“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

Translation:

Paywll: "water plant", is an unusual plant that stores water in its tissues.

“If you want to call me, use this. I want to stay in touch with you.”

You once gave him a device similar to his throat comm, and it could only connect to your phone.

Yet after 3 months settling in Awa’atlu, he hasn’t called you.

You figure that he must have been very busy learning new things there. A selfish part of you constantly criticizes him for abandoning you. Sometimes, you want to pick up your phone and call him, tell him how you miss him since he left Omatikaya and how you want him to be here, on your bed.

But you can’t, because you are only his friend, and you don’t have the rights to be upset at him just because he hasn’t talked to you. Maybe he has found a beautiful Mekayina girl there, enjoying his life after years fighting the RDA. Maybe he sees you nothing but a human girl in the lab, who always follow Norm like a tail.

Perhaps he does, you barely interacted with him except for a few times tending to his wounds. It must have been so weird for him when you came and gave him that throat comm, he must have thought you were a total freak. You bet he had thrown the comm away as soon as you were out of his sight.

Nights in the High Ground are not so different with days, since lights are weaker in here.  You are staying in your bed, negative thoughts eat inside you slowly and you could feel tears prickling in your lashes. Then suddenly, your phone rings.

The sharp sound shatters the eerie quietness of the night.

You jolt awake, hand is about to reach for the device on your bed stand before grumbling and pulling your hand back. You figure it’s Spidy, that jackass likes doing these stuffs at night to prevent you from having your beauty sleep. Because who the heck is calling you at three in the morning?

But the phone keeps ringing and budging on the table. Unlike Spider’s usual sharp and fast calls.

You click your tongue, so it’s Norm. You think so.

Picking the phone and pressing it near your ear, you let out a clipped “Hello?”.

“Y/n.” His voice echoes on the other line.

________________________

Neteyam doesn’t know why the hell he’s here, fumbling sneakily like a total thief under these massive trees, his tail flicking in anxiety as he catches another sound behind him. Hand grabbing tightly the comm you gave him, he finds a perfect spot under a tree to rest on.

His heart is still pounding rapidly in his chest and it might burst into pieces already. When he wake up from that weird dream, he was afraid that the whole village could hear his heartbeat. He didn’t think of anything else but scrambling up out of his family’s marui, didn’t register how his hand snatched the throat comm and ran here.

Rutting in Na’vi is a normal thing, and most of the time he manages it to be taken care of.  Usually, Neteyam doesn’t feel anything but a simple horny urge or tightness under his loin. Sure, it’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t make him act like an animal with super strong desire to mate.

Lately, it’s different somehow.

The heat comes from his chest is different. So suffocating that he feels dizzy every time he walks or does something. His attitude gets worse and more sulky than ever. He wants to let his hand wander down there and ease himself, despite never doing this in any previous ruts. He can’t even understand how some growls escape his lips when Lo’ak does his usual stunts.

He hates the bewilderment evident on his siblings’ face when he snaps, hates the way Jake’s brows furrow in disapproval at his mumbling, loathes the worry looks his mother gives him when she sees circles under his eyes.

Even though he keeps reminding, reprimanding and promising to himself that he would never let anger take its toll and cause disharmony in his family again, he continues to forget his vow whenever a slight inconvenience occurs.

Today, for example, he had argued with Lo’ak more than he wanted to. He couldn’t help it, his baby brother kept. pissing. him. off by going far from the reef just to find Payakan. How easy it was to just stay in the village, helping people instead of going out there where he was almost killed?? Exhausted after hours glaring and babysitting Lo’ak, Neteyam decided to go to sleep.

The woven floor was not really comfortable either, he missed the hammock’s fibers back in his home. He tossed and turned around, it took him quite some time to drift into sleep with a frown between his brows.

Naively, he once thought that sleeping was the easiest way to relieve all the stress he had to endure all day long, a way to escape reality too.

He could never be more wrong.

The first thing Neteyam could feel was someone’s soft hand touched his thigh, he didn’t notice how tiny it was until he opened his eyes and looked around.

It was his home, his forest, the very stream near by that he came to wash himself after a long days hunting. The gentle breeze brushed over his forehead and Neteyam didn’t think of anything but happiness flooding through his veins. Neteyam let out a content sigh and dropped his head back onto the ground.

His eyes trailed below, only to find you sitting between him, looking down at him with your familiar eyes; that same dress you wore when you said goodbye to him, now cling on your tiny frame like a small fabric.

Heat coursing through his face, if he could see himself right now, he would see purple spreads from the tip of his ears to his torso. Slowly, you crawled up to Neteyam’s body with a grin, your movements were graceful and predatory like a cat.

Neteyam was utterly baffled as his body makes no move to sit up, or at least budging a muscle when you were on all four, stalking up his body like a hungry palulukan in front of its feast. Warmness bloomed in Neteyam’s abdomen when you sat on his belly, his skin made contact with the soft material of your panties; the puffy sleeves of your dress slipped lower, representing him with your tender skin and your round breasts. Nipples were already hardened under the cool air and his heated gaze, begging for his touch.

He gulped, hooded eyes barely left the sight before flicking back to stare at your face.

“Y/n…” He said, more a like a grunt. “What are you…”

You stretched lazily before bending down, bare chest touched his. The pebbled buds made contact with Neteyam and a shudder run through his large figure. Neteyam couldn’t help a small whimper escaped his throat, his face felt like they were on fire by how hard you stared at him.

“It’s been so long, Teyam.” You whispered, pressing a light kiss on his chin and grinned mischievously when he moved his head trying to capture your lips. “Don’t you miss me?”

“Y/n…”

He wanted to say more, say something more so he could express his loneliness without you, his craving for your body, for your gentle touches when you cared for his injuries. Gosh, even a fleeting eyes contact with you was adequate to leave him stay awake all night. But you were not here, not by his side like you meant to be, what welcomed him in mornings was not your usual smile, but the fever Metkayina heat.

He knew words were insufficient in this situation.

Freaky enough, Neteyam instinctively palmed your backside, his fingers dig in slightly to feel the fullness of you. Neteyam’s skin was hot to the touch, however, the female above him eagerly traced her hand down on his sides.

“I’ve missed you so much, Teyam.”

Your tongue darted out to lap at his Adam apple, extracting a delicious groan from him and you drank it down. Lips made its way lower and lower until you mouthed his abdomen, right above the edge of his loincloth.

“Why don’t you call me?” You gave him a kitten lick and amused at the tensing of his muscles.

“W-what?”

“My throat comm.” You repeated, orbs ogling at him. “Call me.”

Your blunt teeth nibbling his skin while right hand sliding down between his legs. Your other hand skillfully untied the knots on his loincloth; with a quick flick of your wrist, the fabric was tossed away, leaving a naked space between his legs where his member should be. Excitement mixed with anxiety filled his chest full when you leaned down and kissed the empty space.

Neteyam’s toes immediately curled up in pleasure as the flat of your tongue traced the hidden slit. Fingers tangling in your hair either tried to push you away or pull you closer, he didn’t know which. Your tongue felt so soft, so so soft just like he knew it would be as it lapped the slick leaking from the slit, he noticed the way your thighs clenched together despite itself.

“Y/n…” He groaned. Wet hot patch of saliva coated the puffy slit, he almost squealed just as the head of his cock peeked out and you sucked on the tip like your favourite ice cream. The weird lubricant had your pupils dilate wide that your eyes were almost pitch black, filled with lustful thoughts as you dived in deeper.

Neteyam palm cradled behind your head, encouraging you to lick harder as his hips jerking up despite the firm hold of your hand on his hip. Hooded eyes ogling you eating him out when his cock slide out further, the tip made its way to your mouth as you went up and down all his length, determined to taste every inch of him. It was so good, the soft texture of your human tongue was nothing but a wet silk underside of his cock, luring him into the bliss as you choked on his massive length.

“H-haa, fu-fuck, Y/n…” Neteyam gasped, hips buckling off the ground only to be put back in place by your hand massaging his balls.

His breaths became shallow and heavy when you bullied your own throat by pushing him deeper, causing you to choke and your throat convulsed around his girth. Neteyam couldn’t even blink, his hand gripped your hair tightly, tears welled up in his eyes from the pleasure you were giving him with your mouth. When the lavender tip hit the back of your throat, you pulled away and smirking as he let out a small whine, mourning your heat around his cock, cradling him and keeping him safe.

“Calm down.” Your voice raspy from the harsh treatment you bestowed on yourself. “I’ll give you more, be a good boy and take what I give you, alright?”

Even though mantra of promises of not losing his composure flooded in his brain, he couldn’t stop the feral whimper he made when you had this twisting gently around his cock like a doorknob; your small fingers wrapped around him with both of your hand; and Great Mother, he thought he must have been heavy since you could barely hold him all.

The sight of you leaning down to lap at the slit on top his tip elicited more whimpers and moans from Neteyam, your hand stroked from near the head to the base, causing more pre cum drip down your knuckles and you used it as a tube by smearing the slick liquid all over his length. You tilted your head and dragged your tongue along his thick shaft, making him glistening with your saliva. Neteyam gritted his teeth as bliss barreling toward him, his legs were shaking uncontrollably when you sped up your fist, the tip disappeared and reappeared again in your palm rapidly.

It was not right, you shouldn't be here doing this. You were not even his friend, you were just a human in the lab that helped his People; you barely talked to him and he doubted you had had anything for him at all. But here, Neteyam couldn't care less when you bobbed your head up and down, tried to take him as many as you could into your wet, soft,hot mouth. The feeling of his tip nudged against your throat drove him to insanity, you were unable to take a half of him, yet the sight was more than enough to be his undoing. Your tongue laving lovingly at the underside of his cock; with every drag of the wet muscle, you earned a grunt from him as he was tipped over the cliff of oblivion.

Fuck, he couldn’t take it anymore, Neteyam’s fingers tightened in your hair as he fucked your throat harder and ignored all your gags around him. He was mean, he knew it, but you were so warm, wet and perfect.

“Y/n…Y/n..F-Ngh, Great Mother-”

Just a little bit more, come on baby, you can do it. Plese please please pl-

Neteyam gasped when the feel of hot liquid ran over his long spine, toward his tail and went straight up to his erection. The moment he cum, his mind shattered into million pieces and Neteyam swore that there was cotton in his ears, preventing him to hear anything, anything at all but your soft moans and the sticky sounds of his seed filling up your mouth.

And then he jerked awake.

His body jumped, like the way he jumped when he was falling off a cliff in a dream. The strangle gasp escaped his lips was not really loud, at least to the family members sleeping around him. But to Neteyam it was just as loud as a thunder. Neteyam’s eyes went white for a split second before he blinked rapidly and tried to make sense everything around him.

When he realized he was in his marui, shame flooded into his face. Short pants coming from his mouth were fast and sharp and he had to press a hand on his chest to not wake up his family.

Neteyam immediately looked down only to find his loincloth now had a sizeable tent.

He was hard.

So hard, even, Neteyam could practically see a tiny wet spot on the cloth stained by the precum dripping from his erection. He didn’t cum, no, but he was unsatisfied, aching with need and his body was begging to mate someone right now. His cock pulsing and twitching and urged him to go find you, fuck, that was the worse part; find you to mate and to bury himself deep inside you, knot you and fill you up until you couldn't take it anymore but screaming and begging him to stop.

Horrified with what his body had done to your images, Neteyam quickly got up and left the marui without anyone noticed.

He didn't register how he grab the throat comm you gave him, he could've sworn that he ran without anything but the shameful feeling stuffed in his chest. Nevertheless, confusion and arousal swirled wildly in his brain when he realized the comm throat in his palm.

Now, under the embrace of the night and having time to gather his thoughts, Neteyam can't believe what he has just done, tainting your image like that, what a pervert he is.

Neteyam inhales sharply, frustration and guilt creeping up. He didn't mean to dream like that, he never means to do that to you. This wet dream was only a byproduct of his rut, he couldn't control it, how would he know if he was gonna dream about you? He should not feel bad just because his body gets out of his control in things like this. Of course he shouldn't.

Until he looks down at his groin again.

He's still aroused, not getting any softer after all this time he has stayed here, thinking, calming and justifying himself for the weird dream. The presence of the tent is nothing but a thorn in his eyes.

Your face is still a tornado running around his fuzzy and static brain. In spite of trying in vain not to think about you, he's still hard, pulsing and needy. Neteyam's hand comes up to palm the tent, only to give it an experimental squeeze to ease himself.

It isn't working, Neteyam needs someone else's hand.

Your hand, for specific.

For the first time in Neteyam's life, he is stunted to know why he has been so moody lately. Unable to close his lagging jaw, Neteyam recounts everything had happened when he was still back at his clan.

Not because "he's older, so the urge to mate is stronger", no. He's not a teenager anymore, he knows when his desire gets too overwhelmed. Neteyam has passed the phrase when he got all confused about his own body.

You were always around when he was in rut.

That scent.

That sweet smell always managed to ease him down. And Neteyam, as an oblivious person he was, filed it as a pleasant smell that you humans had.

Not a single thought had crossed his mind as he buried himself in duties, in being the future Olo'eyktan, never had he wondered why he was so drawn to you and enjoyed your company too much despite never saying anything at all. How could he never be self-conscious when his orbs stuck to your backside, hypnotized by the light sway of your hips? How he gulped down but never admitted that sinful thoughts about you had already filled up his head?

Most of all, how the hell he always thought that it was a genuine curiosity about the humans?

Needless to say, the loud groan coming from his throat is enough to wake a whole village up. Lucky that he’s far away from them or otherwise he’d face with startled looks of his siblings when they saw him in this state.

And most of all, he needs to ease himself first; he can’t go back to his marui while being hard, can he?

“My throat comm, call me.”

It’s middle of the night, he doubts you are still awake right now. And you are certainly not going to talk about your day if he calls you. But he really needs you, he does, he craves your soft voice, the small chuckles when you find something funny. This is a very bad idea, still, it’s only thing he has. Just a small hello, a small sound of you then it would be more than enough to make him cum.

So he presses the buttons on his comm. At first, there is nothing but a small static sounds vibrating his ear.  Neteyam figures that you must have been slept peacefully now, of course you are, it’s so stupid of him to even try to call you, he should head home a-

“Hello?”

Your voice cuts through the mantra in his head, and for a split second, Neteyam heart goes still.

Was that really you?

“Y/n?” Neteyam asks softly, to make sure that was really you rather than his horny mind tricking him. He listens carefully again, making sure that no sound escapes his twitching ears.

Just when he is about to pull the comm away, you speak again.

“Neteyam, is that you?”

Just a second before, when his heart was not beating, is a stark contrast to the pounding rhythm in his chest now. Neteyam could almost see the heat running from the lower of his stomach to the very tip of his ears, and most importantly, the hot feeling rushes over his unsheathed cock.

Untying his loincloth frantically, Neteyam keeps his voice steady. “Y/n, oh hey, it’s been so long.”

What a stupid opening, what the heck he supposes to say? “I need you and I just had a wet dream about you where you sucked my dick”? No! He can’t say that!

The other line stays silent, there is nothing but a rustling noises of metal and something soft scratching. Regret instantly covers Neteyam’s frame; of course, of course you would find him annoying for calling you.

“Neteyam, what’s the matter? Why so late?” Your concern voice barely above a whisper. There it is, the gentle murmur of you.

“I-I’m sorry, it’s just…it’s been so long and I didn’t mean to wake you up-”

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t asleep anyway.” You cut him off. “But why so late? You are not a night owl, if I remember.”

Neteyam’s hand reaching up to palm the tip of his cock and squeezing it just right, forcing yet another drop of precum out of his weeping tip. Just like that, you just need to keep talking like that.

“I don’t have time to call you at daytime, I’ve tried but I need to learn more things, y’know.” He grunts softly.

“Hm, but it’s three in the morning. Can’t call me sooner?”

The natural lubricant ,leaking from the outer lips of his slit, is helping the contact between his cool palm and his hot, needy erection more slippery. Neteyam closes his eyes for a second while letting out a soft hum, he can’t call you sooner because he wouldn't be allowed to do this.

“Can’t,” Neteyam strokes the hard cock of his, he wants to growl in frustration because his palm is not hot enough, not enough at all when he knows how warm you could be.

You let the matter go as you respond him with a small sigh. “So, any big event coming up?”

Neteyam scrunches his nose as he imagines the hot breaths of yours fanning across his skin, the kitten kisses you gave him when he was still dreaming.

“No, not really.” Neteyam fists his length faster, the small, wet, squelching sounds ring in his ears whenever the tip appears inside his palm. “Tell me about your day, I don’t really have things to tell.”

Then you precede to tell him about how things have been going lately, and Neteyam is unable to focus on anything. He doesn’t give a damn about how you examine your samples, he just thinks about the plump lips of yours; how your mouth would look when you pronounce the words “Paywll” with a small “O” when it comes to the “wll” part. That very pink lips would be pursing, all tiny and cute, he wishes you could do that when you try to peck him on the lips.

And if he caught you, he would devour you.

“Neteyam-” Your eyes would fly open, cheek flushing a shame rose red when his huge mouth engulfed yours. You’d taste so sweet, much sweeter than any nectar on this moon and Neteyam would rather die than to leave your mouth alone for a second, instead, he would kiss you and let you gasping for air, cry and beg him when you manage to pull away. Your lips would be red and swollen from the harsh treatment, and then he dive in again.

But it’s nicer to have your lips wrapped around his cock instead.

He’s too big for you, your humans could barely take a half of him without choking and gagging. You would look up, eyes wet and red rimmed, asking for encouragement and guidance. And shit, he remembers how you licked his girth when you were in his dream, and he would guide your soft tongue along his cock just like that. Hissing a small “good girl” and you would eagerly dive in deeper.

That being said, he’s getting more desperate right now. His relentless hand is frantically working on every inch of him while you’re still talking in that honeyed tone. The sticky lubricant and amount of pre cum only add to the sensation as he slides his thumb across the now dark purple tip. Neteyam groans softly.

“Anything else?”

You seem to think for a while before adding. “And oh, Norm lets me ride on his Ikran with him today.”

“Uh huh,”

“I’ve always wished to ride an ikran one day, but I want to ride yours too.”

“Ride mine?” A smallest puff of air comes out from his mouth, sounding like a laugh that your humans’ ears can’t pick up.

“Mm, your ikran riding is very good, no? So…I guess it’d be fun.”

You could ride me instead.

 “It would, of course.” Neteyam breathlessly answers, his hips twitching and jerk off the ground to thrust deeper and faster into his hand.

Because duh, it would be ten times more fun when you could try to ride him. Your thighs shaking and flows of wetness would coat both him and you, all the time just you on top of him and try to take him as much as you can. Your warm, tiny, pretty cunt would greedily pull him in; restlessly, impatiently as you sobbing and pleading him.

He wishes what coming out from you right now was “T-too big, Neteyam, can’t take it.”, rather than “I don’t know if I can actually ride it without screaming your ears off.”

“Yes you can,”  

You were made for me.

He would answer like that, softly and tenderly to coax you more open and relaxing for him. And you couldn’t stop the shameless moans flowing out as his thumb press on the sensitive nub on your clit, flicking and rubbing it; maybe sometimes give you nothing but a fleeting touch and watch you arch your back in need, pressing his digit firmer against you.

Instead of giving you what you want, Neteyam would simply trail his fingers toward the budge on your abdomen and press, earning a silent gasp from you. Your eyes would close shut, letting him watch with glee as the bulge disappear and reappear again and again. He bets you would moan:

“Yes! Oh gosh.” You say on the other line. “Today I found a type of plants that similar with a trampoline, it was really funny; I spent an hour bouncing on that.”

“You should be bouncing on another different thing.” Neteyam slips, but quickly adds. “The woven floor in here is very bouncy too.”

“It is?”

“Mhm…”

Neteyam’s wrist twists at the top, a shudder courses through his long spine and he jumps from the sensation;  stroking himself faster while imagining you bounce on top of him, your round, perfect breasts would jiggle and lure him to lean forward and suck those rose bubs into his mouth. Licking and lavishing them like there would be something come out, he’s sure that your nipples would look even more delicious with white milk flowing out.

It’s such a shame that you always cover them with your human clothing; there’s no need to hide those because they are so beautiful. It’s a part of your body, why would you have to hide it so well?

Not like he hasn’t seen a little bit of you, when you fell into the river and he had to help you up. The white shirt became transparent and the blue (matched his skin) bra was basically right in front his eyes and Neteyam reluctantly peeled his eyes off despite the urge to rip your bra apart and see what was underneath.

The friction of Neteyam’s hand and cock causes his breathing more heavier, more rapturous and you can’t help but ask.

“Are you okay? I’ve heard that Awa’atlu is really hot at night.” You rumble. “Is that why you’re panting?”

“Y-Yeah-fu- yeah, yes,” He fucks his fist frantically, slowly, that very weird warmness spreads all over his abdomen. “I have to go far away to not wake Tuk. She’s a light sleeper.”

“Mm hm, we can’t make much noise, can we?” You smack your lips, the laugh gets blurred via the earset.

“Yeah,”

Of course we can’t; you wouldn’t want people see us making love, would you?

It only heightens the already stuffed desire in his chest, he won’t last long by how hard he strokes himself right now. The lewd and gooey sounds coming where his hand is still working on his cock is loud enough for you to hear; strangely, you don’t question him and that makes relief flood in Neteyam’s frame.

It would be better if the sounds were from his skin slapping yours. You are quite a shy woman and he didn’t get the opportunities to talk to you thoroughly until now. You are not a very talkative person either, based on how constantly he has been prompting you to talk.

But it that really the case when you’re in bed?

Would you scream? Would you beg? Cry? Moan? Whimper?

You would beg, he knows it, you would. That very plump, barely talking lips of yours would be so vocal when he enters you behind, drools and tears would run down your cheek and temper as your face was pressed onto the mattress.

“P-Please, please, Neteyam. T-Too big…” You’d cry, hand trying to push Neteyam’s abdomen but your hips would bucking against his. Please more! Please stop!

Neteyam doubles his speed and spits into his palm to get it more slippery as he imagines it was you he’s fucking into rather than his fist. Great Mother, it’s not fair for him to get all needy like this without you- his future mate- near him. If he could go back home right now, he would, he’d rush into your room and kiss you, kiss you breathlessly and plow into your cunt like it was his home. It is his home, and he’ll come home soon.

The very end of his cock swells a large bulb of tissue and he presses on it lightly, his thighs shaking from the pleasure and Neteyam’s fangs are quick to dig into his lower lip.

“I think I should come.” You voice cuts through the hazy fog around his mind. He blinks yet his hand couldn’t stop its movements.

“W-what?” Neteyam asks again, panting.

“Visit your family,” You casually reply. “It’s been so long, Neteyam.”

“It’s been so long, Teyam. Don’t you miss me?”

“Yeah, you should, things in here are very interesting.” Come here so I can be your mate, please. I need you.

“I will,” You chuckle. “It’s quite late, you need sleep too?”

He uses the last of his strength to hold back the loud moan busting from the back of his vocal cords, as electricity shoots from the back of his tail to very end of his erection. Instantly, Neteyam wraps his digit around the large bulb-like tissue tightly.  Rope after rope of pearly, sticky liquid flows out and spills over his abdomen and knuckles. It looks so flithy and messy and Neteyam wishes he could cum inside you instead, locking you with his knot and you would be too small to hold all of his seed. Dribbles of his cum would leak out of you as you whimper in shame.

“This pussy needs more practice, y’know? To hold all of my seed.” He’d tease you, he should tease you just like that.

“Yeah, it’s q-quite late. G-good night…Good night, Y/n.” Neteyam speaks through his gritting teeth as he comes down from his high. Distantly, via the daze and hazy mind of his, Neteyam can still hear your soft smile.

“Byeeee. I’ll be there soon.” You draw out the tone.

“Yeah…” He breathes out, eyes closing shut from the post orgasm. “Can’t wait to meet you…”

“Me too, Neteyam, me too.”

And then you hung up.

________________________

You hung up, your eyes drift from your phone to your computer.

The screen shows Neteyam using water to clean himself after jerking off and tying back his loincloth. Just as he takes off the comm from his throat, the screen goes dark.

You hum when a smirk pulls at your lips; it was a very tough mission when fitting that mini camera into his throat comm, but it was worth it.

Every second of it.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Because I do not want to make a fool of myself. You know that.”

“You could never be a fool.” He said it with ease, like a truth that needed no argument, but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes lidded—was a look akin to what mates give each other. 

You missed it completely.

“I’m serious,” you huffed, scowling at the strand that slipped from your braid-in-progress. “This is supposed to be for Tuktirey. I want it to be perfect.”

Neteyam made a soft sound, barely a hum, and sat beside you. His thigh pressed against yours, warm and solid, his skin smelling faintly of crushed leaves and sweat. “She will love it,” he said. “Even if you tie all the pieces backwards. It is from you.”

Your fingers stilled. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

It came without hesitation. Like he was already certain of every word you hadn’t yet said. Like he’d spent moons learning the rhythm of your voice, the exact pitch of it when you doubted yourself. There were so many things he knew about you. How you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. The way your tail curled around your ankle when you were cold. That you never called him by his full name when you were truly angry with him.

But still, somehow, you didn’t notice when he flirted.

He shifted closer, the curve of his mouth sharpening. “Do you want to know a secret?”

You turned to him slowly, wary but curious. “What kind of secret?”

His eyes glinted with mischief, teeth catching in the brief grin that flashed across his face. “One from the sky people. My father told me. It is something they do when they are… very close.”

You tilted your head, shoulders tense, unsure if you were meant to feel wary or honored. “Close? Like mated?”

“No,” he said, voice dropping, “not always. Sometimes just… very good friends.”

“Friends do this?”

He nodded solemnly, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “Yes. It is called… kissing.”

Your brow furrowed. “Kissing?”

He leaned in. “You press your lips to another’s lips. Soft. Maybe warm. It is not about touching bodies. It is… how they show trust. Care. It is not like the Na’vi ways. But it means something.”

You considered him carefully. “You say they do this with friends?”

“Very close friends,” he repeated, his voice dropping even lower, smoky, touched with a sweetness that curled in your chest like the first flickers of a fire. “Friends who mean… very much to one another.”

He saw the hesitation in your eyes and reached for your hand slowly, reverently, like he was handling a wounded bird. His thumb swept the back of your knuckles. “We are close, are we not?”

You blinked. “Of course we are.”

Neteyam’s smile widened just a breath, but there was no cruelty in it, only the soft swell of affection, fond and burning. “I have always known your heart. I see you. And I know you trust me.”

You nodded. “With everything.”

The moment hung there, suspended between heartbeats. The wind didn’t move. The forest seemed to hush, holding its breath. Your pulse beat heavy in your ears, not from fear, but from the strange warmth beginning to unfurl behind your ribs. You hadn’t known Neteyam could look at you like that. Like you were more than bark-woven necklaces and careful hands. Like you were more than a friend.

Still, you asked, quiet but unflinching: “Why do you want to do it?”

He didn’t flinch either. His gaze didn’t wander. “Because you are important to me. I want to… show you. Not just say it.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly, trying to gauge if this was another game, another soft trick of his tongue, like when he teased you about your clumsy knots or your wild braids in the morning. But he was still, the kind of still that felt sacred, like he was baring something raw and rare.

“Alright,” you said, finally. Your voice didn’t shake. “I trust you.”

Neteyam’s laugh was quiet, breathy, a sound that tasted like joy. He squeezed your hand, then guided you down until you both sat cross-legged, knees pressed together, your palms still joined. His hands were large, warm, and gentle, holding you with a care you hadn’t noticed before, or maybe hadn’t wanted to.

He brought his other hand to your jaw, fingertips brushing the skin just below your ear, and your breath hitched. His touch wasn’t demanding. It was reverent. Careful. Like he was asking permission every step of the way.

“You just… close your eyes,” he murmured. “Let it happen.”

Your heart stumbled, but you obeyed. Your lashes lowered. The forest behind your eyelids seemed brighter, painted in strange colors. You could feel every inch of him. His warmth, his breath, the slow rhythm of his thumb against your cheek.

When his lips met yours, it was soft, curious, like a question. His mouth was warm, and the press of it was light, but sure. You felt the world tilt, just slightly, like the ground beneath your legs had shifted.

He didn’t move fast, didn’t deepen it. He stayed there, close, his lips grazing yours like a whisper, like a vow. You exhaled through your nose, instinctively leaning into him, and the smallest, trembling sound escaped you—half a sigh, half a question.

Neteyam pulled back only a breath, his lips still barely touching yours. “Did you feel that?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“That is how sky people show their hearts.”

Your eyes stayed locked on his mouth, the fullness of his lower lip, the way it glistened faintly where it had just touched yours. His breath fanned across your skin and you didn’t lean back, didn’t blink, barely remembered to breathe. The world around you had not changed, but it felt newly born, as if the trees stood taller and the light had melted gold across every leaf. It was your heartbeat that filled your ears, your pulse that echoed, a thrum against your ribs like distant drums. There was a strange pull in your chest, an ache both exhilarating and unknown, as though your body recognized something before your mind had named it.

His fingers tightened around your hand,  with a firm kind of intimacy that grounded you like a vine anchoring into earth. Your breath fled your lungs in a stuttering exhale, and the small, involuntary giggle that escaped your mouth was light as air, startled and soft.

“So…” you tilted your head, eyes closing just slightly, your voice touched with curiosity, “…your father did this with all his close sky friends?”

Neteyam’s expression fractured in real time. First, his brows lifted, the color visibly draining from his face in a rush of disbelief and horror, his mouth parting as if he meant to answer but hadn’t yet found the words. The silence between you stretched taut, and for a moment, he only blinked, as if caught by a dart to the chest. But then his shoulders shook once, and he let out a shaky, unconvincing laugh.

“Y—yes,” he managed, barely above a whisper. “All of them.”

You gave a solemn nod, like you were weighing this new custom with the same reverence you gave the sacred rites of Eywa. “I see,” you said. “I think I understand now… why they do it.”

He gave a sound, half-strangled in his throat, and his eyes searched yours, frantic and unguarded. The lie hung between you like smoke, transparent but cloying, and he must’ve known how little you believed it. But your tone held no accusation, only a quiet, curious honesty, warm as the hand still nestled in his.

“Would you…” he began, voice hushed. “Would you want to do it again?”

The humming sound you made was quiet but clear, the vibration of it rising from your chest with the ease of certainty. He exhaled, a breath that seemed to unspool all the tension from his spine, and without needing to be told, he moved.

He lifted his hand to your face, palm gentle against your cheek, fingertips tracing just beneath your eye with the caution of someone brushing pollen from a flower. You hadn’t expected him to touch you like that, with a reverence usually reserved for prayer. His thumb rested against your jaw, and your lips parted slightly at the feel of it, a soft intake of breath betraying how much it affected you. He leaned in closer, until your noses brushed. The contact was tender, barely there, a subtle rub of bone against bone, warm and close and achingly gentle.

“Ma’ yawne,” he whispered against your mouth, the words trembling on the edge of sound, caught between truth and confession. His voice was velvet, low and hoarse, shaped by the weight of something he hadn’t dared to say before. You didn’t ask what it meant. You only smiled, mouth curling beneath his, your breath warm as you leaned into the kiss he gave you.

This one was not shy.

Where the first had been a question, this was an answer—full and certain. His lips pressed to yours with a quiet urgency, deeper, fuller, hungry in a way he’d tried to hide. His hand slipped from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, holding you in place as he tilted his head, guiding the kiss into uncharted territory. Your breath caught in your throat, and your hands, once limp between you, rose on instinct to clutch at his shoulders, fingers curling into his skin like vines wrapping around stone.

Your bodies tilted inward, the space between you vanishing until his chest pressed to yours, his thighs bracketed against your knees. The heat of him soaked through every layer of skin, and your pulse drummed wildly where your heart met his, your stomach tightening with a deep, curling ache. He kissed you like he needed you to understand what his words couldn’t say yet, like every press of his mouth was a piece of language, building a story only you could read.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, his mouth still brushing yours. His voice came ragged, his words shaped against your lips like a spell.

“Relax.”

Your whole body shuddered with the weight of that word. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d drawn yourself inward, how every muscle had gone taut with the effort of not dissolving. The way he said it. Soft, coaxing, protective, cut through your defenses. Your exhale was slow, trembling, and you melted beneath his hands, your weight pressing into him more fully. The kiss that followed was less urgent, but no less intense. There was trust in it now, not just curiosity, not just wonder, but a sense of giving in.

Neteyam made a sound in his throat, deep and low, like he hadn’t expected the way you melted into him. His hand slid down your back, just enough to steady you as you shifted, your thighs sliding over his, bodies drawn together like branches in a storm.

“I did not think you would let me,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours as his breath fanned over your mouth. His eyes were still closed, lips still parted.

“Why would you think that?” you asked softly, barely more than a breath, your voice threading between you. “We are friends.”

He didn’t answer with words. His silence wasn’t awkward, wasn’t heavy with guilt or uncertainty. His silence was controlled only by the last, fraying edge of restraint. He leaned forward, erasing the space you’d left him, lips closing over yours with a suddenness that stole your breath. This kiss was not shy. It was quiet, but insistent. A low-burning ember set against the skin, smoldering hotter than before. His breath came harder through his nose, warmer now, and the tremor that passed through his body wasn’t subtle.

Your hand moved without thinking, splaying over his chest, your palm landing just above his heart. His skin was hot beneath your touch, his muscles taut, breathing ragged and uneven. He made a sound that was sharp, surprised, almost a growl, shook through his throat and into your mouth, and your body reacted before your mind could make sense of it. Your gasp was soft but clear, lips parting, and in that instant, he surged forward, tongue sliding against yours in a motion so smooth and shameless you whined into the kiss without meaning to.

Neteyam did not wait. His hands slid down your sides,  fingers pressing into your waist as he pulled you fully into his lap, positioning you over his thighs with a possessiveness you had never seen from him before. His body was hot, his pulse thudding beneath your hand like a drumline, and when your hips settled against his, the moan he swallowed into your mouth vibrated through every inch of him. His hands moved freely now, no longer hesitant—one gripping your lower back, the other slipping up your spine, fingers brushing the knots of your necklace, the dip of your waist, the curve of your ribs. The noise that left him was low, pathetic, as if he couldn’t contain the sensation of having you so close, so pliant, so willing.

Your tails flicked between you, brushing, curling, twisting in the chaotic rhythm of your bodies. His moved like it was alive with its own hunger, wrapping and twitching, a mirror of his building tension. Yours betrayed every spike of surprise, each involuntary thrill that coursed through you with every glide of his tongue against yours, every possessive pull of your body closer. Your breathing grew unsteady, helpless against the way his touch mapped you like a newly discovered land, like he wanted to learn every inch of you through fingertips and lips alone.

Neteyam’s hand slid up, into your hair, searching with purpose. His fingers caught the thick braid that lay over your shoulder, and he gave it a firm tug, sharp enough to jolt your attention. Your lips parted from his with a wet gasp, eyes wide, lips damp and swollen. You blinked up at him in dazed confusion, a sound barely escaping you. You didn’t speak, but your expression asked everything: What is it?

He stared at you, lips parted, chest rising in quick, uneven heaves, his golden eyes darkened and wild. His mouth opened, the beginning of a thought taking form on his tongue, the truth curling just behind his teeth.

But before he could speak, the branches overhead rustled.

Not in the distant way of wildlife. Not in the idle, lazy way wind tousles the leaves. This was footsteps. 

Neteyam froze.

The tension in his body snapped taut, like a bowstring drawn too far, and his entire frame locked beneath you. His hands went still. His eyes widened in alarm, lips still hovering close to yours, his breath caught like a trapped animal.

Neytiri’s silhouette slipped through the canopy.

The sight of her; tall, radiant, fierce, descended like cold water over hot stone, hissing through the air. Her presence was quiet but impossible to ignore, a gaze sharp enough to pierce bark and bone alike. She said nothing at first. She only stood, eyes moving slowly between you and her eldest son, face confused.

Neteyam reacted fast. Too fast.

His hands gripped your waist and lifted you off him in one fluid, practiced motion, depositing you onto the soft ground beside him as though your body had burned him. His posture straightened, jaw clenched, tail tucked tight around his thigh, ears snapping back flat in alarm. He looked every bit the warrior-in-training again, despite the rapid flush of color that still stained his cheeks, and the unmistakable wet shine on his lips.

Neytiri stared at you both, her brow arched, arms crossing over her chest. “What is this?”

You blinked at her. A beat passed. Neteyam looked one gust of wind away from fainting, and your own heart thudded high in your throat.

You smiled.

Sweet. Innocent. Like the question was about gathering berries or collecting beads.

“Kissing,” you announced brightly, tilting your head. “We were kissing!”

Neteyam made a noise—a strangled, horrified groan—as his hands flew to his face, dragging down across his features in sheer disbelief.

Whispers followed. Curious looks. Tsireya’s knowing smiles. Aonung never reacted to any of it. If he sensed eyes on him, he didn’t flinch only glanced at you, as if checking whether you were still comfortable.

“I don’t actually need this anymore,” you said one afternoon, resting in the shallows while your ilu drifted lazily nearby. Your breathing was steady now. The water no longer felt like something you had to fight.

Aonung circled once, then stopped in front of you. “You’re assuming I agree.”

You lifted a brow. “I’ve done the turn three times without drifting.”

“Four,” he corrected, his familiar smile appearing.

You crossed your arms in the water, watching him, a smile dancing on your mouth. “You’re looking for excuses.”

“Maybe,” he said calmly, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Or maybe I enjoy watching you prove me wrong.”

You met his gaze. He smiled at you like he clearly enjoyed this.

“You’ve learned quickly,” he added after a moment. “Too quickly.” He mumbled the last part, quietly annoyed.

You laughed at that.

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It is,” he replied, watching your smile with amusement in his eyes. Then, quieter: “And a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t need me anymore,” he said, “I won’t have a reason to keep stealing you away from everyone else.” He smiled wide, swimming closer to you.

Something warm flickered low in your chest. You didn’t answer immediately just watched the way the light fractured across the water between you.

“You’re a dummy.”

He laughed, his eyes watching you warmly.

Your evenings became inevitable.

At sunset, when the heat bled out of the air and the reef glowed faintly beneath the surface, you found each other by the same stretch of shore. Some nights you sat on warm rock, others with your feet trailing in the water, tails brushing occasionally. Never acknowledged, never pulled away.

You spoke of small things. Of currents and stars and the way the ocean changed color depending on the light. Sometimes he asked about the forest with genuine interest.

There were pauses between conversations stretches where neither of you felt the need to fill the space. You leaned closer without acknowledging it. Your shoulders touched more often. His hand rested behind you on the rock, close enough to feel, never quite claiming.

The tension built quietly.

It lived in the way his eyes lingered when you laughed softly at something he said. In how he watched your mouth when you spoke. In the care he took not to touch you unless you moved first.

You looked at him as he quietly watched the ocean line. He looked so calm. You studied him. The way the last light caught along his cheekbones.

“You’re quiet,” you observed.

He immediately looked at you, tilting his head slightly with a smile.

“Is it bothering you?”

“Kinda. I’m used to you talking,” you said.

He chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I don’t want to ruin things,” he said after a moment, voice low and even.

“Ruin what?” you asked.

He looked back out at the horizon, where the sun was slipping beneath the water, slow and inevitable. “This,” he replied. “You.”

You shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move away.

“You wouldn’t.”

Aonung nodded, like that confirmed something he’d already suspected. “Good to know.”

The water below reflected copper and violet, breaking into ripples each time your feet moved. The air was cooler now, carrying salt and something faintly floral from the reef.

“You’re different from before,” you said after a while.

He glanced at you. “Before when?”

“When you first met me,” you replied. “You were louder.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I was trying to get a reaction.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t need one,” he said. “I know where I stand.”

You felt that settle somewhere deep in your chest.

His hand shifted behind you, fingers brushing the stone near your hip, close enough that you noticed, careful enough that it still felt like a question. You leaned back just slightly, letting your weight rest nearer to him.

He inhaled, slow.

“I think,” he said, measured, “that if I touched you the way I want to, you’d leave.”

You turned your head toward him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t like being pushed,” he answered honestly. “You like choosing.”

The quiet stretched again.

You reached back without looking, your fingers grazing his knuckles.

“Then let me choose,” you said.

His hand closed around yours. Just enough to let you feel the warmth of him, the steadiness. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t speak.

He just stayed.

And somehow, that did more than anything else he could have said.

Torches lined the platforms, their reflections shivering across the water. Drums echoed low and steady, vibrating through the planks beneath your feet, through bone and breath. The Metkayina gathered in layered blues and greens, voices rising and falling in ritual cadence. It was beautiful.

You stood slightly apart, as you often did, watching rather than participating.

Aonung was among the young hunters at the center. He didn’t look nervous but you knew him well enough now to recognize the tension beneath his stillness. The way his hands flexed once at his sides. The way his jaw set when the elders began to chant.

When the marking began, the village quieted.

Ink was pressed into skin with practiced care, each line deliberate, permanent. You watched the slow reveal of the pattern across his face the curve of it, sharp and proud. It suited him in a way that felt almost inevitable, as if it had always been waiting there.

He didn’t look out at the crowd when it was done.

He looked for you.

The moment his gaze found yours, something in his expression shifted. Pride softened into something more personal. More intent.

You smiled at him, and he smiled back.

As the ceremony continued around you, you left your place and went to the shore to breathe fresh air, the songs still echoing in the background.

Soon the ceremony ended and the voices shifted into celebration, you heard footsteps behind you. You immediately knew who it was.

“I knew you’d be here,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the waves.

You turned to him. Your gaze traced the markings slowly. When you finally lifted your eyes to his, they were already on you.

“What do you think?” he asked, proud, showing off.

“I like it. It fits you,” you said.

A corner of his mouth curved.

“Good,” he replied. “Because I didn’t care what anyone else thought.”

He hesitated then before stepping closer, lowering his voice further. “I wanted you to see it first. Properly.”

He took your wrist, lifting your hand and resting it above his eye, where the tattoo sat. His eyes never broke from yours. Your breath hitched at the action, but you didn’t move your hand away. Your fingers brushed his skin lightly, tracing the edge of the fresh lines. His breath stuttered.

The world around you seemed to fall away—the songs dulling into nothing more than distant sound.

“You’ve been very patient,” you said.

He let out a quiet breath. “You make patience feel like a test.”

You leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to pull back.

He leaned in closing the distance.

The kiss was unhurried, grounded settling into something certain and warm. His hand came to your waist, firm but respectful, anchoring you as if the ground beneath you might give way. Your hand rested at his cheek, feeling the steady strength beneath your palm.

When you pulled back, the celebration surged around you again but it felt changed somehow. Like the world had shifted a degree to the left.

Aonung rested his forehead briefly against yours.

“I wasn’t going to rush this,” he said quietly.

You met his gaze, calm and deliberate as ever.

“Sure you weren’t,” you replied.

He smiled at your words.

"I see you." You said softly waiting for your reaction.

He put his hand on your cheek. "And i see you."

A light smile grazed your hazy features as the memories from the night before came rushing back, vivid and dangerous and entirely too tempting for early morning thoughts. The way Steve kissed. Slow at first, hesitant, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. And then the way that hesitation vanished, replaced by something darker, more confident. The way his hands had held you like he already knew exactly where you belonged.

God.

You were getting warm just thinking about it.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, your breath catching as the sensation lingered longer than it had any right to. There was something almost dizzying about knowing that Captain America, the man the world worshipped for his restraint and honor, had kissed you like he wanted to forget everything else existed.

A part of you felt relieved.

Relieved that you had finally said it out loud. That you both had. That the tension that had been poisoning every shared space for weeks had finally snapped instead of suffocating you slowly. You had spent so long wondering if you were imagining it, if you were projecting something that wasn’t really there.

You weren’t.

Turning around fully in his arms, you didn’t care if you woke the super soldier next to you. If anything, you wanted him awake. Wanted him aware. Wanted him to feel the same certainty thrumming through your chest.

You pressed soft kisses over his bare, muscular chest, your lips lingering against warm skin, your hands braced on either side of him. His heartbeat was steady beneath your mouth, strong and grounding. You kissed along the faint trail of hair there, letting yourself enjoy the way his body reacted even before his mind fully caught up.

Steve let out a low, husky groan, his abs tensing beneath every kiss. His arm tightened reflexively around you, his fingers flexing against your back. “what are you doing?” he teased you.

This time it came way easier. His teasing sounded natural, unguarded, like he wasn’t afraid of the words landing wrong anymore.

“oh nothing,” you said with a cheeky grin as you shifted, kneeling between his bare thighs. You continued to lick and kiss along his chest, slowly, deliberately, tracing your way down until you reached the very prominent v line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, his head falling back against the pillow. For a moment, he let himself get lost in it. His hands slid into your hair, not pulling, just holding, his thumbs brushing along your scalp like he was grounding himself there. His breathing grew uneven, his chest rising and falling faster as his hips shifted almost unconsciously toward you.

For a few seconds, the good soldier vanished.

There was only the man, heat and want and the intoxicating realization that you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

Then he caught himself.

Steve let out a steady breath, controlled but strained, before his hands moved up under your arms and he pulled you up his body suddenly. You let out a surprised squeal when he flipped the two of you around like it was nothing, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he braced himself over you.

He was over you now, eyes dark, jaw tight, breathing still a little rough. “none of that.”

You pouted up at him, deliberately exaggerated, your hands resting on his shoulders. “why not?” you whined.

His expression softened immediately, like your voice had flipped some internal switch. “because i want to take you out on a real date before i get you back in my bed like that again,” Steve said.

There it was.

The good boy was back.

You smiled despite yourself, something warm and fond blooming in your chest. “wasn’t good of me to do that last night shoulda waited,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone like he thought he’d crossed some invisible line.

“Well captain I personally had a great time, morals aside,” you teased, leaning up just enough to kiss the tip of his nose.

He let out a low groan at the nickname, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “not making this easy for me doll,” he said softly. “just so beautiful.”

Your heart stuttered at the sincerity in his voice.

“well guess what?” you said.

“hm,” he hummed, his nose brushing yours.

“I love you.”

You needed to say it again. Needed him to hear it when you were fully awake, when there was no doubt or haze to blame it on. You needed him to know that you meant it just as much in the quiet morning light as you had the night before.

His eyes softened instantly.

“I love you too baby,” he said, leaning down to kiss you.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, his lips moving against yours like he had all the time in the world. For a second, he forgot himself again, deepening it just a little, his hand sliding to your waist, his thumb brushing bare skin beneath your shirt.

Then he pulled back, breath uneven, resting his forehead against yours like he was physically stopping himself from going further.

The next week was torture.

Not because Steve pulled away.

But because he didn’t.

The torture starts quietly.

That’s the worst part.

It’s not dramatic or obvious or explosive. It’s subtle. Domestic. Soft in ways that get under your skin and stay there, burrowing deeper every single day until you feel like you might actually lose your fucking mind.

It begins the morning after.

You are standing in the kitchen, hair still messy, wearing one of Steve’s shirts that he insists is too thin to be appropriate but does not say anything about because he likes the way it hangs off your shoulder. You are halfway through making breakfast when you hear movement behind you.

Steve steps up without a word.

He does not grab you. Does not crowd you. He simply reaches past you to grab a mug, his chest brushing your back for half a second too long. His hand steadies the counter near your hip instead of touching you.

That restraint makes your stomach flip.

“I’ll get it,” you say automatically, reaching for the pan when it started to sizzle.

“I’ve got it,” he replies easily, already taking over, already flipping the eggs like this is his kitchen and his place and his life you are standing in.

You watch him for a second, confused by the calm competence of it.

Then he says it.

“Hey,” Steve adds casually. “Why don’t you sit. I’ll finish up.”

You blink. “You’re… cooking?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not doing the whole ‘I can’t relax unless I’m useful’ thing.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “I am being useful.”

You laugh, but it sounds breathless. “I live here. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says gently. “I want to.”

That should not do what it does to you.

But it does.

Later that night, after dinner, you are rinsing plates when Steve steps in behind you again.

“I’ll wash,” he says.

You turn slowly. “What.”

He reaches for the sponge. “You cooked.”

“So?”

“So I’ll wash the dishes.”

You stare at him like he has just spoken an alien language.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“No man has ever offered to wash dishes in my presence without being asked.”

He pauses, genuinely surprised. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Something crosses his face then. Not pride. Not smugness. Something quieter. Something like sadness.

“Well,” he says, rolling his sleeves up, “that’s bullshit.”

You stand there watching him scrub plates like it is the most natural thing in the world, forearms flexing, jaw relaxed, humming faintly under his breath.

Your brain short circuits.

Why are my clothes still on.

You don’t say it out loud.

But it sits there. Loud. Persistent. Pulsing.

The next day, you’re at work when your phone buzzes.

Steve.

Just a text.

“Hope your day’s going okay. Don’t forget to eat, you skip lunch when you get busy.”

You stare at the screen.

Heat curls low in your belly.

He didn’t need anything. He did not ask a question. He just thought of you and reached out.

You text back.

“You checking up on me, Captain?”

His response comes almost immediately.

“Always.”

You have to put your phone down.

Your coworkers notice you’re flushed. Distracted. Smiling at nothing.

They don’t know that a man who looks like he could bench press a tank is absolutely wrecking you with basic human decency.

That night, you try to fuck him.

You plan it.

You are sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching something you are not actually paying attention to. Steve is beside you, close but not touching, like he is constantly aware of boundaries in a way no one ever has been.

You shift closer.

Then closer again.

Then you climb into his lap without a word.

Steve freezes.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. “Steve.”

His hands come up instantly. Not grabbing. Holding. Firm but controlled. “Hey.”

You kiss him.

It’s not slow.

It’s hungry and messy and desperate. You kiss him like you have been thinking about it all day, because you have. His mouth opens instinctively, responding before his brain catches up.

For a moment, he is lost.

You feel it. The way his grip tightens. The way his breath stutters. The way he kisses you back like he might forget every promise he made himself.

Then he pulls back.

Not abruptly. Reluctantly.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“I want you,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips. “Then why are we stopping.”

“Because,” he says, voice rough, “I meant what I said. I’m taking you out.”

You groan softly, frustrated. “Steve, this is torture.”

He smiles faintly. “You have no idea.”

You lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Why are my clothes still on.”

That makes him laugh. Low. Warm. Dangerous.

The next day, he comes over with a box.

“Ikea,” he says.

You squint. “What.”

“You mentioned your nightstand wobbles.”

You didn’t remember mentioning that.

He did.

He spends the afternoon on your floor, cross legged, screwdriver in hand, focused and patient and irritatingly good at following instructions. He asks you to hand him things. Says thank you every time.

You sit on the bed watching him, absolutely feral.

His hair falls into his eyes. His shirt rides up when he leans forward. His hands are steady and capable and gentle even with cheap particle board furniture.

You imagine those hands on you.

You shift.

Steve looks up. “You okay?”

“Fantastic,” you lie.

He smiles and goes back to work.

When he finishes, he stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and looks at you like he just built a house.

“There,” he says. “Sturdy.”

You swallow. “You’re trying to kill me.”

He tilts his head. “What.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “Nothing.”

He kisses your forehead instead of your mouth.

And somehow that is worse.

The torture escalates. It’s no longer subtle. It’s intentional. It’s devastating. And the worst part is that Steve still has no idea what he is doing to you.

It starts with communication.

Actual communication. Not vague. Not inconsistent. Not hot and cold.

Consistent.

He calls you when he says he will. If he’s running late, he tells you. If a mission changes, he explains. If he’s tired, he says so. If he misses you, he doesn’t dress it up or hide it behind humor.

You are sitting on your couch one evening, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone rings.

Steve.

You answer immediately.

“Hey,” you say, trying not to sound breathless even though your heart jumps every time.

“Hey,” he replies. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

You close your eyes.

“That’s it?” you ask.

“That’s it,” he says. “Didn’t want anything. Just thought about you.”

Your thighs tense.

You have never had a man call you without an agenda. Without wanting something from you. Without trying to steer the conversation somewhere physical.

Steve just listens.

Asks about your day.

Remembers details.

“You said your meeting was today,” he says. “How did it go.”

You blink. “I forgot I even told you that.”

“I didn’t,” he replies easily.

After you hang up, you stare at the wall for a full minute.

Why am I this turned on.

It gets worse.

You come home one night exhausted, shoes kicked off by the door, bag dropped wherever it lands. Steve is already there, sitting at your table, reading something on his phone.

He looks up immediately.

“You look wiped,” he says.

“I am,” you admit.

He stands. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That sounded like an order.”

He smiles. “Please.”

You sit.

He brings you water. Then food. Nothing fancy. Just something warm and filling.

He sits across from you but does not eat.

“You’re not hungry?” you ask.

“I am,” he says. “But you are more important.”

Your chest tightens.

This isn’t fair.

This is not fair at all.

Later that week, you try again.

Harder.

You corner him in the kitchen. You press him back against the counter. You kiss him until your lips are swollen and your head spins. Your hands slide under his shirt, mapping muscle you already know too well.

Steve groans. He kisses you back. Deep. Hungry. His control slips. You feel it in the way his hands grip your hips, in the way his breath stutters against your mouth.

For a moment, he is gone. Then he pulls away again.

His hands stay on you. Firm. Steady.

“God,” he murmurs. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Then stop fighting it,” you say softly.

He presses his forehead to yours. “I’m not fighting you.”

“Then what are you doing.”

“I’m choosing you,” he says. “All of you. Not just this.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

No one has ever said that to you.

You want to scream.

You want to rip his clothes off.

Instead, you step back, frustrated and flustered.

“You’re a menace,” you tell him.

He smiles gently. “You knew that.”

The date looms closer.

And Steve gets worse.

He confirms plans. Actual plans. Time. Place. Details.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says. “Wear something comfortable. We’ll walk a bit.”

You scoff. “That’s all I get.”

“That’s all you get,” he confirms.

You spend the next two days spiraling.

You can’t sleep. You replay every interaction. Every look. Every small touch he denies himself.

You vent to Natasha and Wanda.

“He washed my dishes,” you say like it’s a crime.

They stare at you.

“He built my furniture,” you continue. “From Ikea.”

Wanda crosses her arms over herself biting her cheek to hide a smile.

“He texts me to remind me to eat,” you add. “He asks before touching me. He calls just to talk.” you say rubbing your hands down your face. “And his dick is huge.”

Silence.

Then Natasha says, “Oh my God, you’re doomed.”

You are.

The night before the date, Steve comes over briefly. Just to drop something off. A jacket. Because he checked the weather and it might be cold.

He does not come in.

He stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

You look at him. Really look at him.

His hair is grown out just enough. His beard is trimmed but still rough. He is wearing dark colors again.

Everything you like.

Everything he knows you like.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you accuse.

He smiles, slow and soft. “Doing what.”

“Being like this.”

“Like what.”

“Perfect.”

His expression changes then. Serious. Intent.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “I’m just trying to be good to you.”

Your throat tightens.

You lean forward and kiss him. Soft. Brief. Controlled.

He doesn’t deepen it.

He just rests his forehead against yours for a second.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers.

You watch him walk away, heart pounding, body aching, mind screaming the same thought over and over.

And tomorrow is going to ruin you.

The date starts quietly. Which somehow makes it worse.

Steve shows up right on time, like he said he would. Seven sharp. No rushing. No knocking twice. Just a calm, steady presence at your door that already has your heart racing before you even open it.

When you do, he stops. Actually stops.

Not dramatically. Not like he’s trying to make a point. Just enough that you notice his breath hitch before he recovers.

“You look…” he trails off, visibly searching for the right word.

You lift an eyebrow. “You’ve faced aliens. Use your words.”

He smiles, soft and a little stunned. “Beautiful. Wonderful. Prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

That should not hit the way it does.

You grab your jacket and step out, locking the door behind you. He waits. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t crowd you. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he has nowhere else he would rather be.

He opens the car door for you.

You pause. “You know I can do that myself.”

“I know,” he says easily. “I still want to.”

That familiar heat curls low in your stomach again.

The place he takes you is small. Intimate. Warm. Nothing flashy. No Stark level extravagance. Just good food and quiet music and lighting soft enough that you can actually see each other.

You relax into it faster than you expect.

Conversation flows easily at first. Safe topics. Funny stories. Shared memories from when you met six years ago and long nights and the strange limbo of living in a world that constantly feels like it might end.

Then he asks you about your work.

Not in passing. Not politely. Not as a filler conversation topic.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes intent. “Tell me what you’re working on now.”

Your face lights up instantly. Excited to be able to talk about your new project.

He notices. That alone nearly does him in.

“Well,” you start, already smiling, “okay. So you know how we’ve been mapping exoplanet atmospheres using spectral analysis.”

He nods. “I know the words you just said.”

You laugh. “That’s fair. Basically, we’re looking at light patterns to figure out what gases are present around planets we can’t physically see.”

“Which tells you what.”

You’re on the edge of your seat, his tone showing how deeply interested he is in what you’re saying.

“Whether they could support life,” you say quickly. “Or at least conditions similar to it. But what I’m excited about is that we’re starting to refine the noise reduction algorithms. Which means clearer data. Which means we can stop guessing so much.”

He watches you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You’re excited,” he says softly.

“Always,” you admit. “I get to wake up and think about things that are older than time itself. That’s insane.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he says fondly.

You grin. “Thank you.”

You launch back in without hesitation.

“And now they’re talking about bumping me up to lead on the next project. Bigger funding. Bigger team. More responsibility.”

His eyes widen. “That’s huge.”

“It is,” you say, practically vibrating. “And I’m terrified.”

“Why.”

“Because it means I have to fight harder to keep it mine.”

He tilts his head. “What do you mean.”

You take a breath. “Everyone keeps assuming I’ll fold into Stark Industries eventually. Or jump into Avengers research. Like that’s the obvious path.”

“And it’s not.”

“No,” you say firmly. “I love my dad. I respect what he built. What you all do. But I don’t want my work to exist in his shadow. I want my name attached to something because I earned it.”

Steve’s chest tightens.

You don’t notice.

“I want to discover something because I chased it,” you continue. “Not because someone handed me a lab and a budget and said ‘here, be brilliant.’”

“You’re already brilliant,” he says quietly.

You wave him off. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says. “You want it to be yours.”

“Yes.”

You talk faster now. Freer. You ramble. You sketch diagrams in the air with your hands. You explain concepts he absolutely does not understand. You offer to take him to your office to show him some of your work.

He asks questions. Simple ones. Thoughtful ones.

“So when you say expansion,” he says, “that’s the universe literally stretching.”

“Yes,” you say eagerly. “Exactly. And we still don’t know why it’s accelerating. That’s the part that drives me insane.”

His mouth curves into a smile. “I like it when you get like this.”

“Like what.”

“Like you forget the rest of the world exists.”

Your cheeks warm. “I’ve never had someone actually want to hear this stuff.”

“That’s insane,” he says. “You light up.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t redirect. Doesn’t try to impress you. Not like other men would.

He just lets you be brilliant.

And it’s driving him absolutely fucking crazy.

Because you’re not trying to be cute.

You just are.

Your eyes are bright. Your hands animated. Your passion raw and unfiltered. You talk about dark matter and probability and models and failures like they are personal challenges instead of abstract concepts.

You talk about mistakes you’ve made. Equations that didn’t work. Data that disappointed you.

“I love it,” you say softly. “Even the frustration. Especially the frustration, that’s when I work my hardest.”

Steve swallows. “You’re incredible,” he says.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “I just really love what I do.”

“I know,” he replies. “That’s what makes it incredible.”

When the night winds down, he walks you home.

Slowly.

Like he’s not in any rush to end this.

At your door, he hesitates.

“I had a really good time,” he says.

You smile. “Me too.”

He leans in.

Just enough. Then stops.

“Can I kiss you.”

Your breath catches.

“Yes,” you

The kiss is soft. Controlled. Bief.

He pulls back like it physically pains him.

“Good night,” he says.

You watch him walk away, heart pounding, mind racing, body aching.

And the only thought in your head is this.

How is a man who respects me this much also driving me completely insane.

You’re trying really hard not to let your sexual frustration take over your entire life.

You really are.

But the kiss Steve left you with last night wasn’t enough. Not even close. It lingered like a bruise you kept pressing on, a memory that replayed itself every time you tried to focus on literally anything else. His mouth. His restraint. The way he stopped himself like it physically hurt.

You can’t stop yourself from wondering why he didn’t just take you right then and there.

Why he let you stand there shaking and needy and aching while he walked away like the strongest man in the world wasn’t barely holding himself together.

So on your lunch break, you venture down to Soho.

You don’t tell yourself it is a bad idea.

You tell yourself it is just shopping. You love to shop.

You find the lingerie almost immediately. Deep blue. Rich. Dangerous. The kind of blue that looks expensive and intentional and sinful. Lace so delicate it feels like a secret against your skin.

You smirk when you realize the color matches Steve’s suit.

That feels important.

It’s late by the time you finally leave your office and get home. You shower quickly, heat steaming the bathroom, hands lingering just a little too long where you wish his had been. You slide into the lingerie slowly, deliberately, admiring the way it hugs you, the way it makes you feel powerful and reckless all at once.

Over it, you pull on a silky slip dress. Modest enough. Innocent enough. Something that passes easily to anyone who does not know what is underneath.

But up close.

Up close, it is something else entirely.

You step into your black Louboutins, the heels sharp and unapologetic, and head toward the elevator. Each click against the floor feels like a countdown. Your heart pounds harder the higher the elevator climbs.

When the doors finally open on Steve’s floor, you step out with an air of confidence you don’t entirely feel but refuse to surrender.

“Stevie?” you call softly as you walk inside his apartment. You move toward the couch and sit down, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately. You fix your hair like you aren’t vibrating under your skin. “Baby?” you call again.

Footsteps sound from down the hall.

Steve appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping down his chest, sliding along muscle and disappearing into the fabric. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, his skin flushed from heat.

And fuck.

You couldn’t be happier you’re wearing that lingerie under your dress.

Because you came here with a plan.

He looks at you, concern crossing his face instantly. His eyes trail over you, slow and thorough, like he’s checking for injuries, like his body is already cataloging you out of instinct.

That concern turns you on more than anything else could have.

“You okay angel?” he asks, stepping closer, sitting down beside you on the couch.

His legs widen.

He must have forgotten he is only wearing a towel.

Or maybe he doesn’t care.

Your gaze drops anyway. Thick thighs. Solid. Powerful. Your mouth waters even though you can see almost nothing.

“So good Stevie.”

The words come out softer than you intend.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. His hand rests on his knee. Close. Too close.

You lean in closer, your hand sliding up his damp thigh, fingers brushing the edge of the towel. The heat from his skin radiates through your palm, and you feel your core clench with need. "I missed you," you murmur, your voice low and teasing as you push him back against the couch cushions. Your lips crash into his, tongue demanding entry, tasting the faint mint from his shower. He groans into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist, but you take charge, straddling his lap in one fluid motion.

The towel loosens under your weight, and you feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric. You grind down slowly, savoring the way he twitches beneath you. "Fuck, Steve," you whisper against his lips, nipping at his bottom one before sucking it into your mouth. Your hands roam his chest, nails scraping lightly over his nipples, making him hiss.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes darkening as they drop to the silky slip dress clinging to your curves. "What are you wearing under there, angel?" His voice is rough, fingers toying with the hem, inching it up your thighs.

You smirk, grabbing his wrist to stop him for a moment, asserting your control. "Something for you to discover." But even as you say it, his free hand cups your ass, squeezing firmly, and a shiver runs through you. You rock your hips harder, feeling the dampness between your legs soak through the lace.

Steve's restraint snaps when you lift the dress just enough to reveal the deep blue lace peeking out, matching the suit he wore earlier that day. His eyes widen, pupils blowing with feral hunger. "Jesus Christ," he growls, flipping you onto your back in an instant, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. The shift is so quick, your breath catches, and that initial spark of dominance you held flickers out, replaced by a rush of submission that makes your pussy throb.

"You did this on purpose," he says, voice laced with possession as he yanks the slip dress up over your head, tossing it aside. The lingerie hugs your body perfectly, the deep blue lace sheer enough to show your hardened nipples and the outline of your slick folds. He stares, chest heaving, before leaning down to capture your mouth in a brutal kiss, tongue fucking into you without mercy.

You moan, arching up, but he holds you down, his towel finally slipping away to reveal his thick cock standing rigid against his abs, pre-cum beading at the tip. The sight makes you whimper, and you strain against his grip, wanting to touch him. Instead, you turn your head, sinking your teeth into his shoulder in the first bite, hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin. He grunts, the sound vibrating through you, and thrusts his hips forward, his cock sliding along your lace-covered pussy.

"Naughty girl," he murmurs, releasing your wrists to trail his hand down your body. His fingers hook into the lace panties, ripping them aside with a sharp tug. The cool air hits your exposed wetness, and you gasp as he presses two fingers inside you without warning, curling them to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. You buck against his hand, but he pins your hip with his other arm, controlling the pace.

The heavy makeout resumes, his lips bruising yours, teeth clashing as you kiss like you're starving. You bite his lower lip this time, the second mark of your teeth on him, drawing a low rumble from his throat. He retaliates by wrapping his hand around your neck, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin, the feeling sending sparks straight to your clit. "Breathe for me," he commands softly, loosening slightly before tightening again, his fingers still pumping in and out of your dripping pussy.

You nod frantically, your control fully surrendered now, body melting under his touch. "Please, Steve," you beg, voice hoarse. He smirks, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to your mouth, making you suck them clean while he lines up his cock at your entrance.

With one smooth thrust, he buries himself inside you, bare and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cry out, nails digging into his back as he starts a relentless rhythm, hips snapping forward. The lingerie top is still on, lace rubbing against your sensitive nipples with each movement, heightening everything.

He spanks your ass lightly once, then twice, the sting blooming into heat that makes you clench around him. "That's it, take my cock," he growls, hand returning to your throat cutting off your air just enough to make stars dance in your eyes before releasing. You bite his neck in response, teeth grazing his pulse point as he fucks you harder.

Sweat slicks your bodies, the couch creaking under the force of his thrusts. He angles his hips to grind against your clit with every plunge, building that coil in your belly tighter and tighter. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. The room fills with the wet sounds of skin slapping skin, your moans mixing with his grunts.

"Gonna cum inside you," he warns, voice strained, his soft dom side shining through in the way he watches your face, ensuring you're with him. You nod, lost in the haze, and when he pinches your nipple through the lace while choking you lightly one last time, you shatter. Your pussy spasms around his cock, milking him as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Steve follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding your insides with hot cum, rope after rope painting your walls. He collapses onto you, both panting, his lips finding yours for a softer kiss now, the feral edge sated but the heat lingering.

"My perfect angel," he whispers, nuzzling your neck where your bites mark him, a satisfied smile on his face.

Steve lifts you off the couch effortlessly, his arms cradling you like you weigh nothing, cock still semi-hard and slick with your combined release as it slips from your pussy. A trickle of his cum leaks down your thigh, warm and sticky, and he notices, his eyes flashing with renewed hunger. "Not done with you yet, angel," he murmurs, voice husky from exertion, carrying you toward the kitchen. The cool tile floor contrasts with the heat of his body pressed against yours, the remnants of your lingerie bra the only thing left on you now, lace damp and clinging.

He sets you down on the edge of the kitchen island, the marble cold against your heated skin, making you gasp. Steve drops to his knees between your spread legs, hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer. "Look at that," he says, thumb brushing through the mess of cum seeping from your swollen folds. "My cum dripping out of your pretty pussy. Gonna clean you up first." His tone is gentle but commanding, that soft dom edge making your core flutter.

Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue flat and broad as he licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting the salty mix of his seed and your arousal. You moan, head falling back, fingers threading into his damp hair. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your nerves, and laps deeper, sucking his own cum back into his mouth before swallowing with a satisfied hum. It's filthy, the wet sounds echoing in the quiet kitchen, his lips smacking as he devours you, tongue plunging inside to scoop out more.

Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the pressure, and he pins you down with one hand on your stomach, the other sliding up to fist your hair at the nape of your neck. He tugs sharply, forcing your head to tilt back, exposing your throat as he eats you out relentlessly. The pull sends a delicious sting across your scalp, and you love it, whining his name, legs trembling around his shoulders. "That's my girl," he praises between licks, his free hand kneading your ass, fingers digging in. "So responsive, taking everything I give you."

He works your clit with firm sucks and flicks, building that pressure again until you're grinding against his face, his chin glistening with the mess. Your release hits hard, pussy clenching as you flood his mouth, and he drinks it down, not stopping until you're shuddering, oversensitive and boneless.

Rising up, Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours, dark with desire. His cock is fully hard again, super soldier stamina kicking in, thick and veined, ready for more. He pulls you forward by the hair once more, gentler this time but still firm, guiding you to lie back on the island. The marble chills your spine, but his body heat warms you as he steps between your legs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slickness.

"Open up," he says softly, and when you part your lips, he spits into your mouth, the warm glob landing on your tongue. You swallow eagerly, the act making you feel claimed, dirty in the best way. He thrusts in then, bare and deep, filling you completely in one go. You cry out, walls stretching around him, still sensitive from before. He sets a steady pace, hips rolling to hit deep, the island rocking slightly under the force.

His hand moves to your face, thumb pressing against your tongue as he fucks you, pushing it down to make you drool. Saliva spills from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin onto your chest, mixing with the sweat beading on your skin. You suck on his thumb messily, eyes watering, loving the way he controls even this, his thrusts growing harder, more insistent.

"Fuck, angel, I love losing control with you," he growls, voice rough and sexy, laced with raw need as he pounds into you, the slap of his balls against your ass loud and obscene. "You make me want to ruin you, take you apart until you're begging. No holding back, just us." As Captain America, he’d spent so long being the perfect soldier, always in control. But here, with her, letting go like this... it's freeing. Finally free to just feel, to fuck without the weight of the world. The thought races through his mind, fueling his rhythm, making him drive deeper.

You clench around him, the words and his thumb pushing you toward the edge again, drool slicking your lips as you moan around it. He spanks your thigh lightly, the sting adding to the chaos, before pulling out just enough to flip you over, but he pauses, breath ragged, cock twitching against your entrance. "Not yet," he whispers, nuzzling your ear. "Think you can handle the shower next? I want to bend you over under the water, make you scream my name again." His hand strokes your side possessively, setting the stage for more, his stamina far from spent.

Steve scoops you up from the kitchen island, your body limp and buzzing from the aftershocks, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. “Love you Stevie.” You smile lazily.

His cock, still buried halfway inside you from the last thrust, slides out with a wet pop, more of his cum leaking down your inner thighs to mix with the slickness there. “Love you more Angel.” he kisses your forehead. He doesn't bother cleaning up, just carries you through the apartment, the trail of mess smearing against his abs as he walks. The shower in his bathroom is spacious, all sleek tiles and rain-head fixture, and he kicks the door open, turning he turns the shower on before setting you down gently under the spray.

Hot water cascades over both of you the moment he twists the knob, steam rising fast as it soaks his skin and yours. The lace bra clings transparently now, nipples pebbled and visible through the wet fabric, but Steve doesn't remove it yet, his hands roaming your curves instead. “Bend over for me, angel,” he commands softly, voice cutting through the rush of water, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to guide you forward. You brace your palms on the tiled wall, ass arching back toward him, the position exposing everything, your pussy still swollen and dripping his release.

He steps up behind you, broad chest flush against your back, the heat of him overwhelming even in the steam. Water streams down his face as he gathers your hair in a fist, pulling your head back just enough to expose your neck. The tug makes you gasp, a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs. “Good girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before he nips at the lobe. His free hand slides down your side, over your hip, to spread your cheeks, thumb circling your entrance teasingly. “So full of me already, but I need to fuck you again. Can't get enough.”

Without warning, he spits down onto your pussy from above, the warm saliva mixing with the water and his lingering cum, making everything slicker. You moan, pushing back, and he lines up his cock, thick and throbbing, pressing the head against your hole. He thrusts in slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretching you open, the water making the slide obscene and easy. Once buried to the hilt, he groans low, hips snapping forward in a building rhythm, the slap of wet skin louder than the shower.

His grip tightens in your hair, pulling harder to arch your back further, forcing you to take him deeper. Each pull sends sparks of pleasure-pain down your spine, and you love it, crying out his name as he pounds into you. Water splashes everywhere, rivulets running down your body, over your breasts, dripping from your chin. Steve reaches around with his other hand, fingers finding your clit to rub firm circles, the pressure making your knees buckle. He holds you steady, body caging yours, dominating every movement.

“Open,” he says roughly, and when you turn your head as much as the hair pull allows, he leans in, spitting directly into your waiting mouth. You swallow it down, the filthy act combined with his cock hitting that spot inside you making your walls flutter. Drool escapes your lips from the intensity, mixing with the water streaming over your face, and he chuckles darkly, thumb pushing into your mouth now to hook against your cheek, stretching it as he fucks you harder. “Look at you, drooling for me like a needy little thing. My perfect angel.”

The words send you spiraling, and you bite down on his thumb lightly, not hard enough to hurt but enough to mark, drawing a hiss from him that turns into a growl of approval. He spanks your ass then, the wet smack echoing, skin blooming red under his palm before the water washes it away. Another spank follows, lighter but stinging just right, and you clench around him, so close. His hand leaves your hair to wrap around your throat from behind, applying that controlled pressure, making your vision spotty with pleasure as oxygen dips.

He chokes you gently while thrusting relentlessly, cock dragging against your G-spot with every plunge, the mess of cum and water squelching around him. “Cum for me again,” he demands, voice strained, his own release building. You do, shattering with a scream that bounces off the tiles, pussy milking him as waves crash over you. Steve follows seconds later, burying deep and flooding you with hot spurts, his groan muffled against your shoulder as he bites down there, marking you back.

He doesn't pull out right away, staying connected as the water rinses some of the evidence away, but not all, his cum starting to leak out around his softening length. Releasing your throat, he turns you slowly in his arms, kissing you deeply under the spray, tongues tangling in a softer but still hungry makeout. “You're incredible,” he whispers against your lips, hands cupping your face. “But I'm not done. Bedroom next? I want you on top, riding me until we both can't move.” His eyes gleam with that endless stamina, promising more rounds in the night ahead.

The next time you saw Aonung after that day in your room, you didn't know what you were expecting. Maybe, like he usually did with other girls, he'd pretend nothing ever happened. Maybe he'd taunt you and say it was all a joke, despite everything you said. 

If you're being honest- you didn't have high hopes. It's not like all your other experiences with Metkayina men had ended with them ackegknowledging you afterward, after half-breaking your back and saying you were the tightest thing they've ever felt. 

But you certainly weren't expecting him to stick to his words.

Days had passed since you slept with Aonung, days in which you didn't see him around the village or anywhere around Awa'atlu. Of course, your mind had just come to terms with the fact he was like all the other guys, and you really had been stupid, listening to the meaningless pillow-talk riff raff he'd cooed at you afterwards.

No one would say where he was, and Tsireya, Rotxo and the Sully's all acted infuriatingly knowing and smug when you sneakily asked them. Very casual. Definitely off-hand. Nonchalant for sure.

And you were. It wasn't that deep that Aonung, like you predicted and prepared yourself for, did not stick to his words about sticking around and everything. You were stupid and hopeful, and you didn't really blame him either.

So you were trying your best to put him behind you when a whole week had passed without you seeing him, and you were starting to fall back into your old patterns. It wasn't your fault you were a horny little thing, and especially now so that there wasn't someone to take care of it.

Which is why, on the eighth day, you could be found in the Tsahìk's marui. 

There had been an incident at training where Zei'ke had gotten a little bruised and battered. He was very good looking, so you tolerated his chatter. God- he really was even stupider than Aonung. Why did you always just go for big stupid hunks?

But at the end of the day, he was a big hunk, so you were happy to patch him up, applying ointment to his cuts and bruises, bandaging the worse injuries and massaging his sore muscles.

The trouble was, Tsireya had begged you to come swimming that afternoon, and this was your first time wearing swimmers out in the village. So maybe your bikini was a little smaller than it could of been, but who was it hurting, really, to be showing off the best assets you had to offer in a strictly na'vi village.

It certainly wasn't hurting Zei'ke, given the way his eyes stared not so conspicuously down your top when you bent over, or how the ties of your bikini bottoms peeked over your shorts.

What's the harm in having some fun, you thought.

It wasn't like Aonung was going to do anything, his absence had made it pretty clear that he was a liar, that it really was just about sex, maybe even just experimentation.

But when you moved closer, leaning up to massage Zei'ke's shoulders, you were surprised by the way he flinched back.

"What, am I hurting you?" you ask, frowning slightly. You had been careful, using your hands gently and besides, na'vi were literally impossible for you to injure.

"No," Zei'ke says slowly, blinking owlishly at you. His gaze flicks down to your breasts, then he clears his throat and looks away. You frown.

"Is there a problem with my clothing?"

"No- I just... I should go," he says hastily.

"Why?" you ask, weary and suspicious. You wonder vaguely if suddenly, everyone's starting to wonder if you're turning into the evil sort of tawtute. "I haven't finished massaging your muscles-"

"You shouldn't," Zei'ke says shortly. "He wouldn't like it."

That was new. Your eyes narrow as you try to guess what this skxawng is going on about, but you have a sinking sort of feeling you know exactly what's happening.

"And who are you talking about?"

Zei'ke blinks guiltily. Obviously he wasn't supposed to say anything, but if he was careless and clumsy enough to let the first words slip, you could pull the rest out of him.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain future Olo'eyktan, would it?" you ask casually, shifting on your feet to look more careless. "You know, tall, stupid, very good looking. Name's Aonung?"

"No!" Zei'ke practically bursts out, before scrunching his face up guiltily. Even someone that thick would realise he wasn't convincing anyone. Your eyes narrow further.

"What does him not liking it have to do with anything?" you ask.

"He is my commander," Zei'ke says owlishly.

"No," you huff, growing tired of his incompetence. "Why would he not like it?"

"Because... well... you fucked him..."

"Charming," you mutter under you breath, rolling your eyes at his very limited vocabulary. "What does us sleeping together have to do with anything? I've been with other na'vi men, and that didn't change anything, especially about others?"

Zei'ke frowns, processing your words, and you want to take him by the shoulders and rattle him. It would be hard though, given he's double the size of you.

"You are his," Zei'ke says simply.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"No other man goes near you," Zei'ke explains. "Sometimes we can argue with the claim, but he is to be Olo'eyktan, and we do not dare-"

"What is he playing at?" you snap. "We just fucked, I've fucked others and nothing ever happened with that? Just because he's the little prince he thinks he can control what I do?"

"Uh... I don't know?" he says weakly, and your scowl deepens.

"How did you even know about that anyway?"

"We can all smell his scent on you," Zei'ke says, face flushed with embarrasment. "You did not realise, tawtute?"

"Obviously fucking not," you growl. 

"Besides," Zei'ke says, obviously eager to take some of the heat off himself, "Aonung got upset with us asking about you. That's why I'm so battered."

At this, you freeze. Zei'ke can obviously tell he said something important, because he winces and scrunches his face up.

"I mean- no- I tripped-"

"Shut up," you say carelessly. "You saw Aonung?"

"Yes? I mean... he's been at training for day-"

With a furious growl, you push past Zei'ke, storm out of the marui, and stalk along the village. You can feel his eyes blinking owlishly at you, clearly torn between confusion and worry for what Aonung might do to him.

Rage is boiling in your veins. First, Aonung ignores you after promising a million things. Then he "claims" you or whatever the fuck that means. And now it turns out, he was here. In Awa'atlu. And he just didn't come and see you.

You storm across the sand to the warrior grounds, hands balled into little fists. All the sparring and beatings and fights don't faze you, you storm straight through all the tussles towards the familiar broad figure of Aonung on the very opposite side.

Fights pause and everyone stares as you stride past, all tiny and furious in your bikini and shorts, less clothing than they'd ever seen you in.

Finally, you reach Aonung. He hasn't noticed all his warriors have stopped fighting, he hasn't even noticed you storming towards him. He's busy sharpening a spear, discussing something with Neteyam seated beside him.

Neteyam is the first to spot you, and his eyes go wide. Before he can say anything, Aonung notices his friend's surprise, and turns with a small, puzzled frown on his stupidly handsome face to see you right in front of him.

Thank Eywa he's seated, because it makes your next action a lot easier. You slap him. Hard.

Several people gasp, everyone mutters, and all eyes are now on you as you glare up at him. Aonung's eyes are dark, but he doesn't say anything. He looks a little confused, and that makes you even more furious.

You shove him hard. Mortifyingly, yet predictably if you're looking at it logically, Aonung doesn't move a single inch, and suddenly you're right against his warm, muscular body. Stupid skxawng, his hotness making it hard for you to be mad at him.

"You dick," you growl. "You fucking idiot-"

Aonung clears his throat, clearly aware of everyone watching with varying degrees of surprise, interest and amusement as this little angry tawtute snarls curses at their commander. Neteyam, too, looks slightly entertained.

"Dismissed," he calls to his warriors. 

They all wander off, taking their sweet time to cast glances back at you, muttering excitedly between themselves. Neteyam stands awkwardly, trying to hide a smile.

"I'm going to go," he says decidedly. "I'll see you later bro. Good luck."

Aonung nods tightly, before his gaze flicks back down to you, glaring up at him with all your might. This fucking skxawng is going to be the death of you. He obviously wasn't going to be the first one to speak, so you took a deep breath.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"I was training my warriors," Aonung says bluntly.

"Fucking idiot," you growl. "What are you playing at, claiming me."

"I thought that was clear," Aonung frowns. "You're mine."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" you grumble. 

"I told you syulang-"

"Don't call me that."

"That you would not need any others anymore," Aonung says simply. "I would take care of you from now on."

"Oh?" you snap. "Yeah, you've been doing a great fucking job, given that I haven't seen you in a week."

Aonung frowns deeper, and you take another breath.

"Look Aonung, I can deal with you not wanting to be with a tawtute, I've done this shit before. But don't be acting like you have anything to do with me if you so clearly don't give a fuck."

At this, Aonung just furrows his brow. He's so big compared to you, even when he's seated, you're still the same height. Then, tentatively, one of his hands reaches towards you. You watch it, all large and teal and the size of your fucking head, before it moves to rest on your waist. You don't push it away.

Instead, you just look back up at him. To your annoyance, your anger is fading away. No no no. You should be angry with him. He can't get off this easily. He can't just touch your waist and blink his pretty eyes and make you melt into a gooey puddle.

"I did not mean to upset you paksalin," he says in a soft voice. "I meant what I said- that you're mine and I would take care of you."

"Then why didn't you come and see me?" you whisper. "I waited for you- and when I went looking, no one would tell me where you were."

"I have been on a hunt," Aonung says gently. "My father wanted me to do... something for Olo'eyktan, but that isn't important."

"It sounds important," you say, stepping back slightly, remembering again how this was literally the future leader of the clan.

"Not more than you," Aonung says firmly, grabbing your hand and pulling you back towards him.

It was a moment that would be so cliche if it was anyone else, that you're suddenly right between his seated legs and inches away. But this is Aonung, and you feel your last strands of annoyance and restraint snap as you meet his gaze.

"You look amazing," Aonung whispers, gaze trailing down to your bikini. "I've never seen you wear this."

"Yeah- well I was going to go swimming with Tsireya and I- wait-"

Aonung's hand is already sneaking up your top, the other moving to undo the button of your shorts, and you grip his shoulders for stability.

"Aonung," you breathe. "I'm trying to talk-"

"Let me make it up to you paksalin," he whispers, already shimmying your clothes away so you're just in your bikini now.

"This is a public place," you try to say. "Anyone can see-"

"I dismissed them," Aonung says carelessly. "They know better than to come back."

Before you can do anything else, his hand is in your bikini bottom. You squeeze your eyes shut in slight mortification of how wet you already are, breath shaky and your hands immediately jumping to steady yourself on his broad shoulders.

"I'm sorry yawne," he says quietly, lightly kissing your neck as he lightly traces over your clit.

"That's not fair," you grumble shakily. "Apologising when you're already in my fucking pants."

Aonung just grins and trails his lips further down your neck.

"I want to kiss you," you mutter to Aonung.

"You can't," he points out gently, lightly tracing over your clit. 

"Bedroom," you gasp, as you meet his gaze. "Come on, pretty boy."

You're practically being carried by Aonung as you burst into your house. 

Lo'ak and Spider are on the couch, staring in disbelief and entertainment as you crash through the door in Aonung's arm in nothing but your bikini.

"Be careful with her bro," is all Lo'ak says, him and Spider both grinning stupidly as you flip them off and go into your room.

Really, you've taken na'vi cocks before, but it feels like you're being stretched to infinity as Aonung bullys his way into you. You know he's being gentle as he can, asking if you're comfortable, if you're alright, but you're being stretched as you never had before.

The stretch is a delicious burn as Aonung rocks his hips deeper, until he's as far in as he's going to get, before he pulls out nearly to the tip.

When you turn to glare at him, he snaps his hips forward again and you have no choice but to cling onto him. His lips find his way on your neck, your nails digging into his broad back as he rolls his hips and thrusts deep into you. 

It's rougher this time, you both know you can take him, and you're both more than eager to push to the furthest possible limits. Neither of you mention Lo'ak or Spider, neither of you care enough about them to bother to quiet or slow down. Each thrust punches your breath out of you, and Aonung's practically hissing at the way you're hugging his cock. 

One large hand reaches up to grip the bedhead and push himself deeper in a way that makes you practically scream, the other pulling the strings of your bikini so you're bare under him. It, too, is tossed away, like the rest of your clothes that still lay abandoned on the training grounds floor.

He hisses as your tits are freed, bouncing with every thrust and pushed up against his chest as he thrusts deeper and deeper, his large hands coming up to grip them on the border of being too rough.

After a few experimental movements that have you nearly whimpering, he moves deep and quick, spitting curses and groans at the feeling of you around him and the sound of your shameless moans in his ears.

He's whispering nearly unintelligible things against your neck, words of worship, mutters of how tight you are, little praise of how well you're doing. He's moving at animalistic paces, and you're unravelling into a moaning, trembling mess under him, teeth sunk into his shoulder to try and quiet your sounds, because you sure as fuck can't hold them in.

"Fuck Aonung," you burst out, sinking your teeth into your hand to cover up your sounds. He impatiently pulls your hand away and crashes his lips onto yours.

This time feels more experimentative for you- last time was his first with a human. Now you get to explore, and when you run your tongue lightly over his fangs, he moans shamelessly into your mouth and buries himself deeper in you.

It's starting to get too much, the coil in your stomach growing too close too soon, and your moans are starting to border on lewd whines and whimpers as you sink your teeth into his soft warm lips.

"Aonung," you hiss, "I'm- I'm close."

"Go ahead then," he grins, before sinking his teeth lightly into your collar.

With that, you unravel, crying out and arching so you're pressed right up against him. Your vision blanks out as everything disappears for a moment, the only sound in the world being your cries and Aonung's groaned curses.

He fucks you through your high, wave upon wave of overwhelming pleasure cresting in white-hot disbelief. You can feel him twitch inside of you, and you moan at a particularly hard thrust. Each rock of his hips knocks every breath, every thought out of you until your heart is pounding in rhythm with each increasingly rough, deep, animalistic thrust of his cock rutting between your legs.

Na'vi have seemingly impossible sex drives, which you're only too happy to ride out with Aonung. With your hands gripping for dear life to your sheets and his braided hair, you just hope to Eywa you don't black out. You highly doubt the creases in your sheets will ever come out; if they were living, your desperate shaky hands would have strangled them in your attempts to stay still.

Then your hand slips, and you grip Aonung's kuru by accident. He gasps and looks straight at you.

The look in his eyes has you clenching around him, all dark and hungry and curious and desperate at the same time, pupils blown so wide the beautiful blue of his eyes was all but a thin ocean ring around large black orbs.

"Sorry," you breathe, trying not to melt at the sight of him.

"No, paksalin. You can touch, I am yours."

Again, he has you clenching around him. The pure sincerity of his words goes straight through you, and you tentatively slide your hand down the thick braid that covers his kuru. His movements slow slightly, thrusting deep and slow so he can pay attention to what you're doing.

Then the glowing pink tendrils reached out to your small hands and enclosed one of your thin fingers. 

You, clearly, are not na'vi. But you can feel the neural connection, the intimacy of the kuru, feeling almost as though Aonung himself is coursing through you. The gentle tendrils are warmly pulsing with a soft pinkish glow, matching your and Aonung's heartbeat. You gave an experimental flex of your fingers, and Aonung gasped, hips jerking deep into you, and you both groan.

"Fuck paksalin," he mutters, starting to move again.

As you experiment more with his kuru, trailing it over your fingers, legs and finally breasts, Aonung grows more and more desperate, rutting harder and deeper into you. You can hardly breathe, given that he's practically punching breath from you with each deep movement.

You yelp as he speeds up now, brutal and animalistic as the last tenterhooks of his strained restraint snaps and he buries himself deep inside you. He's hissing a million unintelligible words against your skin as he spills himself inside you, rocking his hips the whole time until, with an ominous creaking, something snaps and suddenly you're being tilted backwards and sliding down the mattress.

Aonung just broke your fucking bed.

"Fuck, sorry," he mumbles, looking mortified, but you can't contain a small laugh, taking his flushed face in your hands and lightly kissing all over his blushing cheeks.

So yeah, he kind of broke your room. And that wasn't the first thing that happened, as your various exploits with the Metkayina prince continued over the next few days.

Sometimes it was in the healing marui you worked in during the days. Aonung would come in, grumbling some bullshit about training too hard and sore muscles or whatever, and you'd find yourself lying on the floor, his large head nestled hungrily between your squishy thighs he loves so much.

Or maybe it would be at the training grounds, where, at the slightest sight of you, Aonung would dismiss all his warriors and have you on your knees on the soft sand, taking him as far as you can in your throat, his large hands gently holding back your hair and passing you your breathing mask every 50 fucking seconds.

It could just as often be at your house too, bouncing on his dick, arched to the sky on your clumsily repaired bed, or pinned back against your lumpy old mattress.

You learnt things, that he felt pressured a lot of the time, that he was comfortable around you. That he could be the sweetest man ever, but you quickly learnt about his jealousy and possessiveness of you when it came to other guys.

It's not like that ever bothered you that much, but you put on a good enough show of no, don't be so jealous, just so he'd be on his hands on knees worshipping and begging for forgiveness that you would have given regardless.

And then there was the moments after. It's not like the heat and desire ever died, no, but there were moments where you'd just sit nestled up against his much larger figure, talking endlessly with him.

And somehow, you always managed to end up naked. And somehow, your clothes that would always be hastily discarded never returned.

You were starting to suspect there was a reason to why your clothes kept going missing. Something linked to beautifully woven and beaded na'vi-style clothes Aonung had promised to make you, something linked to the massive Aonung-sized footprints in the dirt outside your house, something linked to the familiar amber-seasalt scent that lingered in your closet.

First, it was your largest clothing. That massive jumper was the first to go, and Spider had just laughed uproariously when you told him it was missing. Then it was the baggy pants. Then the long skirts and flowy t-shirts.

The more clothes started going missing, the more you started to suspect. When you opened your closet one day after returning from the healing marui, you realized just how much had started to "disappear".

All that was finally left was your cargo shorts and tank you were wearing. You scowled, wondering what on earth were your clothes being used for, and where had they been hidden, when a glittering caught the corner of you eye, and you gasped.

You hadn't missed Aonung's remarks over the past few days of how amazing you'd look in na'vi clothes, but Eywa, you would have never imagined your simple, pretty, dumb man to be able to pull off something so devious and beautiful and well... clever.

Gingerly, you reached out into your closet to pull out the most beautiful top you'd ever seen in your life.It was intricately woven with hands you knew only too well. And you trusted them too.

The next day, gazes followed you throughout the village; eyes practically popping out of their sockets at the sight of you in the na'vi clothes Aonung had made. Sure, the coverage of the top was minimal, but the weaving and beading hugged your curves tightly, and the larger breasts you possessed drew attention from everyone alike.

All your patients in the healing hut stared shamelessly, the girls gushing with compliments, the guys quiet, no doubt knowing the wrong move would end up with them back here again after Aonung beat the absolute living shit out of them.

When the day finally ended and Aonung came into the healing hut, he just stopped. And stared.

"Do you like it?" you asked nervously. "They're beautiful, Aonung."

"Paksalin," he whispers, dumping the irrelevant shit he had been carrying and striding over to you. "You look beautiful."

You beam at him.

"You kept your promise," you whisper, moving over to touch his face.

"Of course yawne," he smiles. "I could not disappoint my tunutu."

His.

You smile back, moving to pull your big stupid hunk into a gentle kiss. Eywa truly did bless you with him.

This is better than anything you could have dreamed of. Better than you had ever even hoped after you slept with him for the first time. Because you are absolutely each others. Now and forever.

To be fair, the reef was different. 

At least in the Omatikaya village, the na'vi knew you weren't RDA, that you were only fascinated with their culture and wanting to help. The trouble was, what could one small human do to aid the massive, muscular na'vi who, at every turn, always seemed to be the ones to help you out. Which is why when Norm received a help call from Jake Sully, you automatically offered yourself up for the job.

You had grown up alongside the Sully kids, always growing smaller and smaller in their eyes. Now in adulthood, you were still trying to overcome their teasing that you were still barely above their hips in their more muscular, lithe bodies,

And since the absence of the Sullys and Spider, you hardly had a reason to come around the Omatikaya village anymore. Although the science compound was tedious and cagey at times, you had traded your beautifully beaded na'vi style tops and tewngs for more "appropriate clothing". It was probably more suitable too; the older you got, the less the na'vi clothes fit your stubbornly human body. At least you were larger than na'vi in one particular place.

But as you watched the science labs fade away through the perilously open side of the helicopter, the forest too replaced by a vast stretch of ever-deepening glistening ocean, you felt a small pang inside you. It's not like you were leaving any family or friend, they were not so quite waiting for you at the reef.

Which is when it happened. You saw him.

You were always much more interested in na'vi than humans, how could you not be when they were so much more muscular, smoother, and well, bigger. But you had never seen a reef na'vi before, and on the very off chance you had carelessly thought of the Metkayina, you had forgotten to factor in their physique.

He was taller than any other na'vi you'd ever seen, his whole body broad and muscular and massive, his very toned stomach tapering into a sluttily slim waist for such a broad man and a slight x shape to where his very prominent abs met his ribcage.

As the helicopter settled on the sand, surrounded by a crowd of extremely confused and intrigued Metkayina, he was helping Neteyam keep them back. You shook your head- this was hardly the time to be drooling over handsome new boys when Kiri needed help.

Jake was running over, shouting at Norm and pulling him into a quick hug before he spotted you. He looked tired and strained and stressed, yet still managed to smile and pull you into a hug, clearly forgetting that you're a human and half-crushing you to death.

"Good to see you kid," he grins. "Well, you're hardly a kid anymore."

You had tried to help carry some of the boxes in, yet they were sized for Jake and Norm, and you were quickly left aone by the helicopter, surrounded by curious na'vi. You could tell no one saw you as a threat by the way they stared, as though you were something exotic and adorable and even amusing.

Moreover, you could feel his eyes on you, more weary and suspicious and almost taunting than his people, and you swallowed heavily before nervously making your way through the crowd and following the shapes of Jake and Norm ahead.

So maybe you hadn't had a great start with the mystery guy from the way he was staring, but you soon met him again when Ronal pulled you aside and into a marui.

There he was, standing between who was clearly Tonowari and a sweet-looking shorter girl.

"Oel ngati kameie," you said nervously, apprehensively gesturing and praying to Eywa that your voice didn't actually sound as timid and squeaky as it seemed to yourself.

The Olo'eyktan and the girl looked pleased, but he just continued to blankly and shamelessly stare at you, until your throat felt dry and the silence was starting to make you want to cry. But you refused to play into either of the roles na'vi assume of humans; the evil, power-hungry, trigger-happy demons, or the tiny timid pushovers.

"Jake Sully has requested you stay with us," Ronal finally said. "He believes you could be useful to the Metkayina."

"Well," you say, throat dry and desperately trying to keep your voice steady under the eyes of the four Metkayina. "I'm good at healing- I learnt much from the Omatikaya Tsahìk."

"This is my daughter Tsireya," Tonowari said, looking pleased with you. "She will help accustom you to our village, as well as my son, Aonung."

Instantly Aonung's eyes narrowed, and you feel your heart thud a little at the annoyance on his face at the instruction of him spending time with you.

"Father, first the Sullys and now a tawtute-"

"It is decided," Tonowari cut his son off. "The Sullys may assist you as well, and Toruk Makto tells me you are to have a human home on the edge of the village."

And that was that, apparently. No one asked you if you wanted to suddenly live in the reef, yet you had the Sullys and that was all that mattered. The small human area was hidden in the small forest beside a river and behind the Metkayina village, which was fair given the aesthetic monstrocity of it.

It was another horribly shiny metal demountable shared between you and Spider, each of you owning your own small room with a tiny cupboard, rickety bed and nothing more, and sharing a small space between.

Soon after you moved in, you could hardly get Lo'ak to move out, him and Spider always playing stupid video games and eating the shitty food you had hoarded, yet you took every chance to get outside.

It's not like you ever did much, you even managed to go the first few months without swimming or being in swimmers in front of all these beautiful na'vi, but you were determined to prove yourself.

So day after day, you worked endlessly on anything you could find to be helpful. You quickly learnt the new herbs for healing and how to navigate the bouncy village suspended over the water. You also found out the na'vi women loved your weavings and beadings, your "tiny hands" able to create very intricate works in proportion to their larger bodies.

And you found that Metkayina men were extremely intrigued by you.

You wondered if maybe Spider had blabbed to someone about you, about your greater attraction to na'vi than humans, because you suddenly found the healing marui that you often worked in when Ronal couldn't strangely often occupied by men with injuries that could have easily been healed at home or better treated by Ronal herself.

You also didn't miss their comments about the coverage of your clothing, about how small you were and the softness of your tawtute skin.

Okay so yes, maybe you were secretly crushing hard on Aonung, but the Olo'eyktans son treated you with amusement and cockiness when you happened to interact with him every now and then. So of course you were flattered by the attention of the broad strong Metkayina, and a woman has needs.

All the sexual interactions you share with the Metkayina range from adequate to somewhat satisfying, but the longer you stay in Awa'atlu and the more female friends you make, the more you hear.

All the village girls seem to talk about is Aonung, the prince of the clan. He's not exactly selective about the women he spends his time with, but his precious company is so apparently mind-blowing and pleasurable that it seems to be the most valued thing on the island.

Which is fine.

He obviously doesn't like you that much, and you'd probably have to fight off fifty village girls for that attention from him anyway. He never bothered to accustom you to the village, rather staring and glaring from the back or side as Tsireya befriended you. 

And you definitely didn't make an effort to get him to look at you. No, your increasingly smaller outfits are a reflection of your growing comfort in the village and the hot temperatures of the reef. The other villagers liked your outfits though, even if they did find it strange, often asking why you wore such large clothing. So you started to phase out the cargos and massive jumpers with flowy skirts and tighter tops.

Besides, you have options, even if all your admirers are only seeking the thrill and adventure and tightness of being with a tawtute.

A shout of laughter from outside brings you back to attention, and you set down the paste you had been mixing on a small table before quietly moving over to peek out. Just as you stick your small head out, you find yourself suddenly bumped backwards as several figures walk into the healing marui.

Folding your arms and frowning at the rowdy boys, you watch them as they comfortably space out around the marui. You recognise them instantly- the three skxawngs that Aonung always seemed to hang out with.

"Can I help you?" you ask, trying not to raise your brows when Koro laughs and shoves Nashvi forward to speak to you.

"Yeah," Nashvi grins stupidly. "Us and Aonung were out by the reef when an akula attacked, and we got a few injuries."

You can't help raising your brows at this. There are only several small scratches across the boys bodies, the worst only looking five inches long on Ongu's leg. But you have a job, and you aren't about to refuse to help Aonung's friends.

"Alright, sit down," you say tiredly, reaching up to lightly lead Nashvi to the woven mat you heal on.

As you turn to gather some more ointment, you can hear the three boys chuckling stupidly behind you, but when you turn, their smiles are quickly hidden and they don't make eye contact with each other. Shrugging off your discomfort and annoyance, you lift up Nashvi's hair to apply the ointment to the scratches on his back.

They are not easy patients. They're whiny when you touch their miniscule, pointless little scratches, and they chuckle and grin shiftily at each other every time you move. It's an awkward interaction with each, and finally you can't take the silence anymore.

"What were you doing out by the reef?" you ask, in a desperate attempt to make conversation.

"Aonung wanted to hunt," Koro shrugs.

"Where is Aonung?"

They all grin again at your question, and you straighten up and frown.

"Missing your boyfriend are you?" Ongu leers.

You straighten up instantly, a frown fixed on your small face and your fist clenched slightly around the bowl.

"What are you talking about?" you say coolly, turning away from the boys under the pretence of collecting more herbs to add to the ointment.

"You're pining after him," Koro grins. "It's so obvious, all the little looks you shoot him, batting your eyelashes whenever he's around. You're so cool and all with other guys, but as soon as Aonung's around you're acting like a little lovestruck prolemuris."

"I do not," you say hotly, forgetting to act cool and hide the deep flush across your cheeks.

"Please," Nashvi scoffs. "You couldn't be more obvious if you tried."

Your face is growing hotter and hotter, and when you turn around, you find that the three boys have crept slightly closer, so now you're stuck between them.

"I don't have a crush on Aonung," you lie, knowing full well that you aren't convincing anyone. "I don't even like him."

"These little outfits say otherwise," Koro grins, reaching out to pinch your hip.

You jerk away from the contact, the bare skin of your hip between your top and low skirt burning slightly from his touch and the accusation of his words.

"Fuck off," you grumble, pushing at his hands as he reaches towards you again.

"What happened to the sweet little girl whenever he's around?"

"She's about to do worse than those little scratches if you don't stop touching me," you growl, hoping you sound braver than you feel. Hot mortification is spreading through your body. Had you really been that obvious? Koro, Ongu and Nashvi are just laughing stupidly, watching you grow more and more flustered as you try to figure out what to say, or at least how to get away.

"You are rude skxawngs," you snap. "I helped you out, now leave me alone."

"Why?" Nashvi grins. "We're just having a little fun with you, tawtute."

"Why do you wear such big clothes anyway?" Ongu leers. "I know they're getting smaller for Aonung, but if you want his attention you should just take it all off."

You growl as they reach for your clothes again.

"Tell Aonung that-"

"Tell me what?" a deep voice says from the entrance.

Immediately, all four of your gazes flick to see Aonung leaning against the entrance, a small frown pinching between his brows as he stares at his friends.

"That you need to find better friends," you huff, reaching to flatten your hair and pull your skirt down.

"She's just being grumpy," Koro laughs. "We were having a fun conversation with her."

"Yeah, it was real fun," you snap, flushing crimson as Aonung's gaze flicks back to you. "Especially when you kept touching me."

Aonung's frown deepens when you feel his gaze pass over the redness their pinches left over your hip, and you brush your hair out of your face.

"Okay, I fixed up your little scratches," you scowl to Koro, Ongu and Nashvi, as Aonung just stares dully at you. "You can fuck off now."

"Careful with your mouth," Nashvi grins. "You aren't as attractive when you aren't smiling, tawtute."

"Get out," you growl, straightening to your full height, but still shorter than their crouched figures.

They just laugh stupidly, and you're growing more and more flustered and annoyed. You are torn between wanting to shout and curl up in a ball and cry until they get uncomfortable and leave, when Koro pulls the last straw.

"It's a shame that such a pretty little thing has no humour," he grins to his friends. "You know I'd-"

"Out," you shout.

They don't look at all as though they're going to leave, but then Aonung shoots them a certain sort of look you miss, because your heart is pounding fast and angry tears are stinging your eyes.

You're mortified, that they knew about your crush, that they managed to get so far under your skin, that everyone had so little respect for you that they only listen when Aonung tells them to do something.

As they file out, you can hear them snickering to each other, and their gazes blazing on your bowed head as they walk away. 

"You can leave too," you say off-handedly, turning away so your back is to Aonung.

"Oh?" Aonung asks, his voice deep and amused. "You're going to kick me out of my own mum's marui?"

"Yes," you grumble, sitting down and glaring at him. "You're a grown man Aonung, you can fuck off out of your mummies hut."

"Also your Olo'eyktan," he points out.

"Not yet," you seethe.

Aonung just laughs, his massive body still leaning against the entrance as he stares down at you, blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Are you alright?" he asks, once he stops laughing. You frown at the slight concern in his voice before glaring up at him.

"Yes I'm fine," you snap. "Now are you done?"

Aonung just stares for a few more seconds before he pushes off the wall and walks over to you. 

Oh Eywa's just playing a fucking game with you right now. Aonung reaches out, lightly taking your small head in his hand and gently tilting your face up towards him with a soft hand.

"Is what they said true?" he asks quietly. 

"Aren't you the one that finds my crush obvious as fuck?" you snap.

But you don't pull away, and you both know it. Instead, you just stay put little a stupid good girl and stare up at him, waiting for what he's about to do.

"I'm fucking pathetic, I know," you whisper. "I have to work my ass off just to get the tiniest bit of recognition, and this is the longest we've ever spoken. All you do is glare at me from other sides of the village, and I still liked you."

"You're not," Aonung says. "Pathetic, I mean. They're just skxawngs."

"They're your friends," you point out. "They're the ones that knew I liked you, that just come and fucking taunt me and touch me and-"

"Let me see," Aonung cuts you off.

You scowl at him and try to push him away, but he just easily grabs your wrist and peers around you to see your hips, where the mark is still red against your skin.

"It's not a big deal," you growl. "I just don't need shit for having a stupid crush. No one ever needed to know and it wasn't hurting anyone. If I knew what skxawngs you and your friends are, I'd never like you."

"This skirt is thin," is all Aonung says. "And short. Tawtute clothing is strange, but this one is small compared-"

"It was for you!" you snap. "All the stupid dressing up and acting nice and being sweet and trying to be pretty just so you would stop glaring and look at me for ONCE!"

Aonung's frown deepens slightly, like he's confused, like you aren't making any sense. Stupid alien boys, so oblivious to everything around them.

"I am looking at you," he says quietly.

"No," you hiss. "You're looking down on me like always, just because I'm a human-"

Your voice dies in your throat when Aonung instantly sits beside you, his hands picking you up as though you weigh nothing and placing you gently in his massive lap.

Your faces are a foot apart, your hands immediately falling to his shoulder to steady yourself, an unnecessary action given that he's easily holding you by your waist. 

"Better?" he asks sincerely, as though he genuinely thought this would help.

You can hardly breathe over the pounding of your heart. You are nervous and pissed and terrified and also fucking horny.

Oh Eywa, how is he doing this- just instantly making you forget everything that happened by placing you on his lap and staring at you with those large blue eyes.

"What are you doing here Aonung?" you say tiredly.

His ears prick up at the sound of his name, the first time he's heard you speak it. You can hardly miss the sway of his tail behind you.

"Injury," he shrugs.

You scoff, and he turns to frown at you.

"I am injured," he frowns. "I went to my mother and she told me to come to you."

"She did?" you ask, confused. "If you're hurt, why would she tell you to come to me?"

"So I could hear your great love confession?" Aonung shrugs, eyes sparkling with amusement.

You growl and make to stand up, but his hands keep you firmly planted in his lap.

"Trying to leave now?" he asks. "Don't you want to help me paksalin?"

"Don't call me that," you hiss. 

"You don't like it?" Aonung asks, looking confused.

"You're being mean," you say finally. "Everyone was right about you- you're a skxawng playboy."

"Playboy?" Aonung asks, sounding out the human word with confusion.

"Yeah," you say. "Like a slut."

Aonung laughs in surprise, brows raising at your annoyance with him.

"I thought you were all meek and sweet," he says finally.

"Not anymore," you grumble. "Cat's out of the bag sweetie, so I can go back to being a bitch again. Now let me go so I can help you out."

To your surprise, he instantly obeys, letting his arms drop to his sides so you can clamber out of his lap and collect your paste again. When you turn back, you notice the injury.

"You're hurt."

It's a blunt statement, and you're pointing out the obvious. Aonung has a no shit sort of look on his face, before he notices your concern.

"It's alright," he says gently. "I just got a little scraped by the akula."

"Aonung, there's an akula tooth stuck in your arm," you say, instantly kneeling beside him.

"There is?" he says, sounding interested. "Huh."

"Huh?" you hiss incredulously. "There is a three inch tooth stuck in your arm and you say HUH?"

Aonung just shrugs, and you crouch down to study it, before gently cleaning it up. He hisses a little when you first wipe over the wound, but he just grits his teeth and sits still with patience his skxawng friends could never possess.

"I should probably take this out," you say, once you've wiped all the blood that you can manage to, and placing a comforting, steady hand on the strong muscles of his shoulder.

"Fine," he grumbles.

"I'll be gentle," you promise. "It'll come nice and easy."

"That's what I want to hear," he says, smirking.

Your mouth parts in amused incredulity, and you lightly smack his shoulder as he turns his head to grin cheekily at you.

"Stay still," you instruct. "Straighten up like this, and try not to move too much. Now, just breathe."

Trying to ignore the very persistent flow of blood as you gently grab the top of the tooth, you start to very slowly pull it out.

"Ow," he hisses, his hand instantly jumping to take yours.

"Sorry," you say, giving his own hand a reassuring squeeze, and he quickly shakes his head and swallows.

"I'm all good, just pull it out fast."

"That's what I want to hear," you ask teasingly, and he laughs a little.

His laugh quickly turns into a groan of pain as you use his amusement as a distraction and yank the tooth out.

"Fuck," he hisses under his breath.

"Good job," you say, as though you're treating a child and patting his head like a good boy. "Here, you can keep the tooth as a souvenir."

"Tawtute," he says gently, before you can leave. 

"Yeah?"

"You aren't pathetic, liking me-"

"Yeah, you're very handsome and cool and hot, I get it," you say, rolling your eyes. "Listen Aonung."

And he does, looking up at you like a little puppy sitting on the woven floor, waiting patiently for you to speak.

"I never thought anything would come out of my crush, and I don't expect anything to come out of it. I'll get over it, just please, forget about it."

Aonung's slowly frowning.

"Tawtute, then what about the others?"

"What others?" you sigh, eager to get away and just disappear into your bed forever.

"I hear stuff too," Aonung shrugs. "From other guys."

"Like who?" you snap, growing more and more impatient.

It's like he's a little child sometimes, trying to figure out what he wants to say and then actually speaking the words, as though every sentence is taking every fibre of his being to utter.

"Ta'ru, Moy'ka, Khalo," Aonung shrugs. At that, your eyes widen and your face flushes. Those names are extremely familiar, ones that may be found at the bottom of my little black book.

"Oh my god," you groan, covering your face so he won't see your desperate flush.

"They seemed to really like you as well," Aonung grins. "Heard that you can be a feisty little-"

You glower at him and he cuts himself off with a shameless shrug, as though he knows you can't be mad at him.

"Fuck off Aonung," you snarl. "Just because I had a crush on you doesn't mean I'm gonna take shit from you."

"I'm just saying," the Metkayina shrugs. "You have excellent taste in men, but why are you messing around with the likes of Ta'ru and Moy'ka?"

"Well I don't have too many options, do I?" you growl. "How do you think it feels to be someone who's only options are only seeking the thrill and adventure and tightness of being with a tawtute?"

Aonung pauses, like he hadn't thought about it like that. You know he didn't mean to offend, just tease and taunt you just as he had with Lo'ak and Kiri when they first arrived in Awa'atlu, but his words stung deep.

You couldn't just mess around with anyone you liked, because really you only liked him and he knew that, and that pissed you off more than anything else.

"Just pull your massive head out of your skxawng ass for two seconds and see that not everyone has admirers falling out of the sky and at their fucking feet all the time, that I have to work tirelessly to prove myself and that the only release I can scrounge up is with the likes of Ta'ru and Moy'ka!"

You sigh heavily, not exactly regretting raising your voice at Aonung, yet it didn't bode well that you just insulted and shouted at the future Olo'eyktan.

Aonung is just watching you, his large blue eyes flicking over your agitated face, flushed deep pink and your smaller, duller eyes stinging with furious, mortifying tears.

You can't bear the pity in his eyes, can't bring yourself to listen to whatever he's about to say when he opens his mouth.

"I have worked enough today," you say stiffly, careful to act with appropriate respect, "tell your mother I went home and I'll need more pearls and shells for the beadings."

"Tawtute-"

You quickly turn, hating yourself for your timid, cowardly retreat from the hut with his ocean eyes fixed directly onto you, and slip off through the village.

For a moment, you think he might have tried to follow you by the creaking of the woven village pathway behind you, but you quickly manage to slip between maruis and bustling Metkayina and leave the village.

You can feel your heart pounding loudly, everything so awkwardly silent as you run towards your monstrocity of a home that you feel completely alone in the forest.

Spider isn't there when you fling open your door and bury your face in your pillow. 

You just sit in silence, face-down and not bothering to take off your expopack yet. 

Fuck, you messed up.

You confessed your crush, then flirted with him, then shouted at him, then ran away like the tiny coward the na'vi assume of humans.

Fuck Aonung.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

So maybe you actually were a tiny coward. Yes, you were a fiesty, flaming bitch at heart, but when it came down to the mortification you had faced in that marui with Aonung, not even your sheer stubbornness and determination to shout down anyone in your path could make you leave your home.

So, shamefully, the next days passed with you cooped up in your tiny home, back to wearing your massive ass jumpers over your lazy loungewear. Spider and Lo'ak didn't question your state - you suspect they know exactly what happened - they just moved over on the worn, already cramped sofa and passed you another remote.

The days were considerably shorter than normal when you're self isolating in what is basically a small tin shack, eating shitty food and binging hours of trashy television in the discomfort of your rickety bed.

Which is why, on the fourth morning away from the Metkayina village, you weren't at all surprised to hear the shouts of Spider and Lo'ak's familiar laugh from outside.

You had lazily woken up late in your bra and comfy, heart-patterned boy-short pyjamas that barely covered half your ass and thrown on your massive jumper, which hung a third of the way to your knees, grumbling to yourself that there were the boys outside and you couldn't just spend the rest of the day in your underwear.

When you finally left your room and stomped out to make a coffee in the tiny, tinny kitchen, you were too tired and uninterested to notice the suspiciously gleeful looks shot in your direction.

"Morning," Spider finally chirps.

"Is it?" you grumble, not looking up at your roommate as you slump into the creaky chair by the bench and dully watch the coffee drip monotonously into your chipped, yellowed mug.

Lo'ak snickers at your slumped back as you don't bother turn around to look in their direction.

"Someone's here for you," Spider grins, and you can hear the barely concealed amusement in his voice as you roll your eyes.

"I don't feel being squashed between your and Lo'ak's fat asses and playing video games right now," you sigh. "I can't be fucked for another day spent moping on that old, shitty sofa."

"Aw, is the little tawtute still upset about her little crush on the Metkayina prince?"

"Hardly," you scoff.

You snatch your chipped mug from the machine and just resigning yourself as the coffee continues to drip down onto the tinny bench, no longer having the patience for the infuriatingly slow drip of your greatest necessity before continuing.

"I should have realised what a cocky, brainless, dull, oblivious, pestering, rude, taunting, tiny-dick skxawng-"

"Hey," a deep voice protests from the sofa. 

A very familiar voice.

With a surge of horror and a deep desire to strangle and castrate Lo'ak and Spider, you see Aonung grinning at you.

Fuck, how can he manage to look good here, cramped in this ridiculously small shack that barely even fits you, in the horribly white light that flickered every five damn minutes and sprawled casually on that worn old couch?

His large blue eyes are glittering with amusement, looking large and more muscular than ever in the tiny living room.

"What are you doing here?" you breathe, torn between annoyance with the three skxawngs grinning at you, a desire to storm back into your room with your coffee and slam the door in their faces, and a conflicted delight and slight surge of desire at Aonung here in your house.

"Lo'ak asked me if I wanted to play video games," Aonung shrugs.

Lo'ak just rolls his eyes and says, "No, I said you'd been in your room for the last few days playing video games with us when he asked me why you hadn't been coming around the village. Then he said he'd never played video games, and I said I was coming here again, and then the skxawng just decided to come along."

"Right," Aonung concludes, shooting Lo'ak a scathing look.

"Right," you say too, unimpressed and unconvinced. "Well it's a bit cramped in here. Maybe you should leave."

"No, we'll go," Spider grins, nudging Lo'ak, who also smirks. "You guys have fun, and make good choices!"

"Spider!" you hiss, but your two ridiculously infuriating friends had already extricated themselces from the demountable and disappeared between the sparse forest that hid your human home. You can hear their snickers as they move towards the village and away from the situation they left you in.

Some friends.

You huff an annoyed sigh before lifting your coffee to your lips and taking a small sip. You are staring directly at Aonung, who's shifting slightly on the couch, but you're determing to not back down this time.

Mostly because there's nowhere left your you to run away and hide, now that Aonung has invaded your home.

There's a few moments of tense silence where you continue to sip your coffee and coldly study him.

"I brought you shells pearls," Aonung blurts, nose scrunching slightly.

You raise your brows at him, surprised that he caved to your silent coldness so fast. When you don't reply, he continues.

"Like you asked. Before you left. You told me that you needed more pearls and shells for your beading... so I thought... maybe..."

At your continued cool silence, Aonung trails off. You're surprised to see a faint purple tinge to his handsome face. 

Is he blushing? Is he nervous?

At this realisation, that the cocky prince of the clan in front of you was nervous because of you, an idea clunks into place.

A risky idea for sure, but it was hardly like you could get any more mortified, and an opportunity like this, to have Aonung like this, didn't come every day.

"Why are you here?" you ask dully, finally setting your coffee down with a decisive chink and pinning him under the full attention of your gaze.

"I - um - brought you the shells and pearls-" he starts to say.

"Not because of the shells and pearls."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. An obvious statement, at that.

"Or the video games," you add, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why are you here, Aonung?"

"You haven't been coming around the village," he swallows. 

"I've been busy,"you shrug.

You're horribly aware that your hair is a mess, that you are wearing nothing but a bra and practically underwear under your massive jumper.

Aonung also seems to notice your sloppy and careless appearance, or at least your hair (you pray to Eywa he doesn't notice your clothing, or lack thereof) but he doesn't point your laziness out, which is wise of him.

He reaches for the mask Lo'ak often uses and takes a deep inhale. 

"My mother wishes you come back soon," Aonung mutters.

"And you?" you ask coolly. "Ronal would have told me herself- she has no qualms with coming to visit me here by the river. So what do you want?"

A heartbeat of silence. Aonung blinks. You raise your brows.

"I'm sorry."

The words hang in the air for a moment, trapped, no doubt, between the stifling walls of the ridiculously small room, between you seated at the rickety table and Aonung's much larger, stronger body seated at the peeling sofa.

"It's probably good you weren't around the village lately," Aonung says offhandedly, his voice growing somewhat stronger as you don't yell at him again. "Koro, Ongu and Nashvi were in need of some healing."

"From what?" you roll your eyes. "A prolemuris bite? A stubbed toe?"

"Well," Aonung says, looking more encouraged now, "someone may have beat them up a little for teasing and taunting and being skxawngs."

You look up at that, and find an adorably self-pleased expression on Aonung's face.

"And why would someone do that?" you ask.

"Maybe they wanted to show they were sorry?" Aonung grins. "And they knew it would take more than shells and pearls for forgiveness."

"Why do you want forgiveness?" you sigh, leaning forward on the table to stare better at him.

Aonung sits up and shifts on the sofa, clearly making room for you.

You aren't sure you want to, unsure what will happen if you're that close to him, but you can't help it.

Despite your pretences of confidence and annoyance with him that veneered your facade of sweetness and kindness you had hoped would gain his attention and even affection, you were just a people pleaser. 

And all you really wanted was to please Aonung.

So you picked yourself off, leaving your coffee to grow cold and doubtless forgotten about on the creaky table.

You settled into the sofa besides Aonung, trying to ignore how annoyingly, incredibly, deliciously massive he is as he blinks down at you.

"You are small," he says. "And meek yet furious at the same time. I can't figure you out at all, and you intrigue me, tawtute."

"How flattering," you say dully, and Aonung frowns, as though that was not the reaction he was expecting. "If you fought Ongu and Nashvi and Koro then why aren't you injured?"

"I'm a good fighter?" Aonung shrugs, looking pleased with himself.

You know that well- the Metkayina training grounds for warriors were across from the village, and the closest marui to it was the healing one you often occupied, given that most injuries came from the warriors.

So when you could get away with it, you would peek out the entrance of the healing marui to watch the warriors train. All large muscular men and lithe beautiful women. But no matter who you distracted yourself with, your eyes would always drift back to Aonung.

The way his jokey demeanour vanished the instant he had an opponent, the swiftness of each of his calculated movements, the way you knew, even though you could never hear, that he was taunting and glaring and ridiculing his opponent between powerful blows.

It attracted you more than you'd like to admit, the way he was effortlessly than the others, the ease with which he could toss his opponents around. And when he won, his muscles gleaming with laborious perspiration and a grin fixed on his handsome face...

It was all very attractive.

"Yes yes," you say instead, biting your cheek to stop from rolling your eyes. "You're very strong and incredible."

"You don't sound convinced," Aonung narrows his eyes at you.

You squint back. He really is brainless, just a pretty hunk.

You said what you said and you meant it - and now you don't need him acting all confused when you don't fawn all over him, batting you eyelashes and twirling your hair and practically sucking his dick.

It really is a cocky, brainless, dull, oblivious, pestering, rude, taunting, tiny-dick skxawng thing for him to do - finally speaking to you, looking at you, even trying to flirt with you just as you decide to let it go, set your sights away from him.

So you straighten up to your full height, still several feel smaller even sitting down, and wait as he opens his mouth.

"You confuse me tawtute," Aonung admits.

"No shit, given that you have as many braincells as men I can pull," you mutter, raising your brows at him.

Aonung huffs in annoyance, and you fold your arms further.

"Bold of you," you scowl. "To act like you're the annoyed one after the other day."

"Well," Aonung huffs, blinking furiously, looking torn between confusion and continued, unjust annoyance.

"Well what?" you snap. "Whenever I'm around the village I'm just the tawtute, and now you come into my house, the only place I can just relax-"

"This is my village," Aonung says stiffly.

You blink.

"Oh," you seethe. "So that's what this is about."

"What?"

"That the entitled Olo'eyktan's son is shocked to have someone tell him how it is, to not be beloved and cherished all the fucking time, to not have someone sucking his dick every-"

"I wouldn't protest," Aonung shrugs, smirking down at you before taking another breath from the mask.

You blink again. Just as you think you've called him out, that maybe a word you say will manage to penetrate through that perfect hair and gorgeous head of his- he manages to prove you wrong.

You just growl in irritation and stand back up, storming back towards your room and not bothering to turn back to him.

As you predicted, your coffee lies cold and dreary and lonesome, forgotten on that creaky table in your irritation with him and his stupid damn confusion with you.

"You can let yourself out."

But he doesn't, he just follows you into your room as you flop down onto your bed.

You glare at him, shocked that he has that much nerve to follow you into your room when you clearly don't want to see him.

Spider definitely wouldn't be brave enough to bother you right now, and Lo'ak or Neteyam probably would also be apprehensive.

But cocky, stubborn Aonung just ducks his massive frame through the doorway - a tight squeeze but he somehow manages - and peers hazily around your room.

Of course, the demountable you and Spider call home was built with Jake and Norm in mind, yet Aonung's head was taller than both other men, his braided bun inches away from scraping the ceiling. 

From the bed you continue to glare at him, silent and glowering as he raises his eyebrows at the underwhelming room.

"So this is your room?" he asks, eyes darting back to you. "I always imagined it more..."

There's apparently no words his five brain cells can find, and you roll your eyes again.

"Not everyone can live in the nicest marui in the village," you point out. "Not everyone can live in the village at all.

Aonung sighs again, before his eyes light up and he spots something.

"Don't touch my stuff," you grumble, but he's already stooping his massive body to something.

"What is this?" he asks earnestly.

"What is what-" you snap, before your eyes widen in horror and your mouth parts in silent mortification.

Looking comically small in his ridiculously large hands is your underwear. And to your absolute fucking horror, it just has to be your smallest thong, black and delicate and a little lacy.

"Give that here," you huff, instantly leaping up and trying to snatch it back. Aonung's grin only widens when he realises what it is, and you think you could die of mortification right then and there on your bedroom floor in front of the metkayina prince.

"How come you never wore this around the village?" Aonung chuckles, easily holding it up from your limited reach. "I can promise you, this would grab much more attention than your other tawtute clothing."

You attempt to snatch it back again, face flushed to a deep red now, and he just laughs again.

He looks down at you and frowns at the massive jumper hanging halfway to your knees. 

"And why are you back to wearing those cloaks and blankets?"

"It's a jumper," you say hotly, feeling your face flush that the realising that Aonung had noticed you, or at least the difference between short skirts and tanks and your oversized "blankets".

"And it's comfy, much more so then all the little stuff I tried before."

Aonung just huffs slightly, eyes trailing shamelessly over you again.

"Spider wears a tewng," Aonung reasons. "Besides, these things are much smaller than out clothing anyway."

You gape and shove at him. Predicably, his massive body doesn't move in the slightest. Aonung frowns, and you can guess what he's thinking.

Na'vi are completely comfortable in their bodies- which is easy when they're all slim and muscular and tall and perfect.

You on the other hand, are not. You aren't big by human standards by any means, yet the love and affection you harboured for your body when with the humans had slightly dissipated when surrounded by gorgeous na'vi all the time.

So even though you have put in the efforts to dress for attention, you were always careful not to show too much, which is what stirred the attention of the other male na'vi.

What lay below the strange tawtute clothing- what is so much softer and curvier than na'vi women that you keep teasing them with, yet keep tantalisingly hidden.

But then a thought occurs to you, and it makes you... more interested, or so to speak.

Aonung is curious about you- and you know what you want. It's not like you're expecting anything beyond sex- even that is a stretch -with the handsome, desirable na'vi man.

It's not every day you have this opportunity, to have Aonung like this, all curious about you for the first time since you arrived in the reef, despite months of hoping desperately he'd at least look at you.

So the idea forms in your head, the way you can finally get the Metkayina princes attention.

He is intrigued by you, and you have no hesitation to assume that means in the same lustful, experimentative way other na'vi men have been.

"Why?" you grin. "Do you want to see me in it?"

Aonung freezes. His eyes gaze from the tiny thong to you and back to the skimpy, lacy black material.

"I- if you'd like," he says off-handedly, and you smile to yourself.

He's right where you'd like him. Tantalised by the offer you pose, intrigued by what you've hinted but hidden since you've arrived in the reef.

So slowly, he sinks onto your bed and you slide away the little boy-short pyjamas you had been wearing under the jumper.

"Do you-"

You cut Aonung off with a sly grin, slowly lifting your the sides of your large jumper.

"No need sweetheart," you grin. "I'm already wearing some."

Aonung's ears flatten instantly at the word sweetheart, one you know he doesn't understand judging from his expression trying to interpret if that's a good or bad thing.

But then his eyes fall onto you, and you automatically find his hands on your hips and tugging you closer.

And you know you didn't make a mistake.

He lets out a small hiss, as though he didn't even notice he did, at the sight of your body from underneath your massive jumper.

None of the na'vi - besides your casual partners - had ever seen you in something this small before.

None had seen the squidge of your ass and thighs, the smooth supple skin cloaking your curves.

The men had said it all before- how soft you are, how small you are, just how much give you have.

Na'vi women are all lean muscle, yet the pure humanity of your body lies in the squishiness of it, in your ass and thighs and chest and stomach in ways na'vi would never have.

And then Aonung's hands are on you, kneading your ass, eyes staring down at the way your body moves and jiggles with his slightest touch, pupils blown wide as they are when na'vi make tsaheylu.

It's something that never ceases to send a shiver through you - the awe and delight and worship with which na'vi seem to find in your strange squishy body, 

Then he's looking at you, and his usually baby blue eyes are dark and rough like the deep oceans. It's exactly what you were hoping for, the hunger and desire in his handsome face as he stares, seated but still slightly taller on your bed. 

"Take this off."

It isn't a question or a request, it's a fucking order. For the first time, it strikes you that he really is going to be Olo'eyktan, just by the forceful defiance in his deep voice fuelled by his sudden interest.

Hook, line, and sinker.

You push away slightly and he's frowning like drawing away from him is a goddamn dereliction.

Aonung's impatient, no sooner have you lifted up your jumper over your waist when he's tearing it up and over your shoulders and tossing it into the corner of the room.

"Pxasìk," he mutters, staring straight at you.

It's in no means meant to be a sexy outfit, just a simple thong and bra, but the way Aonung just stares at you is like he's seeing something completely new.

He's not foreign to females- you'd heard quite enough tales about his various exploits, but he looks like a teenage boy seeing his first pair as his gaze flicks up to your face, then he reaches out.

His hands are just this side of too rough, and you can almost feel yourself melting away in his hands that are larger than your head.

You let out a small whimper as he squeezes, and you feel the last strings of his restraint snaps.

Aonung finally picks you up, one hand holding you up by the waist. His casual display of strength is fucking dizzying, and you feel yourself getting wet before he crashes his lips onto yours and drops you in the nest of his lap.

Kissing is not something you are accustomed to when you need to wear your expopack all the fucking time, and you're half terrified about how the last time you kissed someone was a human scientist at least a year ago.

But it's hard to think, so you just lean into him.

The kiss is messy and airless and hardly graceful, but you wouldn't have it any other fucking way. You're all greedy and breathless, desperate for anything, his soft lips against your own, his amber and sea-salt scent, his warm that you nearly forget about everything else and get lost in the kiss.

You've never kissed like this, been kissed like this.

He's just as hungry as you are, but kissing a na'vi is different.

He's just so fucking... big. 

His hands are holding you everywhere- your waist, your ass, your tits, your thighs. He's tilting you this way and that and opening you up to deepen the kiss. His face is so large, the force and hunger and ferocity with which he's kissing you practically about to send you bending backwards if it wasn't for him clutching you tight to him.

It's hot and hungry, almost animalistic as his fangs lightly sink into your lip. You moan like a fucking whore into his mouth, and his textured, massive tongue lightly licks the blood away as he shifts.

It's just a warm, horny mess between the two of you, full of teeth and tongue and your tiny whimpers at each movement of his hands over your skin.

And suddenly it's all getting to much, the sudden emptiness in you that only he can fill, and you're gasping for breath and pulling away to stare at him.

Aonung too is breathless, head automatically following yours but you place a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Aonung breathe."

He grunts his objection to your words.

"I can hold my breath underwater for-"

"I can't have the future Olo'eyktan dying on my bed," you say, smiling at his indignation to stop kissing you. 

"I'm fine," he grumbles.

"Well I won't be able to drag your massive body out if you do pass out," you point out.

"Aw, are you going to try and rescue me?"

"No, I need to hide the evidence," you quip.

Aonung wrinkles his nose at you, but you just thrust the mask at him. With a childish eye-roll, he takes a deep inhale before disregarding his very vital possession and crashing his lips back onto yours.

You find yourself growing more comfortable. Aonung is hungry for anything, his muscles tensing when you make certain movements, and you find yourself doing them again.

Tugging him closer by his necklace. Lightly brushing your nails up his back. Threading your fingers into his braided bun.

When you lightly tug on his soft braided hair, he growls a little and shifts you closer. When you trace your tongue gently across his fangs, his grip tightens suddenly around your ass.

"You're so soft syulang," he whispers.

The sound of his voice all deep and gravelly, his breath all hot and heavy on your neck, his hands roving over every single inch of your skin, it's all just so.... much.

You miss his mouth on yours, but soon enough it's kissing its way down your neck. Each shaky breath of yours is met with him on your neck and collar, lips pressing, tongue lightly licking at your skin, sucking and kissing.

You were familiar enough with this- na'vi men were territorial creatures. But you had never seen any girls from Aonung's little black book walking around with hickeys, and at the rate he was going, your whole neck would just be one fat love bite.

And you'd be fine with that.

You feel his nose nudging lightly against you, breathing you in as his lips brush over your collar. Scenting you.

 His sudden gentleness with you doesn't quite create the friction you so desperately need right now, but his hands trailing and squeezing and exploring your smaller body satiate you. For now.

Then the ferocity is suddenly back, and he's nipping at your body again. A moment later, you realise that he must have only been satisfied because now you smell faintly like him, like amber and sea-salt, yet you know to another na'vi, his mark on you would be almost overwhelming.

When he finally reaches your bra - you could tell he'd been savouring this moment, kissing his way down to it - you can see the hungry gleam in his glittering blue eyes, his tail flicking excitedly behind him and an insatiable smile on his handsome face, fangs poking lightly through his soft lips. 

And like you'd thought, he's impatient and greedy and ravenous. He doesn't bother with the delicate clasp, no doubt guessing the struggles na'vi endured with their massive fingers against the small clinch, simply ripping it straight off your body.

"You ass," you gasp, looking helplessly at the pieces of what was once your bra tossed carelessly from the bed. "We live on a fucking island, where am I meant to get another br-"

"I'll make you more," Aonung promises. "I'll make you ten tops."

You highly doubt that- Aonung doesn't seem, or at least what you'd heard about his playboy experiences, like the sort for after care let alone gift giving.

But your half-hearted annoyance and indignance dies in your damn throat when his hands enclose your tits.

"You're - fuck- you're so small, syulang," he grunts, staring wide-eyed down at you.

Indeed, you'd never felt smaller against a na'vi then right now. Held in his warm lap, one of his hands big enough to hold both your breasts, both large enough to wrap around your whole body.

The thought of that makes you moan unconsciously, and Aonung blinks at you in surprise. You don't bother to play anything cool; with his hands where they are, he can feel how hot and nervous and hungry you are.

And when he meets your eyes again, you can see he feels the same.

Suddenly you're being laid back against your bed and Aonung's comfortingly heavy figure is over you, hands holding you tightly as his lips brush against your breasts.

It's an unexpected movement, one that has you arching in surprise, pushing your chest up and opening it all up to him

He goes on without hesitation, licking over your tit gently, grinning a little at your whine, the stark contrast of your smooth supple skin against his rough tongue just driving you fucking crazy.

He wraps his lips around your nipple and suckles at it, before he nips lightly at the underside of your tit.

And then you're arching and whining and tangling your fingers in his hair, and then he's kissing down your stomach and sliding away your thong before you even know what's fucking happening.

"Wait!" you gasp, cupping his face away from your cunt to get him to look at you. 

"Yes, syulang?"

"This is your first time," you say, trying to swallow heavily. "With a human."

Aonung just blinks, looking confused and slightly offended that you're stopping him from doing as he was going to.

"Don't... um... I should be making this good for you," you breathe shakily. "I want to make you feel good- to... um..."

Aonung just laughs as though you're being hilarious, and reaches up to pat your hair with one massive, warm hand.

"Mawey tawtute," he grins. "I want to make you feel good too."

"But-" you say, face twisted with worry, but once fucking again, he manages to kill your words.

He kisses the soft, squishiness of your thigh, inches away from your bare pussy, and you gasp lightly as he sucks a sweet purple bruise into the soft skin. 

Then, eyes looking carefully up at you to see your reaction, he lightly sinks his fangs into your leg. You gasp so loudly you think they might hear you in the village, hands instantly leaping to find balance in his braided hair. 

The sting is a welcome, warm pain, especially when he lightly licks away the droplet of blood and brushes your clit with a large turquoise finger.

You can't speak, just scrunch your nose tightly, grip onto his braids for dear life as he muscles his way in between your thighs and goes to fucking town.

His mouth is fucking massive- his hands are massive, pinning your hips down. 

You're squirming from the moment he gets onto you, sucking lightly at your clit, a delighted, puppy-playful glint in his large blue eyes, tossing your legs over his shoulders so his face is pressed even closer to you.

He suckles at you so eagerly, tongue stroking over your hole, over and over and over. You can't help it, the way you're simultaneously squirming away from the overwhelming pleasure of it all and the way you're rutting your hips into his face.

"Fu- fuck, Aonung."

It's all messy, you're so wet, his face is shining with your slick and his spit, and he slides a finger back and dips it in.

Instantly you gasp, jolting upwards and arching your back high to the ceiling. Aonung's about to grumble at your squirming when you tug at his hair and he groans.

"Sorry, sorry," you whisper, flushed with mortification.

Aonung just looks up at you and grins, kissing your hip lightly and mumbling against your lips,

"Go ahead syulang."

He slides a second finger in beside the first one, easing them together, fuelled by your breathless moans and groaning into your clit as you tug at his braids with each helpless squirm, his deep rumbles vibrating warmly against you.

He has a look on his face that tells you plainly- he's enjoying this as much as you do. It's in the glint of his eyes and his wide smile.

And the way his tail is thumping happily behind him, unrestrained and untethered, telling you one thing.

He's fucking hard.

You notice it by the way his hips are tilted, rutting slightly against the mattress, but he seems unwilling to take his hands away from you, from the curve of your ass and your slick.

And you want to help, so you squirm a little more to slide down to reach him.

"Aonung, don't you want to just-"

"Just one," he pleads, looking up at you.

It's crazy, how someone that's twice your size and has no fucking idea what it is can look as an adorable as a puppy when he wants to.

And who are you to deny the Metkayina Prince?

So you just accept your fate and hope to eywa you don't black out too fast, clinging to his braids and trying to muffle your moans into your hand.

Your legs begin to shake around his head, eyes rolling all the way back as you moan louder and claw at your rickety brass bed head.

Then, when you accidentally jerk and squeeze your legs around his face, he moans shamelessly against you and that's all it takes.

With a hand clasped tight over your mouth to muffle your moans of pleasure, coming undone on his tongue, clamping down on his fingers and leaping head first off the edge you'd been teetering on.

You have no idea what to do, just know you're rocking aimlessly against his face, crying out and holding onto him for dear life.

He continues through it all, licking and kissing and nipping and sucking with such fervour that you think he might just pull your soul out of your pussy, eyes watching you with desperate lust yet also with sweet curiousity.

Whether you're conscious or unconscious you don't know, all you can sense is the overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing again and again over you. 

"Holy shit," you breathe, finally coming down and lightly tugging at his braids. "Aonung come on, let's find something for you."

Aonung frowns, clearly wanting to keep going, but he obliges when you grin and brush your fingers over his face.

He's all dopey and messy and gorgeous, face shining like the fucking ocean, but he just wipes it carelessly and moves back up your body to shower your chest and neck with more kisses and light nips.

"Aonung," you say gently, squirming slightly underneath him.

He just grunts to show he's listening, flicking your nipple lightly with his large, rough tongue. You fight back your broken moans so you can speak.

"I want to fuck you," you whisper.

That gets his attention fast. You nearly laugh at the way his head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise, and he tilts his head.

"Syulang, we have time, we don't have to-"

"No," you growl, frowning and trying to get him to understand. "You can kiss any girl anytime, see any tits any time, but this is the only time I'm ever going to have you and I want to do everything."

Aonung blinks, looking surprised, before bursting into deep, rumbly laughter that makes you scowl.

"What?" you grumble, annoyed and reaching to cover your tits.

That makes him grumpy, and he easily just pushes your arms away so he can pillow his chin between the cleavage and rest his face to look up your body at you.

His massive body, double the proportions of everything you have, is a comfortable weight over your smaller body, his hands absentmindedly stroking your soft skin.

"I'm not going to see any tits any time," Aonung says simply. "These are my favourites."

"You-" you wrinkle your nose at him to hide your annoyed smile as he licks lightly over your breast, then sucks a little hickey into the underside of the soft cleavage.

"Tawtute, you're all soft and smooth and squishy."

You let out a breathless little laugh, amused by the childish simplicity with which he expresses himself, stroking his large face fondly.

"But I don't want to waste our time when this is the only-"

"It doesn't have to be the only time," Aonung shrugs, blinking at you. "You can come to me whenever you like."

That's a layered statement. Whilst that has you reeling with delight and satisfaction, you can't help wishing that maybe he would come to you, that maybe he'd ever want this more than you do. Want you more than you want him.

"Or I'll come to you," Aonung amends. "But if I come to you whenever I'd like, you'd be getting sick and tired of having me around."

"Why don't you find out," you whisper. "Just how tired you can make me."

And with that, you're in agreement.

Placing you in control, he rolls over onto his back, careful not to crush you, and lifts you lightly to rest on his chest.

You reach out to tug at the band of his loincloth, your fingers quick and desperate and practically scrabbling at the knot, and Aonung watches with amusement and curiousity.

Finally, it's untied and you draw it away. And fuck. He's naked. 

The prince of the clan is naked in the bed, straddled under you, staring up at you like he's never seen something so... precious.

So yes, maybe you've imagined this a million times. Thought about him naked, here, in the reef, in the river, in the marui, in every possible place.

For a human, you can be a horny little thing sometimes, and the thing that fuelled that most was your little crush.

But now he's here, and you're eager to see him.

All na'vi are big compared to you, every na'vi cock you've ever seen and felt and took is just large and beautiful and big, but Aonung just seems obsene.

Never once, in all your filthy imaginations, had you truly dared to factor in the sheer size of him. Just by looking at his massive muscular body, one could guess, but they'd still have their fucking minds blown.

He’s big. So fucking big it has your eyes bulging and heart thumping and mouth almost watering. His cock is just as beautiful as him, just as smooth pale blue with the delicate darker stripes and glowing tahnì.

When you reach out and touch it, his hips jerk slightly and his pupils widen as your smaller hand closes gently around it.

Fuck, you need two hands to hold it. It's heavy and hot and obscene in your small, smooth hands, and you look up at him with amazement.

He's just staring back, waiting for you to do what you want with him. Whatever you want.

You shift your hand down, too small to hold all of him but he groans anyway, feeling warm and sticky precome gushing from the tip to coat your fingers.

"Fuck, syulang, so good," he grunts, seemingly mindlessly rocking his hips up into your hand.

You just want to be good for him. To make him feel good, in any way near the way he made you feel, to repay him. 

But at the same time, the heavy weight of his cock, let alone the sheer damn size of it, has your head spinning and mouth watering. You want it stretching everything inside you, bullying its way into you, fucking its mark deep into you until you're ruined for anyone else.

You just want everything.

It's greedy of you, you know that, to be lusting after what might quite literally be the most unattainable man in the clan, but you can't help it. From the moment you set eyes on him, that's all you wanted, him as yours.

But since you can't have that, you'll just have to make this time worth it, get him to fuck you enough to last a lifetime without him.

"Come on," you grin. "All this for me?"

Aonung grunts as you tighten your hand slightly around his painfully hard cock, eyes studying the way the tahnì's light flickers and shimmers with each of your movements, the way he pulses in your hand.

"You have me now syulang," he mutters. "You don't need all those big, stupid guys."

"You are literally the stupidest guy ever," you point out. "But also the biggest."

At the last word, you lick a stripe up his length, and his hand jumps into your hair and he chokes out a groan.

"Even your tongue is smooth tawtute," he mutters, almost to himself.

"I'll try my best," you say, pulling back a few inches to study his dick. "I've never done this with a na'vi before-"

"It's alright," he whispers, trying to pull you closer, and you frown.

"I want to do this," you pout. "Please- it just might not be very tidy."

Aonung tries to pull you away, tries to hide the way his cock is pulsing, but you can feel each heartbeat through the heavy weight in your hand.

"Come syulang, we have time later," he pleads. "You wished to fuck."

"I don't want this to be over too soo-"

"I will come every day if that's what you'd like," Aonung huffs. "Just let me make you feel good."

So you oblige, pushing hard at his shoulders, and he lies back onto the pillows as you lift yourself up and straddle him.

"Are you sure?" Aonung asks, furrowing his brows at you. "You are small and-"

This time you're the one to cut him off, rolling your hips fluidly over his much larger ones, feeling your whole body tighten at the new friction of your slick and throbbing clit sliding up along his hardened length.

He doesn't protest again. He just lets his hands fall to rest on your hips, sliding your smaller body on his before bringing you down to grind harder.

You moan and he lets out a small noise in his chest, and it takes you a moment to realise he's purring.

Surprisingly, he doesn't seem abashed by the sounds he makes, instead he just rests his head back against the pillows to watch your movements with eyes darkened with lust.

You can feel that familiar heat growing rapidly, too rapidly, between your legs straddled either side of him, so you quickly lift off his hips. Thankfully, Aonung seems to understand, or maybe the teasing is just too much for him too, because he helps you line him up with your entrance.

At the slightest movement, your legs stretching further to lower yourself onto his cock, you know it's going to be a stretch. More than any fingers, any cock, anything you've ever taken, and you think he knows it too, by the way he's staring so avidly at you.

But you're impatient, hardly caring how much you get hurt, just wanting him inside you, stretching you, marking you, ruining you, and you drop further down so the head of his cock starts to press into you.

And then you're dropping further, hair cascading messily all over you, lips bit tight to hide your pain before the massive hardness of him slides past the ring of resistance and starts to smoothly sink into you.

You cry out and Aonung hisses.

"You're- fuck, you're so tight syulang," he groans. "The others did not lie."

You can't answer, sinking further down, head lolling back at the overwhelming stretch of it all, hands resting firmly on his chest to anchor yourself.

Aonung's breathing heavily, his eyes blown wide to black moons ringed in a thin line of pale blue, and you can see he's trying to control yourself as you grit your teeth and sink further onto him.

You're whining and whimpering and he half-looks like he wants to stop out of concern for you, but you shake your head at him. Instead, he sits up, cradling your small figure against his massive chest and takes control, sliding in.

And in. And in.

Just when you think there's no more left for him to go, he keeps going. He lets you sink your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your sharp cries, gently smoothing your hair and whispering comforts and praise to you while his other hand reaches down to rub circles on your throbbing clit.

The stretch in you feels so tight that you doubt you can move, and Aonung hisses again as you clench around him.

"Just a little more, paskalin," he whispers, biting back a groan as he rocks another inch into you, your silent tears streaking his chest, your whimpers and whines practically injected into him through your mouth on his shoulder.

"You're so big," you choke out, gritting your teeth as he pushes in another inch, which seems literally fucking impossible.

And fuck, he's still got a few inches left and there's just simply no more space. You frown with frustration, but then he's dropping your remaining weight onto him and buries himself deep inside you.

You cry out, face twisted in the delicious mix of blunt pain and sharp pleasure, and Aonung just remains there, holding you close and sheathed within you, letting you adjust and clench and breathe heavily.

"Holy shit," you groan. "You're right here."

The bulge of his dick is evident in your body, and you lay a breathless hand over it. A sick part of you wishes it'll remain there forever, his mark fucked into you long after you can't fuck him anymore.

He too takes a breath, lazily and careless from his mask, before laying it back down and finally starting to move.

The stretch is a delicious burn as Aonung rocks his hips deeper, until he's as far in as he's going to get, before he pulls out an inch and makes his first, experimental thrust. To his delight, it has your eyes rolling back and you arching your tits right into him.

His lips find his way on your neck, your nails digging into his broad back as he rolls his hips and thrusts deep into you. You can't hold it back anymore, moaning shamelessly like a whore into his ear all the while scratching your mark into his back.

He, in turn, is moaning and cursing against your neck, his mouth all messy, nipping and kissing along your neck and collar and chest.

It's all just a test, really. Sensing out each others bodies, learning what you like; there's nothing about this you dislike.

You love the squeeze of his hands on your curves, knowing he loves your curves just as much- judging the way he's pinching your ass, kneading your tits and tracing the little squidge of your belly.

"So good syulang," he whispers when you clench around him again. "You're doing so well."

He's whispering nearly unintelligible things against your neck, words of worship, mutters of how tight you are, little praise of how well you're doing.

You just cling onto him, moaning shamelessly into his ear, arching further and further with every deep, forceful thrust, feeling as though he's fucking your soul straight out of your body.

If he hadn't been holding you up, you think you may have just turned to jelly and flopped backwards, yet his hands are warm and present on your back.

You shift slightly, up and down, trying your best to meet each of his thrusts, and there it is. The start of the knot, the one you begin to pull, to unravel.

And then he knows it, because all of a sudden he's speeding up and thrusting deeper and rubbing circles on your clit, and you're a moaning mess, hands raking through his hair and over his back, gently caressing his face and digging sharply into his waist.

All it finally takes is the nip at your neck, the soft whispered shower of desperately spoken words you can't even hear, and then you've tipped over the edge.

Aonung just fucks you through it all, cradling you body and still muttering those words you can't make out. You're making a fucking mess, your sharp cries and moans and whines tearing through the home so loudly you'd thank Eywa forever that Spider's far away in the village.

And then when you still, the change that goes through Aonung is surprising. He had been rough by human standards, but it never seemed to strike you just how gentle he had been until he just loses all vestages of control.

He's moving at animalistic paces, and you're unravelling into a moaning, trembling mess under him, teeth sunk into his shoulder to try and quiet your sounds, because you sure as fuck can't hold them in.

You yelp as he speeds up now, brutal and animalistic as the last tenterhooks of his strained restraint snaps and he buries himself deep inside you. He's hissing a million unintelligible words against your skin as he spills himself inside you, rocking his hips the whole time until he finally comes to a shaky stop.

It's all just quiet. And still. 

No words are spoken, just your faint moans every now and then in the aftershock of your earth-shattering orgasm.

After a moment, when you finally start to return to yourself somewhat, you realise he's layed back against the bed, you curled lightly on his chest. His arm is tented protectively over you, your own wrapped tight around his own chest, your hair spilling over your shoulders onto both your spent, slightly sweaty bodies. 

Then he finally moves, a small shift to pull you even closer, gently slide you up his body you you're in his view, when he can nuzzle lightly into your neck.

You whimper at the sudden cold emptiness inside you as he lifts you off him and closer to his face, but he lightly kisses all over your flushed face, once, twice, again and again, soft, gentle brushes of his lips over your shining skin.

"Are you alright, syulang?"

You can't answer. Aonung, the prince of the clan, the guy you've been crushing on since you came to the reef, the one that was the most unattainable man in the reef, had just fucked every morsel of animation out of your body, and is now cuddling you close.

"Why are you doing this," you manage to say weakly.

"You do not like having me here?" Aonung asks, brows furrowing in confusion, looking slightly hurt.

"No," you say quickly. "But you don't have to stay here with me- you're free to go if you wish. Don't feel like you have to take care of me."

Aonung's frown deepens, but he just nuzzles closer, his face pillowed with your soft, raw breasts.

"I will stay," he says decisively. 

"But you don't," you say quietly. "I've- I've heard things, that you are just... well... slutty. We both wanted sex Aonung, you don't have to feel obligated to help me, especially when you never did with others before me."

"I will stay," he says again. "I want to stay with you, syulang."

It's strange. You don't feel uneasy, but you're not used to cuddling after intimacy, not with men only being with you for the experience of fucking a tawtute, not when you're wearing your expopack.

But now, for the first time, you're just spent the fuck out, collapsed on top of the future Olo'eyktan, being praised and kissed and cared for by the elusive, unattainable Aonung.

And then there's the problem. The fact that Aonung has lit a flame no others will be able to fuel, the fact that he's made you come harder than any other ever will, the fact he's stretched you to the point no other will ever be able to fill.

"I think you've fucking ruined me," you mumble sleepily into his neck. 

"Have I?" he asks, sounding slightly pleased with himself.

"For anyone and everyone."

So there's just the question left, the one that's been ringing in your brain since he kissed you, since he touched you, since you came so hard your vision went fuzzy.

And you know there's never going to be another chance to ask it. So here fucking goes. But then he answers it before it even leaves your raw lips.

"You will not need others syulang," he growls. "I will take care of you."

And you think you could melt away. All you wanted.

It seems impossible that this is happening- maybe he fucked you so well you simply passed away, and your heaven was just him caring for you. Maybe you're still fucking dreaming, and you haven't woken up, and Lo'ak and Spider will be playing video games outside on that shitty old sofa.

But then you reach out to tentatively touch his face, and you know it's real.

He's still breathing raggedly, and you pass him the mask.

"Breathe, Aonung."

"I-"