... play with. Perhaps she was someone proud, strong, and perfectly suited for the firstborn son of Toruk Makto, completely different from the girl he discarded three years ago.
A sudden, sharp rush of resentment and old bitterness flared up in your chest, hot and wicked. You shouldn't care. You had braved everything alone and raised a beautiful, thriving boy without a single piece of help from the man who broke you. You had sworn you would never feel a damn thing for him again.
But as you turned your head to look back at your son, who was currently making small noises as he made his Toruk toy fly, your heart clenched. The boy was growing more and more into the exact likeness of his father every single day. From the curve of his brow and nose down to the way he smiled.
It was probably a fate worst than being shunned by Eywa. Forgetting and moving forward are not for you, not when you carried and are raising a child you share with who you are supposed to forget. And the fact that those things must be so easy for him, knowing that he had discarded everything that could possibly hold him back, pisses you off at least once a day.
You convinced yourself he was not among his family who came back, or that if he did come back, it was only to show his Metkayina mate to the people. And then he will go back to where he belongs, and your son would remain yours and yours alone.
The truth did not come from the announcements for the returning warriors, it came from the idle, buzzing gossip of the clan as you made your way up the winding pathways toward your kelku later that evening. Two weavers were sitting near the common walkways, their hands busy with fiber, their voices carrying easily through the humid air.
“...and Neteyam, oh, I remember when he left. Every girl I know was upset,” one groaned, leaning in. “He’s a great warrior, they say he fought fiercely at the vanguard. I’m so glad he’s back now... and unmated still!”
“Truly? No Metkayina woman caught his eye?” the other replied, sounding surprised. “I saw him, he is so handsome... and even much bigger than he was when he left. Many must have tried.”
You forced your feet to keep moving, your grip tightening around your sleeping son that the boy let out a confused whimper. You rubbed his back, “I’m sorry, my love,” you cradled his head and he purred.
The gossip words swirled in your mind still, unleashing a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions.
A bitter, venomous part of you felt a sickening sense of vindication to know that he is unmated. Good, you thought sharply. It serves him right. He had shattered you on the pretext of finding someone better, only to return with nothing but himself. But beneath that spite lay a far heavier dread. If he was unmated, he had no anchor elsewhere. He was going to stay.
You put your son down on his cot, caressing his small head. You laid his Toruk toy beside him, smiling when you remembered his earlier excitement. You would withdraw for this night completely, choosing not to join the communal dinner and eating a quiet meal of cold roasted roots and fish, but you knew this won’t be sustainable in the long run if you would keep skipping the communal meals.
Hometree was massive, you could very much use it as a shield to not cross paths with Neteyam as much as possible. You didn't need to sit at the tables or mingle in the open clearings; you could just slip down to the communal kitchens, gather your meals, and retreat back to the safety of the healing pavilion.
And that was exactly what you did the next day.
You arrived at the kitchens at its busiest. Huge clay pots simmered over open flames, filling the air with the rich, savory scent of roasted meats and sweet, starchy roots.
“Busy day?” you asked Marla, watching all the cooks around her moving like they do during feasts.
Marla turned to you, her kind, crinkling eyes smiling immediately at the sight of you. “A welcoming feast for the Sullys,” she told you, her smile huge and meaningful.
Years ago, before the world broke apart for you, Neteyam used to practically live in this corner of Hometree, constantly bothering and begging Marla to bake your favorite wild-berry pie when he was still courting you. You and Neteyam had been a constant fixture in her kitchen, teasing her and stealing scraps until she chased you out with a wooden ladle.
Because of that closeness, Marla was likely the only soul in the entire village who truly knew the timeline, the only one who suspected that Neteyam was the father of your boy.
But she had never whispered a single word to anyone. She had kept your secret fiercely, protecting you from the brunt of the clan's judgment when you were only nineteen and terrified.
As the other cooks distracted themselves with the massive platters of meat, Marla stepped up to you. “Are you alright?” she reached out, her calloused hands that had spent a lifetime feeding the Omatikaya gently squeezing yours.
You smiled, playfully scowling at her. “Of course, Marla,” you said.
She sighed. “He is back. I saw him,” she said in a small voice.
You shook your head. “It means nothing to me anymore, Marla,” you assured her, chuckling. “I am a mother now and my son is the only thing I care about. Which is the reason I’m here... I’m getting his breakfast. And mine...” you bit your lip.
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “Not joining the communal meals like last night?”
You pushed your lips forward. “I’m busy... at the pavillion,” you said.
“Hm,” she mused, pulling away to get a heavy wooden tray, arranging a generous portion of food and right in the center, putting two large, perfectly baked slices of the very same berry pie, your son Ervo’s absolute favorite. “There is a feast tonight, but I’ll have your food delivered for lunch and dinner, too. Keep that boy of yours fed.” she murmured softly, giving you a knowing, gentle nod.
You smiled and nodded, swallowing a lump on your throat. “Thank you, Marla... For always helping me.”
She huffed a snort through her nose. “I watched you grow up, watched you brave what none could have survived. It is the least I can do.”
With the heavy wooden tray carefully balanced in your arms, you made your way back through the quieter upper branches of Hometree. When you stepped back into the cool shade of the healing pavilion, the tension in your shoulders finally began to bleed away.
Ervo was exactly where you left him, sitting cross-legged on a large woven mat. He was completely absorbed in his own world, flying his little reed Toruk toy over a pile of smooth river stones he had arranged to look like mountains.
Ervo’s ears perked up instantly as soon as you laid the tray down, his eyes widening as he spotted the two large, vibrant slices of wild-berry pie on the dish. He gasped, dropping his toy immediately, his tail giving a happy, rhythmic thwap against the woven floor. “Pie!”
“Pie after your meat and roots,” you corrected gently, tapping the tip of his nose with a smile.
You sat down cross-legged in front of him, carefully cutting up the roasted meat into small, manageable pieces. He ate eagerly, his small hands grasping the wooden bowl, his cheeks puffing out as he munched. But midway through the meal, a chorus of small voices echoed from the pavilion's entrance.
Three young children peeked inside, laughing and holding small woven balls. “Ervo? Come play! We are finding the big beetles today!”
Ervo practically vibrated in excitement. He nearly choked on his fruit, his little tail tapping the floor in a frantic, desperate rhythm. He began to scramble to his feet, ready to bolt toward his friends.
“Son, you can’t play after you’ve just eaten,” you said, your voice firm but gentle as you caught him by his waist. “You need to let your food settle in your belly.” You playfully tapped his round, full belly, and he let out a bright, tickled chuckle.
He slumped back down onto your lap, pouting slightly as his friends waved and promised to wait for him near the lower roots. He held his small waterskin with both of his little hands, taking a big gulp. “I need to stay?” he asked, blinking up at you with wide, pleading golden eyes.
You nodded, taking the spoon to feed him a bite of the sweet berry pie. “Yes. You must stay until Mama says it is time.”
“Okay...” he mumbled, pointing at the pie. “Pie?“
You chuckled and hugged him, kissing his cheek. “And because you are a sweet and remarkably obedient boy, here you are...” you took the plate and fed him.
He sat patiently, swinging his legs and chattering to you about the giant beetles his friends had promised to find. When enough time had finally passed, you wiped his sticky face with a damp cloth, kissed his forehead, and sent him off. He spent almost the entire day running wild under the massive canopy, his distant, joyful laughter occasionally drifting up to the pavilion.
By midday, the heat of the forest had settled into a heavy, hummed stillness. You were deep in your work, sorting dried herbs and organizing small clay vials of medicine, when the heavy beaded curtain at the entrance rustled.
You looked up, your posture instantly straightening as Mo’at stepped into the pavilion.
The Tsahik moved with a timeless, regal grace, her sharp eyes sweeping over the quiet room before finally landing on you. Mo’at was one of the few people who had fiercely shielded you from the clan’s harsh judgments three years ago. When the council of elders had deemed your situation immoral. Mo’at had silenced them all. She had ignored their protests, stubborn and unyielding, and had chosen you to be her tsakarem.
For some reason, she had always acted as though your situation was entirely normal. She had never once asked you who the father was, nor had she ever looked at you with anything less than absolute pride.
“You are working hard,” Mo’at spoke, walking over to your table, her long fingers brushing over the herbs you had just sorted.
“There is much to prepare for the returning warriors, Tsahik,” you replied, dipping your head. “Many have old wounds from the sea that need checking.”
Mo’at hummed. “The forest is changing,” she said. “The wind brings back what was once thought lost to the tide. Some trees bend in the storm, and some roots hold fast, hidden deep beneath the ground where no one can see them.”
You looked up at her, a sudden apprehension in your eyes. Your hands slowed over the mortar. “The clan is rejoicing their return. It is a good change.”
Her eyes, clouded with age, locked onto yours. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, “The Great Mother does not weave a thread without purpose, child,” Mo'at murmured. “A seed planted in secrecy still bears the unmistakable fruit of the tree it came from. The eyes of the clan may be blind to the truth, but blood always recognizes the stride of her own blood.”
Your breath hitched toward completely, your heart hammering violently against your ribs, a cold sweat breaking out across your palms.
“The boy is strong,” Mo'at continued softly, her hand reaching for yours to squeeze it with an immense, grounding warmth before she began to turn away. “He has your fierce spirit, but do not hide in the shadows forever, Tsakarem.”
You were profoundly grateful that Ervo had spent the entire afternoon running wild with the other children that by the time the distant sounds of the feast began to echo through the branches, he bounded into the healing pavilion, his little eyelids already heavy, entirely spent from the day's excitement.
“Ma…” he mumbled, dragging his feet as he leaned his small, warm body heavily against a soft woven pillow on the floor. “The big feast has started.”
You smiled, caressing his small head and his eyes fluttered shut.
“The big feast… Toruk Makto…”
He didn't even finish his sentence before his breathing deepened into a profound, undisturbed sleep. You quietly let out a breath, fixing everything to finally wrap the day up. Gently, you scooped his small, solid form into your arms, cradling his head against your shoulder as you carried him up to your kelku. You silently thanked Eywa that his exhaustion spared you from making up elaborate excuses for why you can’t attend the feast and you also wouldn't have to explain to a heartbroken two-year-old why he couldn't go see his legendary hero tonight.
Meanwhile, at the high dais, Neteyam sat rigidly to the right of his father. His family was seated with Tarsem who is at the center of the table, wearing the heavy, ornate mantle of the Olo'eyktan. Jake and Tarsem were deep in low, serious conversation about the integration of the returning warriors, but Neteyam’s attention was entirely fractured. His golden eyes restlessly combed through the crowded rows of tables, scanning every face, every laughing group, every shadow cast by the great fire.
He saw childhood friends, old sparring partners, and familiar faces of the Omatikaya. But none of them held the features that had been branded onto the back of his eyelids for three agonizing years. Every time he had closed his eyes, he sees you. When everybody thought he was going to die, it was your memory that got him crawling back to life. It was your face that kept his heart beating.
He had spent the entire day fighting the desperate urge to walk straight into the healing pavillion, refusing to ambush you considering how he left things between you two. He was hoping against hope. He had hurt you, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you would welcome him with anger or indifference, but he can work against that.
He would beg and work for your forgiveness.
Now, as the feast drew to a close without a single glimpse of you, a hollow disappointment settled deep in his chest. He thought about finally going to the healing pavilion tomorrow. To talk to you and tell you that he survived the last three years on your memories. That he lived because he wanted to get back to you.
The following morning, however, the clan's future demanded attention. The council convened in the high longhouse, the atmosphere dense and formal.
Tarsem stood before the elders, his posture proud but his shoulders carrying a visible, heavy weariness. He unclasped the ceremonial ornaments from his chest, placing them on the woven mat before Jake and Mo'at.
“The war has kept me from my family for far too long,” Tarsem announced, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. “My mate and my child have sacrificed enough. With Toruk Makto returning, I wish to step down from the leadership to focus entirely on my family. I am formally asking Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan to succeed me as Olo'eyktan.”
Neteyam stared at the older warrior, the air in his lungs has long turned to ice. He had no idea Tarsem was even mated. He looked at the weary, determined lines on the leader's face, and then the realization hit him like a physical blow. You were the official tsakarem of the clan. The future Tsahik. Traditionally, the Olo'eyktan and the Tsahik walked hand-in-hand, their paths intertwined to lead the people.
But the Olo’eyktan could also mate the tsakarem who has not yet succeeded the Tsahik.
If Tarsem was stepping down to be with his family... A sickening, hollow sensation opened up in Neteyam's stomach. It felt as though a direhorse had kicked him squarely in the sternum. He could barely register the rest of the council's murmurs.
The thought of you mated to another man, the thought of you bearing Tarsem's child, giving someone else the love he had so brutally discarded, made him feel utterly empty. He managed to offer a strained, tight nod to the council, muttering that he would take time to consider the immense responsibility, before abruptly excusing himself.
His feet moved without his permission, operating on pure, desperate instinct until he found himself near the clearing just outside the healing pavilion.
And there you were.
You were only a few paces away, navigating the path with a hurried grace, balancing a small wooden drying rack stacked with freshly gathered herbs against your hip. Neteyam stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. You had grown even more beautiful, your expression guarded and fiercely mature. Yet, you were entirely unchanged.
His heart kicked against his chest, his whole body charging with a sudden, violent spark of electricity, as though for the first time in years, his heart remembered how to work. A recognition that his soul belonged exactly where you stood.
Then, his gaze flicked down. A small boy was tailing closely behind you, his little feet skipping to keep up with your brisk pace.
Neteyam’s heart plummeted into a dark, bottomless abyss.
“Mama, look!” the boy chirped. The high-pitched, innocent voice sent an unexplainable, agonizing warmth straight through Neteyam’s chest.
Mama.
The reality solidified, crushing him. You were a mother. You belonged to Tarsem. Neteyam watched from the shadows as you stopped your hurried pace, bending down to see whatever the little boy was pointing at on the forest floor.
“Glowing bug!” the boy shouted, his entire little body vibrating with pure, unadulterated excitement.
A soft, melodic chuckle escaped your lips. To Neteyam, it sounded like the distant, beautiful chiming of bells, a sound he had been starving to hear. His chest ached as you reached out, gently ruffling the boy’s dark hair.
“Yes, my love,” you told the child, your voice softening into a gentle warmth you still possessed. “Do not touch it. It is irritable during daylight.”
The boy tilted his head, his wide golden eyes blinking up at you. “Because it can't glow?”
A genuine laugh broke from your chest this time, bright and clear.
Hidden behind the foliage, Neteyam found a faint, involuntary chuckle slipping past his own lips. The question was so innocent, so entirely pure. The boy shared your exact expressions, the same inquisitive tilt of the head. He was beautiful. He was everything Neteyam had ever dreamed of having with you during those quiet nights before the war took everything away.
He watched you hold the boy’s hand, your fingers laced securely with his small ones as you guided him into the healing pavillion. The beaded curtain fell shut behind you, cutting off his view, but the image remained scorched into his mind.
It was confirmed. You were mated to Tarsem, and you two have a child together.
Grief and jealousy seized Neteyam’s heart, squeezing it until he could barely breathe. Tarsem had everything he had ever wanted, everything he had dreamed of during those freezing nights by the ocean. Everything he had bled and fought for over the last three years was now in the hands of another man. Neteyam had never moved on from you, but he understood that you did. After all, he had hurt you. He had sliced your heart open right before he left, and he couldn't blame you if you did what he had wanted you to do and did everything in your power to erase him from your mind.
For weeks, you thought you had managed to completely avoid him, using the labyrinth of Hometree in your favor to avoid crossing paths with him. What you didn’t know, though, was that Neteyam spends at least an hour a day watching your son play with his little friends whenever he’s at the training grounds.
And come nights, he would stand where he stood on the day he saw you for the first time in years. He felt absolutely immoral for coveting a brother’s wife, but he would stand here to willingly welcome the Great Mother’s wrath should she find it righteous to strike him down, but he couldn’t keep himself away from you. And your child, for that matter.
He had successfully assimilated back into the warrior ranks, his name wildly popular among the younger hunters and the children, even to your little boy, who often overheard the older kids whispering about the mighty son of Toruk Makto.
One afternoon, Neteyam was standing near the edge of the clearing by the warrior paths, leaning lightly against a massive root as he watched your son and his friends loudly play a game a few yards away. Suddenly, a stray kick sent their small, tightly woven ball flying wildly off course. It tumbled across some ground roots, rolling over the moss before finally bumping directly against Neteyam’s foot.
He blinked, looking down before he bent to scoop up the lightweight toy.
A moment later, the sound of tiny, rapid footsteps approached. Ervo came bounding over to retrieve it, but he skidded to a sharp halt when he looked up and realized exactly who was holding his toy.
The little boy froze, his round, deeply familiar eyes wide. Slowly, Ervo brought his small hand up to his mouth, nervously nibbling on his thumb as he peered up at the towering warrior. A wave of natural apprehension and deep shyness washed over his little face, his ears twitching back slightly as he evaluated the large, chiseled stranger.
Neteyam looked down at the boy, feeling his chest suddenly expand with an unexplainable, fierce warmth the moment their eyes met. Up close, the resemblance was almost dizzying, but somehow, the boy looked strangely familiar but not you familiar... But Tuk familiar.
He softened his posture completely, making himself look as unthreatening as possible. Feeling the gentle shift in the his energy, Ervo smiled just a little bit, still nibbling on his thumb.
The tiny grin was Neteyam's undoing, he suddenly felt too weak. The boy was too cute. His own lips, usually set in a serious line these days, threatened to break into a massive smile for the boy.
“This yours?” Neteyam asked, his deep voice dropping to a soft, rumbling purr as he showed the ball in his open palm.
The boy nodded quickly, his courage returning. “My ball...”
Neteyam lowered himself onto his hunches, his long legs folding smoothly so he could level his eyes with the boy. He didn't want to tower over him like a scary monster.
“What’s your name?” Neteyam asked gently.
“Ervo,” the boy said in a small but clear voice. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking into Neteyam’s eyes. Then, with a sudden flash of bravery, he tilted his head. “You?” he asked courageously, treating Neteyam less like a formidable warrior and more like an age peer he simply wanted to be friends with.
Neteyam’s golden eyes lit up instantly. A genuine, breathy laugh escaped him, and a huge smile cut through his lips, transforming his hardened features. It made the boy smile, feeling a little more comfortable.
“Neteyam,” he said.
“‘Teyam...” Ervo echoed, trying out the syllables, his voice small and endearing. He pointed a small finger at the toy. “My ball?”
“Here,” Neteyam murmured, carefully placing the woven sphere back into Ervo's tiny, waiting hands.
“Thank you...” Ervo said politely. He turned on his heel to head back to the game, but after a few paces, he stopped. He looked back at Neteyam one last time, offering a bright, lingering smile before running off to rejoin his friends.
Neteyam remained on his haunches for a long time, watching the boy's retreating form, his hand still feeling the faint, lingering warmth of where the boy's fingers had brushed his own.
You have no idea about all of these. Apparently, more interesting things happen to your son daily that literally coming face-to-face with Neteyam is just one of the ordinary moments. He told you more about the beetles he observed with his friends more than the prior fact. So, you remained blissfully unaware, thinking that you were successfully living a life where your path has never cross with Neteyam.
You had spent three years scrubbing his face from your memories, teaching your heart to go numb at the mere thought of him. You convinced yourself that if you ever came face-to-face with him, you wouldn't feel a damn thing.
Then, one afternoon, the universe finally caught up to you
You left the pavillion to get Ervo for lunch, catching him sitting in a patch of dappled sunlight in their playground, completely absorbed in watching a line of colorful bugs march across a fallen log. His back was turned to the pathway. You smiled as you rounded a corner, but then your breath trapped itself in your throat.
You saw Neteyam approaching.
He was walking toward your son, his head tilted to the side with a small smile plastered on his face. He looked intensely curious about what Ervo was doing, drawn to the boy by some invisible force.
Panic, sharp and blinding, pierced your chest.
“Ervo,” you called out to your son, causing the boy to lift his head up.
Neteyam stopped dead in his tracks, his own head snapping up at the same time your son did that it looked almost comical. His golden eyes locked onto yours for the first time in three years. And you, who did the stupid thing of forgetting, was not prepared for all the changes at all that your heart jumped to your throat.
He had grown impossibly taller, his frame wider and heavily muscled from years of brutal warfare. His jawline was more chiseled, his handsome face bearing the subtle, hardened maturity of a man who had long outgrown the twenty-one-year-old who had left you behind.
“Mama?”
Your eyes immediately darted back to your son, fortunately taking your focus away from Neteyam. Ervo scrambled to his feet, leaving his bugs behind. “It’s time for lunch and you didn’t come back to the pavilion,” you said in a very motherly voice that reminded Neteyam of how Neytiri sometimes uses her Mom voice.
Ervo laughed and ran toward you, his little body crashing against your thigh. “I saw bugs!”
You bent, lifting him into your embrace and rubbing his back. You held him like a shield, your posture rigid and defensive as you lifted your sharp, icy glare on the man before you.
Neteyam was standing frozen, watching you hold the child, and the fierce, battle-hardened warrior seemed to dissolve. Every hard edge of his chiseled face turned incredibly soft and gentle. His ears drooped slightly, and his eyes swam with something profound and unspeakable. The coldness with which he treated and looked at you three years was gone, replace with the desperation of a man who was drowning.
“Y/N—” he breathed, his voice low and carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid apologies.
You didn't let him start anything, though. Clutching Ervo tighter against your chest, you turned your back on him, refusing to let him speak another syllable. You walked briskly back into the safety of the healing pavilion, your heart racing violently against your ribs.
That night, the cold wind offered no relief from the heat building inside Neteyam's mind. Deep in sleep, he got dragged backward by a subconscious that refused to let him forget the taste of you. In his dream, he was back in the hidden cave deep in the woods.
The air was thick with the scent of moss, rain, and the intoxicating, sweet musk of your skin. He was buried inside you, his knees spreading your thighs wide as he pounded into you relentlessly. It was a searing, glorious ache. His large hands came up to frame your jaw, fingers digging into your braids to anchor you as he leaned down, kissing you hard, bruisingly deep, drinking in your frantic gasps.
The cave was alive with the raw, animalistic sound of your bodies. The wet, sliding heat, your breathless cries, and his own low groans vibrating against your chest.
You threw your head back, the muscles of your throat straining as you clutched at his broad back, your fingernails digging tracks into his skin. Your moans were hoarse now, stripped raw after the breathless screams he had driven out of you.
“Neteyam...” you cried out, your hips arching up to meet his punishing, deep thrusts, begging for the release that was coiling tight between you.
He leaned down, catching your slick, parted mouth in another heavy kiss, breathing your name back into your lungs. “Oh, baby...” he choked, his chest heaving as he reached up to tenderly stroke the sheen of sweat off your forehead, his thumb tracing your cheek even as his lower body maintained its relentless, demanding pace.
You cried out again, a desperate sound of pure pleasure, pulling him down by his neck with a fierce strength that demanded all of him... And then Neteyam jolted awake with a violent gasp, nearly losing his balance and falling off his hammock.
He sat up abruptly, chasing his breath as if he had just run a marathon, his skin slick with sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his hand up to roughly massage the bridge of his nose. He fought the overwhelming, agonizing urge to let out a loud, frustrated groan, catching himself just in time to ensure he wouldn't wake his family.
Breathing heavily through his nose, his hand slid down his torso, grabbing his crotch. His cock was punishingly hard, straining painfully against his loincloth, throbbing with the memory of you. He squeezed himself tightly through the fabric, trying to ease the agonizing ache, but the phantom sensation of your tight, wet heat wrapping around him was too vivid, too real. Like the many other dreams in the sea.
He knew it was wrong. He was literally committing a sin, lusting over a woman mated to another man. For Eywa's sake, he was a warrior, a future leader, and he was losing his mind over you, like he had when he was a boy. Yes, memories of you had been the only thing that got him through the lonely, brutal years of the war, keeping his relationship with his own hand extremely intimate during long nights on the battlefield, but it is wrong now.
Yet, as he sat there in the dark, his pulse hammering in his ears, it didn't truly feel like a mistake.
It was just that... you were so much more beautiful up close than any fleeting glimpse he had caught of you over the past weeks. He had looked into your eyes, smelled your scent, seen the fierce, maternal beauty radiating from you, and now his body was paying the price for that proximity.
Unable to bear the suffocating confinement of the hammock any longer, Neteyam quietly swung his long legs over the edge. He stood up noiselessly, his tail twitching with restless tension as he slipped out into the cool night air, knowing he would have to find a secluded spot in the forest to take care of his hard-on before the madness consumed him entirely.
Days after that, while you were at the pavilion and your son was having his afternoon nap in his cot beside you, the heavy beaded curtain at the entrance rustled, making you look up nonchalantly, expecting an apprentice or a hunter.
But your face instantly hardened when you saw Neteyam standing in the entryway. You stopped mid-motion, your hand freezing over the mortar where you were grinding a fresh poultice.
“I got... cut,“ he mumbled, his voice low and tentative.
You raised a brow, your jaw clenching as you looked him up and down. You didn't want him here, but as the tsakarem, you couldn't turn away someone seeking care. “Let me see,” you said coldly, jerking your head toward the seat in front of you.
He walked over and sat down, but as he did, you saw his golden eyes immediately glance toward the side, curiously tracking the small, sleeping form of your son in the cot. Your chest tightened. You purposefully extended your hand, reaching for a tall stack of drying leaves and shifting a woven basket to deliberately block his view of the boy.
When he finally held out his hand, you inspected the injury. The cut wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it definitely required a proper disinfectant, the kind of minor scratch he could have easily treated on his own with some river water and basic sap. Both of you knew he had come here just to see you.
In fact, Neteyam prepared for days just to be able to do this.
You took his hand impersonally, your grip firm and strictly professional. Despite your coldness, Neteyam bit his lower lip, completely distracted by the sudden, overwhelming sensation of your soft hands touching his skin for the first time in three long years. A jolt of pure electricity ran up his arm, but he stayed still as you worked on the wound in absolute silence.
The quiet in the pavilion grew heavy, suffocating him. He couldn't take it anymore.
“You’ve... made a good life for yourself,” he began softly, his eyes fixed on your lowered face as you carefully applied a cool, crushed herb paste to the cut.
You completely ignored him, your expression blank as you reached for a clean strip of woven cloth.
“You have a beautiful boy...” he added after the silence stretched, his voice thick with a strange emotion.
You stopped. Your hands went completely still on his wrist, and you slowly lifted your head to look up at him, your sharp eyes piercing straight through his chest.
“Can we keep the silence?” you asked, your voice a flat, dangerous whisper. “My son’s a light sleeper.”
Neteyam blinked, the rejection hitting him like a physical blow. He immediately nodded, his ears drooping slightly as he looked back down at your hands wrapping the cloth around his palm. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
His chest tightened until it felt like a vice was crushing his lungs. Sitting this close to you, he wanted to say so much more. He wanted to scream the truth. He wanted to throw himself at your feet, to kneel on the floor and apologize until his voice gave out for the horrible lies he had told you before he left. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to press his face into your neck and tell you how much he loves you. That he had never stopped loving you for a single second. His heart, his body, and his soul had never known another woman, and they never would.
Even now that you are mated.
But as he watched you expertly tie off the bandage with detached efficiency, reality crashed over him.
He knew it would be wrong to even try to be friends with you now. You were a mated woman. You were a mother. He had absolutely no place in your life anymore, and he had no right to disturb the peace you had built. Every time he remembered that fact, it felt like his insides were being violently wrung out. It was a constant, living nightmare, made worse by the fact that seeing Tarsem around the village brought the agonizing jealousy back to the surface every single day.
He was so deeply envious of Tarsem. It should have been him. He was supposed to be your mate. He was supposed to be the father of your beautiful child, coming home to you after a long hunt. But he had sacrificed all of it for a war he wasn't even sure he'd survive.
I hope it's fucking worth it, he thought bitterly to himself later that night.
He lay completely awake in his hammock, staring up at the dark canopy of Hometree, unable to sleep as the image of your little boy filled his mind. The child was so small, so incredibly fragile, but Neteyam knew without a doubt that the little boy held your entire heart. A soft, involuntary warmth bloomed in his chest at the thought of him. Ervo. Remembering how peaceful the boy looked while having his nap, a faint smile touched Neteyam's lips in the dark.
You could have been mine, he thought with a heavy, suffocating grief settling over him like a boulder as he closed his eyes.
As he drifted to sleep, the weight of his emotions faded into a blinding, golden warmth.
In the dream, the sky above was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the heat of the sun baked into his skin. He wasn't a warrior burdened by the future of a clan; he was just a boy, resting his head comfortably in your lap as the water lapped gently against the riverbank.
This was the sanctuary his mind always built for him.
It was the exact same dream that had saved his life on the blood-soaked sea. When the bullet had torn through his chest, when his breathing had rattled and his pulse had slowed to a terrifying flutter, his family had been screaming. The healers had been desperately pressing against his wound, fighting the tide of his fading life. But in his mind, he had felt no fear.
In his mind, he had only felt you.
You leaned down over him, your dark hair catching the light of the sun, casting a soft shadow over his face. Your expression wasn't cold or defensive like it was these days, it was full of that fierce, consuming love that used to belong entirely to him. Gently, you cupped his face with both of your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw before you leaned down to kiss his lips softly.
Even in the depths of his sleep, the phantom sweetness of your touch made his lips curve into a faint, relaxed smile.
You pulled back just an inch, a soft, melodic chuckle vibrating in your chest at the sight of his grin. You ran a hand through his braids, your voice a gentle purr that seemed to echo from the very heart of the forest.
“‘Teyam... wake up,” you whispered, your fingers brushing against his temple. “Wake up.”
Neteyam’s eyes snapped open.
The golden river and the warmth of the sun vanished instantly, shattered by the dark, cool reality of the woven ceiling above his hammock. He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. His hand flew instinctively to his chest, his large fingers pressing hard against the thick, raised scar tissue right over his chest that he could conveniently cover with his chest knife sheath.
Your kelku were branches away, and you were wrapped in the arms of another man, but his lips still tingled with the memory of the dream.
He slid his hands over his face, letting out a long, ragged breath into the empty darkness of his quarters. Dreams of you always visited him whenever he slept with a heavy heart. It was a cruel mercy, a replaying loop of a life he had thrown away. Yet, as he stared out into the quiet shadows of Hometree, he knew those dreams were the only reason he was still breathing.
It was his mind’s instinctive way of giving him a reason to hold on, a desperate, stubborn tether keeping his soul anchored to the earth, simply because he couldn't bear to leave a world where you still existed. He prepared for the morning patrol, going about it as enthusiastically as he could, and when he got back, he was told that the high council wpuld convene once more in the longhouse.
The elders sat in a wide semicircle, their faces solemn, while Tarsem stood at the center. Neteyam took his place near his father, his eyes fixed firmly on the table, refusing to look at Tarsem so he wouldn’t and couldn’t picture out what-could-have-beens.
Tarsem cleared his throat, his deep voice commanding the room's attention. “Elders, Toruk Makto, Tsahik,” he began, bowing his head respectfully to each. “We have spent over a moon organizing the integration of our returning warriors, ensuring our borders are secure. The Omatikaya are strong. But as I stated before, the war has kept me from my duties at home for far too long. I must officially request to step down from my duties as Olo’eyktan so that I may leave and focus entirely on making up for lost time with my mate and child.”
Neteyam’s jaw clenched so hard he thought he’d break his teeth. Hearing it out loud again felt like a fresh blade twisting in his ribs. His mate. His child. He closed his eyes, forcing down the violent surge of envy that threatened to choke him.
One of the elders, an old weaver named Okan, nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of his staff. “The council understands, Tarsem. A leader’s heart must be whole to lead, and yours has been divided by the sea for many moons. You have done well by our people. I wholeheartedly support your decision, and should the council follow suit, you could fly to your family as soon as we grant your request.”
Neteyam’s ears twitched, snapping backward. Fly?
He blinked, his mind faltering as the word echoed in the quiet longhouse. He raised his head, staring at Tarsem in utter confusion. “Fly?” Neteyam interrupted, his voice cracking slightly before he hardened it. “Olo'eyktan... your mate and child are here. In Hometree.”
The entire council went completely still.
The elders blinked at him. Jake shifted in his seat, a furrow forming between his brows. Even Mo’at slowly lifted her sharp, clouded gaze, her expression unreadable as she stared at her grandson.
Tarsem turned around slowly, looking at Neteyam as if the young warrior had been struck by a stray arrow to the head. “What are you talking about, Neteyam?” Tarsem asked, a small, baffled frown crossing his features. “My mate and daughter are with her clan, the Tayrangi. They have been waiting for my return by the Eastern cliffs since the sky people's vanguard fell.”
Neteyam felt the blood drain from his face. The air in his lungs turned to pure frost. He sat frozen, his fingers digging into his knees.
“Who...?” Neteyam choked out, his throat working desperately to find words. “Then... Y/N? You are not... mated to Y/N?”
Tarsem let out a sudden, startled chuckle, shaking his head. “No. Y/N is not my mate. Why would you think that?”
Neteyam’s heart leaped violently into his throat, hitting his ribs with a force that made his breath hitch. A weakened, shuddering gasp escaped his lips. He felt so suddenly lightheaded he would have fallen right onto his face if he weren't already sitting. She isn't his. She isn't mated to anyone. “But... she is the Tsakarem,” he stammered, his mind racing, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of his assumptions.
“And she will make a fine Tsahik one day,” Tarsem countered gently, his eyes softening with amusement. “But that won’t be enough reason to make Y/N mate with anyone. She is a strong woman, Neteyam. She answers to no man's timeline.”
“She... she is unmated?” Neteyam asked again, his voice dropping to a desperate, trembling whisper, completely exposed before the entire council. He didn't care. He needed to hear it. He needed the world to stop spinning.
Elder Okan sighed, his voice carrying the familiar, slightly judgmental tone of the older generation. “She did get pregnant sometime three years ago, yes. But she refused to name the father. No one in the village knows.”
“Because it is unimportant,” Mo’at’s sharp, commanding voice cut through the longhouse like a whip, silencing the elder immediately. She leaned forward, her knowing, amber eyes locking directly onto Neteyam’s pale, trembling form. Her gaze was heavy, loaded with the exact same truth she had leveled at you the day before. “Y/N can raise Ervo all on her own. She is a strong woman, as Tarsem said. She needs no unnamed ghost to claim what is hers.”
“Indeed, Tsahik,” Tarsem agreed, bowing his head.
Got pregnant sometime three years ago...
The words rang in Neteyam’s ears, expanding into a deafening sound that drowned out the rest of the council meeting. Three years ago.
Ervo.
The boy’s small, chubby face flashed in his mind. The round, golden eyes. The shy, familiar little smile that reminded him of Tuk. The way his ears twitched. The strange, unexplainable warmth that had flooded Neteyam's entire chest when their eyes met and when he saw the little boy’s smile. He had thought of his strange resemblance to Tuk, but truly, it had been a resemblance to him.
The boy was his.
Tarsem’s voice brought him back. “Neteyam, as I was saying—”
“What is needed?“ he cut him off.
Tarsem’s lips parted, his eyes volleying in confusion. “That you consider accepting my request to—”
“I accept anything,” he said in a firm voice. Heck, after today, he could build a freaking Hometree using sand.
“Are you sure?” Jake asked, turning to him with furrowed brows.
Neytiri also looked at him with concern. “Son, this is a matter of great consequence. You need to plenty of time to think.”
“Plenty of time is not something we have the luxury of right now. Tarsem needs to be with his family,” he said. And I need to be with my own, he thought.
His parents nodded. As soon as the council wrapped the meeting up, he practically threw himself out of the council longhouse, his long legs eating up the woven pathways as he sprinted toward the upper branches.
He burst into the healing pavilion, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. But the pavilion was empty. The small cot where Ervo usually napped was neatly folded, and the mortar and pestle sat clean on the wooden table. A young healer’s apprentice, a girl of fourteen, jumped in startle at his sudden, towering entrance.
“Where is she?” Neteyam demanded, his voice rough and laced with an urgency that terrified the girl. “Where is the Tsakarem?”
“S-she went out,” the girl stammered, pointing a trembling finger toward the lower pathways. “To gather herbs—”
Neteyam didn't let her finish, he turned on his heel and descended the winding ramps frantically. When he finally reached the ground and ran to the dense brush, he immediately saw you.
The afternoon sun was filtering through the canopy, casting long, golden beams of light on you as you walked slowly, your hands reaching down to pluck a root or a leaf.
And right behind you, tailing you with his little feet skipping over the moss, was Ervo. The boy’s cheeks were completely full, puffing out comically as he happily munched on a handful of sweet berries from a leaf, clipped in his small arm is a small Toruk toy.
His boy.
The realization hit Neteyam in the gut with a force strong enough to almost make him fold, breaking the dam he had been building around his heart since he came back, to protect you from his own selfishness. The grief and the jealousy, it all melted away, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct so primal it made him tremble.
The snap of a twig under his large foot broke the silence of the clearing.
You stopped dead in your tracks, your shoulders immediately going rigid, your hand instantly moved to hover protectively over Ervo’s shoulder before you slowly turned around. The moment your eyes landed on Neteyam, your expression hardened into a deep, defensive scowl.
But Neteyam didn't look like the broken, submissive man who had mounded his head in apology in the pavillion days ago. He stood tall, his shoulders squared, his chiseled face bearing a look of absolute confidence. There was still the desperate, drowning look in his golden eyes, but there was also a burning, unyielding clarity.
“‘Teyam?” A small high-pitched voice called.
His gaze slid downward, tracking behind your hip where Ervo was now looking at him.
Your head snapped to your son, wondering at the familiarity in his voice. The little boy remained looking at Neteyam, his round eyes widened because he recognizes the tall stranger from the training grounds. He stopped chewing his berries, his tail giving a hesitant little flick.
“Hi,” Neteyam said, “Ervo.” His voice was incredibly small, a soft, rumbling purr that trembled on the edges as he tried with everything in him not to let it crack. He looked at his son’s small face, tracing the curve of his nose, the almost identical placement of his stripes.
He had been so stupid to believe otherwise. With the clarity he now possessed, he could clearly see that this boy looked more like him and nothing like Tarsem. He didn’t know how he could be so blind.
He blinked when you stepped forward, cutting off his view of the boy. You stood right in front of Neteyam, your head tilted up fiercely. Even though he towered over you, his massive frame casting a long shadow over your smaller one, you didn't show any worry. You looked at him like a mother palulukan defending her cub.
“We need to talk,” Neteyam said, his voice steady but thick with emotion.
You clenched your jaw, your fingers wrapping tightly around the handle of your basket. “I have nothing to say to you,” you told him, your voice cold and impersonal. “I am busy. Move out of my way.”
Neteyam didn't move an inch. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, his golden eyes burning with a truth that could no longer be hidden.
“He’s mine. Isn’t he?”
The question carried no doubt, no hesitation. He knew it in his heart. He knew it in the way his own soul had recognized the boy from the very first moment.
Your face crumpled, a sharp mix of pained exhaustion and deep-seated bitterness tightening your features. You let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-scoff, the shield you had built over the last three years cracking a little under the sheer absurdity of his sudden realization.
“Took you long enough,” you said, your voice dripping with sharp sarcasm. You tilted your head up, daring him to look you in the eyes. “Thought maybe he was fathered by any of the men I laid with after you left?”
His reaction was instantaneous, and you relished it. Neteyam’s jaw locked, his golden eyes narrowing into the sharp, dangerous slits of a furious predator. His ears pinned flat against his head, his chest rising and falling heavily. He looked terrifyingly possessive, a look that used to make your stomach flip, but now it only served as a cold reminder that he was no longer in possession of you. Or your son. In fact, he had absolutely nothing to do with either of you.
“No, I never did,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble, emphasizing every single syllable as he fought to keep his temper under wraps. “I thought you were mated to Tarsem. I just learned now that you were not, and the moment I learned, I knew right away that your boy is mine.”
“Tarsem?” you blurted out, a genuine, bewildered chuckle slipping past your lips. It was completely ridiculous. “Tarsem is practically an older brother to me.”
“Y-You are the tsakarem,” he stammered slightly, his fierce demeanor slipping into desperate defense. “In the council meeting, I learned he was mated, and that he had a child. Because he was the Olo’eyktan, surely he would be mated to the future Tsahik... and then I saw you... and Ervo.”
You huffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “And you didn't even think to ask Tarsem?”
“Ask him? I couldn't even look at him without feeling the urge to strangle him,” he admitted bluntly.
The two of you stood there like madmen, standing in a secluded patch of the forest, whispering heatedly to each other just to avoid alarming the little boy whose ears were currently perked up, trying to catch the heavy conversation.
“I suppose I should be thankful to Tarsem then,” you said, a mocking smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.
Neteyam let out a breathy huff, but honestly, nothing could ruin his mood for the rest of his entire life. The crushing weight that had suffocated him for weeks had now vanished and it felt as if he were handed a brand new life. “And I suppose I deserved every bit of that suffering... I thought I had completely lost you—”
“You did,” you cut him off cleanly, your voice turning flat. “Ervo being yours means absolutely nothing for the both of us. If you want to be in his life, you can be. I won't keep him from you.”
Neteyam stared at you, watching your face lock into a firm, business-like expression. It was true that a part of him had foolishly hoped to win back both his son and the love of his life in one breath, but he could work with what you were offering.
For the time being.
After surviving the living hell of thinking you belonged to another man, absolutely nothing could stop him now. Before today, he had accepted that the brutal way he ended things between you had forced you to hate him, to bury his memory under a layer of cold indifference. But while you looked completely detached right now, Neteyam knew his own heart. He was going to come for you so strong, so steadily, that you wouldn't even realize he was doing it until he was fully woven back into your life like he had never left. He was going to pick up exactly where he left off. He was going to get you back.
Breaking the tense silence between you two, you took a deep breath and dropped down onto your haunches, leveling yourself with your son. “Ervo, you’ve met Neteyam before?”
Ervo nodded quickly, pointing a berry-stained finger. “He.. he gave my ball back.”
Neteyam smoothly lowered himself onto his haunches too, bringing his massive frame down to the dirt. Ervo looked at him with a classic mix of childhood shyness and courage. Then, the little boy turned his head to look at you.
“Toruk Makto’s son, Mama?” Ervo asked in a stage whisper, acting as if Neteyam wasn't even sitting right there, discussing him like a fascinating object.
“Yes, my love,” you said gently, tapping his small nose before glancing up at Neteyam. “He’s a big fan.”
A beautiful, breathless chuckle escaped Neteyam, his eyes twinkling with a sheen of tears. “Is that right?” he asked Ervo, carefully placing a large, trembling hand on the boy's small shoulder.
“Yes! I love Toruk!” Ervo beamed, proudly holding up his wooden Toruk toy for Neteyam to see.
“What do you say about coming to meet him later today?” Neteyam asked softly.
The boy's jaw dropped. “Toruk Makto?” he asked in pure wonder.
“Neteyam...” you warned, your eyes widening as you gave your gaze back to him.
Neteyam turned to you, his eyes swimming with unshed tears, but his expression was entirely sincere. “It’s my son’s simple joy, Y/N. I can make it happen for him...” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
“But... you’ll have to...” You trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward Hometree.
“Tell them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I want to tell them, Y/N. I want to tell the entire village, in fact,” he said, his gaze dropping back to the boy before looking at you. “But only if you’ll allow me.”
You bit your lower lip, looking at the raw vulnerability in his face. “Your family... is fine. The entire village... I think it will need time.”
Neteyam nodded firmly, accepting your terms instantly. He turned back to his son with a bright smile. “Yes, my boy. Toruk Makto. Do you want to go meet him?”
“Yes!” Ervo squealed with zero hesitation. Without warning, the little boy threw his entire body forward, launching himself against Neteyam’s broad chest and wrapping his chubby little arms tightly around the warrior’s neck.
The impact seemed to weaken Neteyam significantly. The sheer force of his son’s affection caused him to stagger back slightly, a soft gasp leaving his lips. Neteyam wrapped his long, muscular arms securely around the boy’s tiny frame, burying his face in Ervo’s hair as his tears finally spilled over, rolling down his chiseled cheeks.
Your own face crumpled in sharp pain at the sight. You quickly looked away, blinking back your own tears at how overwhelmingly emotional the moment was. For Neteyam, at least. Because right now, to your innocent son, Neteyam wasn't a long-lost father or a ghost from the past. He was simply a very kind, very cool guy who was going to bring him face-to-face with Toruk Makto.
You all walked back to Hometree together, the foliage parting easily as Neteyam carried Ervo all the way. The boy’s small, heavy weight rested securely against Neteyam’s chest, one of Ervo's sticky, berry-stained hands loosely gripping some of his braids. You walked half a pace behind them, keeping your eyes on the path but acutely aware of how naturally Neteyam’s large arm cradled your son’s frame.
You couldn’t help but notice how Neteyam could barely take his eyes away from the boy. Only looking at the path from time to time to make sure he’s still going the right path, but Ervo has his full attention. When you reached the lower levels of Hometree, you stopped him near a thick root. Several clan members were lingering nearby, not even trying to hide their intense curiosity, eyes darting from Neteyam to the child, and then to you.
“I will prepare him,” you told Neteyam, your voice clipped and entirely business-like as you reached out to take Ervo. “You could just meet us near your family's hut when it's time.”
Neteyam didn't hand the boy over immediately. Instead, he stepped way too close, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He lowered Ervo gently to his feet, but kept a hand on the boy's shoulder, leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours. “I can help you prepare him,” he offered softly.
Too conscious of the clan’s eyes on you, you shook your head. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Sure? he murmured, his voice a smooth, infuriating purr.
“Yes,” you hissed, grabbing Ervo’s hand. You turned on your heel and marched away, thoroughly thrown off your game by his sudden, relentless proximity.
Neteyam stood alone on the root, but as he watched your retreating form, a soft smile spread across his lips. His heart soared even higher when Ervo suddenly looked back over your hip, flashing a bright grin and waving his small hand. Neteyam waved back, his chest bursting with a brand-new sense of purpose.
Later that evening, you and Ervo walked up the winding ramp toward the large Sully kelku. Neteyam was already on the outside platform, pacing restlessly on the wide branch leading to the entrance. When he saw you, his face lit up, and he quickly guided you both inside.
The rest of the Sully family was entirely clueless. They knew only that Neteyam had insisted on a private family dinner to introduce someone.
The moment you stepped inside after Neteyam, Kiri’s eyes went wide. “Y/N!” she greeted happily, rushing forward to throw her arms around you in a tight hug.
Little Tuk, who was now ten years old and growing fast, stepped closer, her curious gaze dropping instantly to the toddler holding your hand. Ervo, meanwhile, was completely unfazed by the girls. His wide golden eyes were locked onto Jake Sully, looking up at the legendary Toruk Makto with absolute, unadulterated wonder.
Meanwhile, Neytiri took one look at Ervo, at the inquisitive tilt of his head, the unmistakable slope of his nose, and her breath caught. She didn't need to piece anything together. Beside her, Jake was already grinning, recalling Neteyam’s uncharacteristic, panicked outburst at the council meeting about Tarsem and the tsakarem. The pieces fit together perfectly.
“Neteyam?” Neytiri called out, her voice trembling slightly with an emotional weight.
Neteyam took a deep breath, standing taller before he took Ervo cleanly into his arms, lifting the boy up so his family could see him properly. “Dad, Mother... This is Ervo. My son. Born to the woman I love.”
You turned Neteyam with wide eyes but his tearful eyes were entirely on Ervo. The kelku erupted with gasps. Your son, of course, was entirely clueless about the gravity of the moment, only thrilled that the legendary Jake Sully was looking at him like he was some kind of grand prize. Neytiri’s eyes filled with tears as she rushed forward, her hands hovering over Ervo’s face, murmuring about how much he looked like Neteyam as a toddler.
Then, she turned to you. Without a word, she took your hand, pulling you into a fierce, deeply emotional embrace. “Oh, Y/N,” she breathed. “You were all alone...“
Ervo, ever attentive and fiercely protective of you, instantly tracked the movement. Seeing his mother surrounded, his high-pitched voice cut through the loud chatter. “Mama?”
“I’m here, my love,” you smiled, gently pulling away from Neytiri so he could see you.
Reassured, Ervo smiled brightly. He turned back to Jake, excitedly thrusting his Toruk toy forward. His small tail curled tightly around Neteyam’s forearm in a subconscious gesture of comfort, making Neteyam let out a breathless chuckle as his tears rolled down his nose. Neteyam’s eyes found yours across the room. You gave him a very small, hesitant smile before turning back to talk with Neytiri.
The dinner itself was smooth and warm. At first, Ervo was a bit shy, the large family becoming slightly overwhelming for him. Once, he even wriggled in Neteyam's lap, his small hand reaching out toward you. “Mama...” he whined softly.
You leaned over, offering a reassuring smile as you caressed his rounded cheek. “Papa will feed you, baby...” you told him gently.
You looked at his tiny face properly. He was so small. For all the years of his existence, he had never had a father, and he had never asked about one, either. You were only fortunate that he was still too young to be truly curious about the missing piece of his life.
“Papa...” Ervo echoed, testing the word on his tongue.
You nodded, reaching out to gently tap Neteyam’s chest to emphasize the word. “Papa.”
But as your fingers brushed against his chest, your tap inadvertently shifted his leather knife sheath. The strap slid aside, and your eyes caught a glimpse of the faint, thick, raised scar tissue hidden underneath. Right over his heart.
Your eyes snapped up, locking onto Neteyam’s face. He was staring back at you, his eyes completely misty, entirely focused on the profound fact that you had just introduced him to his son as Papa. He hadn't even noticed that his sheath had moved, or that you had seen the mark of the bullet that had nearly taken his life. Your forehead creased in a brief, sudden moment of worry and realization, but before you could dwell on it, Ervo snagged your attention.
The boy jumped in Neteyam’s hold, a demanding grin breaking across his face as he looked up at his father. “Feed me!” he ordered cutely, wrapping one chubby arm securely around Neteyam’s neck.
A massive smile broke across Neteyam’s lips, but a soft, choked sob escaped him at the same time. He bowed his head, a single tear rolling down his pointed nose. Your face crumpled in a sharp pain at the sight. Your hand instinctively balled into a tight fist at your side, forcing yourself to restrain the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and comfort him.
Neteyam quickly wiped his face, recovering his composure to feed Ervo, who began eating happily while the rest of the family absolutely doted on him.
“It’s like seeing Neteyam as a toddler all over again,” Jake noted, his own food completely forgotten as he watched Ervo chew his food rapidly, his cheeks puffing out. In fact, everyone at the table was too busy watching the boy to eat. “The kid eats like a syaksyuk.”
Neytiri smiled warmly at you. “Y/N, your blood did not fight back at all,” she joked and you chuckled. She looked as though she wanted to ask a thousand questions about the last three years, but she wisely chose not to meddle between you and Neteyam.
“How old is he?” Tuk asked you shyly, leaning over the table to peek at Ervo.
You smiled at the girl before turning to your son. “Ervo, how old are you?”
Your son proudly held up two fingers. “This many,” he said grandly.
Neteyam chuckled, and the entire table burst into a loud laughter. Ervo smiled proudly, soaking up the attention.
“Oh, you are still a baby,” Tuk teased gently.
Ervo’s ears immediately pinned back as he scowled, shaking his head. “Not a baby!”
You pursed your lips, trying not to laugh as the family shared another collective chuckle over his little outburst. You reached over, pressing a palm against Ervo’s chest to calm him while Neteyam instinctively began rubbing the boy's back in perfect synchronization. “Sorry, he’s in that stage...” you murmured.
Ervo quickly forgot his anger anyway, his eyes locking onto the sweetroot pie. He pointed a finger at Neteyam, asking his father for a piece. Neteyam chuckled and glanced at you for permission.
You nodded slightly. “Just a little. Too much sweets keep him up all night,” you whispered softly.
You immediately clamped your mouth shut when Ervo’s head swiveled toward you, his ears perking up at the word 'sweets'. Neteyam let out a quiet laugh, quickly distracting the boy by showing him the pie.
After dinner, the family moved outside to catch the cool evening air, stepping onto the wide woven platform that wrapped around the exterior of the kelku. Jake and Neytiri had asked to spend time with Ervo, and Jake was currently enticing the boy with wild, grand stories about Toruk. Ervo was completely captivated, though his golden eyes still occasionally flicked back to the edge of the platform to make sure you were still there.
“He is so protective of you,” Neteyam noted softly, stepping up to stand beside you.
You kept your gaze fixed on Ervo, who was currently talking to Jake like he was a grown warrior, wildly gesturing with his hands and adding his own imaginary details to Jake's Toruk stories. A soft, genuine smile touched your lips, and you rubbed your arms with your palms against the evening breeze.
“He is...” you replied quietly. “But it’s also because we are always together. For a little boy like he is, I am the whole world. Now... that world will be expanding for him.”
Neteyam looked down at you, his expression intensely wistful, the bioluminescent dots on his face glowing brighter, telling you of the intensity of his feelings. “I’m sorry about everything being so rushed... will it be a shock for him?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine worry.
“I don’t think so... he’s still very young, and I don’t think he truly understands the concept of what a father is yet,” you admitted, biting your lower lip. “I no longer have parents where he can see a normal family dynamic, and he hasn’t gotten to the age where he asks about his friends’ fathers. To him, you are just a new, wonderful person in his life.”
You heard him let out a heavy, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Y/N...” he whispered, his voice cracking, dropping to a small, broken tone. “I am so fucking sorry I was not here with you. That I didn’t know when I should have known—”
“Because you were fighting a war to make sure he would have a safe world to live in, Neteyam,” you cut him off cleanly, turning your head to look at him. “And you couldn’t have known because I chose not to tell you. You have done nothing wrong to our boy, but you do have a lot to make up for.”
Tears pooled heavily in his golden eyes, reflecting the soft blue light of the forest. “But I have done you wrong. I hurt you, Y/N... I didn’t have to leave the way I did. I was so cruel—”
You shook your head slowly, letting out a soft sigh as you looked back out at your son’s laughing form. “Let’s leave the past behind us, Neteyam,” you cut him off again, your voice unyielding. “I am a mother now. The one thing it did to me is make me realize that all of my woes and heartaches before I became one don’t matter nearly as much as my son’s well-being.”
Neteyam stared at you, watching the solemn, fierce, and beautiful maturity of your face. He found his chest aching, completely melting for this version of you, too. The incredible, unbreakable woman that his son had made of you. You were stronger than any warrior he had ever fought alongside, stronger even than himself.
He loved you so deeply it terrified him. And as he watched you watch his son, Neteyam swore a silent vow to Eywa that he would stop at nothing to make you feel, believe, and trust in that love again.
The next day, you woke up with the familiar weight of your son’s small body missing from your side, not an unusual occurrence, as Ervo was a notoriously early riser, usually content to play quietly with his wooden toys near the entrance of the kelku.
But your attention was quickly snagged by the sound of the woven flap being opened wildly. Ervo came rushing back inside, his little feet pattering frantically over the mats. You sat up, seeing his face was flushed with pure, unadulterated excitement, his golden eyes wide as plate saucers.
“Mama! Mama, look!” he chirped, dragging you up. “Papa is sleeping outside!”
Your breath hitched. Papa. The word still felt entirely foreign. You pushed yourself up, your forehead creasing with confusion. Stepping out onto your kelku’s small, private platform, your jaw nearly went slack as you looked up.
There, suspended between two thick branches just a few steps away from outside your entrance, was a sturdy hammock. Hanging carelessly from a nearby knot in the wood were Neteyam’s massive longbow and a leather quiver full of arrows, swaying gently in the morning breeze. Neteyam himself was just waking up, his long, muscular frame shifting as he stretched, his tail lazily dropping over the edge of the woven fabric.
He looked down, his golden eyes instantly locking onto yours. The moment he saw your stern expression, he smoothly swung his legs out, dropping down onto the main branch. He looked a bit rumpled from sleep, but his posture was instantly alert, a soft, eager smile instantly forming on his lips when Ervo peeked out from behind your thigh.
“Neteyam, why are you sleeping out here?” you asked, keeping your voice low.
“I just thought it would be convenient,” he said, his deep voice carrying a gravelly, morning rasp. He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you need anything, I’m right here. If there is danger, I’ll be here to protect you both.”
Your lips parted, a frustrated, disbelieving breath escaping you. “There’s... there’s absolutely no need for this, Neteyam. Truly. We have lived here for years, and none of that danger has happened. And if we ever need—”
“Please,” he cut you off gently, stepping forward. The towering, confident warrior from the previous evening seemed to completely vanish, replaced by a man looking down at you with a gaze so heavy with repentance it made your chest ache. “I want to help you in any way I can. I want to be of use to you. Tell me anything you need done, and I will get it done. Anything you want, I will find it. I came back too late, Y/N. We should have been a team raising Ervo from the moment he was formed... but you were all alone in it.”
You could see the raw, agonizing struggle on his face. You know Neteyam. He was never one to just do things to force his way into your bed. And right now, he was literally begging for the dirty work. He was begging for the labor and the heavy lifting.
You remembered the promise you had made him the day before: you wouldn't keep Ervo from him. You looked down at your son, who was already staring up at Neteyam like he was an invincible giant, and you let out a long, defeated sigh.
“Fine,” you said, your voice entirely flat, masking the way your heart gave a traitorous thump against your ribs. “Ervo needs to wash, and he hasn't had breakfast yet. I need fresh fire-roots from the lower gatherers, and the water basin is completely empty.”
Neteyam’s eyes lit up instantly, a profound, breathless look of gratitude washing over his features as if you had just handed him a decree rather than a list of mundane chores. “I'm on it,” he said quickly, nodding with an intense, ironclad seriousness. “I’ll get the water first.”
Neteyam moved so fast you’d think he had a visible countdown ticking away right on his face. He practically flew down the branches of Hometree, returning in record time with heavy, sloshing containers of clean water to completely top off your large storage basins. Not stopping there, he immediately grabbed every single empty waterskin from its woven basket, jogging down to the river to fill them with cold water. He lined them up perfectly, wiped clean, as if he were preparing a high-ranking commander’s tent for inspection.
With the water sorted, he disappeared again, darting toward the communal kitchens to fetch breakfast.
Down at the bustling cooking fires, he came face-to-face with Marla for the first time in years. The older woman paused, a warm, knowing smile spreading across her wrinkled face as she looked at the young warrior. “What do you need, boy?” she asked, as if he never left and this was just a normal day where he comes to you food.
“A tray of food for Y/N and our boy,” Neteyam said, a small, nearly imperceptible smile tugging at his lips at the words our boy.
It felt like a normal day three years back, but this time, he was getting food for you and the child you two made.
Marla’s eyebrows raised in surprise, just a fraction, before she hummed softly. “And none for you?” she asked, her hands already deftly assembling a generous tray of fresh fruit, roasted fish, and steamed roots.
Neteyam shook his head quickly. He didn't think you’d particularly enjoy having his him hovering around the mat for breakfast just yet. He didn't want to push his luck.
As she wrapped the food in clean leaves, Marla looked at him gently. “How was the eastern sea like, boy?”
“Beautiful...” Neteyam murmured, his voice dipping into a wistful, quiet tone. “But I wasn’t really there for its beauty.”
The truth was, not only was the war cold and brutal, it had been a psychological prison for him. Every Na’vi was taught from birth to put their full trust in Eywa, to meet death without fear because all energy is borrowed... and one day, you’ll have to give it back. But Neteyam? Neteyam had feared death every single day. He had been terrified of dying, not out of cowardice, but because of the sheer agony of what he had left behind.
He had wanted to go home to you so badly. Sure, he had cut things off and hurt you deeply before leaving, foolishly convincing himself that making you hate him would be better than leaving you to mourn a dead mate if he never returned. But the moment the sky people's bullets started flying, all he wanted was to live. To survive, go home, and hold you in his arms again.
“I didn’t know how much I missed...” he voiced out softly.
Marla sighed, her expression softening with deep maternal sympathy. She reached out, patting his hand with a heavy, grounding comfort. “You were fighting a war, boy. To keep the sky people from ruining this world,” she reminded him gently. “If you must know... she is very strong. Very strong. And your boy is, too.”
Neteyam’s eyes snapped up to her, pooling with fresh tears. The words were meant to comfort him, but they only fed the monster of regret clawing at his chest. He had missed so much. No matter how many times you or Marla told him that it was a time of war and he couldn't have known, he still felt the agonizing weight of his absence. He should have been there to hold your hand while you were heavy with Ervo, he should have been there to witness every single one of his son's first milestones.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he thanked Marla, took the heavy tray, and walked back up to your kelku.
By the time he stepped back inside, Ervo was already cleanly bathed and changed into a fresh, tiny loincloth. The boy was energized as ever, and the moment Neteyam set the tray down and lifted him up, Ervo smelled so naturally of a baby and sweet sap that Neteyam couldn't help but bury his face in the boy's hair, snuggling into him with a soft sigh.
Ervo giggled loudly, his little hand immediately reaching up to grab at Neteyam’s braids. He looked over at you as you knelt by the tray, arranging the food. “Papa will feed me?” Ervo asked, his high-pitched voice filled with easy trust.
You paused, looking up from the food to glance at Neteyam. Neteyam froze, his eyes wide and pleading, nodding down at you rapidly as he immediately lowered his massive frame onto the woven floor, setting Ervo securely on his lap.
“What about your morning patrol?” you mumbled quietly, keeping your voice low so only he could hear.
You watched as Ervo settled against Neteyam’s chest like it was the absolute best seat in the entire world, vastly bigger, sturdier, and much more comfortable than any mat.
“It won't be for another hour,” Neteyam replied softly, his attention snagged by your son, who was aggressively pointing a sticky finger at the specific fruit he wanted to eat. Neteyam immediately jumped into action, carefully peeling it and breaking it into perfect, toddler-sized bites.
Your lips pushed forward slightly, a tiny, involuntary twitch of amusement hitting you as you watched a legendary, hardened warrior completely smitten, utterly held captive by the small hands of your little boy.
Without a word, you pushed your own leaf of food toward Neteyam. You couldn't finish everything anyway, and he clearly hadn't brought anything for himself. You immediately looked away, deliberately avoiding his reaction, completely missing the way his golden eyes literally lit up with a breathless joy just because you shared your food with him.
Once breakfast was done, Neteyam practically refused to let you touch a single dish. He cleaned up everything in a flash while you gathered your stuff and prepared for your day at the healing pavilion.
As you moved around the kelku, Neteyam bit his lower lip, his eyes quietly tracking your every movement. A heavy, aching tightness gripped his chest. It felt so beautifully, agonizingly domestic. This was the life that should have been his if he had just played his cards right. If he had only known there was still so much left to live and play for.
When it was time to leave, he insisted on walking you to the pavilion, with Ervo still riding happily in his arms.
As you stepped inside the shade of the healing pavilion, you glanced back at the pair. “That boy will forget how to walk if you keep carrying him everywhere,” you noted, your tone carrying a humored edge.
Neteyam smiled warmly, stepping into the pavilion after you. “Just let me,” he murmured softly, gently cradling the back of his son’s head in the crook of his neck. “He fits so perfectly in my arms.”
He carefully set Ervo down on a soft mat, ruffling the boy’s fluffy hair.
“Papa will come back right after my patrol, okay? We’ll go play. What do you think about that?”
Ervo nodded rapidly, already thoroughly distracted by some scattered wooden toys he had left there the day before. “Okay. I wait,” Ervo chirped.
Neteyam smiled breathlessly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the top of his son's head. As he straightened up, his golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, holding your gaze for a long, quiet beat.
You found, with a sudden leap in your chest, that you still knew him entirely too well. You didn't even need words to understand the silent message written all over his face: Please let me keep coming back.
For the next weeks, it’s all he ever did.
He sleeps in a hammock outside your kelku, wakes up to fetch you and Ervo breakfast, and goes to his morning patrol only to come back to spend time with Ervo. He climbed the treacherous upper water-vines three times a week, bringing back the sweetest, clearest mountain run-off before you even had the chance to check the waterskins for refill.
Most days, you won’t even need to ask the gatherers the specific, rare herbs that needed replenishing, you’d find them already restocked, knowing that Neteyam had to have gone to the slippery, moss-covered undersides of the floating mountains to get them, and still be back before dinner.
One hot afternoon, you walked down to the lower training clearing to find him completely surrounded by the village children. Ervo was sitting securely on top of Neteyam's broad shoulders, holding onto his ears like reins, his little tail swishing with absolute pride.
Neteyam was kneeling on one knee in the dirt, completely unbothered by the weight of your son. In his hands, he held a small, practice bow, the kind given to young children just beginning their training, and a single blunt arrow.
The village kids were huddled around him in a tight, breathless semicircle, their wide golden eyes glued to his every movement. None of them questioned why a decorated warrior of the Great War was spending his precious afternoon off hanging out with a bunch of kids. To them, he was simply the coolest person alive.
“You must not just look with your eyes,” Neteyam explained, his deep voice dropping into a quiet, captivating whisper that had every single child leaning in closer. He adjusted his grip on the tiny bow, his massive hands looking almost comical against the small wood. “You must feel the wind on your skin. Listen to your surroundings and keep sharp, Eywa will tell you exactly where to go.”
With an effortless, fluid grace, Neteyam drew the string back. High above them, a single, broad green leaf loosed itself from a branch, lazily fluttering down. The blunt arrow struck the falling leaf and with a dull pop, the arrow and leaf landed on the bush.
The clearing absolutely erupted. The children gasped, clapping their hands and jumping up and down in pure amazement. Ervo, right on top of his father's shoulders, let out a high-pitched, victorious shriek, bouncing so hard that Neteyam had to quickly reach up with one large hand to steady the boy, a soft, booming chuckle escaping his chest.
“Me next! Papa, let me try!” Ervo said excitedly.
Neteyam’s ears twitched forward, a breathless smile breaking across his face at the title. He carefully hoisted Ervo down from his shoulders, cradling him against his chest as he looked up and finally spotted you standing at the edge of the clearing.
The moment his eyes met yours, the confidence vanished just a little. His posture softened completely, his golden eyes searching your face with that familiar, quiet hope. He turned to the kids and told them something you couldn’t quite hear before he headed over to you, wiping sweat from his forehead, his breathing slightly heavy.
“Is it time for his nap?” Neteyam asked eagerly, his ears perked up, entirely ready to carry the boy back up the massive tree.
“No,” you replied softly, holding Ervo’s hand and kissing the palm of it, causing him to giggle. “But it is almost his nap time.”
Neteyam adjusted his grip on Ervo, his fingers splaying protectively over the boy’s small lower back. “Going somewhere?” he asked, looking down at you.
You hesitated, your eyes briefly scanning the woods beyond the clearing. You bit your lower lip, a sudden wave of distraction clouding your features. “I’m just getting something.”
“If you need anything, I’ll get it for you,” he said instantly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over you like a shield. “That way you can put Ervo down for his nap and you don’t need to go out there.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. The mid-day heat was picking up, and Ervo’s eyelids were already drooping against Neteyam’s chest. “I just need some moon lily and tealo leaves,” you admitted, your focus drifting.
You were entirely too preoccupied to notice the way Neteyam’s head reared back slightly, a heavy shadow of fear and surprise violently washing over his chiseled features. He knew exactly what those two herbs combined to create. You used to drink that exact eclipse tea years ago, back when the two of you were stealing moments in the dark, desperate to prevent a pregnancy before you two were properly mated. He used to be the one to get them for you.
“I’ll get it for you,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick and strained as he forced a weak, hollow smirk onto his face. “I know exactly where to find them, remember? Been here, done that.”
He was trying to play it cool, to inject some humor into the air, but inside, his chest was collapsing. Yes, you weren't mated. But that didn't mean you didn't have a lover. Even when the two of you had been secretly together, half the young men in the clan had tried their luck with you. He didn't doubt for a single second that they were still trying, and the thought that one of them might have finally won, that you needed this tea... made him want to curl up and scream into the dirt.
“Are you sure?” you asked, completely missing his inner turmoil.
“Yes,” he nodded tightly, carefully transferring a sleepy Ervo into your arms.
“Thank you, Neteyam,” you murmured, adjusting your hold on your son and turning to head up toward the pavilion.
An hour later, the bead curtains of the pavilion rustled, and Neteyam stepped inside. Ervo was already fast asleep on a small cot in the corner, and you were at your workspace, meticulously washing the fresh moon lily and tealo leaves Neteyam had brought back.
Neteyam’s golden eyes instantly tracked a young woman sitting quietly in the corner of the room, her tail twitching nervously.
“I am so sorry for the hassle, tsakarem...” the girl, Peyra, whispered for the nth time. She watched you grind the herbs into a paste, completely uncaring that Neteyam was standing just paces away.
You let out a heavy sigh, pouring hot water over the mixture. “This is not a hassle, Peyra. It is only that I wish you would be more responsible with your intake if you are going to be having regular sex.”
And oh, the irony of your own words was not lost on you. The literal, living proof of your own past irresponsibility was snoring softly just a few feet away. Peyra nodded sheepishly, gratefully accepting the wooden bowl of steaming tea you handed her, drinking it down quickly before offering a polite nod and slipping out of the pavilion.
Once the curtain settled, you glanced up. Neteyam was still standing exactly where he had been minutes ago, rooted to the floor like a massive, awkward tree.
“What?” you asked, wiping your hands on a clean cloth.
He shrugged his broad shoulders, shifting his weight. “I thought...”
Your eyes narrowed at his sketchy behavior. “You thought what?” When he didn't answer, the pieces suddenly clicked in your mind. A look of sheer disbelief crossed your face. “You thought that was for me?”
Neteyam licked his dry lips, his ears pinning back in pure embarrassment as he looked away. “Not... not in a bad way,” he muttered, his voice quiet. “I just thought... well, the men of this clan would have to be incredibly stupid not to shoot their shot while I was gone.”
You raised a single eyebrow, entirely unamused but secretly startled by the possessive edge in his tone. “I have a toddler and a healing pavilion to run, Neteyam. I have absolutely no time for that.”
“Of course,” he responded instantly. The sheer, overwhelming wave of relief that washed over him practically took all his words away. His shoulders dropped, the suffocating tension leaving his frame.
Trying to break the sudden silence, you went back to organizing your tools, casually asking, “Do the reef people have their own contraceptives? Perhaps made of seaweeds?”
Neteyam blinked, thoroughly caught off guard. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion as he actually had to think about it. “Not that I know of. I never laid with anyone back there.”
Your fingers froze over your grinding stone. Your forehead relaxed for a brief, traitorous second, a strange lightness hitting your chest before you quickly forced your features back into a harsh, defensive scowl. “I didn’t ask you that.”
“Right. Of course,” he said, a tiny, breathless smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your incredibly cute, stubborn scowl. He knew he was pushing his luck, so he quickly cleared his throat, stepping back toward the exit to return to his normal programming. “I’ll get going. I have a meeting with the council.”
You watched him walk out, the beads clattering behind him. The moment he was gone, you bit your lip, lowering your head to lean your forrhead against the table as you tried to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You had tried so hard over the last three years to bury your curiosity, to force yourself to believe he had found a woman in Awa’atlu just so the pain of him leaving would finally numb out.
But hearing him say, so casually and honestly, that he had never been wth anyone else... it unleashed a warmth you weren't prepared to handle. You were still so deeply affected by him, and you hated how easily he could still disrupt your peace.
Meanwhile, inside the council longhouse, the atmosphere was heavy. The village elders were gathered in a circle, mapping out the upcoming leadership transition between Tarsem and Neteyam. Tarsem was set to return from the Tayrangi clan on the day of the mantle passing, but before that could happen, the elders were strictly focusing on political technicalities.
When Neteyam arrived and sat beside his parents, Neytiri leaned over, quietly explaining the current topic of discussion. Neteyam’s brow furrowed in deep confusion.
He looked across the fire at one of the senior elders leading the discussion. “Forgive me, but why are we discussing a list of prospective betrothals for me? Doesn’t the clan already have a tsakarem?”
The elders shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uneasy, pointed glances. Finally, Elder Okan cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Well... we do, Neteyam. But... Y/N is... for lack of a better word, disgraced. She had a child outside the sacred bond. She is a—”
“Elder Okan,” Neteyam interrupted cleanly, instantly silencing the entire longhouse.
Neteyam stood up, his massive frame towering over the council fire. He looked the elders, the warriors, and every single member of the council dead in the eye, his gaze burning with a fierce, protective fury.
“If she is a disgrace to this clan, that is only because I disgraced her,” he stated, his voice echoing off the woven walls with absolute authority.
The room remained silent, listening to him.
“I am the father of her child,” Neteyam said. “I got her with child, and then I left her here, completely alone, to bear the weight of my absence and raise our son. I broke her heart and left her in the dark to go fight the war for our people. And through all of it, she did not break. She rebuilt herself again and again, she raised a beautiful boy, and she proved her worth and her devotion to the healing of our people every single day.”
He watched realization and shame dawn in their faces. If it weren’t for Mo’at years ago, these people wouldn’t even have considered you as the tsakarem. They overlook what you do for the people and it didn’t mean anything to Neteyam anymore now that they seemed to have feel a deep respect for you only after he spoke on your behalf and destroyed his own perfect son, perfect soldier reputation.
He is far from perfect. Not when he left you alone to be ravaged by these people.
“She is the only woman I will ever mate with. And if this clan wants me as their Olo’eyktan, they will accept her as their Tsahik.”
Neytiri patted his hand on the table. “Has she agreed to be your mate, Neteyam?”
Neteyam swallowed, glancing down at his mother. He shook his head, “No,” he said. “But I'm going to court her...”
Jake scoffed, stifling a smile. “Better get to it, son,“ he said as he cleared his throat.
One morning, Neteyam walked you two to the pavilion as per usual, but you noticed some elders watching from a far. It had felt like you were in a circus in the past moons, with the clan members watching your every move like they were trying to unleash a secret.
When you were younger, you were more eager to please, more eager to belong because you grew up an orphan. But being a mother had changed all that, you care for no one’s opinion now, and you genuinely feel like you owe none of them an explanation about Ervo, and who his father was, even though it has gotten rather obvious who exactly it was.
“I'll come back later, baby,“ Neteyam told Ervo, kissing his temple but when you glanced at him, his eyes were on you as though he was talking to you.
You looked away when you felt your heart jostle inside your chest. Sometimes, when he talks to Ervo... It feels like he was talking to you. He put Ervo down and your son waved up at him quietly as he began to walk. You dropped down on one knee, wrapping an arm around your son. He always seems so sad when Neteyam has to leave.
“Bye, Papa!” you said in a small voice, urging him to mimic you.
Neteyam looked down at you both, waving at Ervo, his eyes soft on you.
“Take care, Papa,” you urged Ervo to say.
“Take care, Papa!” your son parroted in a high-pitched voice and you kissed his round cheek.
Neteyam laughed and waved at him again. When you entered the pavilion, you remembered your stone mortar that Neteyam had painstakingly sourced and gifted you years and years ago when you became one of the apprentice healers. It had cracked right down the middle the previous afternoon and you couldn’t help but sigh in a moment of grief as you thought of trudging down to the claymakers on the lower levels to seek a replacement.
You did a double look on your workable, though, when you caught sight of a brand-new mortar and pestle.
You made your way to it, your heart soaring excitedly. You ran your fingers over the smooth, flawless grain of the dark river stone. It was perfectly weighted, the edges meticulously shaved down and grooved to explicitly fit the unique contour of your palm. It was a signature style you recognized instantly, only Neteyam worked stone with that specific patience, and only he knew the shape of your palm.
You looked beyond the curtains, on the pathway where Neteyam had disappeared for morning patrol.
Over the next weeks, a quiet wave of things you were still just about to need and want was already manifesting before you, though Neteyam had never given you a reason to question this. It was as though he was anticipating your every need before you could even vocalize them, entirely devoted to your convenience.
One night, a chaotic hunting accident had kept you at the healing pavilion until long past eclipse, stitching deep lacerations and mixing poultices. Marla had already kindly sent up a tray of dinner hours ago, and you had eaten in quiet intervals between patients.
By the time the pavilion cleared out, you were exhausted, sitting on the woven mat to sort the remaining herbs. Ervo was leaning his small, heavy body completely against your side. His eyelids were heavy, blinking slowly against the soft glow of the hanging firepots, but his stubborn little fingers were tightly hooked into your beaded top, desperately holding out.
The soft clatter of the curtains made both of you look up, seeing Neteyam step inside, fresh from what must have been a grueling, late-night council meeting.
The moment your eyes landed on him, an involuntary warmth flooded your chest, and your face lit up before you could even think to mask it.
“Papa!“ Ervo voiced the exact excitement you were obviously feeling.
“Hello, my boy,” Neteyam smiled, the exhaustion instantly draining from his face. He dropped to one knee as Ervo scrambled up and ran toward him, his small body crashing directly into his father. Neteyam’s golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, and you didn't even try to remove the soft smile lingering on your lips.
“The little man won't sleep without you,” you said, shaking your head with a gentle huff before looking back down at the roots on the table.
Neteyam chuckled, looking down at his son, whose eyes were suddenly twinkling with newfound energy. “Is that so?” he grinned, immediately digging his large fingers into the boy's sides to tickle him, earning a loud, breathless fit of giggles that made you look up again, completely charmed. “Is that why you were practically leaning against Mama already, but still you won’t sleep, hm, little warrior?”
You watched as Neteyam smoothly scooped the boy up, cradling him in his massive arms like an infant. Ervo threw his head back, laughing endlessly as Neteyam leaned down to blow air against his exposed neck, tickling him until the toddler was completely out of breath.
“Neteyam...” you called out, your voice a soft, warning murmur to break up the rowdiness. “He needs to sleep.”
He grinned, settling the boy deeper into the crook of his arm as he sat down properly on the mat across from you. “You sleep now, little man. Close your eyes.”
“But tomorrow... tomorrow...” Ervo mumbled, his small hands weakly waving in the air, trying to animate a bow and arrow. Neteyam had been taking him out for archery practice with a blunt arrow, and the boy had been entirely crazy about it.
“Yes, yes, tomorrow, Papa will teach you again,” Neteyam promised softly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose.
“Ervo, don’t you miss your bugs?” you interjected from your spot, crushing a handful of dried leaves.
“I miss... I watched bugs today, Mama... many bugs... many colors...” Ervo trailed off, his voice dropping into a sleepy slur. His heavy eyelids finally fluttered shut, his little head snuggling deep into the warm expanse of Neteyam’s chest.
Neteyam let out a quiet, breathless sigh, his eyes snapping to yours as a soft, private smile pulled at his lips. You smiled back, the quiet domesticity of the room wrapping around the three of you like a blanket.
“You're here late today,” he noted quietly, his gaze dropping to the sheer volume of plants around you.
You sighed, rolling your shoulders out. “Most of the herbs needed restocking after tonight, and I just felt the sudden urge to clean everything up... for my own convenience tomorrow.”
“Ever the perfectionist,” he murmured, his lips twisting into a fond, nostalgic smirk.
As he shifted to get more comfortable, Ervo’s heavy head moved against his shoulder, once again pushing his chest knife sheath completely out of place. Your eyes lowered instinctively, and under the steady light of the fire, you saw the scar clearly. It was a vicious, jagged scar of raised, pale flesh.
Your brow furrowed, a sudden chill running through your veins. “What happened?”
The easy, playful aura around Neteyam evaporated instantly, turning deeply serious. “The war,” he answered bluntly.
You huffed, frustrated by his brevity. “I know it's from the war, Neteyam. I am a tsakarem. I am asking what happened.”
He looked at you for a long beat, adjusting his sleeping son securely against his torso. “I got shot,” he said in a tone that undermines what happened. “The metal went deep. Almost died.”
You took in a sharp, ragged breath as a terrifying tremble shook through your core, but you quickly steeled your expression, trying desperately to hide how profoundly the thought of his near death shook you to the bone. You bit your lower lip hard enough to draw color. “I'm glad you lived...” you mumbled, your eyes glued to the floor.
He let out a wistful, quiet scoff, a tiny smirk forming on his face. “You pulled me back,” he murmured softly. “Otherwise, that version of Neteyam never would have known about your struggles, or the fact that you brought Ervo into this world. I never would have known my son.”
Your forehead creased deeply, a sudden sting behind your eyes as tears began to pool. “Pulled you... back?”
“I succumbed to darkness then... But I dreamed of you,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to Ervo as if the absolute intensity of your stare was too much for him to bear. “We were at the river... You kissed me and told me to wake up. So I did.” He swallowed hard, finally forcing his golden eyes back up to lock onto yours. “Y/N, I know I said stupid, unforgivable things to you before I left three years ago. I hurt you, and I—”
“And you shouldn't have?” you cut him off, your voice cracking as the buried agony flared to life in your chest. “I think I already know what you're going to say, Neteyam, and I tried to understand—”
“No, you don't understand,” he pressed, taking a step forward on his knees, his face entirely open and desperate. “I said what I said, but that didn't mean I meant a single word of it. I love you, Y/N. I loved you so much then, and I love you so much still. Even much more now.”
“You told me it was not serious,” you said, the words slipping out in a small, broken voice that felt like an open wound. “You told me to my face that it was a passing thing, that you would find someone better in the reefs and you’d settle down there. You were so cruel to me... and I must admit, I rejoiced when you came back entirely alone.”
You knew you had told him then that the past didn't matter anymore since you became a mother, but sitting here in the dark, looking at his scar, you realized you were still entirely haunted by that.
A small, incredibly tender smile formed on his lips at your confession. “I bet you did,” he murmured softly. “But I lied about all of it. How could I find someone better when I had already had the best thing in this world? And I was never going to settle down with anyone that wasn't you. It sounds stupid, but I was so terrified I would die out there, Y/N. I thought it would be easier for you to mourn a man you hated, rather than a man you were waiting for. I didn't want you to be hurt when I couldn’t be here.”
“I got hurt anyway,” you whispered, your lips pulling down as the first heavy tear spilled down your cheek.
Seeing your tears, Neteyam didn't hesitate. Moving with extreme care so as not to disturb the sleeping toddler wrapped in his left arm, he slid across the mat until he was kneeling directly beside you. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers stopping just inches from your knee, desperate to touch but terrified of crossing the line.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick and fractured. “I thought I was protecting you but all I did was poison what we had and the time we had left then. All I did was leave you with that pain while you carry my child. The desire alone to bring back time and change everything is already the heaviest burden I will carry.”
You turned to him and the sight of your tears knocked the air out of him like he had been struck in the gut. His arm reached up to wrap around you and pull you to him and you allowed him to hug you. The moment his scent hit you, everything in you collapsed. You buried your face against the crook of his neck, resting your forehead heavily against his sturdy shoulder as a quiet sob escaped you. Neteyam held you tight, his large hand pressing firmly into your back, burying his face in your hair as his own silent tears flowed.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered over and over into your hair, his voice trembling. “I am here and I will never leave your side again. I love you so much...”
A sudden, rhythmic rustle of the bead curtains echoed through the pavilion.
You both stiffened slightly, pulling back just enough to look toward the entrance. Your breath hitched. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the moonlight, was the Tsahik herself. Mo'at stood, her sharp, knowing eyes sweeping over both of you. You with your tear-stained face, Neteyam with his arm wrapped fiercely around you, and little Ervo snoring peacefully between you.
You pulled away and wiped your tears off, while Neteyam looked everywhere but his grandmother. Mo’at shook her head, completely ignoring the emotional wreckage but she couldn’t let the shyness slip.
“Are you really acting like two teenagers caught hugging? Please. Not while your little boy was between you two,“ she said with an experience that remained entirely unbothered. “The moon lily roots need to be steeped, tsakarem—”
“Yes, Tsahik. I... know what to do,” you said in a soft voice.
“Hm,” she responded before slipping back through the curtain, leaving the three of you in the quiet darkness.
You finished up your work at the pavilion in the quiet hour following Mo’at departure. Neteyam walked you up to your kelku, the cool night air wrapping around you both while he carried a deeply sleeping Ervo in his arms.
When you stepped inside the familiar dome of your home, you struck a flint to light the hanging firepot, casting a low, golden glow across the woven walls. Neteyam moved silently, laying the sleeping mats out properly so he could ease Ervo down. But the moment the boy’s back touched the mat, he stirred and let out a soft, tiny whimper. His small, chubby arms reached up blindly, wrapping tightly around Neteyam’s neck.
“Papa...” his small voice croaked in his sleep.
Neteyam let out a profoundly endearing sound, his chest hitching as he immediately wrapped his broad arm around Ervo to anchor him. “I’m here, boy,” he mumbled, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Ervo’s small head.
He looked up at you from his position on the floor, a quiet, slightly hesitant smile playing on his lips. Your lips twisted into a soft expression. “You can stay,” you said quietly, stepping onto the mat. “If you want.”
“I want,” he answered right away, without a second of hesitation. His large hand splayed over his son’s chest, the gentle weight calming the toddler completely. Ervo settled back down, his grip loosening slightly, though his arms remained loosely draped around Neteyam's neck.
You sat on the edge of the mat, leaning over to carefully pry Ervo’s arms away so Neteyam could sit up, but your son only tightened his hold, nuzzling his little face directly against his father’s cheek as a cute, stubborn sound escaped his mouth.
You let out a soft chuckle and shook your head, giving up. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to wake up with a stiff neck tomorrow,” you whispered.
Lowering yourself onto your side on the mat, you tucked your hand under your head to use it as a pillow. Your soft eyes looked at your son, watching his peaceful, even breaths. As you stared, your gaze naturally traveled past the boy's face and met Neteyam’s eyes.
The two of you were entirely silent for a long moment, just staring into each other’s eyes across the space of your sleeping child. It didn't feel awkward, and the tension had translated into something incredibly warm, grounded, and so deeply familiar that your eyes pricked with unshed tears for a fleeting second.
“How was it like?” he mumbled, his voice a low rumble.
“Hm?” You shifted your hand, gently caressing Ervo’s soft head.
“When you were alone here... everything,” he murmured, his ears dipping slightly in a display of profound vulnerability. “I want to know... if I can.”
Your lips twisted into a faint smile. “I didn't move here until after I gave birth. I was still living at the communal shelter before that... so I was basically the prime example of what not to be,” you noted, trying to chuckle the memory off with a soft smirk.
Neteyam’s brows furrowed deeply, his chest tightening. “Were you shunned?”
“Not really... Mo’at made me her tsakarem,” you said softly. “And then, when I finally gave birth, we moved into this kelku... and we made it our home.”
Neteyam smiled weakly, his eyes scanning the cozy hut. It was filled with woven baskets, drying herbs, and small wooden toys, everything that meant so much to you and your son. “How was it like? When he was a baby?”
“He was hungry all the time, but he didn't cry much. He was the goodest boy,” you mumbled, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your son’s round cheek. “I’ve heard most of the other mothers speak of being awoken in the dead of night by their screaming babies, but Ervo just didn't cry at all. When he woke up in the morning, he was always so entertained by the sun’s rays seeping through the woven walls. He would just lay there, watching the light and waiting for me to wake up, even though he was clearly hungry.”
Neteyam sniffled. You pulled your eyes away from your son to look at him, and your heart twinged when you saw a heavy tear roll off the tip of his nose, catching the firelight.
“I should have been here...” he choked out, his jaw clenching.
“You were fighting a war, Neteyam...” you mumbled softly.
“Still... I am entirely too acquainted with regret,” he whispered, his golden eyes raw with grief. “With you, and with our son... there is so much I missed. So much I wish I could take back.”
You reached across Ervo’s small frame, gently placing your hand over Neteyam’s large hand where it rested on the boy’s chest. “But it just wasn’t the case, Neteyam...” you whispered, pushing yourself up onto your elbow. “Everything that happened is the will of Eywa. I didn’t have it easy, but you didn’t have it easy either. You almost died out there, I almost lost you completely. The war hurt every single one of us.”
He looked up at you, his eyes swimming with tears. “It was I who hurt you...”
“And I am letting it go. I am forgiving you,” you murmured.
Leaning across the small space, you lowered your head and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. You felt his breathing hitch instantly under the gentle touch. When you pulled away, a soft, breathless smile formed on your face, while his wide, golden eyes remained glued to you in absolute reverence.
“I love you so much, Y/N...” he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.
“I’ll bring you to some of my memories with Ervo tomorrow,” you whispered, settling back onto the mat.
“I would like that very much,” he smiled, his hand turning over to interlock his fingers with yours.
The next morning, you woke up to the sound of Ervo’s energetic chirping. The boy was moving like a happy little worm right between you and Neteyam, his tiny feet kicking at the blankets.
Throughout the night, Neteyam had shifted, wrapping his long, heavy arm securely around your waist, his head cradled directly against yours. He stirred the moment you shifted, his large hand playfully catching Ervo’s tiny hand as the boy reached up toward a bright ray of morning light cutting through the ceiling.
“Papa!” Ervo shrieked with absolute delight, laughing loudly as he rolled over on the mat to face the two of you.
Neteyam instantly scooped him into his arms, hugging his small body tightly against his chest. You pushed yourself up on one arm, leaning over to kiss Ervo’s cheek. “Are you hungry, little man?”
“Yes!” he chirped, aggressively struggling to free himself from Neteyam, who had immediately begun to tickle his ribs. “No!! Help me, Mama!” he shrieked, giggling uncontrollably.
You laughed, sitting up to fix your messy braids as you watched them play. Ervo’s bright giggles completely filled the kelku, and when he finally managed to wiggle free from his father’s grip, he scrambled across the mat and ran straight into your lap, still laughing. You hugged him close, and his small body melted into you.
Your eyes found Neteyam, who was sitting up, a soft, incredibly contented smile gracing his chiseled face as he watched you both.
“I should go get your breakfast from the kitchens,” he said, preparing to stand.
“Or we could just join breakfast downstairs,” you offered casually, adjusting Ervo’s small loincloth.
You didn't catch the exact moment Neteyam’s face literally lit up, but by the time you were all walking down the winding ramp, it was entirely obvious that both he and Ervo were far too excited. Ervo had never asked why you rarely ate at the communal meals anymore; to him, the only important thing had been eating. But now that you were actually walking toward the communal ground, he was far too energized to be trusted on foot.
Neteyam happily scooped him up. When you finally stepped into the bustling communal clearing, the sheer volume of eyes turning toward the three of you was completely overwhelming. It wasn't as if the clan hadn't seen Neteyam practicality living outside your kelku and serving your every need for the past moons, but seeing the three of you walking into the morning light together was an undeniable confirmation. The whispers faded into respectful, wide-eyed silence.
You sat down and ate together as a little family, Ervo comfortably splitting his time between sitting in Neteyam’s lap and snuggling into his side.
Once breakfast was over, Neteyam walked you both back up to the healing pavilion before his morning patrol. Ervo immediately ran inside the bead curtains after loudly telling Neteyam to take care. You turned to follow your son, but before you could take a step, Neteyam caught you gently by the elbow and pulled you back to him.
Before you could even speak, his lips came down to crush against yours.
It was entirely unlike the soft, gentle kiss you had given him the night before. This was hard, deep, and all-consuming. A possessive, breathless demand that told you exactly how much he had starved for you over the last three years. By the time he finally let you go, your breath was completely trapped in your throat.
You licked your wet lips, blinking up at his towering frame. “Take care...” you mumbled, entirely at a loss for words.
His smile was lopsided and entirely boyish before he turned on his heel and trotted down the path for patrol. You stood there, your face burning incredibly hot. He was still exactly the same, disciplined and perfectly behaved on the outside, but the moment he was provoked, it was like letting a wild animal out of its cage.
You worked diligently until midday, and the moment Neteyam’s rotation ended, he arrived at the pavilion so the two of you could take Ervo out. You had originally planned to leave the boy with Kiri while you two visited the Tree of Souls, but you miraculously ran into Neytiri and Jake near the lower levels, both of whom were practically eager to babysit.
Apparently, Neytiri had been secretly spoiling your son with sweet fruits and rare treats for weeks now, to the point where Ervo recognized his grandmother as the ultimate source of good food. Jake, on the other hand, had a much grander bribe.
“I promise him a ride on Toruk,” Jake said with a laugh, winking at the boy.
“Looks like he’s going to have the absolute time of his life today,” you said as you and Neteyam walked away, laughing together.
“The luckiest boy alive, if you ask me,” Neteyam smirked, stepping over a thick root. “Lo’ak, Kiri, and I never even had a chance to ride on Toruk when we were kids, you know?”
You pushed your lips forward thoughtfully. “I also don’t recall having Toruk around much growing up. Did your father claim him back during the war?”
Neteyam nodded, reaching out to pluck a small, vibrant purple flower from a low-hanging vine. “He did, right after the first major battle we had against the sky people.” He stepped closer, gently handing the flower to you. “I guess Dad’s releasing Toruk back to the wild soon. But not before giving our boy a ride.”
You smiled softly, tucking the stem of the flower securely into your dark braid.
When you finally reached the sacred sanctuary of the Tree of Souls, the air grew thick with a profound, spiritual quiet. Without a word, you reached out and grabbed Neteyam’s large hand. He squeezed your fingers tightly, and together, you stepped under the massive, glowing canopy, the silver, crystal-like tendrils brushing against your skin.
You reached behind you to pull your kuru forward, looking at him with a soft smile. He did the same, his golden eyes watching you with so much raw devotion it almost made you want to look away.
“I want... to be at his birth,” Neteyam said suddenly, his voice thick. “I want to be there for it.”
You bit your lip, a soft chuckle escaping you. “Alright... but warning, I look like an absolute mess in this memory.”
He let out a quiet groan, stepping into your space to press a deep, tender kiss against the side of your head. “You can never look like a mess to me, my love.”
You smiled, raising your braid to connect with the glowing tendril. Neteyam followed suit, and as your neural paths linked to the sacred tree, the world dissolved. Suddenly, you were both drifting into a memory that was permanently tattooed onto your brain.
Neteyam found himself standing in the corner of the healing pavilion, the vision so sharp and vivid he felt as though he could physically reach out and touch the woven walls. You were lying on a pile of soft mats, a mountain of pillows supporting your back as you struggled to breathe, your skin glistening with sweat. You looked so young, so exhausted, and so deeply pained.
Neteyam stood there, watching you writhe, feeling his heart being brutally torn in two every single time a sharp cry of agony escaped your lips. Mo’at was hovering over you, doing her absolute best, encouraging your breathing and guiding you through the final, grueling moments until a sharp, loud cry echoed through the space.
Neteyam craned his neck, a massive, breathless smile breaking across his face as he watched Mo’at lift a large, healthy baby boy.
“A boy, Y/N,” Mo’at’s echoed voice filled the memory.
He watched you weep with pure exhaustion and relief as you reached out your trembling arms, taking the boy against your bare chest. Mo’at gently helped you latch the hungry baby, and Neteyam watched the scene in absolute wonder, his large hands balling into fists as his chest tightened with an overwhelming wave of emotion.
Sensing the sheer, heavy weight of Neteyam’s energy through the bond, you slowly disconnected from the tree. The vision slowly faded, and when you opened your eyes, you looked over to find him crying silently, heavy tears streaming down his face.
Your breath hitched, and you immediately moved into his space, cupping his wet cheeks with your hands to wipe the moisture away.
“I’m so sorry... I’m so sorry I wasn't there,” he kept repeating, his voice breaking.
You shook your head firmly. “No. Quit apologizing, alright? You’ve been crying entirely too much lately,” you teased softly, peering up into his eyes. “Come, I promised to show you the funny memories I have with him.”
He let out a breathless smile, his large hands wrapping gently around your wrists to keep your touch against his skin.
You reconnected, and as promised, you pulled him into the lighter moments of your son's life. You showed him the exact moment Ervo let out his very first, bubbling laugh; the clumsy afternoon he took his first, unbalanced steps across the hut; the quiet, breathless second he first babbled the word Mama. You showed him the quiet, lazy afternoons spent in the pavilion, and one particularly hilarious afternoon where Ervo had been utterly terrified of a bug attack, only to clumsily brave his fear and swat it away when he noticed that you had pretended to be scared, too.
By the end of the memories, Neteyam was completely nonverbal. He was crying even during the moments you considered funny, his heart overflowing with the years he had missed.
You pulled away from the tree, looking at him with pursed lips and incredibly soft eyes, reaching up once more to brush the tears from his sharp cheekbones. By now, the eclipse had fully brought darkness over the land, causing the long, sweeping tendrils of the Tree of Souls to pulse with a vibrant, deep purple bioluminescence.
“Thank you for allowing me to be a part of all of it...” he mumbled, his large hands gently cradling your hand, lifting it up to his face so he could press a fervent kiss directly into your palm. “You make me so incredibly happy, Y/N. I never thought I would have the chance to hold you again... and now, you have given me Ervo, you allow me back into your life... it all just feels like a beautiful dream.”
You smiled, squeezing his hand tightly. “You deserve to be a part of all of it, Neteyam... and to be a part of our lives, too.”
He smiled, a sudden, familiar mischievous light sparking in his golden eyes as he stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between your bodies. “And what if I stay for life?”
You shrugged playfully, pressing your palm flat against the center of his warm chest. “I wouldn’t mind...”
Neteyam looked up, admiring the breathtaking beauty of the glowing canopy above before lowering his gaze back down to you. The playful light vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unyielding confidence.
“I want to court you properly, Y/N,” he stated firmly. “Until you choose me as your mate.”
Your brows furrowed, a highly amused smile pulling at your lips. “Aren’t you doing that already?” you asked, a soft blush hitting your cheeks. “I thought you were already courting me... I kissed you last night, and you kissed me today.” You bit your lower lip. “And we have Ervo...”
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed playfully, though you could tell he was practically elated, his ears twitching rapidly just like your son’s did whenever he was too happy. They truly were identical.
He caught both of your hands, enveloping them in his massive grip. “I love Ervo very much... but he and his future siblings are entirely separate from us in these matters. This is about us. You and me.”
Your brow twitched, your eyes widening slightly. “Future siblings?”
He bit his lip, a boyish smirk creeping onto his face. “If you want...” he mumbled, leaning down slightly. “Don’t you think Ervo wants playmates?”
“I think he wants us home right now so he can tell us his grand stories about Toruk,” you countered, turning to drag him by the hand out from under the tendrils.
Neteyam didn't let you step away. With a sudden, firm tug, he pulled you right back to stand flush against his front. You looked up, your breath hitching at the dark, blazing heat suddenly swirling in his golden eyes. You put a hand up to press against his chest to steady yourself, but he smoothly caught your wrist, pulling your hand up and draping it over the back of his neck before lowering his head to claim your mouth.
His large hands found your waist, gripping you tightly to pull your body flat against his hard, heavily muscled frame. He deepened the kiss instantly, his tongue sliding past your lips, and you lifted your other hand to hook tightly around his neck, pulling him down further. His hands began to frantically feel up your sides, a low, needy moan escaping his throat when his hand slid upward to firmly squeeze the soft weight of your breast. You pulled him down by his braids, practically eating him up as the years of starvation melted away.
“I missed you... so much,” you moaned against his lips, your hips tilting instinctively into his.
His hand rubbed down your back, pulling away just a fraction of an inch, his breathing ragged. He cupped the back of your neck with his large palm. “I missed you more, my love. You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this,” he growled softly, before burying his face back into your neck, kissing you hard.
You smiled against his skin, breaking away only to kiss your way down the sharp line of his jaw and the column of his throat. You trailed your lips down over his collarbone, tracing the taut, heavy muscles of his chest and abdomen. Neteyam’s breathing hitched violently, his abdominal muscles contracting sharply by the time you sank down onto your knees in front of him on the soft grass.
You looked up at him, deliberately licking your lips wet, your fingers immediately working the ties of his loincloth. He helped you with a trembling urgency, and the moment the fabric fell away, you came face-to-face with his thick, fully aroused length.
You bit your lip, angling your head as you darted your tongue out to lightly lick the bead of precum glistening on the wide head.
Neteyam let out a harsh, guttural groan the moment the wet warmth of your mouth enveloped the entire head, his hips twitching forward as you began to suck softly. Your hand wrapped securely around the base of his length, pumping him with a slow rhythm while you licked and sucked. You flicked your eyes upward, catching him watching you with a fierce, ravenous intensity, his gaze completely dark. You smiled around his girth, swallowing more of his length, your hand caressing the remaining skin.
You licked the entire length of him, from the head down to the base, kissing and tasting him before sliding him back into your mouth, sucking hard while your hand pumped his shaft.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Neteyam was whimpering and groaning into the quiet night, his thighs quivering violently as his fingers tangled tightly into a handful of your braids to anchor himself.
When he finally braced his legs and came, you firmly refused to let go, ignoring his weak attempt to gently peel your head back. You swallowed his hot come, your tail swishing frantically behind you in the grass.
The moment you cleaned him off, Neteyam’s hand gripped your jaw as he lowered himself onto the grass, his lips coming crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss. His hands were frantic against your skin, quickly untying the loincloth around your tail, kissing you deeply the entire time and tasting himself on your tongue.
The moment your fabric was cleared away, he gently guided you down onto the soft grass beneath the purple glow of the tree. His mouth slid down to suckle fiercely on your breasts, his tongue swirling aggressively over your pebbled tips. He was moving like a man who didn't know what part of you to kiss or touch first, the sheer desperation consuming him.
After suckling your breasts, his large hand pried your legs apart. He knelt heavily between your thighs, lowering his head down to press his mouth directly against your wet, aching core. You let out a loud gasp as his lips and tongue found your sensitive nub, sending violent vibrations of pure pleasure straight up your spine.
“Ah... shit, Neteyam,” your head fell back into the grass, your fingers gripping the earth as his mouth went to work on your pussy. He grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting and pushing it against your body, his tongue licking your wet slit with a deep hum. He was holding your thighs with such a tight, bruising grip that when your body began to quiver and your hips buckled, you couldn't move away from the intense stimulation.
By the time he finally pulled away, you were as weak as a sun lily in the dark, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He hovered over you, his lips glistening wet with your essence, before he simply licked his lips clean. You pulled his neck down for a kiss, which he gladly gave you, before he pushed himself up on his hands, his fingers gripping his hard girth and lining the heavy head up with your pulsing entrance.
You spread your legs wider for him, your hand wrapping tightly around his thick bicep. He lowered his head to catch your lips in a deep kiss just as he sank his cock completely into your tight heat.
You let out a sharp whimper at the sudden fullness, and he instantly deepened and hardened the kiss, driving himself all the way in until his hips slammed against yours. The sheer girth you hadn't experienced in three long years gave you a moment of sharp discomfort, but your body quickly adjusted, your walls squeezing tightly around him, making him let out a breathless, deep chuckle against your mouth.
You chuckled weakly back, reaching up to cutely pinch the tip of his pointed ear.
“Nothing says home better than that,” he mumbled, peppering kisses along your jaw.
You intentionally squeezed your muscles around him again, tilting your chin up. “That?” you bit your lip.
He groaned loudly, his hand sliding down to grab the back of one of your thighs, pulling it high up over his hip as he drew his pelvis back. You let out a loud moan when he pushed all the way back in. When you looked up at him through the dark, the gold in his eyes were entirely gone, completely consumed by the black. You knew you were about to get it.
And you did. Neteyam began to thrust, pounding into you with a heavy, relentless pace that always had you screaming his name. His broad arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, while his other hand caged the side of your face, his forehead resting firmly against yours as he fucked you hard into the dirt. The friction and depth brought you straight to the edge, your grip on his shoulders tightening until your nails dug into his skin, your entire body quivering under his weight.
He continued to pound relentlessly into you even as you crashed over your high, shivering violently as he finally stiffened, coming deep inside you in hot, pulsing spurts. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as you hugged him tight, both of your breaths echoing loudly under the canopy.
You chuckled softly after a long moment, caressing the smooth skin of his back. “You’re heaving too much, baby. What? Has the mighty warrior lost his extraordinary stamina?” you teased lightheartedly. “Used to be... you’d be attacking me for the next round right about now—”
You shrieked with a laugh when you felt his teeth sharply nip the sensitive skin of your neck.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his hand sliding down to possessively caress your waist before traveling back up to your breast. “Well, I am attacking you now...” he mumbled, his golden eyes flashing as he spread your thighs apart once more, his heavy length sliding right back into your slick heat.
You chuckled, pulling him down by his neck to lose yourself in another kiss. The succeeding rounds were slower, much more thorough, as though his body perfectly remembered exactly what to do with every single inch of yours.
Though you desperately wanted to stay wrapped in his arms and spend the entire night under the glowing tree, you couldn't forget your son.
“He’s probably looking for us by now,” you said, a trace of motherly worry bleeding into your voice as you sat up and began fixing your beaded top. “He hasn’t been away from me for this long.” Your heart gripped slightly at the thought of him crying because you had been gone too long.
You and Neteyam quickly dressed and walked back to Hometree, arriving just in time for the evening meal. You were openly holding hands, your fingers tightly interlocked as you stepped into the light of the communal clearing.
You were fully expecting to see a crying, frantic Ervo being consoled, but as you scanned the area, your jaw nearly dropped. He was not crying at all. In fact, he was up on the dais, sitting comfortably on Jake’s lap while Jake, Neytiri, and Tuk completely fussed over him. There wasn't a single trace of sadness on his face. He was eating happily, his high-pitched, energetic voice reaching you from across the clearing as he rambled animatedly to Neytiri. The surrounding clan members watched you and Neteyam enter, their eyes tracking your joined hands with knowing smiles.
“He’s definitely not looking for us,” Neteyam noted with a deep chuckle.
“This little traitor...” you jokingly whispered, laughing as you shook your head.
Your son finally spotted you from across the room, and his bright smile vanished instantly, his lower lip pulling down into a pout the second he realized his parents were back.
You walked up toward the dais, and Neytiri looked up, smiling warmly at you. “Oh, he’s going to cry...” she mouthed in playful horror. “He’ll be out like a light in minutes, Y/N. He’s had a very long day.”
You chuckled, reaching out your arms to take your son from Jake. “Mama!” Ervo said, his voice instantly turning shaky as large, dramatic tears pooled in his eyes.
“No, no, no, my love...” you murmured softly, cradling his head against your shoulder and gently rubbing his back.
“You are gone long?” his small voice asked, the slight accusation breaking your heart. Neteyam’s breath hitched beside you, his large hand immediately splaying over Ervo’s small back to soothe him.
“Yes... did you miss me and Papa?” you asked gently, kissing his temple.
The boy sniffled, his large golden eyes looking up at you with an expression that looked exactly like you had just caught him stealing sweet berries before breakfast. “No... I was with Toruk,” he stated bluntly.
Jake’s booming laughter echoed off the wooden pillars, and Neytiri laughed out loud as well. Your jaw went completely slack, your wide, laughing eyes glancing over at Neteyam. This boy!
“We fly, Mama! With Grandpa and... and... Grandma!” he chirped, his hands waving in the air. He looked over at Neteyam with absolute pride. “Toruk is bigger than Hometree, Papa!”
You passed Ervo over to Neteyam when the boy reached out for him, immediately chattering a mile a minute about his grand flying experience. You all sat down together on the dais, listening to Ervo ramble about the wind and the sky. He was truly the center of the family's joy, and as you and Neteyam sat back against the cushions, you caught Neteyam’s eyes pooling with fresh tears.
He glanced over at you, and you breathlessly chuckled when a heavy drop of tear rolled down his nose. He angled his head closer to yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I love him so much, baby...” he whispered, his voice trembling with an overwhelming gratitude. “I love you so much.” He leaned in, affectionately nuzzling his face against yours.
You held the side of his face in your hand, your thumb wiping the tear away. “I love you, Neteyam...” you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek.
When Ervo saw you kiss him, the toddler quickly scrambled forward in Neteyam's lap, leaning his small body up to aggressively kiss Neteyam’s other cheek, his tiny hands cupping his father’s jawline. You grinned brightly at Neteyam as he blinked at his son in pure, breathless adoration.
hi andy! can i request a neteyam fanfic where his son disrespects reader? maybe he is frustrated and says he hates reader or something like that and neteyam has to be a stern father and reprimand him. tysm 💞
Watch Your Words
Pairing: Neteyam x Reader
Word Count:1442
Request open!
Neteyam Masterlist
It starts as something small.
A snapped answer. A stomped foot. The kind of attitude kids try on like a new necklace to see how it feels.
You’re kneeling by a basket of nets, fingers working through the fibers, when your son,your and Neteyam’s son,storms into the marui like a gust of wind.
His ears are flat. His shoulders are tense. His braid beads click with every angry movement.
“Where is my spear?” he demands.
You glance up calmly. “Good evening to you too.”
He doesn’t even blink. “I asked you a question.”
Your stomach tightens, but you keep your voice even. “I know. And I heard it. I’m asking you to try again,respectfully.”
His lip curls. “Why do you always have to talk like that?”
You set the net down slowly. “Because I’m your mother.”
He scoffs,actually scoffs,and your eyebrows lift before you can stop them.
“You’re always telling me what to do,” he mutters, louder than he thinks. “Always,always,like I’m a baby.”
“I’m telling you to greet your mother,” you say, still steady. “That’s not treating you like a baby. That’s teaching you manners.”
He turns away, pacing. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Then you don’t have time for your spear either,” you reply, calm as still water.
That makes him whip around. “What?”
You hold his gaze. “You can look for it yourself.”
His eyes flash. “I did look for it!”
“And yet you came to me,” you point out. “Which means you didn’t look enough.”
His tail lashes once. “You don’t understand anything.”
You keep your face composed, but your chest hurts a little. You’ve always known parenting is a practice in being brave.
“I never said you were stupid,” you say quietly. “You’re angry. That doesn’t give you permission to be cruel.”
His jaw tightens like he’s fighting a wave.
Then he says it.
“I hate you.”
The air goes still.
You don’t move. You don’t flinch. But for a second you feel like the ground dropped out from under you.
Your son’s eyes widen too,as if he didn’t expect the words to actually leave his mouth.
A shadow falls across the entrance.
Neteyam.
He’s just returned from patrol, hair damp with river mist, shoulders broad and steady. His gaze lands on you first,quick, assessing. Then on your son.
“What did you say?” Neteyam asks, voice low.
Your son squares his shoulders, trying to look older than he is. “Nothing.”
Neteyam takes one step in. Then another. His presence fills the marui in a way that makes even the fire seem to burn quieter.
“I heard you,” Neteyam says. “Say it again.”
Your son’s ears flick,fear and pride wrestling. “I, I said… I hate her.”
Neteyam’s face doesn’t change much.
That’s the worst part.
The calm.
The control.
Neteyam sets his things down with deliberate care, then straightens slowly. His eyes are sharp now, but not wild,focused, like a hunter sighting something dangerous.
“Come here,” he says.
Your son hesitates.
Neteyam’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.
“Now.”
Your son walks forward, slower than he entered, bravado leaking out with every step. Neteyam stops when they’re only a few feet apart.
Neteyam looks down at him. “Who is she?”
Your son’s glare flickers. “My… mom.”
“And how do you speak to your mother?” Neteyam asks.
Your son shrugs, defiant. “However I want.”
Neteyam’s eyes narrow. “Wrong.”
Your son’s tail lashes. “You always take her side!”
Neteyam’s head tilts slightly. “This is not about sides. This is about respect.”
Your son’s voice cracks with frustration. “You don’t get it! She’s always telling me what to do! I can’t do anything right!”
You open your mouth,gentle, ready to soothe,but Neteyam lifts a hand slightly without looking back, a quiet signal: Let me.
Neteyam crouches down until they’re eye level. His voice softens,but somehow becomes even more serious.
“You feel angry,” Neteyam says. “You feel small. You feel like you are being controlled.”
Your son’s eyes flicker, unsure.
Neteyam continues, “Those feelings are real. But your words,” His tone hardens. “,your words were a weapon.”
Your son swallows. “I didn’t mean it.”
Neteyam’s gaze stays steady. “Then you should not say it.”
Your son’s eyes shine with sudden tears he refuses to let fall. “I was just,”
“Frustrated,” Neteyam finishes. “I know.”
Your son’s shoulders slump a fraction, relief sneaking in. “So,”
Neteyam cuts him off. “No.”
The single word is firm as stone.
Your son blinks. “No?”
Neteyam straightens a little, still crouched. “You do not get to hurt your mother because you are frustrated.”
Your son’s jaw trembles. “But,”
Neteyam’s voice drops. “Do you understand what you did?”
Your son looks away.
Neteyam reaches out,not to comfort, not yet,just to tilt his chin back gently so he has to face the truth.
“Answer me.”
Your son’s voice is small now. “I… I said I hate her.”
Neteyam nods once. “And what does that do to her heart?”
Your son’s eyes flick to you.
You don’t glare. You don’t punish with your face. You just look back at him,hurt, but present.
His lower lip wobbles.
“I…” he whispers. “It… hurts.”
Neteyam’s voice softens by a breath. “Yes.”
Your son’s tears finally spill, angry at themselves. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”
Neteyam nods again. “Then you will fix it.”
Your son sniffles. “How?”
Neteyam rises to stand fully, towering now, a father in full authority.
“You will apologize,” Neteyam says. “And you will accept the consequences.”
Your son’s eyes widen. “Consequences?”
Neteyam crosses his arms. “You will not go hunting tomorrow. You will stay and help your mother with her work. All day.”
“That’s not fair!” your son blurts.
Neteyam’s expression doesn’t budge. “It is very fair.”
Your son’s voice rises, desperate. “But I was going to go with my friends!”
Neteyam’s tone sharpens like a blade drawn clean. “You should have thought of that before you spoke with hatred.”
Your son’s shoulders shake. “Dad…”
Neteyam holds his gaze. “You are my son. That means you carry our name. You carry our values. You do not shame your mother in her own home.”
Your son wipes his face with his forearm, angry at his tears. “I was mad.”
Neteyam nods once. “Then learn to be mad without being cruel.”
Silence hums.
Then your son turns toward you,hesitant, trembling, like he’s walking into a storm he created.
He stops in front of you.
His voice breaks. “I’m… sorry.”
You breathe slowly. “Tell me what you’re sorry for.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “For saying I hate you. For talking like… like you don’t matter.”
Your heart aches. You reach for him gently. “I do matter.”
He nods violently, tears falling again. “You do. I know.”
You pull him into your arms, and he clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
Neteyam watches, jaw tight, but his eyes soften just a little.
Your son muffles into your shoulder, “I don’t hate you.”
You stroke his hair. “I know, baby.”
Behind you, Neteyam speaks, voice still stern but warmer now. “You will still help tomorrow.”
Your son sniffles. “I know.”
Neteyam steps closer, placing a hand on your son’s shoulder,heavy, grounding.
“And you will speak respectfully,” Neteyam adds. “Even when you are angry.”
Your son nods. “Yes, Dad.”
Neteyam’s voice lowers. “Because your mother is not your enemy.”
Your son whispers, “She’s my mom.”
Neteyam nods. “Exactly.”
He pauses, then adds quietly,so only you and your son can hear,“And if you ever use the word ‘hate’ like that again… you will answer to me.”
Your son shudders, but he nods. “I understand.”
You look up at Neteyam, grateful and tired all at once.
Neteyam meets your eyes, and the sternness fades from his face just enough to show the love underneath.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly,to you.
You swallow. “I am now.”
Neteyam’s hand slides to your shoulder, thumb brushing once in silent support.
Then, to your son, Neteyam says, “Go wash your face.”
Your son pulls back, embarrassed, and nods quickly. “Okay.”
He leaves, quieter than he came.
When the marui is still again, Neteyam exhales slowly, turning to you.
“I heard him,” he says, voice rough. “And I,” He shakes his head. “I am sorry.”
You reach for his hand. “You handled it.”
Neteyam looks down at your fingers in his, then back up. “He will learn.”
You nod. “With you, he will.”
Neteyam leans down, pressing his forehead to yours for a long moment.
