I usually just repost others posts but I maybe might start just posting other random stuff.!?
But first a few rules…
No hate speech or political discussions. I’m here to talk about fan fiction not your opinion on gay people.
This is my blog and I can do whatever I want with it. This one’s mostly for me to remember that other peoples opinion doesn’t matter lol
I would love to talk to people but please no requests. I enjoy writing and reading but this is not a page where I post what I write. This is where I reblog others beautiful work.
I think that’s it but this post may be edited later!
Your very tall boyfriend Theodore Nott.
╰┈➤<readers gender not specified>
Tall bf Theo! Who’s posture is absolutely ruined from bending over because of everything else being made for the average height.
Tall bf Theo! Who practically melts into your touch when you massage his back or shoulders. You treat him so well and he loves you so much.
Tall bf Theo! Who loves when you cook. His body burns calories really fast. He could eat an entire chicken and still be hungry. But when you cook it isn’t all that bad, maybe it’s just him feeling bad for wolfing your hard work down so fast.
Tall bf Theo! Who likes to tease you by putting things on the top shelves just so you ask him for help. He knows that you know he does this but to be fair, it just makes him wanna tease you more. Seeing your pout is so cute
Tall bf Theo! Who has a hard time finding clothes that actually fit him how he likes. Whether you decide to pick up sewing to help your boyfriend is up to you. maybe add patches on said pants. or embroider you're name ass the back pocket.
Tall bf Theo! Who knows you don’t like it when he leans down to talk to you but he can barely hear you when you speak. Maybe it’s Enzo and Mattheo blasting their music but he chooses to go on his knees, looking up at you. Or just picking you up. Doesn’t really matter
Tall bf Theo! Who curls up when he sleeps after not having a big enough bed. He doesn’t mind being the little spoon either. though you can’t exactly say it’s all that comfortable hugging a six foot five man from behind.
A.n. y/n x ceo ahh relationship
🏷️ @char-char-f0x || @h-0-r-1-m-1-y-a __ask to be added
You didn’t like this idea, at all. So when Isaac shot up from the freezing water, his hand immediately found you and dragged you to towards him. Like you were safety for him and that you would bring him back.
“Hey, hey,” You said in a gentle tone as he panicked, heart beating rapidly as he tried to get out of the freezing bath. He was panicked and most definitely was trying to find warmth of some kind. You had wrapped the towel that was set on the counter next to you around him, holding onto him tightly.
“You did really good!” You praised him, feeling his wet curls push further into the crook of your neck. While he might have been a werewolf, we was more like a puppy dog with you. You could feel his cold skin underneath your hands, your hand gently rubbing at his bare back.
💻 : loverboy! stiles puppy love fluff stiles just wants to give you everything
masterlist
loverboy! stiles who will do anything for you. need to get driven home? he'll take you. lifting something heavy? stiles will get it despite the fact his hands are aching.
loverboy! stiles that will listen to what you say, he's basically like a dog.
loverboy! stiles who says cheesy pick up lines he found on the internet to have you be more attracted to him, which works oddly enough . . .
loverboy! stiles that cannot stop staring at you. scott scoffs when he realizes that he wasn't even listening to him, "dude, your eyes are going to be stuck open."
loverboy! stiles who is infact still awkward around you sometimes. poor guy can help it, your looks and presence makes him forget he's your boyfriend.
loverboy! stiles who once went to your neighbors window instead of yours and ran so quick to your window . . .
loverboy! stiles who LOVES when you kiss him, he pouts and tries to lean back in for more before you put your hands on his mouth to stop him that causes him to groan.
loverboy! stiles does in fact write your initials plus his and draws a heart in pen on the corner of his notes and clears his throat if a teach walks by and sees.
loverboy! stiles who actually felt so dizzy on your first date because he was so nervous and had no idea how to act around you.
loverboy! stiles loves having any part of him touch yours.
loverboy! stiles who is absolutely whipped for you.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: Angst, hallucinations, blood and injury, hurt with no comfort, but an open ending, so who knows, edited while stoned, any season spencer, but mentions of Emily and JJ and Rossi
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: He thinks he's too late. The warehouse is a labyrinth. The unsub is gone. And when he finally finds you, you're barely holding on—pale, bleeding, and looking at him like he's a ghost. Spencer Reid has solved impossible cases before. He's saved victims who had no right to survive. But this is different. This is you. And he's not sure he can survive losing the only person who ever made him believe in happy endings.
𝐚/𝐧: I've got @rebelfell to thank for this little gem because your WIP graveyard actually led to me finishing this, and also, of course, all my love to everyone who interacted with the snippets because that was the motivation I needed <3 (also I only realized after putting this together that I had already used that pic of spencer in my other angst fic but I can't be bothered to find another one cause I like this one so yeah sry)
When you open your eyes, you see Spencer.
It's the first thing that registers—not the cold leaching into your bones, not the fire in your wrists, not the salt-and-iron taste of blood in your mouth. His face hovers above yours, all anxious eyes and sharp cheekbones, a furrow between his brows that you want to smooth away with your thumb. For a moment, the pain recedes, pushed back by a wave of relief so immense it steals your breath.
He found me. He came.
But the relief curdles almost instantly, replaced by a colder, more clinical truth.
You're dying.
You have to be. This is the brain's final mercy, the last, desperate gift of a system shutting down: a vision of the one person who makes you feel safe. You've studied this phenomenon, read case studies of mountaineers who see their families in the snow, of soldiers who whisper their lovers' names before the darkness takes them. The mind, in its infinite kindness, builds a bridge between here and nowhere, and populates it with the faces it loves best.
Of course yours would choose him. Not your mother, not the friends you've left behind, but Spencer—with his nervous hands and his brilliant mind and the way he always looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve. He's the last thing your brain wants to see. The last thing it's letting you have.
This is how it ends, you think. Not with a bang, not with a scream, but with a lie. A beautiful, merciful lie wearing Spencer Reid's face.
He's saying something—his lips moving fast, the way they do when he's spiralling, when he's run three steps ahead of everyone else and can't slow down long enough to explain. You know that rhythm. You've watched him pace hotel rooms with that same frantic cadence, his hands gesturing at invisible diagrams, his words tumbling over each other like he's afraid they'll escape him if he doesn't get them out fast enough. But now, the words are muffled, distant, like you're hearing him from underwater, or through a wall, or from the wrong side of a dream you're already slipping out of.
His hand reaches for your face, and you almost laugh. A hallucination that touches you? That's new. Cruel, even. Your subconscious has never been this creative before—never this precise in its cruelty. It's one thing to see him. It's another thing entirely to watch his fingers trace the air between you like he's afraid you'll shatter.
Then his fingers brush your cheek.
Warm. Calloused. Impossibly real.
The sob you've been holding back cracks loose in your chest—a sound so raw and broken you barely recognize it as your own. It tears out of you like something that's been clawing at the inside of your ribs for hours, days, a lifetime. Every wall you've built, every careful detachment you've practiced, every clinical observation you've filed away—it all crumbles the second his skin meets yours.
"No," you rasp. Or maybe you just think it. Your throat feels shredded, raw from screaming—hours ago or minutes ago or maybe still. Time stopped making sense the second they threw you into this room, the second the door locked behind you and you realized no one knew where you were. "No, you're not—you can't be—"
He's already cutting through the ropes around your wrists. You feel the sawing motion—the blade of his pocket knife, you realize, the one he always carries, the one you've teased him about more times than you can count—and the rough fibres biting deeper into your raw skin before they finally fall away. Your arms drop like dead weight, the blood rushing back in pins and needles so sharp it makes you gasp. He catches you before you can hit the floor, his touch steadier than his voice, his thumbs pressing gently into the inside of your wrists where you'd feel your pulse if you had the strength to feel anything at all.
"I'm here." His voice breaks through the static, clearer now. Desperate. The kind of desperate you've only ever heard in his voice when he's talking about a case he couldn't solve—when the unsub slipped through their fingers, when a victim didn't make it, when he stayed up three nights running the numbers and still came up empty. "Look at me. I'm right here. I've got you."
His eyes are searching yours, that familiar intensity—the one that always made you feel like you were the most important thing in the room, in the world, in his entire sprawling, brilliant mind.
You want to believe him. God, you want to. Every inch of you is screaming at you to grab onto his voice, his warmth, his impossible presence and never let go. To let yourself fall into the safety of his hands and pretend the last however-many-hours didn't happen.
But the darkness is pulling at the edges of your vision—not sudden, not violent, but patient. Insistent. The way a tide pulls at a drowning person who's finally stopped fighting.
But here's the thing about lies—sometimes they feel true enough to hold onto. Sometimes they're all you have left.
"Hold on," he says, and you've never heard Spencer Reid sound like this—like he's the one falling apart. Like he needs you to be okay more than he's ever needed anything in his entire life. More than he needed to solve his first case, more than he needed to prove himself, more than he's ever needed air or sleep or the answer to a question that's been eating him alive. "Please, just hold on. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I let them take you. I should've been faster. I should've—"
His voice cracks, splinters, and you realize with a dull, distant ache that he's crying.
You've seen Spencer Reid cry exactly twice—once when a victim's mother broke down in front of him, and once when he thought no one was watching, staring at a photograph of someone he couldn't save. You'd never imagined you'd be the reason. You'd never imagined he'd sound like this—like the world was ending and he was the only one who knew it.
You try to lift your hand to his face. Just to touch him. Just to feel the sharp line of his jaw, the warmth of his skin, the proof that he's real even if you can't quite believe it anymore. But your fingers won't cooperate. They feel heavy, distant, like they belong to someone else—like they're already packing up and leaving, checking out of a body that's decided it's done fighting. So you just look at him. At the blood on his collar that isn't his. At the way his hands shake as he checks your pulse—two fingers pressing into your wrist, searching for a rhythm you're not sure is still there—and your pupils, and the cut on your temple that you'd almost forgotten about.
He's checking for a concussion, you think, and the clinical detachment of it almost makes you smile. Of course he is. Even now, even like this, he's running through the protocols. He's cataloguing my injuries. He's trying to save me the way he saves everyone—with his brain, with his hands, with every piece of knowledge he's ever crammed into that beautiful, impossible head.
But you can feel the fight leaving you, seeping out through the wounds you can't see, through the blood you can feel pooling beneath you, through the exhaustion that's been building for hours—days—a lifetime. It's not a violent surrender. It's quieter than that. It's the way a candle flickers before it goes out, the way a song fades at the very end, the way a breath leaves your lungs and you realize you don't have the strength to pull another one in.
You try to keep your eyes on him—on the panic in his brows, the way his mouth keeps moving like he's reciting something, a prayer or a passage or maybe just your name over and over. You watch the words form on his lips, watch them stumble and break and reform, the fear in his eyes, the desperation, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the universe that matters—it's almost too much to bear. It's almost worth dying for, just to know you were loved like this.
But your eyelids are so heavy. Heavier than the ropes ever were. Heavier than the weight of everything you've been carrying, everything you've been pretending wasn't slowly crushing you.
You could fight it. You know you could—if you tried hard enough, if you clawed your way back to the surface, if you let his voice be the thing that pulled you up. But you're so tired. Tired in a way that goes beyond your body, beyond the pain and the cold and the blood. Tired in a way that feels like it's been building your whole life, like you've been running toward this moment and didn't even know it.
Just a moment, you tell yourself. Just one moment to rest. I'll open my eyes again. I'll fight. I just need—just one moment.
So you let them drift closed, and you let yourself pretend. Just for a moment. Just until the light goes all the way out.
Spencer feels you go limp in his arms, and the world stops.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. It stops—the way a heart stops when the electricity cuts out. One second there's noise, chaos, the distant echo of Emily's voice barking orders through the comms, the flicker of fluorescent lights overhead, the acrid smell of concrete and rust and blood. The next, there's nothing but the terrifying, suffocating stillness of your body going slack against him. Heavy. Too heavy. The weight of someone who's no longer holding themselves up, no longer fighting, no longer there in the way that matters.
"No," you hear him say, but it's distant now, like you're already halfway somewhere else—already crossing a threshold he can't follow you through. "No, no, no—stay with me. Please. You have to stay with me. Please."
He shakes you gently, then harder, his fingers finding your pulse point like a lifeline—pressing into the side of your neck with a desperation that borders on frantic. He's done this a thousand times. A thousand victims, a thousand assessments, a thousand clinical observations filed away without a tremor. But this is different. This is you. And his hands are shaking so badly he can barely find the right spot.
It's there. Faint, thready, but there.
He almost sobs with relief. Almost. The sound catches in his throat, strangles itself before it can escape, because there's no time for relief. There's no time for anything except the next heartbeat, the next breath, the next second of you still being here.
"Help!" His voice tears out of him, raw and desperate, ragged at the edges in a way he's never heard before. It doesn't sound like him. It sounds like someone who's already lost everything and is just now realizing it. "I need help in here! Now!"
He can hear boots pounding against concrete somewhere in the distance. Rossi's voice, calm and clipped, coordinating the response. JJ shouting something about the ambulance. The crackle of radio static. But none of it matters. None of it reaches him. All that exists is the space between your heartbeats and the terrifying weight of your head against his shoulder, your hair tangled beneath his fingers, your skin cooling against his palms.
He presses two fingers to the side of your neck again. Counting. Always counting. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand—
Your pulse stutters.
A beat. Then nothing. Then another beat, weaker than the last.
No.
"Spencer—" someone says. JJ. Her hand is on his shoulder, warm and grounding, but Spencer can't look away from your face. Too pale. Too still. Your lips are tinged with blue, and there's blood—so much blood—seeping through his fingers where he's pressing against the wound he can't even see, the one he's terrified is the one that matters.
"She's crashing," he hears himself say, and his voice sounds hollow, clinical, like he's reading an autopsy report for a stranger. Like he's already detached himself from the reality of what's happening because if he feels it—if he lets himself feel the weight of you slipping away—he'll shatter into pieces too small to put back together. "Her pulse is weak and irregular. She's lost too much blood. She needs a hospital now or she's going to—"
He can't finish the sentence. The word die lodges in his throat like broken glass, cutting him from the inside out. He can't say it. He can't even think it, because thinking it makes it real, and if it's real, then there's a version of the future where you don't exist, and that version isn't one he can survive.
"Ambulance is one minute out," Rossi says, and Spencer nods, numb, pulling you closer even though he knows he shouldn't move you, even though every rational part of his brain is screaming about spinal precautions and haemorrhage control and all the protocols he's memorized and taught and followed for years.
He doesn't care. He'll take the risk. He'll take all the risks. He'll spend the rest of his life making deals with a god he doesn't believe in if it means you open your eyes again.
"Come on," he whispers, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice breaking on every syllable. "Come on, you're not done. You're not done fighting. You can't be done—not yet—not when I haven't—"
He stops himself. Swallows. His eyes burn, but he doesn't let the tears fall—not yet, not while there's still a chance, not while he can still feel the faint flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers.
Not when I haven't told you.
The thought hits him like a bullet, sharp and devastating. All the words he's been too afraid to say, all the confessions he's buried and the careful distance he's maintained because losing you felt inevitable—but not like this. Never like this. He always imagined he'd have more time. That he'd find the right moment, the perfect words, the courage to look you in the eye and tell you that you're the only thing that's ever made sense to him. That you're the reason he gets up in the morning, the reason he fights, the reason he believes in something bigger than the darkness.
He never imagined he'd be holding you while you slipped away, begging you to stay while the words he should have said died on his tongue.
"One minute," he says again, like a mantra, like a prayer. He's not sure if he's talking to you or to himself. "Just one minute. You can hold on for one minute. You're the strongest person I know—you've survived worse than this—you've survived everything—"
His voice cracks again, and he presses his lips to your forehead, desperate and trembling. "Please. Please don't leave me. I can't—I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you."
Ok ok ok!!! I just read your short little one about how Steve would be with someone touching his hair so this is a fic request kinda based from that!! Can I get a fic of like a reverse situation where reader has like waist length or like mid-back length hair that's really silky and Steve is like obsessed with it and messing with it (the others often notice him like running his fingers through it when they're strategizing and he's like stressed) and he like somehow knows all these different braiding techniques he uses when he's playing with her hair (overall just like REALLY DOCILE with reader ad total softie!!!)??
"Please stop," You beg Steve, your voice groggy with exhaustion that you're trying to fend off for the last twenty-three minutes of the movie on the Wheeler's tv.
He blinks, his attention diverted as he turns to face you, craning his neck down slightly to meet your eyes and creating a soft roll of chub beneath his chin with the motion. You want very badly to kiss it but you must remain strong.
"What?" Steve asks, and Robin surveys the two of you with a wary look. She tries giving you privacy but you can't blame her- you're both buried under the same blanket and Steve's hands are completely obscured, but they're not wandering anywhere scandalous. One's resting somewhere on his thigh and the other is behind your back, fingers rhythmically, soothingly dragging through the ends of your hair.
"You have to stop playing with my hair," You whine, and his hands smooth along your skin on instinct at the plaintive tone of your voice. They can't help but calm you, and you wriggle closer to him on the couch, moaning into his sweater-clad chest, "You're putting me to sleep and I wanna finish the movie."
"Didn't even realize I was doing it," He scoffs, his voice a whisper as he watches you fondly. You're burrowing into his chest so snugly that Steve is sure the position alone will put you to sleep even if he's no longer pulling gently at the ends of your strands of hair. It's soothing for him just as much as it is for you, but he'll trade it out for flattening his hand against the curve of your waist and settling it there for the remainder of the film.
He drops a soft kiss to your hair, smelling the shea butter shampoo you've stocked in both his shower and yours. He pulls back without thinking, but the sweet smell lingers and he tentatively lowers his head again, planting his lips against the side of your head and breathing against your scalp.
"Are you sniffing me?" You ask with a soft giggle. Steve knows that the rest of his friends are probably listening, probably shooting each other looks with scrunched noses and narrowed eyes at the less-than-private display of affection. But he doesn't care, breathing in hard against your scalp and smiling uncontrollably at your answering giggle.
"Maybe," He admits, taking immense pleasure in nosing his way towards your face, flushed skin against flushed skin as he speaks in hushes whispers beside your ear, "I love you. I love your hair."
"I love you too," You murmur back, and Steve is fairly certain you're paying less attention to the movie now than you were before, but you don't seem to care. You bask in each other's presence, noses brushing skin like sleepy puppies sharing a bed, and the movie doesn't seem half as romantic now as your own moment in time, curled into four square feet of space atop the Wheeler's couch, tucked into Steve's side.
❥ Morgan is officially done watching you and Reid dancing around each other. As a great friend - and someone who has half his paycheck on the line - he decided it`s time for a little physical intervention.
❥ fluff, workplace romance, idiots in love
The BAU bullpen after a grueling case always felt like a beehive on a ninety-hour shift. The team shuffled down the glass-walled corridor, peeling off their heavy coats, operating on a collective survival mode fueled solely by the promise of a hot shower and actual sleep.
Spencer Reid, however, was on a completely different frequency.
Lagging a few paces behind and practically buried under his overstuffed messenger bag, his sharp hazel eyes - usually hyper focused on geographic profiles - were completely glazed over. He was staring. Specifically, at you.
You were walking a few steps ahead, chatting with JJ, moving with this effortless, comfortable grace that defied the fact that that you'd spent the last forty-eight hours in a precinct and dirty crime scenes.
Derek Morgan had been watching this silent, three-hundred-mile pining match from the sidelines, and his patience had officially expired. The sheer volume of unspoken, nervous tension radiating off the young genius was practically a federal offense.
"Hey, Pretty Boy," Morgan murmured, nudging Reid’s shoulder with a sly, knowing grin. "You keep staring like that, you’re gonna burn a hole right through her. Either ask her out, or I’m stepping in."
Reid snapped his head away instantly, looking exactly like a schoolboy caught staring at his classroom crush. He desperately tried to force a look of clinical detachment onto his face, completely failing to notice that his ears had flushed a betraying, violent crimson.
"I-I wasn't staring, Morgan. I was merely conducting a cognitive-behavioral assessment on the correlation between her post-case gait and—"
"Yeah, yeah. Save it for Hotch," Morgan cut him off with a chuckle.
They reached the threshold where the hallway turned into the main bullpen, right where you had slowed down. With a masterclass in feigned clumsiness, Morgan "tripped" over his own boots, executing a perfectly calculated, high-velocity shoulder-check straight into Reid’s side.
"Whoa, watch out!" Morgan bellowed, his voice dripping with exaggerated theatricality.
For Spencer, time dilated into agonizing slow motion. Physics was an absolute, unforgiving law, and the genius possessed the kinetic coordination of a newborn giraffe. Losing his footing entirely, Reid’s arms flailed, his satchel flew open—showering the floor with profiling journals and loose case files—and he went airborne.
You turned around at the sudden commotion, but before your brain could register the threat, six feet of lanky, uncoordinated genius collided into you.
The hallway erupted in a sharp gasp, a muffled thud, and the tragic, airborne arc of a paper coffee cup.
Reid braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he anticipated the unforgiving impact of the bullpen’s hardwood floor. But the landing was shockingly... soft. And it smelled like rain, faint vanilla, and an underlying trace of jasmine.
When Spencer opened his eyes, his brain completely short-circuited. There was no math, no statistics, just a total, catastrophic Blue Screen of Death.
There wasn't a single inch of space left between your bodies. His face was buried directly into the soft cotton of your blouse, right in the dip of your collarbone. He could feel the erratic, rapid heat of your breath stuttering against his skin. Every soft curve of your body was suddenly mapped out against his, and the sheer sensory overload paralyzed him.
"Oh... oh, God," Reid wheezed, his hot breath puffing right against your skin, causing you to shudder slightly. He froze, terrified that even a deep inhale would break an unspoken boundary. His brain, capable of reading twenty thousand words per minute, was currently registering zero thoughts.
"Reid," your voice came out breathless, muffled against his shoulder. "If your brilliant mind is currently calculating the trajectory of our trajectory... I hate to break it to you, but we’re already on the floor. And you are a lot heavier than you look."
"I—I—Newton’s third law! Action and reaction... equal and opposite! I am so, so incredibly sorry! I'm getting up, I'm moving—"
Panic took over. Spencer scrambled to hoist himself up, but his long legs tangled hopelessly in yours. Frantic for leverage, his knee slid right between yours, shifting his weight and pinning you back down with an, agonizingly intimate press of his hips.
"Spencer!" you hissed, your face flushing a furious crimson as you looked up at him, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders to steady the chaos.
"I'm sorry! My center of gravity is completely compromised!" Reid squeaked, his voice cracking into a higher register.
He looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
His hands flailed, trying to find purchase on the floor, but he accidentally planted one palm flat on the floor right next to your head, effectively caging you beneath him, his face mere inches from yours. For a fraction of a second, his eyes dropped to your lips.
Morgan, standing over the two of you with the most innocent, angel-like expression on his face, casually scratched the back of his neck.
"My bad, guys. Totally lost my footing. Reid, come on man, don't just lay there. Help the lady up."
From the bridge overlooking the bullpen, Emily Prentiss leaned over the railing, a slow smirk spreading across her face. She casually pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and waved it at JJ.
"Told you it would happen before the fiscal year ended," Prentiss called down, completely unbothered by the administrative violation of workplace gambling.
JJ groaned, digging into her purse. "I had twenty bucks on an accidental elevator trap. Morgan, you cheated! That was a physical intervention!"
"Hey, a win's a win," Morgan grinned, winking down at the tangled mess on the floor.
Finally, through sheer adrenaline and survival instinct, Reid managed to untangle his lanky legs, rolling off you onto the hardwood floor like a landed fish. He immediately scrambled backward until his spine hit the nearest desk, pulling his knees to his chest and staring at the ceiling, trying to pretend he didn't exist.
You probably should have been annoyed, but your body was still burning from Spencer's phantom touch. You looked over at the red-faced genius, who was currently trying to hide his face behind his hands and a light laugh escaped your chest.
"You know, Reid," you said, brushing off your pants as you stood up and extended a hand down to him. "If you wanted to get my attention, you could have just asked for my number. It involves significantly less blunt force trauma."
Reid peeked through his fingers, blinking up at your extended hand. He swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, tentatively, he slid his hand into yours.
"Statistically speaking," Reid mumbled, his voice quiet, though a tiny, incredibly endearing smile tugged at the corner of his lips "giving out your phone number has a 98% lower risk of concussion. I'll... I'll remember that for next time."
"Good," you smiled, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. "Because next time, you're buying the coffee."
As you walked away toward the breakroom, Morgan slid up next to Reid, heavily dropping an arm over the kid's trembling shoulders.
"See?" Morgan whispered, watching you go. "Accidents don't just happen, Pretty Boy. They're just physics in action."
Reid adjusted his satchel, his face still burning, but for the first time all week, the statistics in his head actually made perfect sense.
Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader
Pairing: Stiles x Reader, Stiles x You (no use of y/n)
Word Count: 5k
Tags: fluff, fluff, fluff, i love my men nerdy and desperate, all characters are over 19, my vibe is it's like their sophomore or junior year of college
Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, unprotected pnv (terrible advice, babes, don't listen to these idiots)
Request: stiles smut plssss!!! anything fluffy???
A/N: request mixed with a lil bit of an old work to ease me into my first smut. still coming across virginities at 27, and that is really something. s/o to the anon who requested it lmao.
Stiles’s childhood bedroom is an assortment of Star Wars paraphernalia, baseball posters, and bundles of wrinkled flannels squeezed to fit within four faded blue walls. There are a few books stacked on top of his desk, coated in a thin layer of dust from the semester away from home, and little plastic stormtroopers stand at attention on his dresser corners. It smells a little musty in his room, a little like damp earth, but you’ve always liked that smell. You especially like how his cologne smells here—like spice, like fallen leaves, like Christmas morning.
“The curtains are blackout,” Stiles says. He pulls the heavy navy curtains over the window facing the small backyard. The grass is yellowing from the cold of winter, and the air is crisp with the same bitter chill. You shiver and burrow further into the sweatshirt you’d somehow commandeered long before you and Stiles were a we. A few flecks of dust float off the plaid bedding when he sits down on his bed. He looks up at you and grins at the sleeves hanging limply below your fingers, “Flip off the light.”
You turn off the light and shut the door. It’s dark inside the room now—almost completely black. What little remains of the sun is gone, and now you can only see the glow-in-the-dark stars sticky-tacked to the ceiling. “You must have taken a lot of people up here,” you hum, grinning at him coyly over your shoulder. You’re not quite sure if he can make out the glint in your eyes under the pale fluorescent glow, but you’d like to think he can. Either way, you’re sure he knows.
Stiles laughs easily and scoots himself down to the edge of his bed, “Why?”
“For kissing,” you say, matter-of-factly, but you’re still grinning. You make your way towards him, and your prowl is far less smooth than you’d like it to be—the piles of books and a couple month’s worth of dirty laundry make an already difficult path downright hazardous. You count it as a win when you end up in his lap without tripping on anything, “Doesn’t everyone want to be kissed under the stars?”
His hands, his wonderfully large and veiny hands, find their way to your hips. It’s instinct for him, reflexive at this point, and here in the dark it feels like the only thing he knows. You can feel his grin against your neck, “Do you?”
You hum, playing coy, and absently curl your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, thick and curling a bit at the ends. It’s grown out over the last few months. He’s been too busy with studying for finals and working at the library to bother getting it cut. You like it like this, long enough to hold onto, long enough to yank. “I like the stars,” you sigh—so close to his mouth, but not touching—and then you pull back, smiling fondly when you see his mouth is already puckered. “Tell me about ‘em.”
Stiles groans and falls onto his back, pulling you down with him. You end up tucked against his side, shivering as he slides his hand under your sweatshirt to trace a feathery line up and down your back. “That’s like the worst possible genre for innuendo. I can’t woo you while I’m David Attenborough-ing about astrology.”
You smile against his shoulder, and he yelps when you nip at his skin through his thread-bare t-shirt. “You like a challenge.”
He wraps a strand of your hair around his finger and pulls a little, just hard enough to tip into a reprimand. It’s at least half the reason you turn into a brat when he’s this close. “There’s Andromeda,” he hums against the top of your head, pointing towards a small cluster of stars. “Those are supposed to be her legs, and that’s her head, and the ones over there are her arms—fuckin’ uneven, I know. I think that side kinda looks like she’s holding out one of those canes with tennis balls on t—”
You smile and knock your head into his chin lightly, “Wooing, Stiles.”
He tugs on your hair again and swears under his breath when a little whimper tumbles past your lips. “Anyway, she’s next to Perseus—who looks a lot more like Patrick than a demigod. I mean, look at him; his body type is like…something between Dorito and spanakopita.” You laugh, and Stiles squeezes you closer to his side, tangles your legs together, and kisses the tip of your nose like he just can’t help himself. “Story goes, Andromeda's mom royally pissed off Poseidon, so he sent a sea monster to destroy her kingdom—as one does when someone’s talking shit.”
“Naturally,” you hum as you reach for the hand he has cupped around your waist.
“Naturally,” Stiles agrees, nodding against the crown of your head. You try not to get too distracted by the length of his fingers, bending them and straightening them out one at a time, as he carries on with the story, “So Andromeda’s mom is up there with the titans of bad parents—like right next to Vader and every Disney step-mom ‘cause she fuckin’ ties Andromeda to a rock as a sacrifice for the mo—” He sucks in a shallow breath through his teeth when you start kissing along the row of his knuckles, first little soft brushes that almost tickle and then a few lingering ones that wet his skin. He swears again and ever-so slowly shifts his hips against the thigh tucked between his legs. You take pity on him and rest your entwined hands in the small gap between your breastbone and his ribs. His exhale is warm against your forehead, “Obviously, Perseus swoops in at the last minute, slays the beast, gets the girl, etcetera, etcetera.”
Humming, you tip your chin up against his chest and look at him through your lashes, “What happens during etcetera, etcetera?”
“I think,” Stiles rolls over so that he’s on top of you, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging you in delightfully close to his broad chest, “something like this.”
You forget about the game for a minute when he starts mouthing at your skin with just the right amount of teeth. His hair, adorably messy and sticking up in little patches from your fingers, tickles the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t Perseus kill Medusa?” you mumble, head tipping back into the mattress, eyes closed.
“Uh,” Stiles keeps kissing along your neck, obviously distracted by the hitches in your breath and the soft sighs you let out when he breathes against spit-slick skin, “yeah?”
You can feel the heaviness of his whine against your mouth when you pull away, blinking up at him with big, round eyes—the picture of innocence. A little lamb, an unplucked daisy, a gossamer butterfly wing, entirely unaware of the raging hard-on pressed against your inner thigh. His skin is warm through his shirt, so warm you feel it on your legs when you wrap them around his waist. “While she was sleeping?”
“Uh huh,” Stiles slides a hand up your thigh. The other one is pressed into the mattress, and the muscles in his forearm flex under his full weight. You’re pretty sure he’d agree with anything you say like this.
Unfortunately for the pulsing between your legs, you’ve fallen victim to your own ruse. Your head tilts as you recall all the unsavory details of the Medusa myth, “After she was literally assaulted by his dad?”
Stiles drops his head against your chest and groans, “You’re killing me, baby.”
You grin and curl your fingers in his hair, petting him gently and squeezing your thighs against his hips, “Tell me another one.”
He sighs and rolls over, starfishing his right arm and leg over the edge of the bed with a dramatic flop. “We’ll skip Orion and the seven girls he stalked.”
“Smart choice,” you hum and snuggle into his side. His chest is firm from hours of trying to lift enough to play lacrosse with werewolves, but it still makes for a nice pillow. Stiles’s fingers find their way into your hair, and you swallow back the purr rising in your throat for his sake. He’s been so good for you, after all. You don’t want the torture to be too painful.
“And the swan-fucker,” he adds, scratching lightly at your scalp.
“What?”
Stiles ignores your wide eyes, smirking, and continues playing with your hair, “Altair and Vega. That’s a good one.” In the blanket of darkness and under the strain of yearning, his voice sounds soft and crackly, like one of those singers in the black and white movies, the ones that dance with the microphone. “Starts with a gorgeous, sexy, incredibly charitable goddess falling for a lowly mortal,” his grin is sly as he hikes your thigh over his, squeezing just under your ass, “a lot like us.”
“Boo. Awful.” You pull a face as he drops a flurry of kisses over your cheeks, nose, chin—your laughing mouth, “Disgusting. I’m disgusted.”
His fingers dip into the waistband of your leggings, tauntingly close to just where you want him, “You don’t feel disgusted.”
Now, that won’t do. You’re just getting started. You trap his hand with your thighs and tap your finger against the slope of his upturned nose, “Finish the story.”
Stiles whines a little and then sighs, returning the palm of his hand to the little dip above your hip. “Her dad is disgusted that she wants to bring a loser human home, so he turns them into stars on opposite sides of the galaxy.”
Frowning, you squint at the collection of stars he’d pointed to. They don’t look so far apart on his bedroom ceiling. “That’s…depressing.”
“It’s not over yet,” Stiles pulls on your hair and does his best to look annoyed, but the nip to your bottom lip feels far more like a reward than a punishment, “hush.” He waits a minute for you to comply—or, more likely, not comply—and you settle back on his chest and arch your brow, waiting. He arches his brow right back and then keeps going, “One day a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, Altair fills the galaxy with his tears, and every bird in the sky makes a bridge with their wings so that they can spend one more night together.”
The corner of your mouth tugs into a little grin, “That is a good one.” You trace little patterns on his bicep, little swirls and stars, and rest your chin on his shoulder so that you can see his pretty face, “But just for the story. Only one night a year would kill me.”
“Baby,” Stiles clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and shakes his head like he's disappointed, bottom lip jutting out slightly from under his top, “it'd take a helluva lot more than a couple light-years and an immortal father-in-law to keep me from getting to you.”
It’s such a line, but the dopey grin he gives you while he says it somehow makes it charming. Maybe you’re just a little bit lovesick. Okay, maybe a lot. “You can kiss me n—”
He’s on you before you can finish, but you don’t mind being interrupted when he's slanting his mouth against yours just right and groaning into your sighs with a gravelly pitch that makes your toes curl. “Fuck me,” Stiles sighs. He dips back in before you can quip something bratty, something that would definitely earn you another yank on your hair—later perhaps.
You straddle his waist, sit back in the cradle of his pelvis, and lace your fingers together on the mattress against the sides of his head. He whimpers. You curse. “Off,” you mutter against his mouth, tugging petulantly on the hem of his t-shirt. Stiles is quick to comply, like always, but the fabric gets stuck around his shoulders. You let him struggle for a minute, just long enough to hear more of those petulant little whines. When you finally help him wrangle his shirt over his head, you’re up close and personal with his mouth. His lips are pretty—swollen, pink, and shiny with salvia and your lip balm—and you’re filled with the overwhelming urge to bite. You toss his shirt somewhere on the floor behind you and lean down, your chest pressed against his. You can feel his heartbeat stutter, like a rabbit in a trap, when you stroke your thumb over his bottom lip. It’s soft and wet against your finger, and you sigh high in your throat, “Pretty.”
His chest warms, and you wish you had more light to admire the flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. You know it’s pink and pretty too, but you’d enjoy seeing the proof. “Pretty?” Stiles echoes, cocking his head slightly, and slides his hands from your ass to your hips. He continues his path along the sides of your ribcage with the bottom of your sweatshirt bunched between his fingers.
“Pretty,” you nod, sharp and definitive. You sit up a little so that Stiles can pull your hoodie off, and then it’s lost to the dark abyss. Frankly, you aren’t that worried about if you ever see it again. You can always steal another one after you’re done.
He shakes his head and runs his hands over your torso, your collarbones, your stomach, just under your tits—he can’t see that well in the dim light, so he’s damn well going to see you the only way he can. “Pretty,” Stiles groans, cupping your tits and gently thumbing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your cotton bra. It’s simple, white, unadorned by lace or a pattern—and it’s sexier than it has any right to be, he thinks. He’s eager to rip it off.
You shudder through the entire length of your spinal column, through all the nerves attached, and arch into his touch, “Yeah?”
He coos, and your nipples pebble in response. It’s embarrassing but soon forgotten when Stiles cups your face, big hands encompassing almost the entire length of your jaw, and whispers, “Pretty girl. My pretty baby.”
It’s even more embarrassing how quickly you feel your underwear dampen under the scrutiny of some simple praise. Now, you’re whining, and he’s letting out a string of guttural, “Fuck,”s as you grind down against the increasingly painful bulge in his jeans. Your nails leave little pink lines along the sculpted v of his pelvis, just deep enough to sting a bit—enough to send his head back towards his shoulders. He sits up a little more so that he can grip your hips, holding them still as he catches his breath, and you’re only a little ashamed of the way you mewl his name in protest. Stiles shuts you up with a kiss and shakes his head, “Can’t come in my pants like I’m 17 again. That’s the worst possible ending to our constellation. Like a 1/10, definitely certified rotten.”
You grin against his throat, and he swallows at the sharp press of your teeth. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the worst ending. Wouldn’t the worst be the one where you don’t come at all?”
Stiles’s fingers dig into your hips and he pulls you down firmly against his lap, like he’s scared you’ll get up and leave him with a weeping cock and teary eyes. “Baby, don’t even joke about that. That’s a billion times worse than letting a sea monster rip me in half.”
“Guess you can split me in half then,” you shrug a little, and Stiles goes taut under you, fingertips flexing into the small of your back, “unless you want me to tie you to a rock. I’d be into that.”
He growls in your ear, nipping at your jaw and flipping you onto your back. You laugh, a little breathless, as you bounce back on the mattress from the force of it. “Definitely wanna split you in half,” Stiles mutters as he shucks off his pants and kneels at the edge of his bed. He starts peeling back your leggings, taking his time to kiss each sliver of skin revealed to him despite the urgency in his eyes, despite the ache in his white-knuckled grip on the buttery martial of your bottoms. “Gonna wreck you,” Stiles promises as he brushes his lips over your ankle a few times. His words are filthy, but his eyes are honey-sweet and lit with nothing but complete and utter devotion—like you really are a goddess in the sky. You’re already wrecked, probably have been since he kissed you for the first time, entirely ruined for anyone else.
“Did’ya know that Vega is brighter than Altair,” he says, quiet and reverent as he drops your leggings. You blink at him, a bit dumbly, but it’s his own fault for trying to have a conversation while he’s sliding your legs over his shoulders and fiddling with the hem of your underwear. “By, like, 5 places? I think? That’s us too—can’t even look at you sometimes,” he hums, warm against your wet cunt, and hooks his thumbs around your panties. You shudder, and he smiles. You aren’t quite sure if he’s talking to you or to the glistening flesh he reveals when he yanks the baby pink cotton to the side. Either way, you understand his dilemma. It’s torture to watch him sometimes. You have to close your eyes when the pink tip of his tongue darts out, wetting his lip, tasting the air.
There’s a sigh. So soft. Really more of an exhale, and you aren’t sure where it came from. It could’ve been you, or him, or the stars. “You talk a lot,” this time you know the sigh is coming from you.
Stiles smirks a little and slips his thumb inside your panties, swiping through your slick folds like he’s fingerpainting, “Is that a complaint?”
Your hips stutter, and his other hand is quick to clamp down on your skin, stopping any attempts to skitter away from his light touch. “I love it when you talk,” you hum, leaning up onto your elbows so that you can watch him work. He grins up at you, almost shy, and presses down against your clit. A wet gasp bursts through swollen lips as your back arches, and Stiles isn’t so shy when he bends down to drop a gentle kiss over his thumb. “But I, uh,” you brush your fingers through the dark hair flopping over his forehead and squeeze your eyes shut when his kisses become kitten licks, “I also love it when you use your mo—” His finger (his long, gifted finger) slides into your cunt with an embarrassing squelch, and his lips wrap around your clit as he sucks. “That,” you whine, back arching a little until Stiles spreads his fingers over your stomach and presses down, “I also love it when you do that.”
His laugh vibrates deliciously against all the places he’s trying to devour, and you think it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go—being eaten alive by your gorgeous boyfriend. He pulls back to slip another finger in your pussy, spreading them just enough to burn in the best way, and then he’s prodding at the spot inside you that sends a jolt up your spine—makes your fingers wind in the bedspread, pull on his hair, fly to your mouth when you start to cry a little. It didn’t used to be like this. Sex. Getting fingered, fucked, even eaten out—it never felt like this before him. It’s…overwhelming, sometimes. Most of the time, actually. You keep waiting to get used to it, for the newness, the discovery of it all, to wear off. Hasn’t happened yet. You don’t think it ever will. Certainly not tonight.
“Good?” Stiles licks his lips, at the glistening corners of his mouth, and you toss your head back—overwhelmed. “Good,” he concludes, and he’s not even smug about it. More like he’s making a note in one of his case files, something to look back on later when he needs it. He’s quick about getting what little remains of your clothes off, and when he crawls on top of you, you’re immensely grateful for it. Skin on skin, nothing quite like it. Quick romps in the jeep, up against alley walls, the sink of the occasional bar bathroom—all fun, but not nearly as satisfying as being completely pressed against his naked body, completely caged in by his large frame. Sappy, maybe, but it feels dirty when he drags the tip of his cock through your folds. When he bumps against your clit, you mewl and dig your nails into his back. He sucks in sharply and buries his face in the crook of your neck, “There’s a condom in th—”
“Forget it,” you whimper, carding your fingers through his hair. It’s a little sweaty where it meets his neck, and it’s so soft, and thick, and perfect, and—he’s stopped breathing against your neck.
He groans from a place deep in his gut, deeper actually, and his arms shake, “Are you su—”
“Yes,” you nod rapidly and wrap your legs around him, arms too, and your fingers join in on the clinging when they twist in his hair. “Absolutely. 1000%. Please don’t make me say please.”
He lets out a little laugh that stirs the hair framing your face, and he traces your cheekbone, barely touching your skin. Your head swims with the look in his eyes: amber, warmth, and worship, “But you’re just so pretty when you beg.” Not that you’ve ever had to for long. Stiles gives you anything you want if you ask him the right way. If you look at him with big, wet eyes, if you jut out your lower lip just so—wet as well, the little lick of your tongue is part of it; that took him months to figure out—he crumbles. He’s said many times that better men than he have fallen victim to far less beautiful schemes.
Stiles kisses the pout off your lips and nudges the tip of his nose over yours, grinning like a drunken idiot, “Told’ya, baby. Not a light-year, definitely not a little latex.” His grin slides into a little ‘o’ when you slither your hand between your bodies and grip his cock, sliding the first inch into your cunt, impatient. “F-fuck—fuck-ing hell,” he grunts and takes over for you, squeezing your hip until it starts to hurt a little. You’d say something, but then he’d stop—and you like the way it aches. You like knowing there will be a bruise. He’ll fret over it later, kiss each mottled spot better a million times, and you like that too. You like being taken care of, almost as much as he likes taking care of you.
When he bottoms out, when his pelvic bone ruts up against you, a long, drawn out whimper spills through your pout. “Yeah? Feels good, baby?” Stiles watches your face closely, brushes away the hair sticking to your forehead, and drops a few kisses on your shut eyelids. You nod, and nod, and nod, until he stops you with another kiss to your lips. He kisses you slowly, presses his tongue against the seam of your lips, and you sigh. The kiss quickly becomes wet and filthy, and you’d be embarrassed by the sound of your tongues sliding together if you could actually hear it. At the moment, all you can hear is his cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy—and that’s definitely sending a dizzying heat up your neck. You don’t worry about it for long when his hips shift and he starts hitting that spot inside you again. After that, neither of you can hear anything over your squealing. Stiles kisses away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes and licks his lips, chasing the taste. “Right there, huh?” You babble an incoherent answer, and he strokes your hair and noses at your cheek, “Yeah, right there. I know. It’s okay.”
Stiles slides his hands under your back and sits up, taking you with him. The new angle is impossibly deep, and you bite down on his shoulder and wind your arms around his neck to keep yourself there. With him. In the moment. “It’s okay, baby. I got you, promise,” he squeezes your hips, and despite his reassurances and the strength of his grip, you know he’s falling apart too. He’s close. You can feel it. His hips stutter a little, change direction, lose their dedicated pace—and it’s perfect because you’re right there with him. It’s been building for a while, probably since he led you by hand to his room, maybe even before that when he smirked at you behind his cup of tequila and (mostly) pineapple juice.
You cry a little and bite down on your bottom lip, hard. Stiles kisses the sting away, and your eyes screw shut as you start babbling again, “I’m—”
He kisses you again and lifts his hands from your hips to cup your face, thumbing along your bottom lip when he pulls back—not far, just enough to look at your face, shiny with sweat and tears. “I know,” he stills for a moment, pausing the movement of his hips so that he can just feel you pulsing around him for a moment, “me too.” You aren’t sure if you want to hit him or kiss him for stopping, but you don’t have the strength to do either when he starts what must be his final round of thrusts. It has to be—you’re a few seconds away from collapsing or coming, whichever comes first. When Stiles moans your name in your ear, soft and high like he does when he’s right there, and he slides his hand down your stomach to rub firm circles on your clit, you’re happy it’s your orgasm that happens first. Your abs convulse a little as you twitch around him, and you curl in on yourself as much as you can with Stiles in the way. He’s not in the way for long. Growling, he shoves you back against the bed and mumbles, “Where?” after a few sloppy thrusts.
You mewl as he keeps the pressure on your clit, reach for his wrist and try to pull his hand away, but he’s determined and you’re tired. You twitch and throw your head back, whimpering, “Inside,” before you can think better of it. It’s his fault, you’ll decide later, for prolonging your high with his mean, unforgiving, wonderful thumb.
He’ll blame you, for feeling so perfect around him—for fluttering, and leaking, and trembling better than…anything he’s ever seen in porn, and he’s watched...a lot of it, so he’s a bit of an expert on the cinematic orgasm. “You’re so fuckin—you,” he shakes his head against your heaving chest and groans, “you’re everything.” And when he finally comes in you, you’re okay with taking the blame for something that feels so good. He manages a few more thrusts, and then he finally lets you pull his hand away from your cunt when he collapses onto his forearms, barely holding himself up from crushing you with his full weight. You’d tell him to roll over, but then he’d be over there and not in you, so you put up with the sweat and heaviness while your head spins.
“Baby?” Stiles hums noncommittally in response to your soft prodding, and you smirk against the top of his head. All the smugness leaves you when you finally feel the foreign sensation of his cum leaking out of you. Shuddering, you kiss his hair a few times and scratch up and down his back lightly until he’s able to breathe normally. He pushes himself up onto his arms and glances down when he pulls out, staring for a moment at the way your pussy gapes a bit, watching the trickle of cum drip down your folds and onto the bed. He rubs his hand over his jaw and licks his lips, shaking his head—at a loss for words for the first time in his life. Your tongue is a little thick when you fill the void for him, “Next time, towel first.”
He finds it within himself to tear his eyes away from your cunt and gives you a crooked little grin, “Next time?”
You roll your eyes, but your grin is stupid with affection, “Sure, next time. Maybe. If you’re good.”
It’s a little disgusting, the way he just rolls over and pulls you on top of him with absolutely no regard for the various bodily fluids sticking to your skin, but you forget about the unpleasantness of drying cum and cooling sweat when he kisses you. “I’m always good,” he huffs against your cheek. You shoot him a look, brows arched and eyes narrowed, and he smirks, “Okay, maybe not, but I’m always good for you.”
You nuzzle in a little closer and scoff, but it’s true. Stiles is so good, always—especially for you. “I guess you did manage to woo me. You’re very sexy when you’re talkin’ astrology, you know that?”
He smiles, wide and happy, and wiggles his brows, “An absolute banger of an ending, right? I don’t think they could chart it in the stars without ruining your pretty face, but that’s probably for the best.” Stiles brushes his fingers over your lips when you let out a little questioning hum and takes your hand, growling playfully as he nibbles at your fingertips, “You’re mine. Nobody’s allowed to see you like this but me—definitely not horny little nerds with their telescopes.”
You grin and bump your nose against his, “You’re a horny little nerd with a telescope.”
Stiles tips his head with a sly grin, and you already know what he’s going to say—it’s still devastatingly adorable when he whispers, “No, I’m your horny little nerd with a telescope.”
Adorable enough to make you consider pulling him into the shower with you, and if the heavy-lidded look he’s giving you is anything to go by, you’d say he agrees.
Technically, the next part of Wolfsbane, but it can be read as a standalone. Tell me, does it look like we have a pack mom in the making?
“Seriously, who doesn’t have a phone? How do people get your attention, smoke signals?” You looked up from the tanned skin of the teenage boy in front of you to make eye contact with the slightly older teenage boy who couldn’t sit still and had been ranting and raving since you’d gotten here fifteen minutes ago.
“I don’t usually do house calls.” If it had been up to you, you really would have preferred not to be woken up in the dead of night by a pounding on your door with a fervor that spoke of urgency. You would rather not have seen another teenage boy at your door looking frantic. You could have gone without grabbing a bag of essentials and leaving in your pajamas in the dead of night, where you were driven to an underutilized building and up to a loft where there was blood pooling on the floor and the sharp smell of copper.
You really would have rather never said “Anytime” when Derek had thanked you for helping him that night a few weeks ago. You glance back at the man in question when he barks, “Shut up, Stiles.” He looks way too good for a man who had spent his night fighting, even with blood staining his blue shirt.
Maybe a house call wasn’t so bad every once in a while.
A hiss brought you back to the boy in front of you. You redirected your attention and leaned in closer, fingertips brushing under the wounds that stretched from the side of his neck to the back of his opposite shoulder. Three jagged but equally sized claw marks. You moved your fingers a little higher, pressing firmly. An animalistic whimper came from him as he jerked under your touch. The flesh under your hand was burning hot and inflamed, rigid.
“Let me know when it stops hurting.” You move your fingers down, continuing to press. He makes a face, pressing his lips together, trying to hold back his pained noises. When you hit his lower back, you see the change in his posture. You press again, “Here?”
He nods, “Yeah, about there. Maybe a little lower.” His voice is tired and rough. “It aches, though.” He reluctantly admits. He turns, meeting your eyes almost guiltily, as if it is his fault he was hurting. Or maybe distrustful.
“Aches how?” When he doesn’t speak, you look up at the other dark-haired teenager. Scott, another Alpha. This ragtag group was his pack. Scott looks to Derek, pauses, and crouches by the younger boy.
“Aches how, Liam?” They share a look, then Liam turns back to you, his blue eyes hazed with pain.
“It burns, but it…like pulses, but deeper.” You take the Sharpie out of your bag and draw a line in black ink, a generous distance past where he said the pain stopped. Then glanced at the clock and scribbled the time down underneath.
“We tried to take his pain a few times. But it would only work for a minute. That’s never happened before.”
“It’s the venom, it’s literally killing his cells. You were just hurting yourself more than you were helping him.” Blunt words and unconcerned with the sting. “And how fast has it been spreading?” Liam shook his head, unsure.
“He's been here about two hours, and it has moved a few inches since then.” Derek’s voice was calm and sure. You press your lips together. It was spreading faster than you would like.
“And you don’t know what it was?” Because that would make figuring out a treatment a lot easier. Let's play Russian roulette with venom and hope we pick the right one before it kills you…. Which, honestly, wasn’t a far cry from some of your days as a teenager trapped in the compound of a cult.
“It looked like a wolf, but skinny, like sickly skinny. Its fur was dark…Maybe it was another werewolf fully shifted?” Liam offered. You thought for a moment, leaning back, going over your knowledge of supernatural creatures.
Your mind stopped on one.
“Was it up by the mountains? Did it have red eyes?”
Liam’s face scrunched, “Yeah, how did you know that?”
“It sounds like a Haunt.” Your hands go back to his skin, pulling below the cuts, making him wince. “Liam, this is really important.” You wait for him to look at you before continuing. “When it attacked you, did any saliva touch your skin?” You watched his blue eyes flashing back and forth, skimming through his memory.
“Yeah. Yeah, but just a little.” He panicked as he searched your face, but you kept it blank. “Is that bad?”
“It…changes things.” You say, vaguely biting back your curse. You go to reach into your bag and then pause as he shifts uncomfortably. You’d been trained to do things in a precise order: find the cause, figure out the poison, start the treatment, then and only then worry about the pain.
Pain was good. Pain was a necessary part of life. Pain taught lessons nothing else could teach.
But you were far from the compound, and pain was not a tool of control. Not anymore. Especially not to a teenage boy who was just trying to help the town he lived in.
“Turn around.” Reopening the cap to your Sharpie, you make precise, crisp symbols. On his chest, closest to the wound without touching it, his arm, bicep, forearm, and finally the back of his hand. “Here,” You press an amber stone into his palm. You cup his hand and mumble the incantation, then force his palm closed around it.
The result is instantaneous. Liam’s body loses the tension as he slumps forward, a breath of relief. Followed by a long inhale like he had been underwater, desperately trying to resurface, and that was his first gulp of air. The symbols radiate with power, sucking the pain into the stone. “Just keep holding onto this, okay?” You squeeze his hand firmer around the amber stone. Liam nods drowsily, and you half wonder if you made the spell just a little too strong. You decided more was better when it came to pain management. You turn to Derek, whose dark eyes are perceptive, soaking in everything. Always seeing everything. “Kitchen?”
You follow him, bag in hand. As soon as you enter the room, you push a hand against his chest, backing him up and away from the stove. “Your favor, my kitchen. I’m taking over this space.” You say simply turning on two burners. He takes a few steps back, which is good because the way his body heats your skin is distracting, and you're on a time crunch.
“Thank you for coming. I know you were sleeping, and Mason had to wake you up.” His dark eyes roam over you again, and you are acutely aware that your tank top is low cut and your shorts are form-fitting and well short. Normally, it wouldn’t bother you, but his gaze was heavier and lingering.
“It’s fine, I don’t need much sleep. Pots?” Derek reached next to you in one of the bottom cabinets, handing you one. You stuck out your other hand, making a silent request for another one as well. He set it in your palm.
“Should we be worried?” You swallow thickly, not wanting to answer. It really depended on how fast you could make an antidote and how much saliva had actually gotten into Liam’s bloodstream. The saliva was more potent and faster to spread. You continue to throw things into the pot.
“Where is your spice cupboard?” You silently hoped that he had one. The loft looked like a bachelor pad through and through. You were pleasantly surprised when he opened a door and it was stocked full. “I’m impressed.”
“I like to cook.” You turn down the burner as the water starts to boil more aggressively, then head towards the cupboard, looking to see what he had that you could use. You weren’t prepared for a Haunt attack, and you might have to substitute a few things.
You look him over, “Italian?”
“Hispanic.” He corrected, crossing his arms over his chest. You keep pulling down bottles. Then glance back at him and nod.
“Yeah, I could see that.” Then turn back to the cupboard and give a frustrated sigh.
“You know, if you told me what you're looking for, I could help.” The appropriate response would have been a thank you and to politely ask for what was needed. Unfortunately, appropriate manners had been thrown out the window and into a teenage boy, poisoned with Haunt venom that was quickly spreading, and had been left festering for hours already.
“How can you have all of this bullshit but not have any parsley, thyme, or rosemary?” The cupboard door slams harder than you mean it to. The noise echoes through the room. You tap your finger against your crossed arm while biting on your nail, trying to come up with what the fuck you were going to use instead. You walk to your bag, pulling out your own stash and lining it up on the counter. Of course, it would be venom and not a simple blood gushing wound. You really needed to update your bag if this kind of thing was going to continue to happen.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You taste copper in your mouth, but don’t feel the sting of the skin breaking. You turn almost walking into Derek, and step back, cursing. “Damn it! What did I say about the kitch-” You pause when you see what’s in his hands. You look up from his hands to his face, where an eyebrow is raised at you. You don’t apologize, you don’t even smile. All you do is say, “Fine, you can stay. Make yourself useful and ground those up.” Then you're back to the other herbs, your mind races as you reformulate what to use.
Derek didn’t say anything; he just started cutting pieces of the live plants that had been sitting in the window on the other side of the loft to get more sun. Absently, you take your mortar and pestle and set it on the counter in front of Derek before your finger is tapping and the cuticle on your other thumb is raw and bloody with practically no nail left.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Within twenty minutes, you had bumped into Derek four times. Each sent a shock of electricity through you, burning the skin where he touched. He’d been helping you with every request–order–that you’d said. But the truth was- “I’m not used to having people with me when I brew.” Derek had a strange look on his face and opened his mouth to say something when you heard your name and looked up to see Mason.
“It’s Liam.”
You push the wooden spoon into Derek’s hand. “Keep stirring.” You call over your shoulder. Liam had been moved to the couch and was leaning heavily against the cushions behind him, hand tightly gripped around the amber stone. His face still relaxed and his eyes a bit dazed. Still clearly in no pain. Other than that, he wasn’t looking very good.
“Why is he getting worse? He seemed better.” You kneel in front of him. His cheeks are flushed, his chest heaving in short, ragged breaths, shaking, a cold sweat dripping down his face. You reach up, pressing your hand against his forehead, not surprised a bit when it’s burning hot.
“Someone grab a cold, wet cloth.” You hear footsteps, and you push Liam’s wet hair back and off his sweaty forehead. “I didn’t stop the progression; it was too late for that. I only numbed his pain. The venom must have hit his bloodstream.” You gently tug off the bandage that you had placed on him. The smell hit you first, and you had to hold back a gag. The skin was turning black, almost melting away. You leaned him forward and saw that the rash was spreading down his back at least another two inches, and you wondered if he was too far gone.
Tap. Tap. Tap
You felt someone come behind you, and a worried-looking Asian girl handed you the damp rag. You immediately press it to his forehead, and you can feel it warming under your touch. You turn his wrist, and the marks on his arm are fading. “I noticed that too. What happens when they completely fade?” You look up at Mason.
“Then the stone has hit its max, and it won’t be able to absorb any more of his pain. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. He isn’t feeling it now, but if the spell breaks- that pain will come shooting back and worse than before with the way this has progressed.” You can feel all the eyes on you. “Keep cooling him off. I’ll be back.”
You hip check Derek out of your way to look into the pot. “Is it supposed to be that thick?” Derek’s nose twitched, “And smell that awful.” The substance looked like tar, and the smell bothered even your unheightened sense of smell.
“Yes, that is exactly how it is supposed to look.” You turn off the burner, setting it on the counter. “Just needs to cool before we can apply it. It should only take a minute.”
“I thought he was going to have to drink it.” You made a face and felt your stomach roll.
“Even I’m not that cruel.” Derek’s eyes are heavy on you, his body just a little too close, the heat radiating off of him just a little too hot. His words are just a little too cutting.
“Cruel isn’t a word that I’d use for you.”
Your breathing hitches because if he only knew. If he knew what you had done, he wouldn’t be looking at you like that. He wouldn’t have come to your trailer two weeks ago, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have invited you into the house.
You make the mature choice of ignoring him.
You stick your finger in the mixture. It was still a little hot and uncomfortable, but not scalding. In this moment, more than good enough. You leave the kitchen with the pot without a word. The other girl, Malia, was pressing another rag to his face, and there was another behind his neck. You heard the collective groan as everyone caught the smell. Even Liam, when you kneeled in front of him, seemed a bit more aware, the smell pulling his attention. “Please tell me I don’t have to drink that.” The face he made was half grimace, half pathetic.
“You guys have spent way too much time together,” you say as you think of Derek’s earlier comment. “No, you don’t.” You scoop up the mixture with your fingers and start laying on a thick layer. Liam groans again, turning his face into his other shoulder.
“I take it back, I think I would rather drink it than smell that on me.” You can’t help but laugh. This kid had some sass left in him. A fighter- he might have half a chance after all. “How long do I have to keep it on?”
“For as long as it takes.”
You are surprised when none of the horde of teenagers leave. You’d told them it was a waiting game now. They had nodded, but none of them left the room sprawling out on the living room floor.
You assessed them, your brain trained to observe everything. You noted three couples in the way that they curled together. Scott and Kira. The loud one, Stiles, with Malia. A strange couple, but they looked happy in each other's embrace. And the two boys, Mason and…You hadn’t caught the other quiet one's name. Lydia sat in the middle of the couples… and one boy, arms crossed, posture stiff, stood off in the corner. Not quite part of the group, just there. An outsider in a close group of people. He didn’t attempt to get comfortable, his eyes flickering to the door from time to time like he was either fighting the urge to leave or trying to figure out the best way to escape without being noticed.
You feel Derek before you see him. “How bad is it?” You shrug noncommittally. “I saw your face when you came back to the kitchen. How worried should we really be?”
“I don’t know. He seems like a fighter- stubborn, strong- but if the venom really did hit his bloodstream and it’s been circling through his body.” You shift, “It will be more difficult.” You say simply.
He steps closer, and the energy in the room thickens, hot and demanding. You turn your head to look into his eyes. His lips press against yours in a tentative kiss. You gasp, and his hand comes to the back of your neck. The kiss goes deeper, his mouth hot. A heat that your body absorbs. And fuck if it wasn’t nice to be touched. You lean in farther and want to succumb-
Warning bells blare in your brain. A cold hollowness eating at your stomach, a voice telling you-screaming at you-
You yank away, abruptly taking a couple of steps back. A staggered breath. A refusal to meet his eyes.
This story has been living in my head rent-free for a long time. BIG shoutout to @polkadotpenguin16!!! Thank you, love for prereading my works even though this is not one of your normal fandoms. I appreciate you <3
This was not a position you ever thought you would be in for many reasons. The first being that you were fairly certain the man sitting in front of you didn’t just dislike you, but also didn’t trust you. He and his pack had been watching you for months since you’d come to Beckon Hills.
You supposed that was pretty valid, considering your second reason was that you had grown up at a compound that treated its members more like a cult than a coven. It was a harsh place with the mentality of attack first and ask questions never. There was no disobedience to the grand counsel. You didn’t trust outsiders, and other supernatural creatures were deemed dangerous and attacked on sight. It has taken you until your teenage years to realize how bad it was, followed by longer, worse years to escape without a trace.
You could only imagine the punishment you would be in for had they ever seen you aid a Werewolf. It had taken you years on your own to get a grip on what you’d been taught versus the truth and the strange blurred line between them. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, you officially deemed yourself jaded in most areas of your life. The one thing you knew was that you were tired of fighting. Especially people and things that weren’t a threat.
The man in front of you was hunched over in pain, his hand clutching his side that was bleeding, his hand stained red. There were at least two other wounds on his back. His skin was pale and soaked with sweat. His dark eyes were full of pain and…Yeah, there was still a lot of distrust there.
You reached out to try to pull the shirt up for a better look. A growl rumbled through his chest, sounding like a wounded animal that was cornered. His eyes flashed red. You pulled back. “What was the point of you coming here if you won’t let me help you?”
Derek's lips pressed into a thin line before grinding out, “I don’t want your help.” He shook his head once, apparently coming to terms with his decision, “But right now…you're the best shot I have.”
You knew that hunters had come to town. You hadn’t worried about them. Often, they didn’t recognize witches unless spells were cast near them. Magic had its own….effect. A change in the air that could be felt. Even if they did by some chance find out, you were in a camper in the middle of the woods on state land, and it had so many wards that they wouldn’t be able to get within a mile radius, let alone find it. That clearly was not a shared safety.
“The arrows were coated with wolfsbane.” You had guessed that. He shifts uncomfortably from his seat on your coffee table. “I can’t get the ones on my back.”
“And with the wolfsbane still in your system, it weakens you. Slows abilities, your healing.” He was glowering at you. You were trying not to take it personally. He was in pain, but you hadn’t done it- he had come to you for help. You take a breath to steel yourself. “Can I at least see what I’m working with here?” Your tone was deadpan. Derek sighed in defeat, starting to pull the shirt off.
You don’t mean to, but your eyes catch on his muscled skin as it is revealed. Your gaze stops at the tattoo in the center of his back. It’s a symbol that you’d seen before. It had been on the mailbox of the burned-down house that you’d seen only a week after you had arrived here.
The first place you’d “officially” met Derek Hale.
You’d been drawn there like a moth to a flame.
“What are you doing here?” His voice had been a low, growling tone. The big, bad wolf was finally making his appearance instead of stalking you through the town. It would have been a good time to make a mutual deal of leaving each other to their own devices. But you were far too caught up in this place.
You could smell the smoke, feel it clogging your lungs, and the heat of the fire on your face as it burned. You could feel the pain and terror permeating you from the very soil, overwhelming you. You’d felt tears burn your eyes.
“I can feel it,” You had mumbled, lost in the haze, “The emotions that cling to this place. It’s screaming out to be heard.”
“A psychic.” His words held a scoff.
“Is that what you think I am?” It was a rhetorical question. “I’m not. Just someone who came to respect the pain of the dead. Honor their suffering so that they can be heard. Maybe that will allow them some peace.”
You had been so overwhelmed by the place, completely spent, you hadn’t thought to question why he was there. Why he had stayed the entire time you did, just staring at the rubble. What was left of his home. Compassion bloomed back inside of you, covering the icy annoyance and discomfort of being in a position you were not used to.
Your fingertips found his skin around the two wounds. You could smell the off-putting mix of the sharp, musky smell and too-sweet perfume of the wolfsbane. It had always been a distinct, nose scrunching smell to you since you’d seen the first flower as a child. You’d learned of its toxicity not only to werewolves, but also the other powerful but cruel magic it could help create.
You startle when a lighter is thrust over his shoulder in offering to you. You take it from his fingertips, not quite sure what he wants you to do with it. You settle for using it to light a candle on the counter to try to mask the smell. Then reach for the bottle of water that you had already placed on the counter.
You slowly pour the water over one of the puckered wounds. Derek’s back goes ramrod straight. You use your fingertip to draw a symbol around the wound, rather than adding the annoyance of using ink. You pour a little more water as you do so, mumbling a spell.
Derek waits, expecting the heat of the lighter to burn the wolfsbane out of his skin. He stiffens when he feels water instead, followed by a whisper of a fingertip tracing the skin around it. The water temperature change catches his focus. The lukewarm water hitting his skin turns into a calming, cool sensation as it drips into the festering wound, soothing the underlying burn before trickling down his back just a few degrees hotter than comfortable. He feels an intentional breath of air being blown on the wound, and the hot trickles turn to a pleasant warmth.
Derek looks over his shoulder to see that the water running down his back is stained a purple so dark it almost looks black. “You good?” You asked. You’d never done this on a werewolf before. The only toxicity you had experienced was from treating other careless witches who did not take the deadly plant seriously. A lesson not soon forgotten. “Do you need a minute?”
He ignores the question.“What is that?”
“Uh, water…?” You offer in confusion. You hold up the bottle that his eyes are fixated on. He takes it, and for a second, you think he’s going to drink it.
“Just water?” He brings it up to his nose, his nostrils flaring as he breathes it in deeply.
“Yep, nothing but your standard rainwater.” Taking one more sniff, Derek hands it back to you, again facing forward. You look down at the bottle, twisting it in your hands. “Do you use something else?”
“We burn it out.” His response is flat. You look back at the lighter that you’d set next to the candle, jaw clenching. You treat his other wounds in silence, spending more time on the one on his side that was still bleeding. The look on his face told you that he hadn’t planned on you doing that one. It was deep, and you knew it would be slower to heal than the rest.
You knew a few spells that could accelerate the healing process, but you didn’t dare use them without knowing how they would affect his branch of the supernatural. You could do more harm than good.
He stood up, wincing, the tattered ruins of his shirt in his hand. He rolled his shoulders, trying to determine his mobility. His dark eyes found yours, a genuineness in his voice. “Thank you,”
“Any time.” You were surprised to find that you meant it. He gives you a stiff nod as his hand hits the door handle and turns. “Wait...” Derek turns, raising an eyebrow at you. You shake your head at yourself, huffing, “Stay.” He looks as shocked at the offer as you feel. You didn’t get pulled into other people's fights, not anymore. “The hunters are still out there, aren’t they? You may not have wolfsbane in your system anymore, but you’re not fully healed. You’re in no shape for another run-in. Not tonight.”
His gaze is analysing. “What do you want?”
You roll your eyes. So much for trying to be a decent human being for once. Then you remembered there was something you wanted.“What I want is for you and your ragtag group to stop following me around town like I’m trying to start a ritual that needs human sacrifices.” The corner of his lips twitches up, trying to fight a smile, as a soft chuckle escapes him. “What?” His dark eyes light up with mirth as he tries to cover another chuckle. His head tilts, and his half smile reveals a dimple. It makes him look younger, less wolf, more human.
“Nothing, it’s just that’s actually happened here before.”
Your face drops, and you look at him with disbelief.“Seriously?” He nods, and you stare at him for a minute, “Well, I suppose that explains the trust issues.”
“She was an ex.” Your hand shoots to your mouth to stop the laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it in time. You try to clear your throat to block the noise. The two of you share a look of understanding.
One jaded soul to another.
“Yeah, okay. No more following you.” He steps back into the kitchen/ living room. He’s big, taking up space and making your trailer feel smaller than it ever has. You hand him another water, and he looks tired and wrung out as he sits back down on the bench, running his hand over his face.
“Come on,” Dark eyes look up at you, less guarded. You nod over to the bed. “You look like you need to lie down. And it’s well past the witching hour.”
Derek finally really looks around the trailer that he’s in, no longer distracted by pain and distrust. It was small. Two little counters littered with items. Cabinets above and below that he was sure were just as full. There was the cushioned bench he was sitting on and a bed that took up the back wall. There was no bathroom. There was a sink in the kitchen, not that it mattered; he realized they were in the middle of the woods, and there was no hookup for water or electricity. The only light was the lit candles scattered across the trailer and the big windows that would let in plenty of light during the day.. Baskets and pots filled with plants that he couldn’t name. There’d been some hanging around the outside as well.
“I can’t take your bed.”
You shrug, you had a hard time sleeping at night. No point in both of you being uncomfortable and awake.
“It’s okay. I was planning on staying up for a while anyway.” You get up, tugging at the mass of blankets and pillows, maneuvering them for maximum space for his larger frame. “The sleep will help you heal faster.” You turned and were face-to-chest with him. You caught yourself with both hands on his chest, and he grabbed your forearms in reflex to steady you.
The space was so much smaller with him in there. His body seemed to take up half the trailer. You looked up into his eyes, back down, tapping his chest twice, and turning your body, forcing him to side step with you until he was the one next to the bed. “Get some sleep, Derek.”
You blow out the lit candles around the bed, leaving it shadowed. Then plopped down on the padded bench. You lean back and grab one of the books in the hanging storage behind you. You hear a creak as Derek shifts and look up. He had kicked his shoes off and pulled back the blankets, his hands on the waist of his jeans. He looks back at you.
“Do you mind if I?” He gestures down to his jeans, which you absolutely didn’t notice he had already popped the button. Nor did you watch as he tugged the zipper down, pushing his jeans down his thick, muscled thighs when you nodded your approval.
It registered to Derek as soon as his jeans hit the floor that it probably hadn’t been a good idea to strip down to his boxers. He was on the run from Hunters, hiding in a tin can, and he still didn’t know you well. But you had helped him with his injuries, had no chemosignals that would alert him to foul play, and besides a few increases in your heart rate, the rhythm had been slow and steady.
None of it mattered to him when his body hit the mattress. Tonight had not been the first night dealing with the new hunters in town, and his body was begging for rest. When he pulled the blankets up around him, the softness encased him and brought a calming wave of rosemary and lavender to his nose. When his eyes closed, he did not open them again until a midday light was shining in the windows.
My first Derek Hale fic. I really have no way to defend myself. This is seven pages of hardcore smut. Enjoy
The white light was so blinding that all you could see were stars. Your body was thrumming with burning heat that left you compliant and numb down to your toes. You could vaguely feel yourself fall, tumbling heavily to the right side. You felt something try to brace your left side, and it lessened the impact.
What you were now lying on was firm, hot, and moving. One more blink had you returning to your body and brain functioning on at least minimal levels. Your back was on Derek’s chest, his hand firmly holding your lower stomach as he continued to piston his hips up, rolling them against you with each thrust. Your hand went to his arm, grasping it firmly, using it to ground yourself back in reality. His right hand was still between your legs, rubbing your clit. You could feel another orgasm fast approaching, and this one may actually kill you.
You hadn’t thought it would be like this, be this fucking good, when you talked to Derek about having rougher sex. You knew he held back because he was afraid his werewolf strength would hurt you if he wasn’t constantly on guard. You had introduced the idea, talking about the desire to be fucked harder. The want to be manhandled, held tight, or restrained enough to leave bruises, love bites, or hickies. You didn’t mind a little pain with your pleasure. A lack of control.
You craved it.
You had noticed a slight change in the last week, but nothing major. Until today. Derek had come home radiating testosterone and anger. Anger that had quickly manifested into sexual frustration when he saw you. You were pulled to your feet and into a frenzied kiss. He tugged at the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling it to one side. He bit and sucked on the delicate skin, rubbing the stubble on his face across the tender skin as he moved on down your chest, following the swoop of your tank top. It left a trail of beard burn in its wake.
He broke away just long enough to yank your tank top over your head. You could hear the tearing of fabric as it didn’t come off as fast as he wanted. Your hands didn’t even have time to make it to his shoulders when his face was already between your naked breasts. His mouth found a nipple, and your fingers curled on his shoulders, then scratched down his back as he bit one and pinched the other. Your back arched up, and he was bending down. Derek’s hands found the back of your thighs, and without giving you a chance to help, they cupped your ass, squeezing as he lifted you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, moaning loudly as he slammed you back against the wall.
His mouth found the other side of your neck, biting down. Your hard nipples rubbed against the material of his Henley. He cupped your breast, bringing his mouth down on it again to capture the other nipple. Your hand fisted his hair as your hips rocked against the hard cock hidden in his jeans. He growled, taking you to the bedroom. You took the opportunity to suck on his neck, even knowing that any bruise you gave him would heal almost instantly.
He dropped you unceremoniously on the edge of the bed. Your hands grabbed his waist to keep balance. He grabbed the hem of his shirt to pull it off, and your hands flew to his belt, undoing it and the button of his jeans. They slid down the V of his hips, forcing the zipper down. Derek was naked underneath, and you could see his cock. You went to reach for it, but were thrown off guard by him yanking you up by your belt loops. You didn’t even have a chance to steady yourself before he was yanking you around and pushing you forward.
You managed to catch yourself on your hands before landing face-first in the mattress, but it pushed your ass into the air. Derek’s hands circled you, reaching under to undo the button. He yanked your jeans and underwear down just below your ass cheeks. You jumped, cursing as he bit down on the round muscle. His strong hand left a stinging slap on your other ass cheek, making you grip the blankets. He licked at the red bite, soothing it with his tongue.
Derek’s hand slid under your ass again, propelling you up and forcing your face entirely into the mattress. You didn’t have time to even think of a complaint as your knees were set on the mattress and his face dived between your legs. His hot mouth is sucking on your throbbing cunt. His beard is causing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs to burn with sensation. His tongue sliding inside as his right hand slid between you and the mattress, already wet middle fingers sliding into your core with his tongue. He thrusts them in and out in a rhythm of tongue, and your body starts to follow it, rolling back against him. You could feel your orgasm building.
It was so close.
Derek pulled back, removing his fingers. You whimpered, pushing up onto your shaking forearms. His chest slid across your back until his mouth was at your ear, “Not yet.” You squeeze your thighs together, trying to hold onto the orgasm that is slowly fading. He moves back, starting to drag an open-mouth kiss down your spine. You feel the cold as his body leaves yours. You hear the clanking of his belt and jeans hitting the floor. You turn your face, rolling onto your side to see Derek in all his naked glory. His dark hair, tanned skin, muscled body, and his thick, long cock jutting out hard and weeping with precum. You watch hypnotized as he strokes it leisurely. You lick your lips.
Derek came back to the foot of the bed. He grabbed your ankles, pulling you back to the edge of the bed. His hand went to your throat, forcing you up. Air is pushed from your lungs. The move was rough, but most of the weight had been pressed lower against your collarbone. It slid up, squeezing just enough to stop your breath. You claw at his arm, but not to make it stop. The restriction in the air made you feel like you were floating.
“You want to come on my cock, baby?” His words had you shivering and unable to speak. His cock was pressed against your cunt. He didn’t enter you, just teased you by rubbing it back and forth against your dripping folds. His hold on your throat lessened as his nose trailed down the column of your neck. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” It’s breathless and probably so low that had he not had supernatural hearing, he probably would have missed it. He pushed his cock into you in one hard thrust. He kept your back against his front as he started a mercalist speed. One hand held you tightly as the other rubbed against your clit. The orgasm hit out of nowhere, your core squeezing his cock, your head rolling back to lean against his shoulder. His thrust slowed just a roll of his hips as the motion on your clit followed, working you through your orgasm.
“You okay?” His voice was soft now. You nod, rocking your hips on his dick. It was still hard and had not yet been satisfied.
“Don’t stop.” His chuckle came out as a hot whisper of breath against your neck. He kissed your exposed shoulder. His hand came around your stomach, lifting you to drop you closer to the center of the bed. He mercifully rolled you on your back, where he took back up a furious pace. His mouth finds your breast again, sucking hickies down the middle of your chest. A second orgasm hit you, followed by a third. They were not nearly as intense as the first, but they left you gasping and tingly.
Derek pulled out again, leaving you feeling empty. His hand came to your waist, no doubt to manhandle you into another orgasmic position. You managed to grab his wrist, pushing his chest with your other hand. He paused and willingly twisted to lie on his back. His eyes were red, then flashed brown, and back again. You wondered if his alpha instincts were fighting to take over, and that he wanted to flip you back over and pin you down to regain dominance. Not that he needs to.
You both knew who was in control of this night.
You turned to straddle him in reverse. Your legs were shaky, and you weren’t sure how long you’d be able to go for, but you knew this was one of his favorite positions. He was lying back, devouring the view of you leaning forward, hands on his legs, bouncing on his dick. Derek didn’t like to be idle long. He pressed up on his arms, thrusting his hip up into you. One hand came to your hip, pulling you farther back on him.
It was a move you recognized, and you straightened your back and found your footing to really bounce. Even with his hands on your hips, forcing you down as he thrust up, your legs were getting tired fast. Honestly, you were surprised you could feel any of your limbs at this point. You grab his wrist, hoping it will help. It does, but not as much as you need. You knew he was close, but you weren’t sure you would be able to make it.
His arm wraps around your stomach, pulling you back against him as his other arm lays you back down on the bed, your back flush against his chest. You let out a squeak of surprise that turns into a moan. Derek forces you into a position you have never been in.
He uses his legs to force you to stay open wide. Then both of his hands grab your ribs, forcing your body up, back arching, hovering over him. Your hands scramble to catch yourself and help support your weight. It’s clear Derek is holding the majority of it, as you would never be able to hold the position yourself. He thrusts up hard into you, and you have no choice but to take everything he gives you.
The angle is so deep, and you feel so full. Then, with the slight movement as you try to adjust your shaking arms, the angle changes. His cock rubs against every sensitive and swollen nerve.
You scream.
It is maddening, and he doesn’t slow down. If anything, it encourages him to go harder and faster. Your orgasm is explosive. Your entire body is contracting before releasing. You only feel your hands buckle before you are flying and seeing stars. You hear a grunt and a hand on your left side tries to support you, but it only lessens the fall.
Derek pushes on your lower stomach, and with one last thrust, he comes inside of you. Then his body laxes under you. The only movement is your chests heaving up and down, pants filling the room. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest and his cock throbbing inside you.
You lay there long enough for you to catch your breath, sweat cooling. Even the thought of moving was exhausting. Derek’s hand slides up your stomach. “You okay?” You had been half asleep, hand clumsily landing on top of his and with a blissed filled laugh you answer.
“Yep, and ready for round two.” It was a lie. The only thing you were ready for was sleep. You know it. And he knows it.
“Is that so?” His fingers went down to where you were still connected, barely circling your clit. Your very sensitive and swollen clit. Your body slid away from the assault and up his body. His cock sliding out of you and the top of your head bumping his chin. “I don’t think you could handle round two, greedy girl.” His hand smoothed back your hair. You force yourself to roll over and fold your arms on his chest to rest your chin looking up at him. You realize his eyes had returned to their normal dark brown.
hiii ik you haven’t posted in so long but can you write a theo fic where he finds out the new hufflepuff student speaks italian😛
tyyy for this request i’ve been having a slump
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Potions class was always the more interesting class out of Theo’s schedule.
Cauldrons bubbling in steady rhythm, knives tapping against wood, quiet instructions from Slughorn drifting through the room without much urgency. Theo is already bored halfway through the lesson.
Not because it’s difficult.
Because it isn’t.
Everything he’s doing is automatic. Familiar. The kind of work that doesn’t ask anything from him at all.
He’s barely paying attention, wand rolling lazily between his fingers, when he hears it.
A voice.
Not loud. Not aimed at anyone.
His hand stills slightly.
Then he hears it again.
And his eyes move before he decides they should.
Across the room.
One table down.
You’re there.
Focused on your ingredients, knife in hand, and then your body jolts slightly like you’ve cut too deep. He sees it immediately—the small flash of red, the way your fingers pull back instinctively.
And you curse.
Quiet.
Almost under your breath.
“Ma che cazzo…”
Theo doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving entirely until his wand stops turning between his fingers.
Because that shouldn’t be possible.
Not here. Not from anyone.
He’s staring now. He knows he is.
He just doesn’t stop.
Blaise notices first, glancing sideways at him with mild curiosity. “Why are you staring at her?”
Theo doesn’t answer.
Mattheo follows his gaze. “You alright there, mate? That doesn’t look like potion concentration.”
Draco laughs somewhere down the table. “Ouu, someone’s got a crush.”
Theo exhales once through his nose, still not looking away from you.
“Why doesn’t she look familiar?” he says, like he’s thinking out loud more than speaking.
Mattheo barely glances over. “Oh her? She’s new I think. Transferred in last week. Why?”
Theo doesn’t answer.
Because you’ve just done it again.
Another whisper under your breath.
Italian.
And he feels something shift in him that he doesn’t have a name for yet.
So he just keeps watching.
The rest of the lesson doesn’t matter anymore.
He moves through it out of habit. Steps, instructions, ingredients. All of it background noise. Every so often, his eyes drift back to you without permission.
You don’t notice.
That’s the part that keeps bothering him.
When class ends, everyone scrapes chairs back, gathers things, starts talking again like nothing happened.
Theo leaves with them.
Except he ends up behind you without planning it.
Not close enough to be obvious.
Just there.
Following the same movement of the crowd out of the dungeon.
You’re talking to your friends, completely unaware, your voice blending into everything else.
Theo almost speaks.
Doesn’t.
The hallway gets too crowded, too fast, and you’re gone into it before anything can happen.
And he tells himself that should be the end of it.
It isn’t.
After that, you’re everywhere.
Library.
Courtyard.
Hallways between classes.
Not obvious. Never obvious.
Just enough that he sees you before he means to, and then realizes he’s already looking for you the next time without meaning to.
You never notice.
That’s what drove him crazy.
The library is where it finally stops being accidental.
You’re sitting near the back, reading, completely unaware of anything around you.
Theo enters and doesn’t go straight to a table.
He moves through shelves instead, picking up a random book, then another, pretending it matters which one he chooses except it doesn’t.
Because he keeps drifting closer to your table without fully committing to it.
He’s halfway between shelves when your voice cuts through the quiet.
Still not looking up from your book.
“Why have you been following me?”
Theo stops so fast the book in his hand almost slips.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all.
Because he didn’t think you noticed.
That was the entire point of how he was doing it.
Slowly, he turns his head.
You still haven’t looked at him.
Still reading.
Like you’re not even surprised.
Like you already knew he’d be there.
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out cleanly.
So he tries again, shifting the book in his hand like it will help him reset himself.
“I wasn’t—”
He stops.
That sounds worse.
You finally look up at him.
And everything in him tightens slightly because now there’s no buffer anymore.
Just you and him and the fact that you just called him out without even looking away from your book.
Then you speak again.
In Italian.
“Perché mi stai seguendo?”
Theo’s brain short-circuits for half a second.
Because that isn’t supposed to be possible.
Not from you.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
His expression changes before he can stop it.
Something sharper. More awake.
He steps closer without realizing it.
“Parli italiano?”“You speak Italian?” he says immediately, in Italian without meaning to switch languages.
You tilt your head slightly.“Sì, e quindi? C'è qualche problema?” “Yeah and? Is there a problem?” you say in Italian, still calm, still reading him like this is nothing.
Theo shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to get control back.
“No, no, I’m just surprised,” he says quickly. “It’s been a while since someone other than my father spoke Italian to me.”
That lands differently in the silence.
You pause.
Just slightly.
“Oh.”
Nothing else.
Just that.
And Theo realizes, standing there with a book he doesn’t remember picking up properly, that this is no longer about coincidence.
Because whatever this is—you didn’t just speak his language.
You interrupted something he thought was only his.
pairing aged-up neteyam x omatikaya!huntress reader
notes reader is the sister of neteyam’s best friend, hot-tempered reader (only when it comes to neteyam), cocky neteyam, mutual pining, smut (p in v), oral (f receiving), mentions of blood and violence (not serious)
synopsis being the sister of one of the clan’s most promising warriors is one thing, but having neteyam constantly be there to act as brother #2 is another.
word count 19.4k
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You blinked against the fractured, liquid beams of gold filtering through the woven ceiling of your sleeping alcove. Your arms were still slightly stiff from yesterday’s grueling training, a drill your father had watched with narrowed, critical eyes. You had performed flawlessly, of course. You had to.
You sat up and rubbed your eyes. Usually, your mornings would be filled by the noise of your mother tending to the hearth, your father lecturing your brother on the strategic importance of patrolling the northern border at dawn, or your brother aggressively sharpening his daggers.
But you knew your parents would be out for the first communion of the two babies born this moon and your brother will be on morning patrol, so you weren’t really expecting to see anyone home so when you padded out into the main living area and saw someone casually lounging on one of the woven ball seats.
You took a sharp breath through your nose.
“You’re finally awake,” he said, his voice deeper than it had been a year ago, carrying that smooth cadence that always irritated you.
He was turning a sleek hunting knife in his hands. At seventeen, he already carried himself with the heavy, unshakeable confidence of a man who knew he was born to lead. You froze for a short moment before your mask snapped back into place, your expression hardening into the cold, untouchable gaze the rest of the clan knew all too well.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice clipped.
He flipped the knife once more, catching it expertly by the hilt before sliding it into his chest sheath, his golden eyes never leaving yours while a slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“I came to tell your brother about the change in patrol rotation. I stayed behind when he left because you were still sleeping. It wouldn't be good to leave you here unguarded.”
You crossed your arms, looking down at him from the slight elevation of the alcove steps. “I don’t need a guard, or protection. Besides, no one in this clan would dare cross into this hut.”
“I am not talking about who, I am talking about what,” he countered easily, pushing himself up to his feet and the sudden height difference made you want to take a step back, though you forced your feet to stay glued to the floor. “This part of Hometree is accessible to stray viperwolves. You know that.”
He was right, much to your annoyance. Because your father was Jake’s second-in-command, your mother a fierce huntress, and your brother a rising star among the warriors, your family’s pod was situated on the lower, more vulnerable branches. It was a position of pride, a statement to the clan that your family stood as a shield between danger and the gentler artisans of the upper branches.
Still, you weren't about to give him the satisfaction. You rolled your eyes, a deliberate show of disrespect that you would never dare attempt to do to him in front of your father.
“I am awake now,” you said coldly, walking past him toward the water basin. “You can leave.”
Neteyam let out a low huff of laughter, his cocky nature bleeding into his posture as he tilted his head. “What, no ‘thank you’?” he asked, a smirk playing on his face.
“I did not ask for you to guard me,” you replied smoothly, bringing your waterskin up and taking a slow, deliberate drink to avoid looking at him.
He chuckled, shaking his head. He turned his back to leave, his long tail flicking lazily behind him, but just as he reached the threshold of the pod, he paused and turned around, pointing a long finger toward the hearth.
“I brought you food from earlier since you weren’t at the communal breakfast,” he murmured, his smirk softening into something a little more private. “I didn't know you were such a sleepyhead.”
Before you could snap back a retort, he slipped through the woven entrance and was gone.
The moment his presence left the room, the invisible weight on your chest lifted. You let out a long, ragged breath as you rolled your eyes. Moving to the edge of the pod, you looked out into the bustling morning of the village, your eyes automatically tracking his retreat.
He walked down the massive branch with an easy grace. It was no secret that his father had once been a dreamwalker, an avatar, and Neteyam seemed to have inherited the broader, more muscular physique of his father, setting him apart from the other boys his age, including your older brother's lanky build, making him look like he belonged with the more seasoned warriors.
You watched him until he vanished into the crowd, a familiar, frustrating knot tightening in your stomach. You noticed everything about him and that never sat right with you. He’s your older brother’s best friend and your brother is his shadow, meaning he was a permanent fixture in your periphery.
It didn’t suffice that girls in the clan would want to befriend you to get closer to your brother, Neteyam had to add to the equation, too. So now, you’re burdened by the constant presence of girls pretending to be chummy with you only to ask you about your brother or Neteyam days later.
It made your life less about you and more about them, making you struggle to find age peers who are actually interested in being friends with you.
Except for Lekya and Reti.
They weren't entirely different from the other girls, they still giggled whenever the young hunters walked past and gush over Neteyam and your older brother. But they always seem to be less intimidated by the coldness, and sometimes, meanness, that you use to fend everyone off. You had long given up on trying to shake their presence off. No matter how coldly you ignored them, they always found a way to tail you around, stubbornly dragging you into their plans until your sharp edges softened just a fraction.
Like some days when they would drag you down to the river for a ‘picnic,’ a concept they had apparently learned from the older girls like Kiri and her friends. Now, they had even brought along a boy named Kar’ek, gentle and sharp-witted. You quickly realized he wasn't a threat to your peace in the slightest; he had absolutely no interest in girls, preferring to watch the young hunters from afar with an appreciative eye.
Surprisingly, you found yourself actually enjoying it. Safely hidden under the shade of the trees where the conversation quickly turned from the weather to the young warriors of the clan. They were talking about them like they were heroes, but you had other ideas, like nitpicking every single imperfection you had witnessed on the training grounds.
In that, you became uncharacteristically talkative. It was obvious to the three that you found none of them attractive. They were all trying too hard.
“Like Nurte yesterday,” you said, leaning back on one hand with a scoff. “He took three entire minutes just to aim at a target that wasn't even moving, all because he knew the girlswere watching. It’s pathetic.“
“Oh, well,” Lekya giggled. “He’s just trying to look brave. What about Tayrel? He practically broke a baby tree trunk with his spear during the strength drills.”
“He missed the dummy entirely and hit the tree because his footing was completely off,” you countered smoothly, rolling your eyes. “He has the balance of a newborn ikran. If a viperwolf actually attacked him, he’d trip over his own tail.”
Kar’ek let out a dramatic, breathless laugh, fanning himself with a broad leaf. “Oh, she is vicious today! But she’s not wrong. Tayrel spends more time oiling his braids than practicing his strikes.”
Not even Neteyam was spared to your nitpicking. You were incredibly detailed when you tore into him, mimicking his cocky posture by puffing out your chest and tilting your head back, mocking his signature smirk.
“And don't even get me started on the golden boy,” you scoffed, lowering your voice to copy his deep, confident cadence. “Look at me, I am Neteyam, I can shoot a bow with my eyes closed because I am so perfect. Please. He drops his left elbow every time he releases an arrow on a hard turn. He’s sloppy when he thinks no one is looking, and that arrogant little half-smile he does when he lands a hit? It looks like he swallowed a sour piece of fruit.”
You laughed, expecting the others to join in on the mockery, but you suddenly realized the riverbank had gone entirely quiet.
You blinked, popping a sweet berry into your mouth. “What? You all have gone silent. Nothing to say about that arrogant boy?”
Kar’ek looked at you like you had lost your mind. “What are you talking about, girl? He is valiant and a gentleman!”
“He is also not arrogant, Y/N,” Reti chimed in, pouting. “He is kind and humble. Just last moon, he helped me carry my heavy fiber bundles all the way to the weaving looms. And your brother helped Lekya!”
You grimaced, the berry suddenly tasting sour. “Show-offs. Both of them. You shouldn't have accepted their help. They only do it so everyone can look at them.”
Before Reti could snap a retort back, the crunch of leaves announced the arrival of a new group. You turned around and saw five young hunters strolling out from the thick foliage, laughing and shoving each other. At the front were your brother, Sak’nur and Neteyam. They had clearly just finished a grueling training session; their skin was glistening with sweat, and they carried themselves with the eager energy of boys ready to plunge into the cool river.
But the moment they stepped into the clearing, Neteyam’s golden eyes locked onto yours.
He raised a single, amused brow. You hadn't even realized you were doing it, but you were glaring at him with enough heat to burn through Hometree. You swiftly slid your gaze to your brother.
“What are you doing here, Sak’nur?” you demanded, your voice cutting through the peaceful atmosphere like a knife.
Your brother blinked, holding his hands out in confusion. “Uh... swimming?”
The other hunters laughed, instantly chiming in. They began boisterously greeting Lekya, Reti, and Kar’ek, completely unbothered by your hostile aura. Kar'ek offered them a witty greeting back, while your “friends” instantly smoothed their hair, their previous defense of Neteyam turning into shy, bright smiles as they began chatting with the boys.
Your sharp eyes found Neteyam again when he chuckled and saw that his eyes were on you, his tail flicking with pure amusement. He tilted his head, looking down at your stormy expression.
“And here I thought the river was supposed to be relaxing,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, teasing register meant just for you. “What’s with the scowl, sleepyhead?”
Truthfully, his heart swelled at the sight of you; he loved the fire in your eyes, and his teasing was born from a desperate desire to see you react to him, and only him. But to your ears, it was just another arrogant provocation from him, just like the many other times in the past.
The other hunters caught his words and burst into a loud, obnoxious laughter, with your brother shaking his head at your expense.
The hot flush of embarrassment crawled up your neck, painting your cheeks a deep, furious violet. Without thinking, your hand snapped down, grabbed a heavy, overripe fruit from the leaf platter, and hurled it directly at his chest.
The fruit exploded against his sternum, leaving a sticky, bright purple smear across his smooth skin.
The laughter died instantly. Sak’nur’s jaw dropped, and the rest of the boys froze in sheer shock. No one, absolutely no one, threw things at the future Olo'eyktan.
Neteyam blinked, looking down at the sludge dripping down his chest, and then looked back up at you. You lifted your chin to wait for his anger, already burning in anger, but as his eyes met yours, you saw no fury. Instead, his golden eyes danced with a dangerous, thrilled light. A slow, breathless smile parted his lips. He wasn't insulted at all. He looked utterly captivated.
You let out a sharp, furious hiss, unable to bear the heat of his gaze for another second. Scrambling to your feet, you turned on your heel and sprinted away into the safety of the forest, leaving the river, your friends, and his maddening smile far behind.
Later that night, you sat at your family’s table, just a few paces away from the Olo’eyktan’s family, as the clan hierarchy dictated. The orange glow of the central fire bathed the communal clearing with warmth and you know you would have loved it if you the Sully family’s table weren’t exactly on your line of the sight. Looking at the fire meant accidentally meeting Neteyam’s eyes, which is exactly what happened four times in a row already in the past few minutes.
Beside you, sat Sak’nur, eating heartily, though he occasionally cast a wary glance your way. The memory of the riverbank still plagued you. You didn’t feel sorry at all, but you do feel like you could have handled it better. There were too many witnesses to your volatile nature, what’s worse, it included your brother.
Just as your lips were pulling in a grimace, a movement drew your eye. A fighre stood up in the Sully table and began walking toward your family's area. Neteyam. You let out a deep breath off your nose, pretending to be busy with your food but when Sak’nur elbowed you, you were forced to look up.
As he approached, you noticed he was carrying a leaf square bowl. Inside was a freshly baked sweet-root pie, a delicacy usually reserved for special celebrations.
Your stomach dropped. No. Do not do this here.
“Greetings, sir,” Neteyam said smoothly, dipping his head in a respectful nod to your father before his eyes shifted down to you. The cocky, teasing hunter from the riverbank was gone, replaced by the perfect, dutiful Olo’eyktan to be.
Your father let out a booming laugh. “Neteyam! What is this for?” he asked, looking at the pie.
“I came to bring a peace offering,“ Neteyam answered seriously, his eyes on you.
Your father’s eyes darted between Neteyam and you, his forehead creasing. “A peace offering? For what?”
You took a sharp breath through your nose, your fingers clenching into the fabric of your loincloth. You absolutely hated having your father peek into your business, and you hated, absolutely detested, that Neteyam was staging this elaborate stunt right in front of your parents. You knew that he wasn't actually sorry, that this was a calculated humiliation, a way to trap you into accepting his apology because you wouldn't dare cause a scene in front of your father.
“It is between Y/N and I, sir, if you’ll excuse my refusal to divulge the matter,” Neteyam told him, his voice dripping with humility that you knew was entirely fabricated. He extended the bowl toward you, his eyes locking onto yours with deeply apologetic eyes. He was such a good actor.
Your father’s lips pushed forward, nodding at Neteyam as he shared a quiet laughter with your mother. “Alright, then. I guess this is one of your petty arguments again,“ he said, looking at you. “Daughter. You must remember: Not only is Neteyam much older than you for he is your older brother’s age, but you are also no longer a child.”
Your face burned with further humiliation. You cannot believe this. He has brought this upon you! Huffing a breath of pure fury through your nose, you forced your face into a tight, strained mask of a polite compliance.
You reached out and snatched the bowl from his hands. “Thank you, Neteyam. Your apology is accepted,” you said through gritted teeth.
“I am glad,” Neteyam murmured, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips telling you exactly how much he was enjoying your frustration. He bowed to your parents once more and walked away.
Stupid boy. Stupid, arrogant, obnoxious boy.
“What happened at the river?” Your father asked the moment Neteyam was out of earshot.
“Nothing, Father,” you lied smoothly, keeping your voice level. “Just a small... disagreement. It is resolved.”
But you made sure to make your true statement when the dinner ended. As your family stood up to leave, you deliberately left the leaf basket sitting squarely in the middle of the empty table, completely untouched.
From across the pavilion, Neteyam watched your retreating back, his eyes falling on the abandoned pie. A heavy sigh escaped him. He should have known a simple pastry wouldn't melt your ice.
Beside him, Lo’ak snickered. “What did you do this time?” he asked.
Neteyam’s jaw locked as his lips formed a thin line. “Said something about her scowl.”
Lo’ak stared at him for a moment before the boy doubled over in a fit of laughter. “Skxawng,“ he said. “Girls do not like hearing about their facial expressions! The same way they don’t like hearing comments about their hair, like your crime the last time!”
Neteyam’s forehead creased. “I told her the side part suited her best!”
“Which is implying that the previous look looked bad on her. It was also in the delivery, you know? I noticed you seem cocky when you talk to her.” Lo’ak’s eyes narrowed.
“What?” Neteyam asked, bewildered.
Lo’ak rolled his eyes. “Figure it out on your own, bro. You’re smart, it shouldn't be hard.”
His brother walked past, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Neteyam sighed heavily again. He felt as though the weight of Hometree was on his shoulder. He genuinely didn't know what to do with you anymore; you had always been aloof to him, so he tried talking to you and doing things for you, but you met that with coldness, and he lay awake at night wondering what he had done to deserve such an impenetrable wall.
The wall only grew taller during the training cycles. Neteyam tried to be helpful, but that only made your life miserable.
Whenever you practiced your marksmanship at the archery lines, he would happen to pass by and offer a quiet word of encouragement or adjust your stance. But you didn't want his help, especially because the other young huntresses were always watching.
“Look at her,” one of the older girls muttered from the drying racks, loud enough for the words to carry. “Must be nice being Sak’nur’s sister. Neteyam practically hands her the targets.”
“Exactly,” another chimed in, glaring at your back. “She only hits the bullseye because the future Olo'eyktan spends half his day fixing her form. If she didn't have them, she'd be nothing special.”
Hearing them credit all your hard work, your sweat, and your blistered fingers to the men in your life made your blood boil. You turned around to look at them, seeing their mocking expressions as they waited for what you’ll say or do.
“Does that make sense to your pea-sized brains?” you asked, smiling. “That I’m hitting all of those targets simply because someone is adjusting my form, or because I am someone’s sister?”
You nocked an arrow in your bow so fast you had already released it before they could even blink, hitting the feather hair ornament of the girl farthest from you. Your arrow pinned it squarely to the weapon rack behind her.
You tilted your head. “Did my brother fixed your ornament for you, Kur’na?”
A series of furious hisses echoed in the training grounds. “How dare you!” One of the older girls snarled.
They lunged at you, grabbing your braids and clawing at your skin. You fought back as ferociously as you could, grabbing braids, clawing, and punching. You heard heavy footsteps coming and suddenly, your feet are kicking in the air, even landing a hard kick on one of the girls.
You saw your brother and Lo’ak holding the girls back and bellowing for them to stop while you struggled against the strong arms wrapped around you. Your chest heaved as you breathe heavily, trying to calm yourself down.
“Y/N, what’s going on?” Sak’nur asked, his large steps eating up the space between you two.
Realizing who was holding you, you jerked back from the hold to stand on your feet properly. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?! You shot Kur’na!” One of the girls said.
“Where?” you asked.
“There!“ she pointed at the fiber pinned on the rack with an arrow.
“See, I couldn’t have done that. I don’t possess such a marksmanship without my brother or Neteyam fixing my targets for me...” you lied, pushing your lips forward. “So the truth is... You all attacked me senselessly.”
“I’ll have your father hear of this, Sak’nur,” Lo’ak told your brother, moving to walk away just as the girls gasped, fearing that your father, the Olo’eyktan’s second-in-command, would punish them for this.
“No need, Lo’ak,” you said, looking at the girls. “This was just a small training grounds disagreement. Nothing that we can work out among ourselves. Right?“
The girls exchanged tense glances, their expressions twisting into a mix of fear and fury, before they nodded, muttering their silent agreement.
You smiled, “Why don’t you take your break? You’ve been here since the first light.”
They looked absolutely furious, their ears flattened against their heads but they walked away anyway, the sheer humiliation radiating off them in waves. You watched them retreat, your expression completely blank until they were out of earshot. The adrenaline was finally leaving your system, leaving your skin stinging where they had clawed at you.
“What really happend?”
You turned to see Neteyam stepping up beside Sak’nur and Lo'ak. He was the one who had been holding you back, his hands still hovering near his sides as if he wanted to reach out again to check your injuries. His golden eyes swept over the scratches on your arms and neck, his brow furrowed in deep frustration.
“It’s seven against one, bro,” Lo'ak answered for you, crossing his arms. “Did you actually shoot Kur’na, though? If so, that’s insane. Right through the hair piece.”
“It doesn't matter,” Sak’nur growled, looking down at you with a heavy, protective frown. “You shouldn't have provoked them, Y/N. If we didn’t come—”
“I had it under control,” you interrupted, your voice dropping to a cold tone making all three of them pause.
You looked at Sak’nur before letting your gaze lock onto Neteyam. The anger that had been simmering under your skin since the drying racks finally boiled over.
“Listen to me,” you said, stepping back so you could look at them clearly. “Never meddle in my business again.”
Neteyam blinked, looking taken aback. “Y/N, we were just trying to—”
“I don't care what you were trying to do,” you snapped, gesturing sharply toward the targets behind you. “Every piece of gossip on these grounds is about how I am only here because of you and Sak’nur. Every bullseye I hit, every hour I spend sweating under the sun, they credit to my brother or the future Olo’eyktan. And your constant help just proves them right.”
You picked up your bow from the ground, dusting off the dirt with a fierce, rough motion.
“If I am going to fight my battles, I am going to fight them alone. If I get clawed, that's my problem. If I put an arrow through someone's hair, that's my problem too,” you said, your eyes flashing as you looked directly at Neteyam, then back to Sak’nur. “Stay out of it. I don't need you protecting me, and I certainly don't need you fixing my form anymore. Let me handle my own life.”
Without waiting for a reply, you slung your quiver over your shoulder and marched away, leaving the three young hunters standing in silence on the training grounds.
“That doesn’t include me, right?” Lo’ak asked, raising both his hands in the air.
Just like that, three years bled into the passage of time, and the world changed.
It was the night of the Great Feast, celebrating the debut of several young women into adulthood, the age where they were officially recognized as ready to choose a mate.
You were one of them.
The ceremonial paint was fresh on your skin, and the warrior class had taken notice. You were widely regarded as one of the most prized debutantes of the season; your coldness had transformed into an aura of regal elegance, and your legendary skill with a bow only made you more desirable.
Near the roasting pits, a group of older, seasoned hunters were drinking fermented fruit spirits, their voices rising over the music.
“The daughter of the second-in-command has grown into a fine huntress,” one of them remarked, a proud, older warrior. He took a heavy swig from his cup, a dark, possessive grin spreading across his face. “If it were me, she’d be popping out babies every season. A woman like that would breed nothing but strong warriors.”
The men laughed, taking that remark as nothing but a jest, but Neteyam had been standing a few paces away, speaking with your brother and their friends. Every muscle in his massive frame locked tight. The easy-going warrior vanished, replaced instantly by a primal, terrifying rage.
He turned slowly, his golden eyes blown wide, locked entirely on the man. “What did you just say?” Neteyam’s voice was dangerously low but it carried to the group of warriors neaby.
The hunter, older and arrogant, scoffed. He didn't care that Neteyam was the Olo’eyktan’s son. “I said what I said, boy. It is the way of things.”
“Watch your foul mouth before I clip your tongue,” Neteyam snapped back darkly, a lethal rumble vibrating in his chest.
The man sneered, stepping up to match the younger warrior’s height, to no avail. “Why don’t you come over here and say that to my face, boy?”
Neteyam’s fangs bared. “You think I won't?!”
Neteyam handed his bowl of fermented wine to a friend before his large steps ate the space between him and the man.
Every warrior in the Omatikaya was trained in hand-to-hand combat, but Neteyam had been forged by Jake Sully himself. He was broader, taller, and infinitely faster. He had allowed the hunter a single punch before he slammed him into the dirt, his fists flying in a brutal, blinding blur, coming down smash after smash against the warrior’s face
Warriors rushed forward, their deep voices taking the attention of everyone that the drums stopped its rhythm. It took five grown men to finally throw their arms around Neteyam and pull him off. His chest was heaving, his skin slick with sweat and the blood of the man beneath him. But the moment the man tried to stumble to his feet to walk away, Neteyam violently threw the warriors off him, snarling as he lunged forward a second time, entirely unhinged by a rage no one had ever seen in him before.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Mo’at shouted, rushing into the clearing as the chaos finally settled. “Why are you fighting at a sacred feast?!”
Neteyam violently shrugged the remaining hands off his shoulders, his breathing ragged as he pointed a trembling, bloody finger toward the hunter. “He disrespected Y/N!” he roared, his voice echoing across the entire clearing.
A few paces away, completely clueless to the context, you stopped mid-sip, holding your cup to your lips as you blinked. Me...?
Your father, who had watched the entire sequence from where he’s talking with Jake, narrowed his eyes to slits. He had always suspected Neteyam held a certain fondness for you, but this? This was a declaration to evey young man in the clan, as if the years of protecting your name and being protective of you weren’t enough.
Neteyam aggressively wiped a streak of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand, completely uncaring of the stunned stares of the entire clan. You set your cup down and marched straight up to him when you saw him turn around to leave, your face a storm of confusion and irritation.
“What did you do?” you demanded, but your voice didn’t carry the edge it usually would.
Neteyam blinked, surprised by your sudden proximity. Slowly, the fury in his face began to melt, his shoulders dropping slightly as he looked down at you. “He... he was speaking inappropriately about you.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Like how?”
“I refuse to repeat it,” he muttered, suddenly looking like a guilty child being chastised for using foul language.
“Like how, Neteyam?” you repeated, your voice soft, a tone he’d never heard from you before.
He closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. “I do not want to repeat it, and I won’t. I am still seeing red, Y/N. If you make me repeat the words that came out of his mouth, I will go back over there, and I might actually tear him apart.”
You pursed your lips, studying the tight, rigid lines of his jaw. He looked genuinely sickened by whatever had been said. “It was that bad?”
He didn't answer, but his hard, pained expression spoke volumes. You looked at his split, bleeding lip, and then down at his knuckles, which were scraped raw and marred with crimson.
You let out a soft, defeated sigh. “I will go get herbs and a poultice for that,” you muttered, turning to leave.
“No need,” he said quickly, his voice rough. “I didn't do that so you would feel indebted to me.”
You rolled your eyes, turning back and grabbing him by the wrist. The sudden touch made him gasp softly. “I didn't even think that,” you said, pulling him out of the bright clearing and leading him onto a massive, quiet branch away from the pavilion lights. “Get some fresh air and reflect on what you just did.” You widened your eyes at him in a stern warning before walking away for the healing pavilion.
Neteyam stood on the darkened branch, watching your retreating form. He bit the inner flesh of his lower lip, desperately trying, and failing, to suppress the massive, foolish smile threatening to break across his face.
Minutes later, the soft patter of footsteps signaled your return. You carried two small clay jars filled with soothing green paste and woven cloths.
“Did you reflect?” you asked, stepping up to him.
He grimaced, his features twisting in a way that instantly reminded you of the young boy who hated sour fruit he would grimace every time he sees it. “I reflected,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “And I think I would do it again if I could. With increasing pleasure every time.”
You shook your head, a faint huff of humor escaping you as you patted the bark of the branch. “You are stupid.”
“I suppose so...” he whispered. He lowered himself to sit on the branch, his eyes locking onto your face. Under the faint warm glow of the large fire inside, you looked so breathtakingly beautiful it made his chest ache.
You knelt before him, dipping your fingers into the cool healing paste. You gently brought your hand to his mouth, dabbing the medicine onto his split lip. “First time you have ever admitted it,” you murmured, raising a brow as your eyes snapped up to meet his. “Finally humble. I like that.”
“Yeah?” he asked, a dangerous, thrilling spark suddenly igniting in the depths of his eyes.
Your breath hitched for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of his gaze. You quickly recovered, “Only if you are truly humble. But you are not. You are arrogant and obnoxious.”
“Things can be changed,” he smirked, only to instantly hiss as the movement stretched the cut.
“See? Even your wound disagrees with you,” you teased, a genuine smirk playing on your own lips.
“I am saying—”
“Shh,” you interrupted, placing a gentle finger over his good lip.
Neteyam immediately clamped his mouth shut. He didn't say another word, completely content to just sit there, breathing in your scent, paralyzed by the gentle touch of your hands as you began wrapping his raw knuckles with the soft woven cloth. He held his hand perfectly still, refusing to move a single finger, treating your handiwork as if it were the most precious gift from Eywa herself.
A long, comfortable silence settled over the branch, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the music from the festival.
“You are a debutante now...” Neteyam said softly, breaking the quiet.
Your forehead creased in amusement, and a small, rare chuckle escaped your lips. “Uh, yeah? That was what the entire ceremony was about.”
Neteyam blinked in utter surprise, his heart skipping a beat. He stared at you, momentarily speechless. You laughed. You actually chuckled in his presence. It was a historic first.
Clearing his throat to find his voice, he leaned in just a fraction closer. “Have you... thought of suitors? Of mates?”
The lightheartedness instantly vanished from your face, replaced by a deep scowl. “Among the men of this clan?” you asked, shaking your head as you tied off the bandage. “No, thank you. Which is the better choice anyway? All of you get on my nerves.”
You stood up, picking up the empty clay jars and looking down at him one last time.
“I am bringing these back to the pavilion. Try counting to a hundred before you do something stupid again.”
You turned and walked back to the direction of the healing pavillion, your heart hammering against your ribs in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the physical fight you had just witnessed. Neteyam was left sitting alone on the branch, his bandaged hand pressed gently against his chest as he watched you go, his eyes filled with an undeniable, burning yearning.
You like no one in the clan. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. That was perfect. He could definitely work with that.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The council’s midday gathering at the longhouse carried the scent of leaf tea and crushed sweet grass. Inside, the sunlight dripping through the woven room flickering shadows over the faces of the elders, Jake Sully, Neytiri, and your father, who sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze steady.
Neteyam stood at the center of the room. At twenty one, he had completely grown into the man everyone knew he would be. Taller than most, broad-shouldered, and carries the undeniable, commanding presence of a future leader. But today, his jaw was clamped shut in a tight, defensive line.
The topic on the floor was one he had been dodging for years: his future mating with the daughter of the Anurai clan’s Olo'eyktan. An alliance meant to solidify the bonds between their people.
“Delay this until when, Neteyam?” Elder Katu asked, his weathered voice echoing off the woven walls. “You are twenty-one. You are of age, and the clan looks to its future.”
“Elder Katu, if you should be reminded, my grandfather mated late, too,” Neteyam reasoned smoothly, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “He was forty-three then. He and my grandmother were way past the age of when they first came to adulthood.”
“Are you saying that you want to make Ateya of the Anurai wait that long?” Another elder countered.
“No, I am not saying she should wait at all,” Neteyam replied, his tone firm, yet unyielding. “I am saying I do not want to mate this young. I want to further my training and my diplomatic skills before I settle down. I will be the one mating, this would be for life, and I believe this part of my life should be my call.”
Jake Sully watched his son with a mixture of pride and suspicion, but it was your father whose sharp eyes never left Neteyam’s face. He noticed the slight, restless flick of Neteyam’s tail. He knew the young warrior was a master of discipline, so why was he fighting this alliance so fiercely?
The answer arrived with a soft rustle of the entrance flap.
You stepped into the longhouse with your chin held high, your expression a perfectly crafted mask of a huntress known for her sharp tongue. You had been tasked with delivering the recent patrol briefing to Sa’rin, an elder female warrior sitting near the back.
“I cannot be a good mate if I—”
Neteyam’s head snapping toward the movement at the threshold was entirely instinctual, but when he saw the distinct, bright feathers of your long braids, he did a complete double-take, his golden eyes locking onto your form, his breath hitching just enough that his posture faltered.
“...am not ready...” He trailed as his eyes tracked the fluid, elegant movement of your stride.
You didn’t even look at him, your eyes were trained forward until you reached Sa’rin, whispering to her animatedly. None of the older elders noticed the sudden lapse in Neteyam’s always perfect composure, not even Jake and Neytiri who were too focused on what he was saying.
But your father saw it.
His eyes narrowed into assessing slits, watching Neteyam’s chest rise and fall heavily as the young man desperately tried to refocus on the conversation. It was all the confirmation he needed. Neteyam sees you more than he ought to.
“It is a perfect match, Neteyam, if only you would open your eyes to see. It is known that Ateya is a competent huntress at her age, and a great weaver as well,” one of the elder said, shaking his head.
For the first time, your eyes snapped to the gathered council, your ears twitching at what you heard. Unfortunately, Neteyam has already tore his eyes off of you, or he would have seen the way your face crumpled in what your father perceived as a distaste.
When the elders finally dismissed Neteyam with a warning to think deeply on his duties, the young warrior let out a long, ragged breath as he walked out into the sunlight. He knew everything he had just said to the council was utter bullshit. He was ready for leadership, ready for a mate, ready for the future... but only if that future was you. He would delay every alliance, fight every elder, and play the patient hunter until he finally got you.
But he doesn’t know how to get you.
In the past years, the air between you two had been significantly better than it used to be, but that was because he heeded what you said about not meddling in your business. He still tried to sneak in help every now and then, but not so much so as to piss you off.
He would hate to wake up the palulukan in you, so to speak.
Your father quietly watched him walk away before transferring his gaze to you once Neteyam was out of sight. Sa’rin was speaking, but you kept glancing at the entryway, your tail moving in agitated flicks behind you. He knew you. He knew that for all the ice and bitter fire you hurled at Neteyam, you were masking something deeper, far more profound. And Neteyam has never really tried to hide what he has for you. People are just really imperceptive.
You two needed a push.
The push came in the form of being assigned to the same hunting pack as each other. You didn’t think much of it, after all, Neteyam is one of the high-ranking hunters of the clan and you knew your rotation would have put you under him one way or another. As usual, you were out before sunrise, while the jungle was still choked with heavy, clinging mist.
This was simply a mid-sized hunting pack, with Neteyam leading the routine sweep of the southern borders. Your brother was currently leading the border patrol, which left you entirely under Neteyam’s command. You kept your distance during the initial trek, silent but cautious of your surroundings.
But Neteyam wouldn’t really be Neteyam if he didn’t know exactly where you were at any moment in time.
When the pack finally halted on a higher valley, Neteyam gathered the hunters. He moved with an easy, terrifyingly efficient confidence, mapping out the flanking routes with quick gestures of his large hands. As the other hunters dispersed to take their positions, you turned to slip toward the western ridge.
“Not so fast,” Neteyam’s voice cut through the air, smooth and low. He stepped into your path, his towering frame blocking the narrow trail. A slow, familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he tilted his head. “The western ridge is steep, and the morning dew has made the forest floor slick. We’ll take the east.”
You stopped and turned to him. “Whatt’s going on? Afraid of a little slip?” you asked. “I am taking the western flank. I have a cleaner angle, and I do not need a guide.”
Neteyam let out a low huff of laughter, stepping just an inch closer. The heat radiating off his chest was palpable in the cool morning air. He raised a single, amused eyebrow. “Prickly in the morning? I am not offering to guide you. I am telling you where the pack needs you. But if you really think I’m so afraid of a little slippery moss, you should hold my hand.”
Two years ago, your blood would have boiled. You would have hissed, thrown a cutting insult about his ego, and marched off in a fury.
But today? As your eyes locked onto his, tracking the dangerous, playful spark in his golden gaze and the infuriatingly curve of his smirk, your heart gave a sudden, treacherous thud against your ribs. The annoyance you usually relied on as a shield felt flimsy, dissolving into a strange, dizzying warmth.
You didn’t know where it began, but you no longer hate his arrogance. In fact, you realized with a sudden jolt of panic that you were entirely captivated by it.
“I think you can handle the moss perfectly fine, Neteyam," you countered, your voice clipped, though you couldn't quite stop the subtle twitch of your own lips. “Try not to get distracted out there. I would hate for my arrows to do all the work for your pack.”
“I'll try my best to keep up...” he murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, private register that always seemed reserved exclusively for you.
He gave you one last, lingering look before turning to leap into the upper ground with effortless grace. You stood frozen for a second, catching your breath, before fiercely shaking your head. Get it together, you scolded yourself, though the flush on your neck had nothing to do with the physical exertion of the hunt.
He turned to you again, offering a hand. You scoffed, ignoring his hand and leaping on the higher ground yourself. The hunt went flawlessly with three clean kills, but the tension between the two of you only tightened during the trek back.
The pack stopped by a shallow stream to wash the sweat and dirt from their skin. You sat slightly apart from the group on a fallen log, running a whetstone down the edge of your hunting knife when a few paces away, you saw Ley’a, a huntress your age, approached Neteyam. Neteyam, being the dutiful and polite warrior that he was, leaned down slightly to listen, speaking to her with that effortless, smooth charm that came naturally to him.
You saw him smiled, gesturing toward the canopy as if he was explaining something.
You didn't even realize you were staring until the stone slipped against your blade with a sharp, harsh screech. You swallowed and aggressively rolled your eyes, your lips in a thin line as something hot and ugly twisted sharply in your gut. You didn't understand why it was there, but it blinded you.
When the trek resumed again, you walked ahead of everyone, your pace faster than usual and your chin tilted high. Your sharp eyes snapped to your side when you heard footsteps coming, and your brows furrowed immediately when you saw Neteyam’s smirk.
“Are you upset about something?” he asked, matching your pace effortlessly, his strides sure and confident.
You didn’t answer. You wanted to be left alone with your thoughts, but here he is again, taunting words out of you.
“You walk fast when you’re upset.” he added.
You finally turned to him, your eyes narrowed and before your mind could stop your tongue, you spoke, “You speak quite smoothly to girls for a man who is practically spoken for, Neteyam,” you said, your tone dripping with a cold, sarcastic bite.
He looked surprise for a moment, but the smirk returned to his face, though his eyes narrowed with a sudden, intense curiosity. “And what is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“I am merely wondering what Ateya of the Anurai would say about it,” you scoffed. “Her future mate being a certified womanizer, smooth-talking and flashing his smiles at every huntress. Personally, I would hate to have such a weak-willed mate.”
Neteyam’s lips parted, lagging behind for a fraction of a minute, watching your large steps put a distance between you. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he walked after you, his stride purposeful. You looked at him, somehow you’re bothered that he might be angry about what you said, but he didn't look angry; he looked absolutely thrilled by your bite, his cocky persona flaring to life.
“A womanizer?” Neteyam whispered, walking right beside you and leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours. “What are you talking about, smooth-talking and flasing smiles at every huntress?” he asked, his hand itching to touch your forearm but he balled it into a fist.
You didn’t respond, you just continued walking and he kept matching your pace.
“Was it about Ley’a earlier?” he mumbled, his voice so quiet and intimate that it brought heat to your face. “I was just answering a question about a tracking trail,” he explained, his steps growing larger. He walked backward so he could look at you better, his head tilting at the silent ire on your face. “Do you care who I smile at, Y/N?”
Your face crumpled and he chuckled, “I do not care at all,” you snapped back quickly, your chest heaving as you glared up at him. “I am simply making an observation on your character. Or lack thereof.”
“Right. An observation,” he repeated as he raised a brow, his face so light and vibrant you could see the way his pupils were dilating. “Because for someone who claims to find me so arrogant and obnoxious, you seem to spend a remarkable amount of time keeping track of my betrothal status. Should I tell my father to cancel the council meetings, then? Since my future seems to weigh so heavily on your mind?”
Your face burned a deep, furious violet. You stopped abruptly, nearly knocking your shoulder into his chest as you pushed past him.
“Do whatever you want, Neteyam,” you hissed under your breath before marching ahead. “You are entirely insufferable.”
Neteyam didn't follow you right away, he stood by the stream and watched your rigid, angry retreat with a heavy, breathless exhale. His hand traced his jawline, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across his face as his tail flicked lazily behind him.
You looked jealous, absolutely furious, and you seemed very bothered by his betrothal status. He didn’t want to rejoice in the knowledge that you were upset about it, but he couldn’t help it. The heavy weight of the council’s impending arrangements suddenly felt a little lighter. He had a foothold now. And he wasn't going to let it go.
The days following the hunt felt entirely different. The invisible wall you had spent years building was actively crumbling, and the worst part was that you were no longer trying to patch it up.
Neteyam had taken what happened and run with it, his pursuit turning into a relentless, everyday occurrence. He seemed to possess an infuriating ability to materialize out of thin air whenever you were alone.
One afternoon, you were high up in the middle branches of Hometree, sitting on a secluded edge to practice your weaving skills on soft strips of fabric. Your fingers felt thick and clumsy as you tried to lace the soft strips together. You are useless in this for you had never really taken an interest in the domestic arts.
But now... You thought weaving would be a great skill to add to your repertoire.
It’s proving to be a great challenge, though, and staring at the frayed, knotted mess in your lap, you wanted to yank your own braids out for your sudden stupidity. Why had you never thought of ever learning this before? How are you supposed to even weave a loincloth for your future children if you cannot even cross two threads? A scowl deepened on your face.
The thought that you were thinking of children tore through your trance as a sudden, unauthorized image of a child with very familiar features came into your mind. You gasped sharply, your face burning a violent purple.
With a frustrated groan, you balled up the tangled mess of fabrics and threw it violently across the ledge. “Useless,” you hissed to the empty air.
“What is it that you’re upset about now?”
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
Neteyam dropped gracefully from the thick branch above, landing silently on the ledge just a few feet away. He was leaning against the bark, his arms crossed over his chest, a wildly amused smirk playing on his lips. He had a way of appearing out of nowhere lately. At the river, near your training lanes, and now in your private sanctuary.
Your mask snapped back into place, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. “Do you make a habit of stalking me, Neteyam, or do you simply have nothing better to do with your time?”
His lips twisted. “I was actually on my way to the training grounds,” he lied smoothly, taking a slow, confident step closer. His eyes dropped to the tangled ball of fabric on the ledge, and then drifted back up to your flushed face. “But then I saw the fiercest huntress I know fighting a losing battle against some fabrics. I couldn't just walk away.”
“I am not fighting it,” you retorted.
“Right. You're just glaring at it until it weaves itself,” he teased, his voice dropping into that low, rumbling register. He walked over, picking up the discarded bundle. With agonizing slowness, his hands began to effortlessly untangle the knots you had spent an hour making. “You have too much tension in your hands, holding it like a throat you want to crush.”
You watched his fingers move. They were calloused from weapons, larger than yours, yet they handled the delicate threads with a startling, gentle precision. A strange warmth settled deep in your stomach. You were too hyper-aware of how close he was, of the scent of mint and rain on his skin, and the effortless way he commanded your space.
“There...” he mumbled, showing you a perfect line of two woven strips.
You glanced at him through the fringe of your lashes, seeing the small smile on his face. A faint shadow of fear bloomed in your chest and you looked down, “Where did you learn?”
“My mother,” he answered, glancing up at you with a bright smile before he looked back down on his work. “Well, sort of. She’d always tell us to be responsible of our own clothes if it gets a hole or a tear.”
“I didn’t know that...” you mumbled.
He smirked, but somehow it looked less cocky and more... wistful. “The same way I know you can’t weave.”
Your forehead creased. “How’d you know?” you asked, glaring at him but you both know it held nothing bad.
“I pay attention,” he shrugged. “Why are you suddenly taking an interest in this?”
You took the strips from him, your eyes playfully narrowed. “I thought you know things from observing?”
“I guess I'll need to observe more when you weave... So, I can form a guess,” he said.
You pushed your lips forward, wrapping the strips he made on your wrist. “I suck at this. There's no next time.”
“You don’t really need to learn weaving if you don’t want to, you know...” he said, sitting on the branch comfortably.
You thought of the Anurai... About how they are meticulous artisans and how some of the clan’s best tapestries used for certain ceremonies are their handiwork. You didn’t even know you were scowling at your own thoughts, and once again, before you could think properly, you spoke.
“Easy for you to say as someone who would be mating an Anurai,” you said in a clipped tone, gathering your stuff and standing up to leave him there.
His jaw dropped, watching your form retreat and jump a branch down. “What...?” he whispered in the air.
You kept climbing down, the soft soles of your feet gripping the bark as you practically fled from the raw confusion on his face. The weight of your irrational feelings and thoughts were a heavy, suffocating thing and it followed you for days.
You were down by the rivers, tucked away in the humid shade of the trees for another one of your group’s picnics. Over the past years, you had actually grown genuinely close to Lekya, Reti, and Kar’ek. They had ceased to be just annoying people tailing you around, they were now your good friends.
While the three of them babbled animatedly about the latest gossips, you were hunched over, your forehead creased in absolute, soul-crushing concentration. You were trying to recreate the exact interlocking loop Neteyam had shown you on the branch. Your tongue peeked out between your teeth as you fought a thick strand of reed.
“I am just saying,” Reti sighed, leaning back on a woven mat and fanning herself, “if Mar’tu looks at me like that during the next illumination feast, I might just have to let him carry my baskets. He has those shoulders, you know?”
“Oh, please,” Lekya scoffed, tossing a seed at her. “Mar’tu trips over his own feet. If you want shoulders, you look at the patrol leaders.”
Reti sighed, “And what do the patrol leaders even like? They won’t like someone like me. I’m a weaver, Lekya, for freak’s sake. If a mere hunter likes me, I can’t be choosey.”
You pushed your lips forward and glanced up at her, your forehead creased, “Rita. Don’t speak of yourself that way,” you reprimanded. “You’re an excellent weaver. Look at me, I can’t even weave to save my life.” You showed her your botched work. “Who cares about whether warriors and hunters like any of us? They are idiots.”
They bursted out laughing. “Well, I supposed we’ll take it from you. You’re the huntress,” Reti grinned.
“You never grew out of your annoyance for them,” Lekya said. “Where will you find romance if you don’t like any of them?”
You scowled and they laughed harder.
“Well, some of us don't have to look far for romance,” Kar’ek chimed in, leaning forward with a wicked grin. He was lounging on a pile of soft moss, his fingers idly twirling a blade of grass. “Some of us are having secret midnight swims by the eastern pools with a certain hunter whose name rhymes with Zdin’rey.”
Lekya and Reti gasped in unison, leaning in. “Kar’ek! You didn't!”
“But I did,” Kar’ek purred, tossing his braids over his shoulder. “And honey, it was mmaculate!”
Lekya pouted, “Weren’t you with Nakvu last moon?”
Kar’ek snorted, “Well, I realized, I can just take, and take, and take. There are plenty of choices and we must always test the auditonees.”
You chuckled and Kar’ek’s attention pinned on you. He shifted on the grass, grabbing a piece of pie and popping it into his mouth.
“Enough about my scandalous exploits. What about our resident huntress?”
Another two pairs of eyes suddenly locked onto you. You kept your gaze glued to your terrible weaving, though.
“What about me?” you asked coldly, trying to sound aloof.
“You are of age, Y/N. A fully decorated debutante,” Kar’ek pointed out.
Lekya nodded at you, “The warriors practically fall over their own feet trying to offer you meat at the communal fires, and you look at them like they are pile of viperwolf dung.”
“Maybe because they are annoying,” you muttered, shoving a fiber under another.
“Okay, true for some,” Lekya agreed. “But what about Tayrel? He’s still single. Or maybe someone from the older batches? What about Janu?”
Before you could voice your disgust, Kar’ek let out a loud, dramatic groan, slapping his forehead with a broad leaf. “Oh, by Eywa's grace, stop it! Please! You two are giving me a headache with these horrific suggestions.” He sat up, glaring at Lekya and Reti like they had lost their minds. “Why are you two suggesting so many names when there is a very obvious one right in front of her face?”
Your glanced up at him with furrowed brows, accidentally bending a fiber completely out of shape. “My face?”
Kar’ek rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. “Girl, you’re blind,” he said before leaning in. “Neteyam!” he whisper-shouted.
“Oh...” Lekya’s face brightened. “But he’s... I mean, the council—”
“The council can eat dirt,” Kar’ek interrupted shamelessly, waving his hand dismissively. He turned his full attention to you, his eyes glittering with pure gossip-fueled joy. “Y/N, darling, look at me. Put that plant down.”
You slowly raised your head, keeping your face as blank as possible, though your ears were burning hot against your hair. “Neteyam is my brother's best friend. He is an extension of my family.”
“Honey, if my brother’s friend looked at me the way Neteyam looks at you, I would be pregnant by the next eclipse,” Kar’ek said flatly.
“Kar'ek!” you hissed, your face flushing a violent violet.
“I am serious!” Kar’ek leaned in, his voice dropping into an intense, dramatic whisper. “I am an observer of men, Y/N. It is my spiritual calling. And I am telling you, he is crazy about you. Utterly ruined by you.”
You shook your head, “You are crazy. That’s not possible,” you said. “He teases everyone."
“Oh, please. Remember when you accidentally dropped your dagger into the communal fire? Who burned his hand pulling it out before the blade gets ruined? Neteyam. And what about the time during the rainy season when your kelku’s roof had that massive tear? Your father was away on clan business and your brother on patrol, and suddenly Neteyam shows up with three layers of fresh thatch, claiming they ‘had extra’ and he just happened to be passing by. He spent four hours in a downpour fixing it, looking like a drowned, miserable banshee, just so you wouldn't get cold!”
“Shut up, Kar'ek,” you mumbled, your voice entirely stripped of its usual icy armor. You stared down at the messy, tangled weaving in your lap, knowing that the flutter in your chest wasn't from anger or defense.
“Oh, I am not shutting up, because you need to hear the rest of this,” Kar’ek insisted, practically vibrating with excitement as he leaned even closer, gesturing wildly with his hands. xLekya, Reti, back me up on this. We are making a list because this girl is living in a complete state of delusion.”
“Alright,” Reti agreed instantly, abandoning her fern leaf. “I remember that time when your mount got that nasty deep scratch from a nightwraith attack during patrol and he stayed up for two full nights helping you by gathering the herbs in the high cliffs, grinding the soothing paste and applying it on your ikran? At least, the healers got their sleep, but Neteyam definitely didn’t.”
Your lips twisted when you remembered. You were so scared for your ikran then, panicking and crying, but he took care of everything. He didn’t even like herbs, you thought. Nobody likes herbs but the healers... But he still took care of it.
“And he beat Kutri into a pulp at the Great Feast because of you,” Lekya said with a dreamy look on her face.
“Exactly!” Kar’ek clapped his hands together triumphantly. “The man is the future leader of our people, completely disciplined and perfect, until someone breathes too loud in your direction.”
You huffed a breath through your nose. Your chest was heaving, your skin tingling with a sudden, overwhelming rush of warmth. Kar’ek’s words were too overwhelming, painting a picture you had spent years denying. Neteyam... likes you. No, according to Kar’ek, he was entirely consumed by you.
“You have him on a leash, Y/N. You just refuse to pull it,” Kar’ek added, leaning back with a smug grin.
At the same time, Neteyam was standing in the heavy atmosphere of the council as the elders discussed how to maintain the strategic alliance with the Aranahe clan, casually receiving strays from elders who couldn’t undetermined his decision.
“The Aranahe look to solidify our treaties,” one of the senior elders spoke up, leaning forward. “Their Olo'eyktan has always expressed a desire for a match. Ateya isn’t his only child. His eldest son, a fierce hunter, is also open to find a mate from our finest bloodlines.”
Jake Sully sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “My daughter, Kiri, has no mind for things like this, Elder.”
“It needed not be Kiri, Jake,” the elder replied smoothly. He turned his gaze slowly across the circle, letting it rest squarely on your father. “Levakan... your daughter, Y/N. She has just come of age. She is fit to be paired with an Olo'eyktan’s heir. Proud, brave, beautiful, and strong.”
Across the room, Neteyam froze.
Every ounce of air left his lungs. His ears instantly pinned back flat against his head, his tail lashing behind him with a sudden, violent twitch. His golden eyes locked onto the elder with a glare so fiercely lethal it could have pierced through armor. How dare he suggest handing you over to an outsider?
Neteyam’s eyes flew to your father, his heart hammering in a frantic, terrifying panic. He waited for Levakan to refuse. He waited for him to protect his daughter from being shipped off to another clan.
Instead, your father remained perfectly calm. He tilted his head, pretending to weigh the option with a thoughtful expression.
“My daughter is dutiful, Elder,” your father said, his voice loud and clear. “She understands the weight of our family’s standing. I will talk to her and see what I can do, if she is open to it.”
Neteyam’s face completely crumpled, a suffocating pain twisting in his chest. His fist clenched so hard his wrapped knuckles turned white.
If she is open to it.
Neteyam remembered the night on the branch, your soft laughter, and the way you had scowled and said you liked none of the men in this clan because they all got on your nerves. A sickening wave of dread washed over him. If you hated all the boys here... that would mean you were open to choosing a man from the outside?
From across the fire, Levakan caught the look of utter, desperate panic written across Neteyam’s face. Your father hid a satisfied smirk behind his cup, knowing the game had officially begun, and Neteyam finally knew he couldn't afford to wait in the shadows any longer.
It’s not like both of you ever asked for a sign from Eywa, but the Great Mother still found it in herself to deliver an entire diplomatic circus to make both of your lives miserable. The Aranahe clan will be making a clan visit for the upcoming feast and the looming threat of the council’s political matchmaking bothered you both endlessly.
For you, the distress manifested as a tight, biting irritation. Every time someone mentioned Ateya’s name, your stomach twisted with something sharp and ugly. For Neteyam, it was a quiet, frantic desperation. He spent days trying to sense if your father had already presented the elder's suggestion about Tuvek, the Aranahe Olo’eyktan's firstborn son, to you, and more terrifyingly, if you actually thought it was a good idea.
When he caught you alone near the ikran ledges one afternoon, he looked entirely too relaxed for someone whose life was being rearranged by a council of old men. You were violently untangling a leather riding strap, your ears pinned back, when a shadow fell over you.
“Careful,” Neteyam’s voice purred. He was leaning casually against a pillar, one ankle crossed over the other, a lazy, infuriatingly handsome smirk playing on his lips. “You keep yanking it like that and you'll snap the hide. Though, I suppose it's impressive how much anger you can pack into such small hands.”
You snapped a sharp gaze on him. He looked like he is sleeping well, even more, like he was having the best days of his life anticipating the Aranahe. Your fingers aggressively knotted the leather, “Go away.”
He didn't take the hint, stepping right into your space until the heat of his chest was brushing your shoulder. He tilted his head, his golden eyes dancing with that familiar, cocky light. “I notice the second-in-command looking like he is in a very good mood these days, almost as if he is as waiting for a huge celebration. Care to share what it is about, sleepyhead?”
The strap snapped in your hands with a sharp crack.
Your head whipped around, your chest heaving with all the suffocating anxiety you’d been drowning in for days. “Perhaps it’s about your mating with Ateya of the Aranahe. Who knows? We could be celebrating that in time with the feast.”
Neteyam’s smirk faltered for a fraction, his eyes narrowing in surprise at the sheer venom in your voice, but he recovered quickly, raising an amused brow. This again. If you didn’t look so mad, he’d think you want to cry.
“Let me worry about that,“ he said, waiting for another reaction.
Which he got when you glared up at him with yours eyes blazing. “Right. So stop asking me about my father when you could ask my brother about whatever. Worry about your own looming bond. Go flash your perfect smiles at Ateya once she arrives, and figure out how to be a dutiful mate to the Aranahe, since you're so excellent at playing the perfect future chief!“
You didn't wait for his response. You turned on your heel and stormed off down the path, your tail lashing violently behind you.
Behind you, Neteyam stood frozen, the broken strap clutched in his hand. The cocky smirk completely vanished from his face. He wanted a reaction, yes, but Great Mother, he only made you angrier than you already were.
Then, the night of the feast arrived.
The central clearing was ablaze with a roaring fire, but to you, the atmosphere felt cold. The Aranahe Olo’eyktan, his mate, and his two children were seated at the high dais alongside Jake and his family. Ateya was intentionally placed right next to Neteyam. From your seat at your family’s own dais, you couldn't even swallow your food. Every time Ateya leaned in to whisper something to him, every time Neteyam offered her a smile, the food in your mouth tasted like ash.
You hated what you were feeling. You wished with everything in you that you could go back to how things used to be, back when you could pretend you were just annoyed by him. But as you watched them, you were confronted with a bitter truth. There was never a time you didn't care. You had always noticed him. For years, you had stubbornly pretended you didn't understand why he did things for you.
Why he would risk to burn his hand to get you your favorite dagger, why he would get out of his way to help you even when you never been kind to him. You had been selfish, rude, and mean, using your sharp tongue as a shield. Looking at Ateya, someone sweet, gentle, and flawlessly poise, you felt a sinking, hollow ache in your chest. She is exactly the kind of woman he deserves.
When the dinner concluded, one of the senior elders brought you over to introduce you to Tuvek. Although you were in no mood for pleasantries, your own courtesy forced you to stay. When Tuvek politely asked about the fermented fruit wine, you forced your voice into a steady rhythm, spending nearly half an hour conversing with him about the local beverages, the traditional food, and the story of the tribe dances.
Yet, your eyes were constantly drifting back across the clearing, tracking Neteyam. You felt two feet small, as if you had been completely skinned and left exposed to the cold wind.
“The steps to the third dance are actually quite complex,” Tuvek was saying, leaning a fraction closer, his eyes fixed intently on your face. “I would be honored if you showed me the footwork, once it comes again, Y/N. A huntress of your skill must move beautifully on the mats.”
“She moves beautifully, alright,” A low, smooth purr chimed in and you nearly jumped out of your skin.
You turned to hjm with a sharp glare, your eyes tracking Ateya a few paces away, standing alone in the crowd; but when she saw you glance at her, she started moving. You snapped your gaze back to Neteyam and saw him flashing a sharp, dazzling smile at Tuvek, though his golden eyes remained completely cold, tracking the man like a target.
“Assuming you don't mind getting your toes flattened. Our fiercest huntress tends to dance exactly how she hunts. Zero mercy and absolutely no regard for those trying to keep up with her.”
Your jaw nearly dropped. You snapped your gaze to him, your ears pinning back instantly. You were just about to hiss a lethal retort when a soft, melodic voice cut through the tension.
“There you are, Neteyam,” Ateya said, smoothly gliding into the circle. She offered a polite nod to you and Tuvek. “You disappeared so suddenly. I was worried you had grown bored of my company, but I am glad you’ve already introduced yourself to my brother.”
Neteyam smiled at her, “Of course, Ateya.”
You felt a sharp, ugly coil in your chest, but you quickly masked it when Ateya glances at you.
She looked at Neteyam again. “Though, I wonder if it would be rude if I steal you away for a more private conversation,” she said.
A sweet smile cut across your face as you turned your full attention to Ateya, completely ignoring Neteyam as if he were nothing more than an inconveniently placed rock.
“Oh, do not worry, Ateya,” you said. “Neteyam is simply doing what he does best: inserting himself where he isn't invited. He is very eager to come with you.”
You pushed him subtly. Tuvek blinked, looking between you two, while Ateya’s brow furrowed in mild confusion. Neteyam, however, didn't look offended at all. Instead, his smirk widened, his golden eyes dancing with absolute delight as he leaned closer to you.
“Is that what I'm doing?” Neteyam asked, his tone laced with a lazy, teasing challenge. “I thought I was just protecting our esteemed guest from a dangerous dance partner.”
“Oh, please. The only danger here is your terrible habit of sleepwalking,” you said, turning to Ateya. “You must be patient with him, that habit could triggered by too much wine. Just last moon, his family had to drag him back because he tried to climb down the Hometree in his sleep, said he was chasing a viperwolf.”
Tuvek chuckled, thoroughly baffled by the image of the stoic Neteyam sleep-hunting. Ateya looked at Neteyam with a confused smile, while the man stared at you, entirely captivated by how fiercely you were trying to embarrass him.
“Is that right?” Neteyam asked. “I don't remember chasing a viperwolf, sleepyhead.”
“Of course you don't, you were asleep,” you shot back smoothly, turning back to Ateya with a pitying shake of your head. "It's tragic, really. He also snores like a dying banshee when it rains. It's a miracle his family gets any rest at all. I only tell you this so you know what you are getting into, should he ever be left without a mouth guard during a monsoon.”
Ateya looked genuinely startled by your bluntness, her eyes darting to Neteyam to see if his pride would flare. “Oh... I see,” she offered softly, trying to find her footing in the conversation. “I suppose everyone has their... quirks.”
“Oh, he is full of them,” you replied instantly, your smile tightening.
“Hm,” Neteyam huffed a laugh, stepping even closer into your space, completely unfazed by your trashing. If anything, your desperate attempt to ruin his reputation seemed to intoxicate him. He tilted his head, his voice dropping into a low, private purr meant only for you. “You seem to know an awful lot about my nighttime habits. One might think you spend your evenings watching over me.”
“Oh, no, it’s the talk of the village,” you waved a dismissive hand and rolled your eyes.
Just in time, the rhythm for the dance Tuvek was talking about sounded and Tuvek glances at you. “There’s the dance.”
You smiled. "I’ll honor you." You gave Tuvek your hand, and he accepted it with a polite, sweeping bow, guiding you onto the crowded dance floor.
As you moved with Tuvek, matching the rhythmic thrum of the drums, the adrenaline from your bickering with Neteyam began to bleed away, leaving behind a hollow ache of the previous days. Tuvek was a perfectly fine partner, his movements were precise, his manner exceptionally polite, but you felt entirely disconnected from your own body. You felt two feet small again, a fraud hiding behind a confident huntress.
During a synchronized turn, your eyes drifted toward the council’s dais. You caught the line of vision of several senior elders and how they were all watching Neteyam and Ateya in approval. You followed their gaze and saw Ateya who had a dreamy, captivated look on her face, her eyes fixed entirely on him as she spoke about something.
Your eyes slid to the figure beside her, your heart jumping to your throat when you saw him watching you with an intense focus. You swiftly looked away, pretending to enjoy the rhythm.
The moment the music swelled to a finish, you offered Tuvek a nod. “It was a great pleasure to be in your company, Tuvek, but you must forgive me. I want to excuse myself.”
Before he could offer to accompany you, you practically fled, slipping past the dancing bodies. You jumped a few branches down until you are out in the comfort of the surrounding forest. The heavy beat of the drums faded, replaced by the sharp cracks of leaves under your soles. But you barely had time to draw a ragged breath before the distinct, deliberate sound of footsteps echoed behind you.
You spun around, your arms instantly crossing tightly over your chest in defense. Through the glowing blue and magenta bioluminescence, you saw Neteyam tracking you, his long strides steady and unrelenting.
“Leave me alone,” you hissed, your voice clipping with vulnerability.
“No,” Neteyam said. As he stepped fully into the pale light of a glowing fern, your breath caught. He looked angry. It was a hard, clenching tight line of his jaw. A dangerous, fierce expression you had never once seen him direct at you.
Your eyes narrowed as you focused on him, your own temper flaring to mask the sudden sting of tears. “Are you angry?”
“I suppose I am,” he said, his voice a low, rough vibration.
“At me?” you asked, a bitter, defensive laugh bubbling up in your throat. Your chin lifted defiantly. “Mad at me for what? Because I disparaged your pristine image to your precious Ateya? Oh, don't worry, Neteyam, I don't think she cares at all! She was still looking at you with heart-shaped eyes the entire night!”
“You think I care about her?” Neteyam stepped sharply into your space, his chest heaving as he looked down at you, his golden eyes blazing. “I couldn't care less what she thinks of me! But I certainly cared about watching you hand your palm over to her brother! I cared about watching him lean into your face, talking about how 'beautifully' you move!”
“He was just being polite!” you yelled, your voice cracking as the sheer pressure of the past week finally broke through your defenses. “And you should, too, I saw the council. They approved of you two—”
“I don't want Ateya!” Neteyam roared, grabbing your upper arms, his grip firm, unyielding, but entirely careful not to hurt you. “And I don't want you anywhere near him! It was driving me insane, Y/N. Watching him touch you, watching you smile at him, and knowing you’re somehow mad at me again for only Eywa knows what. Because unlike him, I can’t seem to do anything right by you!”
Your chest heaved. Your inner lip was caught between your teeth as a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion hit you. His words felt like a direct proof of the thoughts you had just harbored at the feast. He had shown you nothing but absolute, relentless kindness his entire life, and you had paid him back in nothing coldness and meanness.
You swallowed hard, quickly turning your head to hide the hot tears that were suddenly pooling in your eyes. But you weren't fast enough. Neteyam took a sharp, panicked breath the moment he saw the glint of moisture on your cheek.
“Fuck. Are you crying?” he rushed out, his long strides instantly eating away the remaining space between you. The anger was completely gone, replaced by pure panic. “I didn't mean for it to come across that way. Shit. I'm so sorry I said that. Please don't cry.”
You shook your head, the hot tears finally spilling over and tracking down your face. Before you could pull away, his large hands came up, firmly but gently grasping your upper arms to steady you.
“No? Then what is it? Was it Tuvek?” his body went instantly rigid, his ears flattening as a dangerous, protective growl vibrated in his throat. “Did he say something to you?”
“No,” you sniffled, your own hands automatically coming up to grip his forearms, feeling the hard, steady muscle beneath his skin. “You were right, Neteyam. You can't do anything right by me, but you are not to blame for that. I am. I am so mean to you. So needlessly cruel and defensive at times, when all you've ever wanted to do was help me, and protect me, and I—”
“Hey. Shh,” he hushed you softly, pulling you forward and wrapping his massive, warm arms around your trembling frame and tucking your head securely against his chest. “What are you even saying? You could never do anything to me that I do not let you do. Don’t think of me as some victim.”
“That’s the exact problem,” you mumbled against his bare chest, your voice muffled but fierce. “You are such an idiot. You would literally allow me to impale you with a hunter's spear if I told you I wanted to.”
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against your cheek. Neteyam squeezed you a little tighter, his chin resting against the top of your head. “I definitely would,” he whispered quietly.
A profound, heavy silence fell over you both. Neteyam slowly pulled back just enough to look down at your face, his golden eyes filled with a softness that made your knees weak as he traced the glowing pattern of your bioluminescent freckles—the stars he saw every single time he closed his eyes.
“You like me...” you mumbled, the words feeling like a sacred, forbidden secret leaving your lips.
“Like?” Neteyam echoed, a small, breathless smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe... when I was a boy.” His gaze darkened, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from your cheek. “But I am a man grown now. And my feelings grew out of the 'like' territory a very long time ago.”
You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you tried to process the intensity in his eyes. Remembering the scandalous, late-night gossip sessions with Kar'ek and the girls, you blinked up at him innocently. “You... you lust for me?”
Neteyam snorted, a sharp burst of genuine laughter barking from his chest. His large frame shook against yours, his white teeth flashing in the dark. Your lips twisted into a pout, your face thoroughly confused, but a spark of warmth bloomed in your gut just watching his unbridled joy.
“I do,” he admitted freely, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as his gaze dropped to your mouth for a heavy, lingering second. “I definitely do. But what I mean is... I love you. I am completely, entirely in love with you. I have been for years, Y/N. There is no one else. There never has been. And never will be.”
You looked up at him, your heart hammering so loudly against your ribs you were certain he could hear it. You tried as hard as you could to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips, burying your face slightly back into his chest. “You are an idiot...” you mumbled.
Neteyam let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his ears pinning back in absolute, staggering relief. He didn’t back down. Instead, his hand slid up to the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling gently into your hair as he tilted your face up, demanding your full attention.
“For being crazy over and falling in love with the clan’s fiercest, most stubborn huntress?” he asked, his voice dropping to a rough, intense whisper. “Perhaps I am. I am a massive idiot.”
You playfully glared at him, your hand tracing the curve of his arm. But the vulnerability rushed back, and your gaze lowered to his chest, your forehead creasing as your lower lip gave a small, telling tremble. “I got... so jealous of Ateya tonight. I was so jealous, Neteyam, I wanted to cry during dinner.” You looked up, your eyes wide and searching. “ think she would do well. She seems like a good woman, a good huntress... and an even better weaver, from what everyone says.”
A deeply humored, incredibly smug look washed over his features, a familiar, cocky smirk returning to his lips. “Do well with what?”
“With you,” you said, poking his chest sharply.
His head tilted, his thumb caressing your jawline. “I rejected the match with her for years because I wanted someone else,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And now this someone else is crying because she thinks I’ll ever look at another woman and forget the only one I’ve ever wanted.”
Your lips twisted. “I am not good to you,” you repeated softly.
Neteyam squeezed your hand, bringing his face so close your noses brushed. “I don’t care. I love you. And I don’t care if you don’t feel the same right now,” he said with an absolute, unyielding intensity. “I only wish for your happiness. So whatever it takes, I will do it. I will take whatever fire or ice you throw my way.”
“Me, too,” you whispered.
Neteyam froze, his eyes widening a fraction. “You do?”
Your eyes went wide as you realized what you had just admitted, your heart leaping into your throat. “I—I mean, I want you to be happy, too!” you stammered, biting your lip as your gaze helplessly dropped to his mouth.
Unable to resist the pull any longer, you stood on your tiptoes and pressed a quick, desperate kiss to his lips. You tried to step back in a hurry, your old defensive instincts flaring, but Neteyam’s arm tightened like steel around your waist. He pulled you flush against his body, his other hand gathering your braids to hold your head steady as he tilted your face up and kissed you properly.
He kissed you deep, hard, and possessive, molding his lips to yours with all the pent-up hunger of a man who had waited a lifetime. A soft, breathless moan escaped your throat against his mouth, your fingers gripping tightly into the muscles of his shoulders. It felt good. Shockingly, terrifyingly good.
He finally pulled away just enough to let you breathe, his lips trailing hot, damp paths down your jawline while his large hand cupped your cheek. You angled your head, desperate to kiss him again, but the sudden, distinct rustle of heavy footsteps nearby cut through the haze.
You moved away from him faster than lightning, your heart leaping into your throat. You started walking back toward the clearing like a startled yerik caught in a hunter's sights, only to freeze when you spotted Sak'nur walking down the path not a few paces away.
“There you are,” Sak'nur said, stopping. “Father told me to find you. What are you doing out—” He broke off, his forehead creasing deeply as his eyes slid behind you. “Neteyam?”
Your entire frame jolted. You quickly crossed your arms over your chest. “We ran past each other near the clearing,“ you lied smoothly, your voice barely trembling. “... I was only out for some cold air and alone time.”
“And Neteyam?” your brother asked, his sharp eyes darting suspiciously between the two of you.
You turned to look at Neteyam, seeing that he still looked completely stupefied, his ears twitching as he pointed a thumb vaguely behind himself, his lips opening and closing as if his verbals skills had entirely failed him.
“He was out to make sure there are no dangers in the vicinity,” you covered for him, stepping closer to your brother. “What does father want?”
Sak'nur stared at you, clearly unsatisfied with the answers but unable to pinpoint why. “He wants to speak with you about an important matter, apparently.”
“Alright, I'm going,” you said, offering a tight smile before turning back toward Hometree.
The two warriors followed you back to the communal clearing. You walked up to your father, who immediately drew you aside to a quieter corner of the clearing, away from the roaring heat of the central fire.
“Daughter,” your father began, his voice dropping into the low tone he used when speaking of clan matters. “The elders have spoken with me. They believe a pairing between you and Tuvek would secure a vital line of trust between our hunters. He is a formidable warrior, and his father is a powerful ally.”
You stood before him, but you could hardly think straight. Your skin was still flushed and your lips were practically burning, still tingling from the possessive pressure of Neteyam's mouth. The contrast between your father's political gravity and the wild, illicit heat flooding your veins was dizzying. You had absolutely no intention of entertaining a single word of what the council wanted.
“He seems like a good man, Father,” you said, forcing your voice to sound entirely detached, though your heart was still hammering against your ribs. “But I have no interest in him. Or his clan's alliances.”
Your father nodded, taking a slow sip from his cup. “He is an Olo'eyktan's firstborn son, daughter. It is a match of great honor. Are you telling me your heart is already occupied elsewhere?”
Your breath hitched, but you quickly locked your jaw, “Father, I am not interested in being a wife at this age, to be honest. I want to... sharpen my skills, so to say. But if the elders want an alliance, we have other huntresses from good lineage they can trade.”
Your father hid another slow satisfied smirk behind his cup. He had seen the way Neteyam had practically bolted out of the clearing after you, and he could see the telltale flush on your cheeks now. If the fact that you’re both singing the same tune isn’t enough proof.
“Very well,” he murmured evenly, tapping your shoulder. “I will tell the elders you wish to weigh the gravity of the decision first, but we won’t speak of this again.”
Across the room, Neteyam was standing with Sak'nur, feigning interest in whatever your brother is saying, but his golden eyes were locked onto you. He watched your expression, knowing how dutiful you were to your family, silently praying that just this once, you would listen to nothing but your own heart.
The moment he saw you walk away from your father, Neteyam set his bowl of brew down and patted Sak'nur on the back. His eyes met yours from across the crowded, firelit room, and he gave a subtle jerk of his head toward the outer branches. You gave a barely perceptible nod, slipping out of the feast once more.
As you walked along the high pathway of the outer branches, a large, warm hand wrapped firmly around your elbow, gently pulling you back into the darkness of a massive trunk.
“Your father...?” Neteyam began, his voice tight with anxiety.
Your lips twisted as you tried to stifle a massive smile. “He told me about an arrangement with Tuvek,” you murmured, watching his grip tighten on your arm. “I told him I am not interested.”
Neteyam let out a long, shuddering huff of relief. You smiled up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and tiptoeing to press your lips to his. He kissed you back instantly, a soft, purring rumble in his chest. “Good,” he mumbled against your mouth. “Good.”
You smiled against his lips, pulling back slightly. “Listen,” you whispered, your expression turning serious. “I don't want to hide this... but I don't know how to tell my brother. Or my father. Or anyone, for that matter. Do you understand?”
Neteyam looked deep into your eyes, his gaze overflowing with tenderness. “I'm not complaining,” he smiled, leaning down to press another soft kiss to your lips. “We’ll do whatever you want. At your pace, baby.”
“Y/N?”
You jumped away from Neteyam instantly, spinning toward the entryway of the clearing to see Kar’ek standing there. His sharp eyes immediately narrowed into suspicious slits as he watched Neteyam stepping back into the shadows.
“Kar'ek,” you greeted, trying to sound breathless from walking, not kissing.
“We were just looking for you. It is time for the dancing!” Kar’ek said, dynamically swaying his hips to the distant rhythm of the drums.
“Right! I'll be there with you guys soon,” you grinned.
“Oh-kay...” Kar’ek dragged out, his eyes narrowing further as a massive, knowing smirk spread across his face. He shot a heavily loaded look toward Neteyam's shadow before turning on his heel and sauntering away.
That night was only the beginning. What followed was a succession of secret, thrilling rendezvous that left your heart permanently racing. You two were practically compiling your own list of offenses: like hiding beneath the massive roots of Hometree, your muffled giggles pressed against his chest while a hunting patrol walked mere paces away; the midnight flights on your ikrans to the highest, mist-shrouded cliffs just to share a single, stolen blanket from Tuk to take a nap; the hidden moments behind the weapon racks where he would boldly press you against the wood as he kisses you, his hand anchoring your hip while your brother is looking for him in the training grounds; and the quiet dawn swims in the river, washing the dirt from your skin while his hands mapped the curves of your body beneath the water.
You felt like you were living out one of Kar’ek’s scandalous escapades, and you couldn't help but laugh out loud whenever you recounted your friend's wild gossip to Neteyam during your hidden hours.
“Who exactly are these anonymous hunters?” Neteyam asked one afternoon, sounding thoroughly scandalized but chuckling warmly as he adjusted you comfortably on his lap. You were hidden deep within the hollow of an ancient tree.
“I won’t give any names,” you teased, sticking your tongue out at him. “But let’s just say he is definitely not running out of boys to play with.”
“May Eywa give those poor boys strength,” Neteyam laughed, his chest rumbled against your back. “The same way she giveas me strength...”
You smirked, shifting your weight and swinging your legs over his thighs to straddle his lap completely. “I think there is a very low supply...” you whispered, cupping his strong jaw and leaning down to press a deep, teasing kiss to his lips.
Neteyam let out a low groan, his hands immediately finding your hips. You pulled away just an inch, chuckling softly against his skin.
“See? Low supply.”
“You are entirely unfair,” he growled playfully. His large hand came up, clamping firmly around the nape of your neck to pull you down into a deeper, far more breathless kiss. His other hand caressed your waist up to your breast, fondling gently. You smiled against his lips, grinding your hips against him as the heat between you flared.
In the succeeding weeks, the atmosphere in the communal gathering was heavy with an entirely different kind of tension. Gossips from the younger bunch spread after the elders discussed the latest news from the upper branches: a young, unmated woman had been discovered to be carrying a child, and her lover was a hunter from an outside clan.
Apparently, the two had been sneaking out for moons without anyone knowing.
Instantly, a wave of territorial protectiveness rippled through the Omatikaya men. They thought it an offense that the hunter should do it that way when he could have courted the woman. Your brother, on the other hand, knowing how many of the young hunters harbored quiet infatuations with you, issued a cryptic, booming warning to the circle.
“If any man thinks he can disrespect my sister in the dark, sneaking around behind my back,” Sak’nur growled, his eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk, “he will lose a hand before he ever sees the dawn.”
A sudden, nervous silence fell over the younger hunters. Several of them shifted uncomfortably, their faces tightening with guilt that they looked as if they were the ones actively sneaking out with you. You couldn't help but look across the fire, your eyes instantly landing on Neteyam and finding that wasn't sweating at all.
In fact, he had a deeply humored, incredibly cocky smirk playing on his lips as he raised a single, challenging eyebrow at you. Your lips twisted, and you aggressively rolled your eyes at him, though your heart gave a violent, uncontrollable flutter against your ribs.
Later that afternoon, the heat of the day had finally begun to break. You had just finished instructing a group of younger hunters in advanced archery, watching them disperse before turning back to the targets to hone your own marksmanship. You drew an arrow back, the tension of the bowstring resting against your cheek, when the distinct, soft crunch of footsteps sounded behind you.
You let the arrow fly, hitting the exact center of the target with a sharp sound, and smiled before you even turned around.
Neteyam stepped into your space, his large hand instantly snaking around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder.
“Not done yet?” he murmured, his fingers giving your waist a firm, possessive squeeze.
“Done,“ you said, unstringing the bow. "I was just practicing my aim."
"So modest, my baby..." he scoffed softly, a lopsided smirk gracing his lips as he took the bow from your hands and set it aside against the weapon rack. "As if she weren't already one of the finest marksmen this clan has ever seen. Come on. I’ll meet you up at the roost."
Your lips twisted into a small smile. You gathered your things and climbed the rocky, winding paths up to the high ikran ledges, arriving just a few minutes before him. By the time Neteyam walked up, his own saddle in hand, the sky had already begun to bleed into a bruised violet, the forest below waking up with its first faint glimmers of bioluminescence.
You both mounted and took to the sky, diving off the cliff into the open, cool air. Up in the darkening heavens, the weight of the clan entirely disappeared. You raced each other, your ikrans dipping and diving, their wings nearly brushing as you performed dizzying aerial maneuvers, laughing like children as you pushed each other higher into the clouds.
Eventually, the sky turned darker, and you guided your ikran down onto a secluded, floating mountain, a mossy grotto you both had claimed as your own secret sanctuary.
The moment your ikrans found their footing on the stone, you slid off your mount and threw yourself into Neteyam's arms. He caught you seamlessly, his large hands immediately locking around your waist to pull you flush against him. Your head was thrown back as he captured your lips, kissing you with a fierce, burning intensity that left you utterly breathless.
Your arms found purchase around his broad, powerful shoulders, matching the desperate hunger of his mouth as he slowly guided you down onto the soft, glowing moss of the grotto floor.
You let out a soft chuckle against his lips as his mouth migrated down, trailing hot, damp paths down your jawline and into the sensitive crook of your neck. You caressed his shoulders, your fingers tracing the hard muscle of his back.
"Have you not given what my brother said a single thought?" you asked breathlessly, cradling his head against your neck.
Neteyam reared his head back, looking down at you with a lazy, lopsided smile that made your stomach flip. "I am not afraid of your brother," he murmured, his golden eyes turning dark, yet carrying a sudden, wistful depth. "The only thing I am afraid of... is you waking up one day and deciding you’re completely done with me."
Your forehead creased, your heart aching at the raw vulnerability in his voice. You reached up, cupping his sharp, tattooed jawline with both hands. "That would never happen," you said with absolute emphasis, locking your eyes with his. "I love you, Neteyam. I love you very much."
Neteyam froze. His golden eyes widened a fraction, and then, a brilliant, blinding smile lit up his face, an expression of pure, unadulterated joy you rarely see on his stoic face.
"I love you more, baby," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he leaned down to devour your lips in a soft, deeply tender kiss. "I love you so much more."
You looked up at him, smiling at the faint, unshed tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "Isn’t it quite funny?" you chuckled softly, tracing his bottom lip with your thumb. "You’ve kissed me everywhere, we've broken every rule... but I haven’t actually told you that I love you until tonight."
Neteyam let out a deep, booming laugh, burying his face back into your neck, hugging you so tightly your ribs ached, peppering your skin with hot kisses. "I should have told you moons ago," you murmured, angling your head to give him better access.
"It doesn't matter," he breathed against your skin, his hands sliding down your body. "You love me now, and that is more than enough for me."
You smiled, pulling him down by his neck for another deep kiss. With a practiced, heavy motion, Neteyam’s long fingers brushed the soft, woven petals of your top away from your chest. His lips trailed a path of fire down your throat, moving lower until you arched your back with a soft gasp, completely offering yourself to him.
He suckled deeply on one breast while his large hand fondled and squeezed the other, his thumb rubbing the sensitive peak until a ragged moan tore from your throat. You let your head fall back against the cool, damp earth, your fingers tangling in the moss as he kissed his way down the flat plane of your stomach.
Neteyam slid down, his hands firmly pressing your thighs apart. You instinctively lifted your hips, allowing him to untie the leather cords of your loincloth, pulling it free from your tail. Once you were fully bare beneath him, he lowered his head between your legs.
His tongue was relentless at licking, sucking, and swirling against your slick center, guided entirely by the needy, desperate sounds leaving your lips. He held your thighs pinned against his shoulders, driving you closer and closer to the edge until your body violently shuddered, a loud cry echoing through the quiet grotto as you came against his mouth.
As the tremors slowly faded, Neteyam rose, kneeling between your parted legs. The pale bioluminescence of the floating mountain washed over him, treating you to a breathtaking view of his heavily muscled frame, his broad chest heaving, his shoulders squared as he untied his own loincloth. His eyes were fixed on you with a dark, predatory intensity. He lowered his upper body down, pinning you beneath his weight as he kissed you again, and you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, kissing him back with equal fervor.
Wanting a change, you prepared to flip your positions, aiming to slide on top of him. With a sudden shift of your hips, you successfully rolled over, though Neteyam definitely helped guide your waist, letting out a low grunt as his back hit the mossy ground.
Your lips twisted into a dark, confident smirk as you straddle him. Reaching down, your fingers wrapped around his large, thick length, looking down at him with heavy, hooded eyes. Neteyam smiled lopsidedly, his hands resting loosely on your hips as he watched you gather your own wetness, deliberately lathering it along the shaft of his cock.
His hips gave an involuntary, desperate buck as a low whimper escaped his throat. You immediately pressed a firm hand against his tense abdomen. "Relax, baby..." you whispered.
In retaliation, his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers bruising your skin. You lined his head up against your velvety lips, slowly brushing the wide, sensitive tip against your wetness, intentionally pleasuring yourself first. Neteyam watched you, completely incapable of closing his eyes even as the sheer pleasure made his jaw clench.
Finally, you guided him to your opening, adjusting the angle of your thighs to accommodate his familiar, staggering girth. You bit your lower lip as the wide head began to slip inside, knowing it would take a conscious effort to take all of him in.
You began to lower yourself down with agonizing slowness. Neteyam’s hands were firm on your waist, keeping you steady, but your own impatience suddenly got the better of you. With a sharp exhale, you sank down in one sudden, heavy motion, completely impaling yourself on him as a loud, ragged cry tore from your throat.
"Shit," Neteyam groaned, his eyes snapping shut as his arms instantly flew up to gather your upper body, holding you tight as you weakly collapsed against his chest like a broken branch hanging to a tree for dear life. "Baby..."
He wrapped his massive arms around you, his hand tilting your chin up so he could kiss you, soothing the sudden, overwhelming fullness. You kissed him back deeply, your walls tightly squeezing and suffocating his girth. You stayed entirely still, kissing and breathing together until your body finally adjusted to him.
Once the ache turned into a thrumming heat, you pushed yourself up, beginning to move rhythmically on top of him. You pushed and pulled, your hips, grinding against his as you anchored one hand firmly against his chest. Neteyam’s hands returned to your waist, guiding your pace as the speed picked up.
Your breathless moans and his deep, guttural groans echoed off the stone walls of the little grotto. In the middle of a heavy upward stroke, Neteyam's thumb found your sensitive nub, rubbing it in perfect sync with your movements. The sudden, intense friction made your entire frame tremble.
“Shit...” you quivered and he applied pressure on your nub.
“Aww...” he mumbled mockingly, his other hand fondling your breast. “You feel so good, baby...”
He was incredibly talkative even in the heat of sex, whispering praise, groaning your name, telling you how good you felt, and you absolutely loved it.
Your internal muscles clamped down hard as a violent wave of completion took over, your body shaking as you came for the second time, hugging his neck tightly while he switched your positions and lay you back on the moss to continued pounding into you. He kissed the sweat-slicked skin of your shoulder as he thrusted, finally let out a low, roaring groan, spilling himself deep inside you.
The sheer exhaustion of the night finally caught up to you, and you passed out cold in his arms and when you finally blinked your eyes open, the cool violet of the night had been replaced by the bright, piercing light. You were still tucked securely against his side, your cheek resting comfortably against his broad chest.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Neteyam whispered, a soft chuckle vibrating against your ear. “I thought we were only staying for a few hours, but then... you slept straight through the night and half the morning.”
You huffed a quiet chuckle, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his chest. “Morning to you, too, handsome,” you mumbled, propping yourself up on one elbow.
Your long braids cascaded beautifully over your shoulders, framing your face in the bright daylight. You watched as Neteyam’s golden eyes instantly dilated at the sight. "I suppose I do love sleeping in," you teased.
"I love you sleeping in, too..." he whispered, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You look so innocent when you're asleep."
You grinned, a wicked light entering your eyes. "And when I’m awake?"
"When awake... you’re my naughty little huntress," he whispered hoarsely, leaning in to playfully nip at your earlobe. "But right now, the naughty is going to have to be reined in. We need to go home. Your family is definitely looking for you by now."
You pouted, shifting your weight. "I’m a big girl, Neteyam. My father won’t care about that anymore. Or... are you suddenly scared of Sak'nur?"
Neteyam scoffed, though a confident smile quickly broke across his face. "I can handle your brother."
You smirked, your hand slowly traveling down the flat plane of his stomach until your fingers wrapped around his length, which was already hardening at your touch. "So then we can definitely stay for one more."
He groaned, allowing you to take control. He sat up, kneeling on the moss and rounding you. On normal days, you would lie on your back, but this morning, you turned your back to him, dropping down onto your hands and knees, arching your spine invitingly.
Neteyam let out a low, guttural growl, his large hands clamping onto your hips. You looked back over your shoulder, catching sight of his chest heaving, his golden eyes blown wide and wild, looking exactly like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. The romance of the previous night was entirely gone, replaced by a wild, frantic, and primal morning coupling that left you both shivering.
By the time you both got ready and mounted your ikrans, it was already midday. You flew back toward Hometree, racing each other through the canopy and laughing like idiots, but the moment you neared the high roost, the laughter died in your throat.
Standing right at the edge of the ledge, arms crossed tightly over his chest, was Sak'nur.
You weren't necessarily scared of being found out, but the timing couldn't have been worse. The moment your ikran’s feet touched the branches, you slid off, quickly stepping in front of your brother and pressing a firm hand against his chest to force him back.
Sak'nur looked absolutely murderous, his eyes locked entirely on Neteyam, who landed smoothly a second later and descended from his saddle with a calm, steady grace.
“Were you with my sister the entire night? She didn’t come home,” Sak’nur demanded, his voice a low, lethal growl.
“Sak’nur, stop,” you pleaded, shoving against his chest.
"I was," Neteyam answered simply, his golden eyes unblinking as he stepped forward.
"Motherfucker," Sak’nur hissed, pouncing forward. You threw your entire weight into your brother to hold him back, but he was far too strong. He overpowered you, shoving you aside to get to his target.
Neteyam’s eyes widened at the sight of you being pushed. "Fucker!" he hissed, all restraint vanishing as he launched himself at your brother.
The two of them collided heavily, grappling and tearing into each other, throwing raw, heavy punches that echoed through the trees. They were fighting like you had never seen them fight before. Two elite warriors tearing the ground apart out of sheer, blinding rage.
"Fuck you, asshole!" Sak’nur roared, catching Neteyam by the throat and slamming him against a mossy root. "Out of all the men here who would go behind my back and disrespect my sister, I didn’t think it would be you! You sneak around in the dark like a coward! Are you toying with her?!"
Neteyam threw a vicious elbow, breaking Sak’nur’s grip and forcing him back a step. His chest was heaving, his face smeared with dirt and sweat, but his eyes were blazing with absolute, unyielding conviction.
"I am not toying with her!" Neteyam shouted back, his voice tearing raw. "I have loved Y/N my entire life! I’ve never been with anyone else, not a single soul, because of her! I love her more than my own breath, Sak’nur! And I knew that if she ever showed me even just a single drop of love, not even our friendship would be enough to keep me away from her!"
Neteyam wiped a smear of blood from his lip, stepping right back into Sak’nur’s face.
"And she does. She loves me. So I can't stay away, and I won't. I intend to mate with her before Eywa. I intend to make her my wife!"
Sak’nur stared at him, his ears pinning back in a mix of fury and sheer, stunned disbelief. "Make her your wife?! You say you honor her, yet you disrespect her by sneaking her out into the jungle for only Eywa knows what?!"
"I am a grown woman, Sak’nur!" you screamed, your chest heaving as you glared fiercely at your brother. "It is not your business where I go, or who I choose to lay with!"
Sak’nur looked at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, the protective fury in his eyes still burning but slightly wavering under your fierce defense.
Neteyam stepped up right behind you, his large hand coming down to rest firmly on your shoulder, anchoring you to his side. He looked at your brother, the raw anger in his face softening into something deeply earnest, yet entirely uncompromising.
"Sak'nur, look at me," Neteyam said, his voice dropping into a steady, intense rhythm. "What Y/N and I have... it is entirely separate from the brotherhood between us. You are my best friend. You are my brother in arms. But your sister and I... We love each other. I love her with everything I am, and nothing is going to change that. Not even you."
Your brother grappled with him again, they punched and tore into each other like wild animals. It was a brutal, bloody spectacle, but to your absolute, utter confusion, the raw violence slowly devolved into heavy panting, and then... a sharp burst of laughter.
You stood there, your jaw practically dropping as you watched them lie on the ground, bloody-faced and bruising, laughing like two boys who had just finished a friendly sparring match.
"Brother," Neteyam began, wiping a smear of blood from his lip as he sat up. "I do not mean to go behind your back... but like I said, what I have with Y/N is ours alone. No one knew about it until now. We were keeping it low... but I won’t apologize for loving her."
Sak'nur shook his head, a lingering, humored smirk on his face as he accepted Neteyam’s hand to pull himself up. "I don’t expect you to apologize," your brother said, wiping his own nose. "But I still expect you to be a better man. You will court my sister properly now... and the mating will be in a year."
"A year?!" you and Neteyam echoed in unison, your voices cracking.
Sak'nur scoffed, a teasing glint in his eye. "What, not man enough?"
"Fuck you," Neteyam replied smoothly, standing to his full height and casting a wicked, incredibly cocky wink in your direction. "All right. I will do all of that. I wanted to court her openly anyway. I want everybody in this jungle to know exactly who I belong to."
Your brother scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Please. I’m still her brother, and I’m still your best friend. If you don’t want me to kick you in the gut, you'll stop the sweet talk."
Neteyam rolled his eyes, offering him a playful shove. "Whatever."
The three of you walked back down the winding pathways toward your family’s kelku. Every single person you passed stared in utter bewilderment at the two elite, bloody warriors limping and holding their bruised sides. They had beaten each other to an absolute pulp, and it was honestly hilarious to witness.
Your father was standing just outside the entryway of the kelku when he spotted the procession.
"Y/N, where were you?!" he called out before his eyes landed on the two battered men. "Great Mother... what happened to you two?"
Sak'nur merely jerked his head toward Neteyam, a smug grin splitting his bruised face. "This asshole is going to court my sister."
Your father stopped. He looked at you, then at Neteyam's heavily bruised but triumphant face, and let out a heavy sigh. "Oh, well. Finally."
"Finally?" Sak'nur echoed, thoroughly confused.
"Son, you are completely blind," your father muttered, throwing a heavy hand over Sak'nur's shoulder and leading him inside the kelku to get treated.
Left alone on the path, you walked up to Neteyam, entirely uncaring of the remaining eyes watching from the clearing. "Oh, baby..." you murmured softly, your fingers gently rising to touch the massive, purpling bruise forming on his sharp cheekbone. He winced slightly at the contact. "Let’s deal with that inside."
"Hmm," Neteyam hummed, a lazy, victorious rumble vibrating in his chest. His large hand snaked around your waist, pulling you tightly against his side before he lowered his head, pressing his lips to yours in a hard, deeply public kiss.
If there had been any remaining questions in the village as to why the future chief and your brother had just beaten each other to a pulp... they definitely had their answer now.
authors note : hi babies ! okok so this is gonna be the last proper schlatt fic for a little bit as i have some personal events going on (nothing bad, just hella time consuming) so im gonna leave you with this for a little bit and hope you all like it hehehehehe ! this is inspired by one of my amazing moots and from the bbno$ mv with schlatt in it ! hope u enjoy <3
pairings : jschlatt x fem!reader
cw : smut (MDNI + AGELESS BLOGS), p in v, husband schlatt w/ reader wife, oral f!receiving
——-
You and Schlatt had been married for six years.
Somehow the loud, sarcastic New Yorker who used to survive off convenience store food and spite became your husband. Somehow he became the man who fixed fences before breakfast, carried your daughter on his shoulders around the farm, and fell asleep with your son curled up on his chest after long days.
Life looked different now from when you two first met. A farmhouse just outside New York and more importantly, Two kids.
Your eldest son, always following Schlatt around the farm and helping out and your youngest daughter, always playing with the animals and talking about her dreams of being the next best dancer in the world.
It was loud, messy and perfect.
Schlatt quit streaming about 3 years ago after your daughter was born as he decided that it would be the best choice and he will be able to be more involved in the kids lives without any stress of Youtube and twitch analytics and trends. He’d do the occasional DayZ stream to those who stuck around but overall he was happy living out this perfect life he built with you.
And for the first time in months… There was quiet in the farm. The kids had gone to stay with Schlatt’s parents for the weekend. Your daughter had practically sprinted out of the house the second they arrived. Your son barely looked back after spotting his grandparents.
Schlatt had acted completely normal about it. Right up until the truck disappeared down the road. Then he turned to you and said:
“Well.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Well what?”
“We have forty-eight hours.”
“You sound evil.”
“I am, toots”
Now, only a few hours later, you found him out by the barn doing yard work like he hadn’t been making that exact expression all afternoon. Sleeves of his plaid work shirt rolled up. Hair a mess. Moving hay bales around like he wasn’t distracting.
“You know,” you called while walking over, “normal people take weekends off.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Normal people don’t live on a farm, do they?”
“Fair.”
You stopped beside him.
He was sweaty, shirt sticking slightly from working outside all afternoon. It was annoyingly attractive.
“You been out here long?” You put your hands on his chest, your thumbs stroking the fabric
“Couple hours.”
You look up at him, tilting your head
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
You smiled.
“You clean up nice for a farmer. Never would’ve thought that.”
He snorted.
“Yeah? Dirt and sweat your thing now?”
“Maybe.”
That got his attention immediately. Schlatt straightened up fully, setting his gloves aside.
“You’re being weird.”
“You like weird.”
“I married weird.”
You laughed softly. The barn stood open behind him while evening sunlight spilled through the wooden beams.
He stepped closer.
“No kids,” he said quietly.
“No kids.” You repeat
“No responsibilities till Sunday evening.
“Mhm.”
His hand settled on your waist automatically. Years later and he still did that. Always touching. Always close.
“You got plans for the evening, Mrs. Schlatt?”
You smiled.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether the hardworking farmer is done pretending he doesn’t know I’ve been flirting with him for ten minutes.”
That pulled a real laugh out of him.
“There she is. M’girl”
He leaned down and kissed you softly. Slow. His hands going up to cup your cheeks
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm, a little ragged already, the faint scent of hay and clean sweat clinging to his skin.
“You’ve been a fuckin’ menace all morning, haven’t you doll?” he muttered, voice low and rough.
One of his big hands slid down your waist, gripping your hip and pulling you flush against him.
You smiled, innocent as ever. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, farmer boy.”
Schlatt let out a short, dark laugh. “Yeah? Then you won’t mind if I do this.”
In one smooth motion he spun you around and walked you backward until your back met the rough wooden wall of the barn. A shaft of sunlight cut through the slats above, catching on the dust in the air as he caged you in with his arms. His mouth found yours again, this time deeper, hungrier. His tongue swept in quickly, trying to gain dominance
You moaned softly into the kiss. His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, rough calluses dragging over your skin until he cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked.
“Kids are gone,” he growled against your lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Whole weekend. Means I can fuck my beautiful wife wherever I want and I won’t get interrupted.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His fingers made quick work of the button on your shorts, shoving them down your thighs along with your panties.
The cool barn air hit your bare skin and you shivered. Schlatt dropped to his knees in the hay, taking off the braces of his shirt and then his broad shoulders spreading your legs as he hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder.
“Schlatt—” you started, but the word died in a sharp gasp when his mouth latched onto your clit.
He ate you out like a man starved. No teasing, no slow build just his tongue licking broad, firm strokes before sucking your clit between his lips.
Two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle. Your hand flew to his hair, gripping the messy brown strands as your hips rocked against his face.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he groaned, the vibration shooting straight through you. He looked up at you through dark lashes, lips shiny with the slick from your pussy. “Missed this pretty pussy all week.”
You came hard on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head. He didn’t stop until you were whimpering, over-sensitive and gasping his name.
He rose to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before kissing you again so you could taste yourself on him. You reached down and palmed the thick bulge straining against his work jeans. He hissed.
“Get on your hands and knees, baby.”
You obeyed, dropping down into the soft pile of hay. Schlatt shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock.
It was thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He gave himself one slow stroke before kneeling behind you.
He rubbed the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance. “So wet for me already. Greedy little thing.”
Then he pushed in.
The stretch was perfect. Almost too much, the way it always was with him. You moaned loudly into the hay as he bottomed out, hips flush against your ass.
Schlatt groaned, deep and guttural, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other braced beside your head.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he panted. “So tight. So fucking mine. So beautiful.”
He started moving slow, heavy thrusts at first, letting you feel every inch.
Then faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin mixing with the quiet creak of the barn and your combined moans. Every thrust pushed you forward in the hay, your fingers digging into the ground for purchase.
He leaned over you, chest to your back, mouth right next to your ear. “That’s it, take it. Take every fucking inch like the good little farm wife you are.”
One of his hands snaked underneath you, fingers finding your clit again. The added stimulation had you clenching around him, another orgasm building fast.
“Come on, baby,” he growled, voice breaking with effort. “Come on my cock. Wanna feel you milking me. Fuck, I love you. M’girl… M’wife.. Beautiful mama to my kids.”
You shattered again, crying out his name. Schlatt followed right after with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.
For a minute the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the distant cluck of chickens outside. He stayed inside you, pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck.
“Round two in the hayloft?” he murmured, voice smug and warm. “Or you wanna ride me on the tractor next?”
You laughed breathlessly. “You’re insatiable.”
“Only for you, toots. Who knows, maybe we’ll have a third kid on the way soon.”
