dean req!!!!!!! lowkey been loooooooving jealous!dean so much 😭😭😭 can i request jealous!dean with academic weapon reader? him being jealous of her spending time at the library and staying at the library beside her (for emotional support while being needy🙂↕️)
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Done being patient
Dean Di Laurentis is clingy, needy, and completely starved for your attention. He doesn't want you to focus on anything else but him—not on your notes, not on your books, and above all, not on that stupid Aaron guy or whatever his name is.
word count : 2k — established relationship — jealous/possessive!dean — NEEDY!dean — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
Thursday at the library was usually a quiet affair, but Dean Di Laurentis was doing his absolute best to ruin the silence.
You sat in a secluded alcove, hidden behind towering rows of journals and dusty texts. It was the only spot on campus where you could actually get work done. You were completely entrenched—textbooks open, notes scattered everywhere, and your laptop screen glowing with a half-written essay. You were an academic weapon, fueled by black coffee and sheer willpower.
Until the chair across from you scraped against the wooden floor with a loud, agonizing screech.
You didn't look up immediately. You couldn't. You were in the middle of synthesizing a complex thesis statement, your fingers flying across the keyboard. But the sudden shift in the air—the immediate intrusion of expensive cologne, cherry-flavoured chewing gum, and the distinct scent of a cold hockey rink—told you exactly who had breached your perimeter.
"Hey," a low voice whispered.
You ignored him, aggressively highlighting a paragraph on your screen.
A large hand slid into your peripheral vision, gently tapping the wooden table right next to your mousepad. "Hey. Look at me."
With a long, suffering sigh, you finally lowered your eyes from the screen and leveled Dean with a flat, unimpressed stare.
He looked entirely out of place among the quiet academics. His thick, perfectly styled blonde hair was slightly messy, a few stray strands falling across his forehead. But instead of his usual smug, devastatingly handsome smirk, Dean looked thoroughly miserable. His blue eyes were narrowed, tracking your face with a tight, intense scrutiny.
"You're late," Dean muttered, leaning his forearms on the table, invading your space.
"I'm not late, Dean," you whispered back, keeping your voice low to avoid the wrath of the librarian. "I never said I was meeting you today."
"Doesn't matter," he countered, a cocky, unapologetic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Practice ended at five, which means you’re exactly forty-five minutes late to coming home and paying attention to me," He tapped his watch with a dramatic sigh, tilting his head as his eyes locked onto yours, completely unbothered by how ridiculous he was being. "And Tucker said he saw you walking with some guy from your seminar. The tutor guy. What's his name? The one with the stupid glasses."
A small, incredulous laugh escaped your throat. "You mean Aaron? My study partner? We had a group project meeting."
The mention of the name made something flash dangerously in Dean’s eyes. He didn't just look annoyed; he looked possessive, a simmering jealousy clouding his features. Dean Di Laurentis was known all over campus as a playboy, a guy who took nothing too seriously, who loved sex, parties, playing hockey on the occasion, and enjoying the easy thrill of the chase. But right now, looking at you, there wasn't a single playful thing about him.
"I don't like him," Dean said flatly, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a heavy, unyielding weight. "I don't like him breathing your air. And I definitely don't like him keeping you away from me for three hours."
"Baby, I have to keep my grades up," you sighed, leaning forward so only he could hear you. "I have to study, and right now, you are a distraction."
"Then let me distract you," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back up. "Come home. I’ll make it worth your while. You know I will."
The blatant, arrogant proposition made a warm flush creep up your neck, but you firmly clamped down on it. "I'm staying here until this paper is done."
Dean stared at you, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, frustrated breath. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. But as he looked at your stubborn jawline and the absolute determination in your eyes, he realized he wasn't winning this argument.
With a low grunt, he slid back into his chair. "Fine."
"Fine?" you repeated, blinking. "So you're leaving?"
"Hell no," Dean muttered. He reached out, grabbed his massive duffel bag from the floor, and hauled it onto the table with a heavy thud. "If you're staying, I'm staying."
Three hours later, the library had grown entirely dark outside, the only illumination coming from the green lamps scattered across the tables.
True to his word, Dean hadn't left. But calling his presence "emotional support" was a massive stretch. He was, without a doubt, the neediest human being on the planet when he wasn't the center of attention.
For the first hour, he had tried to read a sports psychology textbook, flipping the pages so loudly and aggressively that you had to kick him under the table. After that, his attention span completely shattered. He resorted to tapping his fingers on the wood, spinning his car keys, and sighing loudly enough to draw glares from a group of freshmen nearby.
Right now, Dean was slumped low in his chair, his long legs stretched out under the table, his ankles locked securely around yours—a physical anchor ensuring you couldn't slip away. He had dragged his chair around to your side of the table, sitting so close that his shoulder was pressed firmly against yours.
The heavy, rhythmic click of your fingers against the keyboard was the only barrier keeping his relentless neediness at bay. You were deep in the zone, entirely focused on drafting the final conclusion of your paper, while Dean remained anchored to your side, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder as he let out another long, dramatic sigh.
"I’m dying," he mumbled against your neck, his voice a low, husky vibration that sent a treacherous little shiver down your spine. "Dean is fading away. Dean is sad. Dean needs attention."
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, though you kept your eyes glued to the screen. "Dean needs to let me finish this paragraph. I'm almost done."
"You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes," he complained, his large hand sliding up from your knee to map the curve of your thigh, his fingers squeezing possessively through the fabric of your jeans. "Dean is losing his mind. Look at Dean. Just for five seconds."
"I have to go to the bathroom," you announced, finally cutting him off as you pushed your chair back.
He groaned, his arm wrapping around your waist for a brief, stubborn second to keep you in place before he finally let go with a tragic roll of his blue eyes. "Fine. But if you’re not back in two minutes, I’m coming in after you. I don't care which bathroom it is."
"Give me five," you fired back with a sharp, playful smirk, sliding out of the alcove. You left your laptop open, throwing your hoodie over the back of the chair and leaving your phone face-up on the heavy wooden table right next to his hand.
The moment you turned the corner toward the restrooms, the quiet settled back over the alcove. Dean slumped back in his chair, running a hand through his blonde hair, his jaw tightening the second he was left alone with your textbooks.
Then, the wooden table vibrated.
Dean’s eyes snapped down instantly. Your phone screen lit up, a bright banner cutting through the dim light of the green lamp.
Aaron (Seminar): Hey, just checked over the data layout we talked about earlier. You're brilliant, seriously. Let me buy you a coffee tomorrow to say thanks?
Dean froze. The playful, whining boy from two seconds ago vanished, replaced instantly by something fierce and cold. His blue eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as he stared at the screen, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, heavy breath. Brilliant. Coffee tomorrow.
Before he could even process the spike of pure adrenaline shooting through his veins, the phone buzzed a second time.
Aaron (Seminar): Or drinks, if you're free tonight instead? Just the two of us to celebrate finishing early.
A dark, dangerous laugh caught in Dean's throat. He didn't think; his calloused hand snatched your phone off the table, his knuckles turning white around the edges of the case. The possessive, territorial instinct that made him a nightmare on the ice flared up instantly, turning his blood to fire. Just the two of us.
He knew he shouldn't open it. He knew you'd be furious. But Dean Di Laurentis didn't play by anyone's rules when it came to what belonged to him. He unlocked the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard as a volatile mixture of anger and raw jealousy tightened his chest.
By the time you came back, adjusting the sleeves of your shirt, the atmosphere in the corner had completely shifted.
Dean was sitting perfectly upright now, his broad shoulders squared, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the alcove. Your phone was gripped tightly in his hand, resting face-down on the table.
"Dean?" you asked softly, stopping in your tracks as you noticed the rigid, unyielding line of his jaw. "What's wrong?"
"Aaron," he said flatly, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. He didn't shout—his voice was incredibly low, a quiet, dangerous purr that made your heart skip a beat. "Aaron thinks you're brilliant."
Your eyes dropped to your phone in his hand, and realization hit you. "Did you look at my messages?"
"He wants to buy you drinks tonight," Dean continued, completely ignoring your question as he stood up, his massive frame instantly towering over you and blocking out the rest of the library. He stepped around the table, closing the distance between you until his chest was practically brushing against yours. "Just the two of us, he said."
"He's just a classmate, Dean—"
"I don't give a damn what he is," he growled, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair to gently but firmly tilt your face up to his. His blue eyes were blazing, wild with a raw, pure jealousy. "You’re going to text him back and say you have plans with someone way more important." He leaned down a fraction of an inch, the tip of his nose brushing lazily against yours in a slow, deliberate distraction while his thumb stroked the soft skin of your cheek. "Someone who is going to take you home, lock the door, and make you completely forget what subject you were even studying."
The sheer, possessive weight of his gaze anchored you to the floor, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Having him crowd into your space this intensely made it absolutely impossible to form a coherent thought.
"Dean..." you whispered, your defenses completely melting under the intensity of his stare.
"No," he muttered, his thumb tracing your jawline with a fierce, trembling intensity that betrayed just how much the thought of anyone else touching you tore him apart. "Dean is done being patient. Dean is taking you home right now."
You couldn't hide your amusement any longer, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You are completely ridiculous, you know that?"
"Yeah, well, I'm a ridiculous guy who happens to be completely obsessed with you," he smirked, his voice softening just a fraction, though his grip on you didn't loosen an inch. He slanted his lips over yours before you could even reply, capturing your mouth in a slow, deep kiss that completely stole your resolve. His lips were hot and demanding, parting yours with an intoxicating ease that made your hands instinctively grip his jacket for balance. His tongue slid into your mouth with a cocky confidence that made your knees go weak, tangling with yours, mapping the inside of your mouth like he owned it. He drank in your quiet gasp, swallowing your soft whimper and leaving you completely dazed in the middle of the library alcove.
When he finally pulled back, a lazy, satisfied smirk was playing on his lips. "Let's go, Einstein. Before I carry you out of here myself."
I got so insanely carried away, but again, I just cannot write a short story. I also never write smut so stfu (ᵕ≀ ̠ᵕ ). There will absolutely be mistakes, this isn't entirely proofread, and I cba rn so I'll do it later.
Summary: Duty weighs heavy when the clan expects you to stand shoulder to shoulder with the one you’ve spent years convincing everyone you loathe. Your father is the clan’s greatest warrior, closest friend to the Olo’eyktan, and their bond sealed your fates together long before you could draw a bow. You grew up running wild with the Sully children but the flawless eldest son always seemed to shadow your every step and you’ve perfected the scowl reserved only for him. The clan believes it and they accept your envy. Everyone except the parents who watch with quiet amusement, because they see what you both still refuse to name.
Or in which; you’re the warrior’s daughter, bound by expectation to the perfect future leader you claim to hate. You insist it’s true and everyone believes you. Except, parents always know their children best.
enemies to lovers, holy slowburn, slight soulmates (but not really?), childhood rivals, forced proximity, aged up Neteyem, so much smut!!! as always, my terrible gramma
Your composure is a facade. He knows it.
He knows it because he sees it.
In the way your scowl falters just a fraction as you swirl colorful insults through velvet words and he finally bites back. In the way you push against him when he even attempts to offer his help – because the basket you’re lugging looks absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village.
You snarl at him when he even attempts to correct your bow arm, and it used to make him flush with something sharp and ugly – envy, maybe? – because you didn’t have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticism’s just fine. When anyone else rectified you, you adjusted.
It was only ever a him problem.
Because when he corrected you, you hissed at him like his correcting hand was tipped with arrowheads and poisonous herbs.
You had a problem with Nateyam.
As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. Because as the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan, he was meant to carry himself like the leader he would one day become, like an authority the clan respected without question and trusted to guide them through storm and calm alike. Yet the one thing expected of him above all else, the one duty his father never let him forget, was simpler and far more aggravating.
He was supposed to get along with you.
You – the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man.
You – who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always – always – questioned him.
It may as well have been written in the stars by Eywa herself that the two of you were fated to fold neatly into the same position as your father’s. And yet you resisted with every breath possible.
You rebelled, and scowled, and cursed at the mere mention of his name. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with the Olo'eyktan's first born despite your role, and that made it so exceedingly hard to get along with you. It left his skin flushing that embarrassingly dark purple colour which made his mother chuckle whenever he spoke of you.
He tried to make sense of it. Of the way you rolled your eyes at his advice, or scowled when the two of you were paired in training once again and he couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. Not really.
You fought as normal children had, argued and competed as two eldest children to high-ranking parents would, but never with anything sharp enough to leave a lasting wound.. Nothing that should have haunted him like this.
However, he wasn’t a young boy anymore and time had an ironic way of sanding things down. He noticed what once felt like a raw hatred you wore like a book written in some foreign sky-language, suddenly became much more legible as his years grew to start with a two, almost as if he learned how to annotate his memories of you with the clarity he lacked as a teen.
One in particular he remembers most vividly. That evening by the central fire, where you were seated opposite him, and the air still carried the echo of that afternoon’s argument. He sat closest to the basket of ripe utumauti fruits, something he always recalled being your favourite through the years of shared meals, and he remembers the way it sat just beyond your reach on the woven mat.
When you asked for it low and casual, he didn’t think twice. Of course he picked it up and of course he leaned forward to pass it, because why would he not? He sat the closest, and both your siblings and his own had been too occupied in animated conversations with each other to notice.
He also remembers the way you had slapped his hand away with a guttural scoff, almost as if he was utterly ridiculous for even offering. The sting on both his knuckles and his pride had his brows furrowing instantly and that familiar anger, the kind only you could kindle so effortlessly, surged hot beneath his skin once more.
But it was only when the soft snickers rose from nearby – his mother and yours, seated side by side and watching the exchange with far too much interest –that he noticed.
You had still taken the basket.
“Hey!” He remembers the way your fathers voice cut from just to the left, “Play nice.”
And he’d assumed, as always, that your father was less than impressed at his daughter’s rude manners toward the Olo’eyktan’s son. But the reprimand softened almost immediately, chased by a low chuckle that started only after Jake failed to hide a snort of his own beside him.
The two men were already leaning into one another, shoulders touching, Jake’s head tipped low as one hand, holding a piece of half bitten meat hung limply by his mouth, trying and failing to hide his laughs through a mouthful of food.
The nudges of your sister's elbow into your side was the last thing he remembered noticing, sharp and mocking but quickly followed by the look you shot her. It was a silent warning in that strange language he’d never understood as a boy – the one you did with your eyes alone, but one he was now, uncomfortably, starting to. Because you ate your fruit without ceremony, eyes trained forward and stubbornly refusing to drift his way, yet the basket sat firmly in your hands all the same.
That was when Neteyam stopped letting it irk him. When he realised why everyone else around him seemed to find that mean spirit you reserved only for him so humorous, despite his distress. You were composed, yes, but he finally understood why.
Your composure was a lie.
And once it stopped irking him, once it settled into something he thought he understood, all the memories of you persistently adorning that scowl that seemed to exist only for him suddenly lost their bite. For a moment he felt like he had maybe started to figure you out.
But recently, something had changed, subtly at first, then all at once. What was once harmless irritation had suddenly sharpened into something more volatile. You didn't just brush him off anymore, you snapped before he'd even opened his mouth, and flinched away the moment he so much as reached to steady the basket. It was as if every breath he took was a disruption, and his presence had become something you could no longer tolerate in silence.
That mean spirit wasn't funny anymore, because now it was relentless.
Which was why, standing across from you now, he didn’t brace for your signature fang baring scowl. He expected it in a way that made him sigh with knowing fatigue, and yet a little bit of smugness all the same.
“Why must you always be so difficult?” The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him.
Your body shifted back and you leaned against your heels to glance over your shoulder at where he stood behind you. You were still kneeling over the stump of braided vines you had been meticulously shredding into winding fibres with your knife.
“I am not.” And there it was – that scowl he expected. It twisted your face into that familiar snarl, upper lip curling to flash the set of fangs he saw more than his own. “You just insist on hovering.”
“We were sent out here to collect fibre together. You ‘insist’ on making it a one man job.”
You didn’t look at him again, instead, turning back to the vines where your blade already resumed its steady work, as if his presence were nothing more than a distraction.
“I do not need a partner to cut fibre,” Your response was flat as if it were such an obvious observation, and then you sighed, a long drawn out exhale to yourself. “So ridiculous.”
The scoff that followed was harsh and hidden under your breath.
Despite its low delivery, the sound didn't slip Neteyam’s ear, and he raised an unassertive brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. “What is?”
His confusion hit you like a sudden gust of wind, and with a growl that spoke as if you couldn't believe he dared asking, you quickly shot up with a whirl, tail whipping fast with a force Neteyam had to step back to avoid. You were facing him completely, now.
“That our fathers insist on sending us out here together like we are still little children. I do not need a partner and I certainly do not need any partner of mine to be you.”
The words landed harsher than the scowl ever could. For a moment he only stared at you, really observing your features twisted with perplexed anger, yet comically softened by what he could only describe as a pout in your lip. He took in the way your stance squared and the way your grip curled around the knife with agitated force.
You may not think you acted like one, but great mother, you looked like a child right now.
“Right, you are not a child.” He said at last, voice level. “But maybe our fathers would not feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as one.”
“Excuse me?”
The grip on your knife tightened, handle creaking under the pressure of your grasp that almost splintered the wood. The corner of your mouth twitched up once again in that scowl that bared the top of your right fang to his watchful eyes, and your tone was so even it almost made him falter.
Neteyam held his ground, though. And instead, he replied carefully in an attempt to diffuse that constantly building tension just a little.
“You make an enemy of me in everything we do, as if we haven’t been paired together since we were barely old enough to hold a blade. If you wish to be met as an adult, you cannot bare your teeth at every word spoken to you, Fang.”
That age old nickname rolled like honey off his tongue but struck your ears and curdled into venom. Your fists curled so tight your claws bit crescent marks into your palms, and the muscles along your jaw tightened until you felt the throb of it.
Fang. You despised when he called you that. The way he reduced you to nothing but the sneer he so often deserved.
With a slow drawn out breath that carried no warmth, you bared the edge of a laugh that held no humour, letting your mocking reply land bitter and sour on your tongue.
“Perfect Olo'eyktan's son, always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadn’t shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.”
For a heartbeat, the words hung between you like a knocked bowstring waiting to snap with release. Then Neteyam’s jaw tightened, because he always hated when you commented on the human in him, as if it made him less Navi. Less than you.
A Tawtute, a sky-person, as if it were an insult. Spoken like a curse, when all he’d ever done was try to prove it wasn’t.
He let the silence stretch a moment longer, before taking one deliberate breath to regulate his reeling thoughts, choosing to ignore your bait. Low hanging fruit as his father would call it.
“You forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.”
You turned back toward the vines with a scoff, knife biting down harder than before. The fibres split unevenly, curling away beneath the force of your hands. “I do not need to be helped by someone who can barely hold their bow arm high enough to knock an arrow. I do not listen to you.”
“Yes,” Neteyam scoffed a humorless laugh, “you never do.”
He sank down into a squat then as well, finally turning his attention to the pile of finished fibres you had shoved aside. His hands were quick to gather a few filaments between his pointer and thumb, testing the strands between the fingers as he twisted the two together, before giving them a short, sharp tug. They held for one, and held for another as he stretched them further, then finally faltered with a snap as he pulled them taught enough.
His mouth twitched down.
“You cut angry,” He observed with a growl. “Uneven. Wasteful.”
You spun once more, this time in your squatted position to meet him at eye level, the knife still gripped between your four fingers almost as a threat. “You waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres!”
“They need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.” He countered.
You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. “Then don’t use them.”
“Oh no, I will.” He smirked, as he finally began his job, looping the fibres together, securing them with practiced ease. “Someone has to make sure we don’t come back empty-handed.”
You shot him a glare. “I said I do not need your-”
“You do not need my help,” He finished for you, clearly way too amused now. “I know. You have said it at least five times since we left the clearing.”
He leant closer as he spoke, not directly into your space, but just enough that you had to shift your stance to keep working without him intruding. His looming shadow falling over the stump you worked on, over your hands and the blade that suddenly seemed to falter under a different kind of pressure now.
“And yet,” he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, “you keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.”
You stopped your movements, sending him a glare out the side of your eye, one that had your lashes feeling heavy and jaw slightly agape.
“Get out of my way.” You spat, but it was as if you couldn’t convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.
“You always rush when you are angry,” he ignored your demand - if it could even be called that - with a tone that was almost conversational. “Your tail gives you away.”
Your eyes flashed with the realisation that he had even been looking long enough to notice your tells, and your cheeks suddenly flared with something warm and hot that turned you purple.
“Stop watching me, Tawtute.” This time your voice really did sound desperate.
“I can’t. You make it difficult.”
You were close enough to see the faint curve of that infuriating smile he loved to wear, and to feel the heat of him radiating that smug confidence he wore like a headpiece.
Years of success at keeping him as far away as one could be from someone they worked with on a near daily basis, you felt had suddenly dwindled into an endless array of interactions where he always managed to dominate the conversation. Reduced to this. To the way he always stood too close now, and spoke too smugly, as if he had suddenly decided that he finally had you all figured out.
Despite your lack of response, he broke the silence, voice dipping just enough to grate, “You know, for someone who insists she doesn’t listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.”
“Because you are provoking me!” You snapped in a low growl.
“You glare like you are about to strike me." He replied, entirely too amused.
“Lucky I am working, because you would deserve it if I did.” The words landed like a pathetic cry, and suddenly it felt like you were deficient of every insult you had ever known, reduced to the same childish fury you’d sworn you’d outgrown.
“Oh are you? Would not have guessed, with the way you are looking at me like a Yerik in the firelight.”
Eywa, if you didn’t look angry before.
“Neteyam!”
This time, you hissed it like a venomous mantra, fangs bared and legs snapping up to your full height as you leaned into his space, close enough to let the words bite the air. Your ears pinned sharp against your braids, and his jaw set as he met your glare without yielding, tension pulling tight between you like that drawn bowstring–
“Oh good, you’re fighting again.”
A sudden unexpected third voice had both your heads spinning towards the break in the clearing just a few yards East, where a very unimpressed Lo’ak tread carelessly down the path with a barely-contained giggling Kiri besides him. Kiri moved with a balled fist pressed against her pursed mouth, supported by an arm crossed along her chest in an attempt to hide her amusement.
“It’s more like flirting again.” The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didn’t hit large.
Both you and Neteyam froze at the intrusion, then stilled at the implication, a beat passing before you each stepped back in the same beat of time. He rose to his feet far too quickly besides you, your eyes blown wide in something too closely resembling horror, while Neteyam merely rolled his, tired and resigned, straightening back into the perfect son like it was second nature once more.
“Stop being a skxawng, Lo’ak–.”
“–We are not flirting, Kiri.”
The words collided in the air, yours to Kiri a hiss and his to Lo’ak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.
Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Wow." He stated. “Touched a sensitive nerve.”
And Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didn’t reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, instead, he crossed his arms with a sigh at his unexpected presence. “What are you doing here?”
The answer came before either of them could speak, as a sudden fifth voice came echoing from the brush of leaves. A small, blurred figure soon came dashing out of the tree scape, making a b-line straight to the centre of the clearing in a full stumbling sprint. She was headed directly towards where you stood in a pout next to Neteyam.
“Dad said to come get you two because you’re taking too long!”
Kiri and Lo’ak's eyes grew wide. And with a quick exchanged glance of horror, at the same time they barked. “Tuk!”
But she ran right past them, as if their voices fell silent to the wind.
Lo’ak lunged forward, catching her by the arm just before she could skid to a stop at your feet. The glare he sent her sharp and immediate enough to make her shrink in on herself, ears drooping as she braced for the scolding she knew was soon to come.
“Dad told us to come get them,” He corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. “That wasn’t an invitation to follow.”
Tuk's round eyes glint up with that innocent reasoning you just couldn't deny, her pupils glossing over as she pouted heavy in protest and twisted her head to look at you and Neteyam.
“But Dad said you’ve been out here alone long enough!”
Tuk protested, twisting free of Lo’ak’s grip with a determined wriggle and darting straight to you. The moment she was within your range, she grabbed your forearm with both of hers, tugging urgently as she looked up with those wide, worried eyes.
“He told mom that if you and Neteyam keep fighting like this, you’ll probably end up at the Tree of Souls by tonight!” She paused, then her voice pitched higher with pure betrayal. “But you can’t! You promised you’d help me braid my new beads tonight!”
For a heartbeat, the clearing went unnervingly still. You stared still as stone down at Tuk, mortification burning hot beneath your skin at the implication that flew right over her head but knocked you right up yours instead. And besides you, Neteyam fared no better, looking as if the world had briefly knocked him off balance too, His eyes widening just enough to betray him before he could pull himself back together.
In stark contrast just a ways away, Lo’ak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as she finally outright lost the battle she’d been silently fighting, turning away from the set of two dazed and angered eyes with a hand clamped over her mouth.
She shook with quiet, uncontrollable cackles, restraint entirely gone, fed by the matching looks of mortification plastered across both your faces. The two of you looked ridiculous.
And Tuk, sweet innocent Tuk, oblivious to the chaos her words had detonated in the once silent clearing, glared up at Neteyam's shell-shocked face with furrowed brows and that pouty sneer.
“Stupid Neteyam.” She declared, voice ringing with righteous indignation. “You can’t take Y/N anywhere tonight. Eywa heard it - she’s with me today!”
She punctuated the proclamation with the scrunch of her nose and a quick, defiant flick of her tongue, poked in his direction.
For a split second, Neteyam only stared at her, still caught somewhere between the weight of what had just been said and the very real presence of his little sister. Then he blinked, jaw tightening as the annoyingly-older brother instinct finally won out over shock. With a sharp, almost automatic motion, he reached out and pinched her tongue between his fingers. An act that had Tuk squealing and flailing in protest.
“Oi!” Tuk yelped, recoiling instantly, clutching her tongue with a gasp.
Neteyam let the sound settle before he spoke. He shot you a brief, weary glance, as if checking whether you’d reacted at all, then turned back to his sister, composure sliding firmly back into place. His voice level and measured with a delicate care he reserved specifically for her.
“That is entirely enough out of you. Someone needs to give you a lesson about eavesdropping." He glanced back at his brother and sister, motioning a hand to the two still giggling. "Time to take you home before we all get scolded.”
Tuk’s ears drooped immediately, shoulders curling inward as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers still hovering protectively near her mouth. She opened her lips as if to argue, then thought better of it, gaze flicking between Neteyam and the ground with exaggerated remorse.
That was when Kiri scoffed, the tension finally cracking as ahe straightened, still grinning as she shouted. “He's right, you’ve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.”
She didn’t wait for her to comply, instead walking to grab her, planting two steady hand on each of her shoulders, then began steering her away with decisive finality, already turning her toward the path before she could wriggle free.
“But I didn’t do anything!” Tuk protested.
“Tell it to dad.” Kiri laughed.
Tuk craned her neck back toward you one last time as Kiri dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. “Y/n, don’t forget my hair-!”
“I know,” you cut in quickly, the words tossed over your shoulder like a promise already made as the two disappeared down the winding path in a lingering bicker.
Lo’ak remained a heartbeat longer. His gaze flicking between you and Neteyam, something quiet and knowing glinting behind his eyes as his mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement.
You caught it quickly, and shut it down even quicker, face smoothing into neutrality as you turned away, dropping back into a crouch before the stump as if nothing had been disturbed in you.
“We will collect the threads and follow.” Your voice came out flat and deliberately ungiving, spoken without the fault or fracture he was clearly waiting to see. Whatever reaction they had hoped to draw out of you never came, instead, your expression smoothed into something unreadable, as if nothing at all had happened in the last few minutes.
When he didn't get it from you, Lo’ak redirected his attention to Neteyam with a long, assessing look. He was waiting for the reaction you refused to give, and when he found nothing but the faint quirk of Neteyam’s mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally began his own descent toward the start of the winding path back to the village.
“Dad’s pissed.” He called over his shoulder. “Try not to be too long.”
The brush swallowed him soon after as well, laughter and murmured whispers dissolving into the low hum of the forest. And then the clearing fell still again.
You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders rolling as the tension finally bled off. Remembering yourself, you turned back to the stump, your hands moved quickly now, rough and efficient, gruffly snatching clumps full of fibre from the scattered pile. You stuffed them into the woven basket Neteyam had brought, as if keeping busy might quiet everything still coiled tight beneath your skin.
For a moment, Netayem watched. It almost seemed like that armored composure of yours was taut as rigid as usual, as if nothing in the last five minutes had made you falter for even a moment. To anyone else, maybe, it did appear as so, but he knew you well enough to see the way your jaw clenched so tight he’d envisioned you cracking a molar, and the harsher than necessary grip in your fingers as you haphazardly tossed the fibre around. Not to mention the stutter in your tail’s path, the tell he’d learned long ago as the one that always surfaced when you were lying.
It left him releasing a chuckle he couldn't contain, a deep, rumbling sound which made your ears twitch sideways in annoyance. You paused in your frantic movements, head snapping to the side in a motion which left your glowing amber eyes glaring daggers at his towering form.
“What?” You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him – embarrassed.
“Still upset about what Kiri said?"
Your jaw clenched, fangs peeking as you whipped fully around to face him, rising to your full height at the implication. The basket thumped forgotten at your feet as the tension tipped to a peak beyond your capacity, and you stalked towards him with an almost predatory sway.
"I am not angry about that ridiculous–” You cut yourself off, taking a moment to collect the basket off the ground, along with a breath of humid air, allowing it to sit in your lungs before releasing in a desperate attempt to somewhat self-regulate. “Do not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."
His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasn’t the boyish, innocent kind he wore when messing with his siblings. This one was the kind he wore only where you were involved, deliberate and cocky, slipping neatly beneath the cracks in your composure because he knew where to press.
The careful, responsible mask he wore all the time loosened just enough to reveal the tease underneath, a glimpse of something warmer and far more dangerous than his jabs at you ever were. He didn’t crowd you with his body so much as he crowded you with his unyielding certainty, leaning in just the smallest amount, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in the a dark room rather than under the open light of tree canopies.
“Funny,” He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. “Your tail is flicking like it does when you lie. And you react so much when I get close, almost as if... as if you enjoy it.”
Heat hit you so fast it was humiliating, up your neck, across your cheeks, down your chest - anger and something you refused to name twisting together until you couldn’t tell which was which. Your hand shoved into his chest on instinct, a firm press meant to reassert space, meant to remind him you were not something to be read and teased apart like the vines beneath your knife.
But his skin under your palm was solid and warm, his breath even, his posture maddeningly steady. You hated that he didn’t move. You hated that the push didn’t become a shove, that your body betrayed you with restraint and a split-second hesitation that had nothing to do with strength. Your pulse seemed to jump when he watched you like this.
“Back off,” You snapped instead, aiming for venom and getting something too light, too strained. You lifted your chin as if height alone could restore your pride. “I do not enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he is Eywa’s gift to the clan.”
You couldn’t handle it anymore, the way his eyes bore into yours like they read every thought, so you moved to leave the clearing, to be as far away from him as can be.
Neteyam didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, the gold in them catching the filtered light until they looked almost feral. The smirk was gone and in its place was something colder as he took one slow step forward, crowding you until the basket handle dug into your hip and the scent of him, warm skin, crushed leaves, the faint sweat from the summer heat, filled every breath.
“Gift?” He repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. “I am the one stuck dragging your half-finished work back to the village every time you storm off. That sound like a gift to you?”
Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Olo’eyktan, the ever-responsible son, trudging behind you with a basket full of your messy fibers and a everpresent moping frown to match struck you as absurdly funny considering he was the one who always offered to do it anyways. That short, sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it, low and mocking, cutting through the thick air between you.
“Poor you.” You sang, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. “All that dragging must be so exhausting for such meek shoulders to carry.”
His eyes narrowed, the feral glint sharpening into irritation, but you were already moving. You jerked the basket from where it pressed against your hip and shoved it hard into his front, the woven edge leaving him doubling slightly from the sudden jab to his ribs, a smack that landed with a satisfying thud.
A few loose fibers fluttered to the ground as he stumbled back a few steps and caught the basket on reflex, fingers curling tight around the rim. The motion finally giving you the space you longed to breathe once again.
“Except, you came here knowing you were going to do it anyways. So, there,” You said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Problem solved. You can carry it all the way home anyways, like the dutiful son you are. Try not to strain yourself complaining about it later.”
Neteyam’s jaw clenched hard enough that you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, his ears pinning back flat against his skull. The feral edge in his eyes flared hotter, and for a second you thought he might actually snap, toss the basket aside and give you the fight you both pretended you didn’t want.
Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, “Fnawe’tu skxawng!”
The insult landed far too humorously for you to care, Instead you tilted your head back with an overly delighted smirk, very amused by his irate slurs and the way his facade cracked. “You call me the stubborn idiot? But you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?”
He exhaled through his nose, blood boiling at the way you managed to throw his earlier words back at him. The sound was almost a growl, and he took one deliberate step onto the path after you. “Start walking, Fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.”
“Perfect!" You grinned, but the grin quickly dropped. "Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me around tomorrow.”
You barely glanced back to see if he was following when you took off towards the village, because you already knew he was.
The clearing was loud with voices and laughter, bodies packed close as food and weapons were passed around in uneven circles, and it felt like the whole village had decided to breathe in the same place at once.
Someone had dragged a fresh kill in not long ago and the smell still hung in the air, mingling with roasted meat, crushed herbs, and the faint sting of smoke from the fire that kept getting fed as if it might swallow the night. Nets of fruit were being unknotted and handed off, cups passed between hands, blades checked and re-sheathed in the same idle rhythm people used when they were safe enough to relax but still too wound up to sit still.
You were wedged between a few of your friends near the edge of one of the many circles, packed close enough that their shoulders kept bumping yours when someone laughed too hard or shifted in their seat. Ki’tiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she animatedly spoke of the moment Lo’ak decided to start throwing stones out of boredom, nearly nailing Mo’at on the head from the overhang.
Tuk sat too. She had found you the moment you settled onto the woven mat, darting straight to your side to claim her usual spot and spend her evening meal with you instead of her siblings or friends. It's something that had become so common during communal mealtimes that your friends had come to expect the young Sully girl attaching herself to your side like a second tail. It was as if the decision had been made somewhere in her head and the rest of the world simply had to accept it, and now she perched happily at your side like she belonged there.
Her small hand gripped your wrist with the possessive certainty only children had, and she fidgeted with the jewels decorated across your fingers, twisting the woven strands carefully as if she were inspecting treasure. The beads you’d braided fresh not even a few weeks before clinked softly each time she moved, and every now and then she would lean her head against your arm and sigh, pleased with herself like she’d taken down a Thanator.
“Will you make these for me too?” She asked – more like stated – for what had to be the third time tonight, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.
“When you stop trying to steal mine..” You murmured back, and she grinned, utterly unbothered by the threat.
You let yourself settle into it for a moment, letting the noise wash over you because it was easier than thinking after long days training, because nights like this were meant to feel simple and unwinding. You were halfway through listening to your friend complain about yet another act of stupidity Lo’ak had attempted on their patrol together, when Tuk’s fingers suddenly stilled on your ring, halting and tightening hard enough that the movement forced you to glance down at the girl with a concerned furrow of your brow.
“What?” You muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.
Tuk’s eyes flicked past you toward the centre of the clearing, eyeing something in the distance that left you searching the vicinity in hopes of catching the focus of her gaze. Her mouth fell slightly, an almost angered look settling across her face before she scoffed, turning back to you in a huff that had her drawing closer.
“Neteyam is with that noisy woman again. An’aya.”
She spat the name in that high-pitched mocking tone children did, and at first, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. But something in your chest tightened all the same, small and sadistic, as if it even mattered at all.
You followed Tuk’s gaze without meaning to, your eyes slipping past the firelight and moving bodies until they found him almost instinctively. Neteyam sat just beyond the centre of the clearing, leaned back against a stack of supply crates, relaxed in the way you only ever saw when he was amongst people he trusted, his shoulders were loose and his attention tilted toward the woman beside him.
An’aya was speaking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke and laughed so easily, and Neteyam had angled himself toward her without thinking, one knee bent beside his chest, head dipped slightly so he could hear her better over the noise.
It irked you. And it irked you more that it even irked you in the first place. Because you hated him. You told yourself it irked you because you hated that he was enjoying himself. Right. Of course.
But the irritation still sat heavy and ugly in your chest, coiling tighter the longer you watched, and you hated that too, hated that your attention wouldn’t let it go, and that your mood had soured so fast despite being so fine just a moment ago.
There was no reason for it. None that made sense. You hated that stuck up tawtute more than anyone else and you argued with him so much you made a sport out of it. So why did your chest tighten when he didn't brush away the hand she put on his shoulder?
Tuk noticed the shift in your mood right away. Her nose wrinkled as her grip tightened again and she leaned in closer, glaring openly now.
“I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice fierce and final. “She talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes even when they’re not funny.”
You attempted for even a minuscule moment to draw yourself back, to brush it away and forget it ever made you feel anything by resorting to your usual self regulation habits – insulting the man.
“Nothing Neteyam says is funny.” But not even that seemed to work to calm you because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.
“That’s not true,” Tuk called out immediately, tilting her small face up at you with those wide eyes. “You laugh at him all the time! Just not when he’s looking.”
She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. “He’s supposed to sit with us.”
“That is not how this works.” You snapped the reply too quick, eyes diverting from the scene to pick up another piece of utumauti fruit as if it never bothered you.
Tuk’s eyes rolled at the response she should have predicted. She never understood why you acted so weird about it, when it was obvious to her that you liked her brother - because that was just what people did when they liked someone. They got weird and sharp and pretended they didn’t. She didn't see it elswhere often, but she knew it because that was what you and Neteyam did.
Your friends had gone quiet at the sudden stir occurring just beside them. Ki’tiri quickly noticed the shift in your mood and tilted her head, studying you now with open curiosity.
“Why are you angry?” She cut in plainly. “Did he do something again?”
“No." You replied stark. “How could he? Neteyam is all the way over there.”
Ki’tiri exchanged a quick, knowing glance with the friends beside you. “I didn't even mention his name." And the corner of her mouth lifted as a chorus of light giggles sung around the circle.
You answered with a quick, harsh warning glare, a motion that had the laughs slowly dying but the smiles still lingering in a knowing gleam. Ki’tiri leaned in again, allowing you the dignity of ending her teasing, feeling almost a little bad at how astoundingly purple you looked.
"You’re getting upset,” She stated simply and not unkindly. “You do that only where Neteyam is involved.”
“I am not upset.” But you were too far maddened for that to be convincing. “And he is not involved. I have been sat here, and he has been there this entire time.”
The lie hung heavy and brittle as you clicked your tongue. Tsk.
"Yeah, sat with that healer girl." Mikatxi interjected low and humoured.
Your chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like the threads Neteyam pulled too taut in the woods and before you could bite it back, the denial tore out of you, louder than intended and edged with fury.
“I do NOT care who he sits with!” You hissed, voice cracking on the volume. “He can sit in her lap for all the stars in the sky care! I would not notice if Eywa herself told me!”
“Seems like you do…”
“—What is going on!?”
The voice carried across the fire, calm but accusatory, and edged with something that made the fine hairs along your arms rise. In your bladed fury, you let your voice spike too high and missed the one pair of eyes that had locked onto you from beyond the fire.
Neteyam hadn’t stood, he hadn’t even moved from his spot. But he had leaned forward with a watchful, almost concerned eye, braids swinging low and hand hanging off his elevated knee as he observed with what you knew was that stupidly disingenuous concern.
The way he intervened like he was already rehearsing for Olo’eyktan burned you, as if he believed he could snuff out any simmering flame with his big, proud words simply because his blood said so.
And that wasn’t even half your problem. The problem was that An’aya followed his gaze immediately, curiosity sparking as she turned to see what had drawn his attention, blinking and glancing between the two of you, clearly lost by why he interrupted her mid sentence.
That alone was enough to make your teeth grind. Because what was your relationship with that skxawng any of her business?
“We’re fine.” You called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. “Try having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.”
Neteyam’s mouth tightened just slightly at the insult, a breath leaving him slow and measured as if he were counting to three in his head. He didn’t rise, not yet. Only tipped his chin and let a quick “Eywa help me,” fall to the air before pushing himself to his feet at last.
He crossed the space between you in a way that had your fist tightening in anticipation for yet another argument, only fueled by the image of An’aya hot on his heels like a second tail of his own, close enough to the boy that it felt intentional whether it was or not. Tuk sat up, planting herself more firmly at your side like a guard animal half her size.
“I said we are fine,” you warned as he stopped in front of you.
Your friends ogled at the two of you, already bracing for the next round of your endless bickering.
“And I said I was just asking.” His voice was calm but firm, and his eyes began searching your face for something, as if he could find whatever it was if he looked hard enough. “You are upset.”
You sputtered a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. “Right, I forgot I am only allowed to feel some way once you have approved of it first. I forgot I need my warden to tail me through the village and make sure I am behaving. Shall you go report my mood back to our fathers now?”
Neteyam’s jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.
“That is not what I am doing. You know I do not–”
“You do!" Your outburst came hard against his sentence, not having the patience nor heart to hear his excuses. “My tail flicks too harshly, and it is enough to call council with our fathers! Tell them to rest easy, golden son. I am not about to reign war over one evening meal.”
Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. “Well, you don’t have to turn everything I say into a fight.”
“And you don’t have to turn everything I do into your problem to solve. The mantle still sits on your fathers head, you are allowed to have a personality until then.”
An overdramatically long groan suddenly sounded to the left of you, and both your eyes snapped over to Tuks exaggeratingly agitated from, as she sighed in that childish way she did.
“Stop fighting!” She begged, voice whiny with pure childish exasperation. “You guys always pretend like you don't want to talk, and then Neteyam comes and you fight forever because he won’t leave you alone, but then you don't tell him to go away, and it's annoying!"
“Tuk!” Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!
“That is what happens." She insisted stubbornly. "You do it all the time.”
"No!" You rejected. "We argue because he hovers!"
An’aya, from the shadow of Neteyam’s shoulder, suddenly appeared forward, finally establishing her presence with a smile that was not wide nor warm, but enough to show she was not very fond of the girl her friend had been talking to.
"Maybe, if we did not worry about what you might do next, Neteyam would not be expected to hover and act like Olo’eyktan already."
Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling beyond that point that only Neteyam’s presence could push it to. Because who was she to imply you were a burden he had to shoulder, a mess he had to trail behind and fix every time you existed too loudly for her liking?
And especially who did she think she was inserting herself into Neteyam’s problems as if they were her own. ‘If we did not worry’ — as if she had any right to speak for the frustration he supposedly felt?
You let your eyes trail to her far too self-satisfied form, sneering with the scowl you usually only reserved for that gawking fool besides her. But if she insisted on acting as his equal, she could be handled like him too.
“Oh, is that your healer’s wisdom speaking, or are you only borrowing the golden son’s voice while he is too busy ogling to use it himself?”
Her smile faltered and her chin lifted a fraction as her eyes narrowed in something mimicking offence. And then your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that the girl he had dragged to your circle had suddenly felt all too comfortable insulting you in front of all your friends.
“Maybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she is already so good at handling me."
"Fang—" Neteyam's voice was eerily low.
"—Now that my guard dog has a guard dog.”
And then he stiffened. “Enough.”
But you didn't stop. “Is this what you tell people about me?”
Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.
“That is not–” He started for the umpteenth time but again you didn’t let him finish.
“I would think you respected me even a little, enough, considering all my father has done for you and your family. Enough considering you always like to remind me that 'we are partners.' But you let your women speak to me like I am beneath you.” You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.
“A leader, they say you will be.” You continued, words mocking. “Tell me how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence. Both your peace and our fathers.”
You rose without haste, the motion deliberate enough that the space around you seemed to shift with it. The ground felt steady beneath your feet, solid in a way your chest had not been for the last several breaths, and for the first time that night you welcomed the clarity that came with deciding to leave rather than be dismissed.
“Y/n, no– please don’t be mad,” Tuk whined, the plea tumbling out of her in a rush as she reached for you, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist but failing to catch hold. Her face pinched with genuine worry. "I didn't mean to make it worse."
“You did not.” You said shortly. “This is not on you, Tuk.”
And then you turned and left without a word, the sudden absence of your presence cutting through the clearing sharper than any insult you had ever sent him, and for the first time Neteyam did not know whether you were just angry or actually hurt by what had happened.
It was confusing because you had never let any interaction between the two of you get to you like this, yet now that you had chosen distance in place of where you would usually just choose name calling, he couldn’t help the feeling like he’d missed something far too important while it was happening.
The noise resumed all too quickly behind you, laughter reclaiming the air as if nothing had shifted at all, but he stayed where he was, unease settling low in his chest as he watched your retreating form saunter away, hips swaying with jolting anger and body tempting his eyes to never shift.
He didn’t know when he started noticing things like that. The way your hips rolled as you walked, the flex of the muscles along your thighs with each step, and the way the line of your back shifted as you moved.
It sat wrong that he noticed these things about you, because he didn’t notice them on anyone else. More than anything else, the fact that you hadn’t looked back sat even worse. And the fact that he felt that hollow pull, tight and wrenching in his chest because of it, sat the worst of all.
“At least you don't have to worry about watching her anymore." An’aya’s voice cut in beside him, light and coaxing, like she was trying to pull him back by the wrist.
Neteyam nodded absently, already half elsewhere, the hollow feeling in his chest refusing to settle. Even as he turned back toward the fire, his attention lagged behind, tethered not to the laughter or the conversation resuming around him, but to the quiet space you’d left behind. To the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadn’t walked away to cool off – you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didn’t even realise he was dancing.
One delicate, purposeful step after the other. Neteyam watched your sultry hips as they worked against the motion of your legs, swaying against the gracefully deliberate rhythm of your strut. Every step was intentional, not a single wasted motion and certainly no hesitation, each one drawing a slow, tightening circle around him. You eyed him like prey and circled him like a predator.
He, too, circled your figure. Less graceful in his approach, his steps heavier and more grounded, but just as analytical with his eyes all the same. He told himself he tracked your figure because he had to, that he noticed how dangerously alluring you looked in your stride because he was being tactical, certainly not because he found it mesmerising.
Partnered again. You almost rolled your eyes had it not been for the undivided attention you locked onto his solid figure.
You suspected that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you as if it was something written into the roots of the forest itself. As if Eywa refused to separate you.
Jake’s voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.
“Enough posturing,” he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. “This isn’t a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.”
The command barely left Jake’s mouth before you jolted.
You didn’t rush him all at once because that was never your style. You shifted your weight and pivoted to your right instead, just as your tail came down with a sharp snap to the left, a deliberate ploy to feint him around you with sound.
Neteyam stuttered for a moment, nearly diving left and falling for the bait, but caught himself immediately, because of course he did. His jaw tightened as he corrected, blocking you by widening his stance, shoulders settling into a space much larger than you had accounted for.
You collided with his chest, steadying yourself with a tight hand clamped around his forearm that flexed under your grip. It was a successful motion that kept you upright, but your proximity to Neteyam left you vulnerable to an open hand palm against your shoulder, knocking you a step back. It was a warning shot, not meant to land hard, but it angered you all the same.
“Good feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.” Jake called out.
Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit.
"Is that all you have?" You taunted, circling again, your breath steady despite the fire igniting in your veins. "Afraid to hit me for real, golden boy?"
Neteyam’s ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder you’d nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like he’d memorized every rhythm you’d ever moved to.
“Well, would not want to mess up that pretty face.”
You flared your teeth in a hiss at his words, fangs bared and all, as the implication of them did not evade you. The idea that you were too feminine to fight. Bullshit.
It was bait, you knew it deep within, and yet you lunged for it all the same.
You dropped low, striking dirty with a sweeping leg that made contact with his ankles while your hands aimed for his torso. He leaped back to counter, but you were faster, leaping with a twist and raking your manicured claws down his ribs just to watch him hiss.
You landed in a crouch behind him, tail lashing with triumph at the hit but he countered instantly, arm hooking yours, using your momentum to flip you over his hip, but you held tightly, and this time you both went down. You snapped right to the ground, landing with a splat and a breathy groan, which he followed taut behind with, and soon you were caged beneath him as his braids fell around your face like a curtain.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, “keep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.”
Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they – only he, were rash enough to say such vulgar words.
Heat flared in your face, nothing else but pure rage, and you answered with a growl, driving your knee up sharp between his legs. Not hard enough to hurt, you think, but just enough to make him block instinctively and give you room to twist.
You both rolled again, a tangle of limbs and snarls across the dirt, kicking up dust around you until you came out to a stop, this time you were on top, straddling his waist, thighs clamped tight, hands slamming his wrists into the dirt beside his head.
“I will kill you!”
Neteyam’s eyes blazed up at you, all traces of amusement gone. His ears pinned flat against his skull, jaw clenched so tight you saw the muscle jump. He bucked hard beneath you, trying to throw your weight, muscles straining as he fought your hold.
“Get. off. of. me.” He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. “Why must you always turn it into this?”
You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. “You started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?”
He arched again, harder this time, nearly unseating you from his lap and you slid to settle on his chest. His breath came in harsh pants now, struggling under the weight of you on his lungs, but his eyes still burned up at you with pure defiance.
The shift gave him a perfect view of you, sweaty and furious as you loomed above him, your braids wild, chest heaving and skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. A deep flush crept up his neck and face at the sight, dark purple blooming across his cheeks and he prayed to Eywa it looked like it was from a lack of air to everyone watching.
“I am trying to win a damn spar, not handle your tantrum.” He said through short breaths. “Yield!”
“Force me, Tawtute,” you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides.,“or keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.”
His face darkened at that, a fresh wave of fury rolling off of him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently in a cloud of dust that kicked as you grappled. It was a flurry of elbows and knees jabbing at whatever body parts they could reach, claws scratching, fangs baring, and hisses sounding out like a tussle of five years olds.
He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you responded by snatching at his long swinging kuru braid and tugging at it, pinning him for a split second before you broke free with a snarl.
The spar had turned ugly so fast, no one had time to register what it was until it already had become it. There was no technique or poise left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fuelled by years of building resentment.
And Jake was done watching it.
"That's enough!" he barked again, the sound cracking through the clearing like a whip. He dragged a tired hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning on you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding arc. "Get off!"
His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin and scampering clumsily off and away from Neteyams heaving figure mirroring your own. You subtly brushed the dirt clinging to your arms in an attempt to salvage even an ounces worth of dignity, but it wasn't working, because your hands still shook and beneath it all, that ugly vulnerability lingered heavy as Jakes eyes beat down on you.
Jake continued.
"It was funny at first, cute even, when you two were teens and it didn't matter. But by Eywa, you're adults now. You have responsibilities and the clan is going to depend on you."
The authority in his voice pinned you both in place.
"I'm sorry, sir," Neteyam spoke with a breathy compliance, eyes trained downwards in a way that almost left you scoffing at how pathetic he looked - at how quickly he folded under the pressure of his father despite talking so big against you moments ago. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes while being lectured by his father about acting mature.
So, you muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," forcing the words out while fighting every instinct that screamed at you to glare at Neteyam instead of Jake.
Jake’s gaze flicked between you. “You two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.”
As he spoke the words, there was a pause as he immediately noticed the sudden way the two of you began shifting apart, blue faces crawling into flushed purple ones. It only took him another moment to realise the implication of his words, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. Eywa, the two of you couldn’t even look at each other at an implication he didn’t even mean!
Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this – this right here – is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You don’t know how to keep things contained when it’s the two of you.”
He jabbed a finger toward Neteyam, ready to correct your misunderstanding.
"You will be Olo'eyktan one day." Then the finger swung to you. "And you will be the clan's head warrior. His right hand. His most trusted." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sooner or later, you have got to get along. The People need to see unity, not... whatever the hell this is."
He said the line so defeatedly, as if his two greatest proteges had become his two biggest failures in that moment, and it left you deflating in embarrassment at the notion that your rivalry with his son had turned into something beyond comprehensive words. Instead, reduced to “hell” - to some weird sky people word.
Shameful.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at the ground, heat crawling up your neck, wishing the woven walkway would just open and swallow you whole because it was almost like your own father had just admitted that you were acting a fool.
As Jake Sully, the man who raised you almost as his own in the proximity of your father and their strict training regimes, was sighing down at you and his idiot son with weary frustration.
You knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did, where he slipped into what was described as the “military” tone, meant to correct rather than offend. That didn’t make the cut sting less deep, though.
You were mid deliberation when you suddenly heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyam’s direction. Not quite a laugh, but close enough, and it had you glancing up at him with the scowl you reserved only for him.
Neteyam wasn’t looking at his father anymore. Now he was looking right at you, glaring through the corner of his limp braids, head still hung low as one side of his mouth twitched upward in that infuriating half-smirk he saved just for you too.
His amber eyes glinted with something resembling a shocked amusement, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.
You knew you shouldn’t. You knew this was a horrible time. But in that moment it was like something inside you finally snapped with finality for the first time ever.
Where you usually would have met him with snark, now you were meeting him with red vision and a complete lack of respect.
Your ears flicked back, pinned taught to your hair like an animal on its prey only moments away from pouncing. Tail lashing once almost like a whip.
“What?” you hissed, so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, meant only for him, but almost so quiet that Neteyam nearly missed the fact that you had spoken entirely. “Something funny, Tawtute?”
He caught your words all the same, the perfect, golden son act completely slipping away, traded for a smirk that widened a fraction larger at your beyond irked facial expression. “A child, Fang.” He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. “You look like a child scolded by her elder. It is quite damn funny.”
That was all it took.
You stepped forward, voice rising despite yourself, despite the voice telling you that only awful consequences would come from acting out right now. The worst part of you could not have cared less that his father wasn’t even through with lecturing the two of you yet, the bigger part of you so enraged, so encompassed by Neteyam and his stupidity, his audacity, that you just-
Did. Not. Care.
Your figure snapped upright, tall and menacing, body twisting to face him fully as your large blearing eyes glossed over, unblinking and fear-provockingly wide.
“Open your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, I will slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.”
Neteyam’s smirk froze, then vanished almost as quickly as it came. His ears were the ones to flick forward now, sharp at the ends and persistently alert. His golden eyes that had been mocking you a heartbeat ago had darkened into molten amber pits, pupils narrowing to slits. The perfect son was gone entirely.
His tail lashed once, hard enough to slap the air as he twisted his body entirely to tower over yours. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him where he had ever intimidated you, because it was the first time in all the years you’d known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, tracing the sharp lines of his frame all the way down until they stopped to linger on the bold stripes that curved low around his hipbones and disappeared beneath the edge of his loincloth. They had always stood out more than anyone else’s, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, that’s why they were like that, no other reason, certainly. A flush crawled up your neck, hot and confusing, and what would have been disguised as pure rage to any onlooker.
It pressed in on you though, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin. Because, it didn’t feel like pure rage alone. Your mind could try to convince you, but your body would do otherwise, betraying your thoughts with that persistent betraying flicker of your tail.
And Neteyam noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Keep staring like that, Fang,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, “and I will give you something to actually choke on.”
The words hit low and vicious, a promise wrapped in threat and before you even processed which arm had lifted first, your hand, with pre-curled fingers was already moving toward his chest to shove him back as hard as you possibly could. A hiss so guttural and sharp tearing from your gaping mouth, decorated by the furiously purple hue that painted your face like a white canvas.
His own shot up just as yours had, catching your wrist mid-air in a grip like the metal on the ships the sky people flew. Not painful, but almost entirely unbreakable.
For one suspended heartbeat you were locked there, with his fingers around your wrist and bodies inches apart, both of you breathing hard, tails thrashing in mirrored fury. The space between you felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.
Then Jake’s voice cracked through it like a whip.
“I said enough!”
He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyam’s neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.
Jake’s eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.
“You two are done,” he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. “Done acting like feral animals that can’t control their emotions. Grown adults and I’m still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.”
He exhaled sharply, making the decision at that moment.
"You're going out to the eastern watchpost. Tonight. Just the two of you." He held up a hand when you both opened your mouths to protest. "No arguments, not a goddamn word. It's an hour ride so that's plenty of time to cool off and you'll spend the entire night there.”
Jake was not having it. “I want the supplies inventoried, the platforms repaired, and I want every corner of every ridge scouted for any signs of human activity, and you're going to do every moment of it together. You'll eat together, sleep in the same goddamn hammock if you have to, and you'll come back tomorrow morning acting like the future leaders you're supposed to be."
He released you with a shove toward the rookery.
“Go saddle your Ikran’s.”
When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled “Now! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before you’re out of my sight, I swear to Eywa I’ll tie you both to the same tree instead.”
Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyam’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing and he was the first to turn without even so much as a glance in your direction, stalking toward the rookery with rigid shoulders, his braids swaying with each step, and every taut line of him vibrating with a restraint he almost lacked.
You stood frozen for half a breath longer, heart hammering against your ribs, wrist still burning where his grip had been. Then you turned too, spine straight with the kind of discipline that fooled everyone but the Sullys, because Neteyam and Jake could both see the bruise that adorned your ego, they just both knew better than to comment on it this far in.
The young warriors scattered around the training grounds let their conversations die and bows lower as you both strode past. Your ikran sensed the rage rolling off you and answered your call with shrieks and flared wings, and an agitation that mimicked your own. And you mounted without glancing at Neteyam once, attaching your queues to the end of your Ikrans with what was probably a little more force than necessary. He did the same and Jake watched it all with a tired stare as Neteyam banked east first, cutting through the darkness like a blade, before you followed silently behind him without a glance back.
Jake finally let out the breath he’d been holding, dragging a tired hand down his face. The forest answered him with the soft rustle of leaves and distant night calls of your fleeting Ikrans, nature utterly unconcerned with the problem he’d just sent walking into it. He had broken up enough sparring matches to know the difference between anger and whatever that had been.
Eywa help them, he thought. Because I am officially out of patience.
Behind him, the rustle leaves and heavy approaching footsteps had his ears perking up, expecting the presence before the sound of a low chuckle could startle him. The sound of a man who had already arrived at the same conclusion and was simply waiting to see if Jake would catch up.
Jake turned to find your father standing there, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily behind him as his eyes tracked the two figures disappearing into the trees. There was concern there, yes, but there was also something else that Jake had seen displayed on his face every time your families met and you and his son fought. Something almost… entertained.
Your father watched the treeline a moment longer before he spoke, his expression thoughtful rather than amused, though the hint of it lingered all the same.
“You finally snapped.” He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. “Only took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.”
Jake let out a slow breath and rubbed at the back of his neck, because that had been the exact moment his stomach had dropped, when the spar had stopped looking like training and started looking like something feral. “I told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,” he admitted. “That they’d settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but I’ve never seen them go at it like that.”
Your father hummed softly in agreement. “Even anger has rules.” He said. “What I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands… wherever they could reach.” Your fathers eyes finally glanced over to Jake, a knowing smirk leaving him chuckling at the revelation.
Jake snorted quietly, humour slipping through despite himself and soon they were laughing low in unison. “My son knows better than that.”
“As does my daughter,” He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. “Which is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.”
“You’re worried.” Jake observed.
“I am a father,” he simply replied, and then after a beat added, “And I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.”
“He wont–,” Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.
“I do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,” he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. “Neteyam has always known where the line is even when he pretends not to, and I have watched him choose restraint around her provoking comments time and time again. When it would have been easier not to.” A pause, then quieter, “That matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.” He ended with a chuckle.
Jake’s smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. “Yeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.” He let a beat pass before he chuckled. “Well, maybe not your daughter, she can’t lie to save her life.”
“It really is her we should worry about.” Your father laughed. “If I were foolish enough to wager,” he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jake’s shoulder, “I would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what they’re used for.”
This time, the laugh Jake let out was almost too loud for his liking, glancing around in hopes that no one had heard the less than tasteful wording.
“I’m not taking that bet,” he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. “I expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.”
Your father snorted. “You did the same with Neytiri,” he replied. “And you didn’t exactly handle it with grace.”
Jake grimaced. “That was different.”
“No, It was not,” he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, “and Neteyam’s trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isn’t one.”
Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”
“Good,” Your father said quietly. “Someone should keep watch. In case they burn the forest down. Let us just hope we do not share the name Grandfather and time soon either.”
Your feet hit the platform before his did, heavy with a careless thump that transitioned quickly into long strides against the creaking wood, riddled with the intention of getting as far away from Neteyam as possible, who was landing close behind you. There wasn’t anywhere far to run off too, especially in the dark of night on a foreign base you had visited not even twice before, so you settled towards the end of the platform on a pile of large crates that rattled against your weight.
Neteyam dismounted much slower than you had, gently detaching his queue, before petting his Ikran three times, signalling its dismissal to perch elsewhere. It left with a shriek, chasing your own which had scattered the moment you landed.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, adorning everything in a bleary silver and deep shadows illuminated by bioluminescent blues. The base was rickety and barely large enough to accommodate a few people with all the supplies stolen and housed from the sky-people around. The wooden branches sagged and the leather tarp frayed, neglected and unkept for what seemed to be decades. But it was going to have to work considering you were banished here for the night.
Neteyam didn’t look at you right away. He took the first few moments to busy himself checking over the boxes, silently counting the stock in the typical Neteyam way that forced him to be a stickler for the rules, to listen to every authoritative voice, to be the most stuck up Na’vi to ever grace Pandora's blue planet.
It took him a second of a forced and uncomfortable silence before he finally broke the tension, his voice low and failing to hide the tinge of irritation behind it despite his attempts to at least try and get something done. “We should start with inventory. Get it over with.”
You didn’t move from your position on the crate farthest south. And you almost laughed at how pathetically authoritative he attempted to sound, because you knew his blood still seared hot with boiling anger at being scolded not even an hour ago. Instead, you tugged at the string of the bow you had picked up from beside you, slowly swaying the one foot you left dangling as you fidgeted with the fraying thread.
“Do it yourself.”
Your voice – so dismissive and blunt in tone – had Neteyam’s pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning.
“Do not start.”
You took the first moment since he entered to direct your attention away from the flimsy bow, finally looking up at him with an all too unimpressed glare. “Too late.” You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. “You started it the second you opened your skxawng mouth back at the training camp. Even children know to be silent when Toruk Makto speaks, yet somehow you can not manage to get that through your thick skull?”
“My thick skull?” Neteyam’s big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasn’t going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. “Thats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.”
“We are only here because perfect son could not bite his golden tongue long enough to remember his father was still speaking. You listen to him when we're here but not when it counts back home. I thought you were supposed to be the smart and disciplined one.”
“Kind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.”
“I only reacted because you–!”
The words stuttered in your throat, dying in your mouth as heat flooded your face in a violent wave, remembering what led to your outburst in the first place. Remembering the explicit words he let slip from soft yet smug lips like he had any right saying it in the first place.
–Because you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates.
“–Because I what?” Neteyam’s voice was softer now, but the smirk that followed was anything but gentle. It spread slow and lethally arrogant across his face, eyes glinting with a new light that felt almost predatory, as if he’d just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.
“Because–” Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. “–Because you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.”
“Vulgar?” Neteyam's eyes glinted with something completely different from the irate exasperation from earlier, it was like his entire demeanor had calmed, replaced completely by that arrogant smirk, like he was the only one able to translate the book the two of you had been trying to read your whole lives. “Me? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.”
A sharp gasp tore from your throat. The words hit like a physical blow, twisting your earlier threat into something raw and unmistakable. Your face burned hotter, if that was even possible, violet spreading across your cheeks as you instinctively looked him up and down.
“That is not what I speak! Why must you keep bringing up those words?” The words tumbled out too fast and breathless to be convincing, and you almost kicked yourself for the delivery.
“Because you are the one who said them, you just don’t like what they mean.”
He began stepping closer. His strides were so deliberate, as if planned in advance, and unhurried, as if you were not another moment away from clawing out his eyes.
“They meant nothing,” you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. “You twist everything.”
The sound of Neteyam’s footsteps drew your eyes to lock on his figure, tall and looming as he strutted one slow step at a time closer, and you found your eyes doing that traitorous thing they did a lot now, wander. Wander down. And down.
It started with his face, as you watched the sway of his braids while he strode with that infuriating arrogance, brushing the sharp lines of his jaw with a clatter of his beads. Then it was his impossibly round eyes fixed right on you – which they always seemed to be when you were around – unblinking and heated through a downwards gaze. They were eyes that masked what you knew to be such a conceited personality as so deceivingly innocent.
Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that you’d only just noticed how much broader they had become over the years spent together, carved from tireless hours of drawing bowstrings and traversing the harsh landscape of Omatikiya forest, lean with muscle that shifted under blue skin with every stride he took closer.
Your eyes wandered again until they finally fell right to where they seemed to stop at a lot now; his lower body, narrow hips marked by the most vibrant stripe pattern you’d ever seen on any man – on any Na’vi you’d laid eyes on. They were darker and thicker, more pronounced and unlike any others, they trailed off and disappeared so low into his loin cloth it almost felt purposeful in the way they pulled your eyes. Like they were specifically made to draw your eyes and your eyes only, and hold them there by design.
Those lines were unnatural in their perfection and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they made your face so hot and your heartbeat feel as if it could move to places it should not be, and it especially wasn’t fair that it wasn’t a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.
You told yourself for the hundredth time – that it was the Tawtute genes making everything about him just a little too defined, a little larger. Not that you were staring, of course, just studying. Because he was different and you were always curious, you told yourself. But your tail flicked once, another betrayal that told you that was a lie, and you prayed the shadows hid it..
The shadows did not hide it. And of course he noticed.
Neteyam slowed, stopping just close enough that the space between you felt inconsequential. He wasn’t touching you, at least not yet and somehow it still felt as if he had pressed his entire body against yours. As if you were suffocating beneath him.
His gaze dipped and it wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t subtle either, following the same path yours had just taken; down the line of his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips, to the stripes adorning his body next to the band of his loincloth before lifting again, eyes glinting with the most unbearably smug sense of amusement you’d imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made.
It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke.
“You must really like my loincloth.”
Your ears shot straight up and outwards, standing tall and perky as if alerted by a lingering predator, eyes blowing wide as you shot your head up to meet his gaze head on.
“Shut up–!”
“–You know, my mother makes them–”
“ –I don’t care–!”
“ –Shall I ask her to make another? She does adore you–”
“–You do not know anything–!”
“–I know exactly when you lie.”
The words were being sputtered so fast, they crashed into each other in an overlapping, frantic mess. To any onlooker, it would have almost sounded as if you were talking in unison.
Your tone was desperately sharp, doused in mortification and hidden in anger. And his was flooded with pure, unadulterated tease, knowing very well how every word he spoke rolled down your ears and crawled beneath your skin. You blushed so often around him he could almost mistake you as a purple Na’vi now.
The overlap fell apart as abruptly as it had started. You glared at him, chest tight, ears still rigid with embarrassment and fury, daring him to say one more thing. He didn’t…
At least, not right away.
His gaze dipped instead, unashamed and bashfully amused, tracking back down to where yours had been just moments ago. His mouth curved like he’d found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in.
“My mother uses five beads on each knot,” he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loincloth’s cords. “She says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.”
Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. “Seems it is not working, you do not look very balanced right now.”
If you were in half a mind with any common sense, you would have scolded him once again and shoved him as far back as your arms would allow in hopes for a little space and clarity. Unfortunately for you, however, that sense was ripped directly out of your already fumbling grasp the moment your eyes followed his hands to where he gripped that damned loincloth you really couldn’t escape.
They were larger and longer than most others, scarred from weaponry and cliff climbing, and calloused in places where the overuse was notable. His fingers, all five of them, grasped the thread of the cloth, and as his grip tightened, the purple veins littering the surface of his skin protruded along with it.
Watching the way his fingers curled, and the way his veins pulsed, it sent heat crawling up your throat and pooling behind your ears. Every flex of a tendon, every faint flicker of those tiny freckled lights, felt like a private taunt aimed straight at whatever composure you had left.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady even as it came out breathier than you wanted. “Five is a greedy number anyway.” You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on the curl of his knuckles.
His gaze followed yours until it landed on the object of your fixation; his calloused, human-like hands that resembled a foreign race more than it did his own. It lingered on the way your eyes lingered there too long, and the way your breath had betrayed you before your mouth ever could. And a slow smile curved across his lips, smug and knowing.
“Greedy?” He spoke the word as if it heeded a riveting discovery and without haste, he lifted said hands; the ones you hadn’t stopped ogling at, toward your sightline. “Is that what you think they are?”
His long fingers extended deliberately to parade all five digits to your wide, helpless eyes, and he began wriggling them in slow, mesmerising pulses as if he, too, were suddenly fascinated by the anatomy you had just mocked.
“Tawtute.” He uttered it in mocking, the way you usually did, except his voice dipped low with smug delight. “That’s what you call me, isn’t it?”
Now, he let his hands hover close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palms, close enough that if you stuck your tongue out just enough, you’d be able to taste the skin. Close enough, that the fact you had even entertained that thought made you sick to your stomach with dizzying confusion.
“Txampay tawtute.” He purred, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he drank in the flush climbing your neck.
Then, unhurried and impossibly sure of himself, he leaned in. His body now crowding every inch of air yours occupied, chest nearly brushing your own, until he reached past your shoulder and caught your wrist in one smooth motion. The hand that rounded your skin tugged upwards to bring your hand up between you to display the four fingers you always had, and his golden eyes gleamed as if it was the first time he had seen it. Slowly, he lifted his own hand to mirror yours, five fingers spread to contrast the four of your own just across from his, hovering directly opposite it.
“Demon blood.” He muttered, though he wasn’t offended. It was more a statement, or amused even, awaiting a reaction.
You watched, breath caught, as he hesitated for a single heartbeat, watched in your peripheral as his eyes bore into your face, searching for any flicker of protest or resistance. A sign that never came.
And once he realized that, he dipped one long finger down between the gaps of yours. Then another, and another until he slid each one of his fingers between your own, interlocking your hands like he was claiming every unoccupied space he could find.
“Do you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?”
Then he guided your joined hands, fully intertwined, up and back, lifting them slowly until your knuckles brushed the rough-woven wall behind you. He pressed them there and the motion brought him so much closer, it was as if he had taken up all the air, because why were you suddenly finding it so much more difficult to draw a breath?
“Neteyam.” The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss you’d wielded against him a thousand times before. Because the last place you had ever imagined yourself being was here, pinned beneath the steady weight of his gaze, his body, his five greedy fingers laced so perfectly through your four and it confused you that no fiber of your being was begging to reject it.
You watched with greedy eyes as his face twisted from out of your view, head shifting down towards the crook of your neck and the frantic rate of your breath betrayed every last pretense of calm. His mouth stopped just on the cusp of your left ear, and you felt the warm, velvet skin of his lips brushing the sensitive shell of it, tied with the cherry on top by the soft sway of his braid against your cheek and the smell of him. That intoxicating scent which smelt of eclipse leaves and sweet hearth vines.
They had been your favourite scents for as long as you could remember, and it was only just dawning why that is now.
He took a beat, his breath warm on your skin before he spoke. “I know you hate me.”
You did. You hated him, the Olo'eyktan perfect first born. The boy that followed you like a shadow through the winding roots of Hometree. The child you had been measured against since the first time a blade had been pressed into your palms.
“Neteyam learns quicker,”
“Neteyam already wields a bow,”
“Neteyam never loses his temper.”
You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldn’t be. You hated that he wore it so smug. And more than anything, you hated that he actually tried to soften it and make space for you beside him instead of behind. He was so good to you, and you hated that he never got mad when it counted.
And now – now – you couldn’t reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldn’t fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam you’d spent years resisting, spitting at, and training like Eywa herself had told you to do so in order to best him, had slipped past your defenses without even raising his voice. All it took was him invading your space closer than he ever tried before and your resolve dwindled.
“I know you think you hate me.” He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. “But you never look at me like this when you say it. And this–” his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, “--this is the most still your tail has been all night.”
The gentle, knowing stroke along the sensitive underside made your spine arch involuntarily before you could stop it, so far into him you could feel the press of everything below his loincloth against your lower belly and it made you whine. A guttural, involuntary sound you didn’t mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyam’s glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile.
You struggled to find your voice, with the overwhelming feeling of Neteyam all around you, touching every inch of your skin, all consuming and intoxicating but when you did, it was breathy and weak.
“Do not–” you stuttered, pausing your words to find breath.
Then your voice came again, interrupting his thoughts in a moment where his grip faltered slightly around your fingers and tail. You sounded so primitive and defeated, it was like the entire forest in a ten-mile radius had stilled.
“–stop.”
Neteyam stilled, mind reeling and eyes searching every inch of your face in desperate search of an answer to an unspoken question you sparked within him. Do not? Stop?
Do not stop?
He gawked at you, ogling at every inch of your face in hopes of an answer. Your eyes, droopy and half-shut, turned sideways as if too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Mouth just a touch open, drawing long and heavy breaths, and your beautiful blue skin, flushed that purple colour he was becoming so fond of seeing, gleaming with a layer of warm, sleek sweat.
You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop – truly stop – his advances because now that he had a glimpse of such a sight, he cursed the idea that he may never see it again knowing exactly what you looked like underneath him. So he waited with baited breaths, a wait you did not make him stand long for, and then you delivered.
“Do.. not.. stop.” You spoke between heavy breaths. “Neteyam, please.”
And then he saw it. The way you had been pressing up against his right thigh, locked between both your own thighs and rubbing against your core, just close enough to create friction. The sight and the plea shattered whatever thin thread of control he’d been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant.
A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest, a half growl, half reverent thanks to Eywa herself, as he surged forward, releasing your tail momentarily, only for the hand to sweep through the air, landing right on the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him with a roughness he rarely displayed.
And that's when it finally happened. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, swallowing the next broken gasp that spilled from your lips. His fingers curled into the sensitive skin just below your hairline in a way that made your knees weaken, and had you not still been sitting on this crate, you were sure you would have faltered and folded to the ground.
His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart with a devastating hunger, as if he had been waiting far too long to claim this moment, only clarified with the roll his body made to press into your own. The muscles of his abdomen elongated and protruded against the skin, screaming at you to touch them, to feel them, as he pushed your intertwined hands further back into the wall.
That was when his hand around your neck finally began its descent downwards. It started at your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone and lingering just a moment around your breasts. He swirled against the curve underneath the soft fat and the trail left hot tingles in its wake, sending blood rushing to every nerve the pinpoint of his fingertips lined.
It continued on, searing down the arc of your waist, against the curve of your hips and drew a curl to stop just a few paces below your belly button, and yet not even a breath above from the band of your loincloth.
Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric – the only thing left between you and completely surrendering to the man who haunted your every waking moment. Neteyam pulled back from the kiss, only far enough to watch your contorting face, the molten amber of his eyes now nearly non-existent, replaced almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust and a restraint that was seconds from snapping.
He could feel the heat radiating from you, and could tell you were trying to resist whatever thoughts were happening in your head, unsuccessfully so. He could see it in the way your thighs tremored ever so subtly, and in the way your hips shifted restlessly against him, as if seeking friction but hating who the friction you seeked came from. A low, approving, yet humoured growl rumbled in his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged.
“You are always so responsive.” He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. “Every touch… you light up for me.”
“You always think you know what I feel.” The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.
But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. “Your freckles glow, fang.”
And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind.
“Stop talking. I still despise you.”
Neteyam took the opportunity to lean back, making enough room to have a full view of your body without disconnecting your lower bodies. Finally his hand strayed from your belly, sliding to the left of it before stopping right at the rope that knotted your loincloth into place. He glanced down at it expectantly, then up to meet your eyes, his own glinting with mischief.
“Funny way of showing it.” He commented.
Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response.
The knot gave with a soft tug, the woven cord loosening until the loincloth sagged against your hips, and you felt the cool air kissing at your newly exposed skin. It left your sighing, and Neteyam actually laughed at the sight of you.
His next move was to grab at your right leg, lifting it high until it settled on top of his right shoulder. The motion had you shifting forward slightly, nearly hanging off the edge of the crate now. Once it was placed, he leaned down, meeting the slant of your body against the crate until his face met just above yours.
“No fangs now, huh?” He taunted, voice dripping with smug triumph, his breath hot against your lips as his free hand slid up the thigh draped over him with the most reverently possessive grip.
Your eyes narrowed, a spark of fury cutting through the haze of pleasure. “I’ll silence you.”
Before he could fire back another cocky word, you flexed the leg hooked over his shoulder and shoved hard. Your heel dug into the muscle of his back as you pushed, using every bit of leverage to force him downward and surprise flashed across his face for a split second before he dropped to his knees in front of you, left hand disconnecting from yours and instinctively reaching to grip your hips as a means to steady himself.
There he was – all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Olo’eyktan – kneeling between your thighs, directly in front of your exposed core, with amber eyes flicking a mix of shock, defeat and drooling hunger.
You let your head rest back against the wall again, eyeing him through the brush of your lower lashes and fingers threading roughly into his braids to hold him exactly where you wanted him.
“I told you I would make you swallow your sorry sounds.” And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. “Now swallow.”
The low, involuntary groan that vibrated through his chest and into your core was the only answer he managed before his mouth obeyed. His head moved first then his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for years and refused to rush the meal. But the grip you kept in his braids, tight and unforgiving, told him exactly who set the pace.
Heat slammed through you, ugly and mixed with the pure rage of having him under you. You hated him for making your body clench like this, hated the way your thighs shook because his tongue felt so damn good, but hated it more that you questioned if the reason he felt so good was because he had done this before. Hated that the idea made you jealous.
You were a mix of pleasure and shame – that Neteyam was on his knees, eating you out like he had no choice and that he was disgustingly good at it. And when you rolled your hips forward, demanding more, he gave it without hesitation, lips sealing around you, tongue curling deep and relentless, then it dawned on you that he was worshipping your clit like he was singing a prayer.
Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, the leg still hooked there locked tighter, heel pressing between his shoulder blades to keep him exactly where you wanted him – on his knees, serving the woman who’d sworn to hate him forever. And he did it so well you had been reduced to a moaning, whining and squirming mess beneath his hands that were holding you down.
“Eywa, shit– Y/n– ” The name slipped out raw and whiny, and the vibration of his voice had you absolutely feral, snapping in an instant. But not to your end. No.
Because the only thing you could think about was why he felt so good. Why he was so talented at everything. The idea of him having experience with this, of him doing this to someone else, made something vicious twist in your chest.
So your hand in his hair tugged hard, snapping his head back and away from your core to glance up at you with daze in his eyes and your slick dripping down his chin.
He blinked up at you, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in rough pants. For once, the smugness was gone, replaced by raw, hazy want and a flicker of confusion at the sudden stop.
You stared down at him, chest heaving, jealousy burning hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing between your legs, and the words came sharp, cutting through the air like an arrow.
“Who else?” You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldn’t help.
“What?” He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.
“You move like this is not new to you.” You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. “People do not learn that by accident.”
“Fang, what are you–”
Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. “ –It is An’aya, isn’t it?”
“An’aya!?” He said it like the name didn’t belong here at all. Because it didn’t. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now he’s thinking of a girl he’s barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.
“You lie with her too!” The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasn’t something to be debated and you had already made up the answer.
Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan. Then the laugh won, short and completely disbelieving as the weight of your words settled into him. He searched your eyes, stern and glazed, angry with something he knew you barely understood and it dawned on him. Holy shit.
“You are jealous.” He said it so incredulously, like it was the best revelation he made all week. A rough laugh tore out of him, head tipping back in your grip, the sound raw and disbelieving. And it was like you couldn’t even deny it, all you could do was sneer your usual fang baring scowl and snap your head away with a tsk of your tongue.
“An’aya?” he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. “Eywa fang, you think I have ever touched her? Ever wanted to?”
He shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs as he finally raised to his feet off his knees to meet you at eye level. His face was inches from yours, grip firm but not pushing and you watched as that aggravating amusement melted into the softest look you think he had ever sent you. His smugness fell, the cocky edge dulling into something so honest.
“I do not lie with An’aya. Just you, fang.” He spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. “I only ever think about you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldn’t tell which burned more. You didn’t know if you believed him – or more so didn’t know if you wanted to believe him. So you picked your arm up to pinch the side of his ear, using it to drag his face impossibly closer. Your gaze flickered between both his eyes, searching for something, an answer to a question you weren’t even sure you knew what.
For a split second, something in your grip faltered. The idea that he might be telling the truth was somehow worse than the lie. So you tightened your fingers on his ear for a beat before yanking his head back with a force meant to hurt.
“Prove it,” you snarled.
Neteyam’s breath hissed through his teeth at the sting, but the look he gave you was pure lust, not a single trace of softness left. In one brutal motion he tucked one hand under your ass, and the other around the curve of your waist, before spinning you around so fast the world tilted for a fraction of a second. Your chest slammed against the crate, palms scraping metal as he kicked your legs wider and pressed his full weight into your back.
You heard him before you felt him, the quick tug and rustle as he worked the knot of his loincloth free behind you. Something involuntary dragged your head back, forcing you to peek over your shoulder. The fabric fell, and it was like every silent inkling you’d ever felt bite at you, every reflexive moment that told you to study his stripes despite never knowing why, finally dawned on you why it had always been so urging.
Those large, vibrant stripes were only a preview into what the loincloth hid. They tapered lower and thicker up the base of his cock, before finally crawling into a thinning stretch that ended just beyond the tip of his head, which was slick with precum and the most angry, swollen shade of red. Red. Like a Tawtute.
And it was in that moment you realised that all those little characteristics that made him slightly different – the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Na’vi you’d ever seen – weren’t the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Makto’s blood running through him, the son of a leader, born to be a leader. And right now that blood had him hard and leaking for you, the girl who’d spent years calling him sky-demon scum.
The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldn’t pull them apart but that was so swiftly disrupted by the feeling of him pushing forward, the tip of his achingly large cock making contact with your swelteringly wet entrance, and it had you absolutely unraveling at the mere contact of it.
You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of you at both the stretch he gave with just the top of him, barely even a quarter full, and at the sight of him ogling down at the space between you, at the way the tip of his cock looked barely swallowed inside of your warm hole, his fist gripping at the base.
Neteyam caught the sound, eyes snapping up just in time to see you bury your face in your arm and he laughed that irritatingly smug laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back.
“Already moaning for me, Fang?” He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You can’t even pretend to hate me anymore.”
“Do not…,” you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, “…dare assume you know what I feel.”
He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.
“I do not think I'll have too.”
Goosebumps rose in its wake, your hips stuttering back despite yourself before you could correct it. His hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid up your spine in a slow, deliberate path until his fingers closed gently but firmly around the thick base of your kuru, the long, sacred braid that cascaded down your back.
The feeling of his hand around your kuru had your entire body jolting, a sharp, electrifying shock racing through every nerve in its wake. You spun in his grip with a surprise he’d never seen on you before, eyes blown wide, breath caught, and all that sharp defiance from before suddenly fractured by something he had never seen painted so vulnerably on you.
You looked so unsure, so confused, so conflicted, staring at his hand like it was both a threat and a gateway to something new.
At your face, Neteyam’s expression softened too, the smugness fading completely as he brought the end of your braid up between the two of you, turning it so the the wispy ends of your braid went limp to expose the pink tendrils beneath. They snaked in the air, searching the air as if awaiting what was yet to come.
His own kuru hung over his shoulder, and he used his other hand to grab at it, settling it so close to yours that the tendrils already began reaching for each other, drawn like magnets, but far enough that they did not touch.
“I will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly don’t think I can.” he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. “Tsaheylu with me… or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.”
The words hung heavy. You hated him for giving you the out. Hated him for making it feel safe to say yes even though you really thought you would have said no. Hated how much you wanted him, and wanted to know what it felt like to be bound to the one person you’d spent your whole life trying to push away.
Your chest rose and fell fast. The tendrils of your kuru twitched, brushing the air toward his and you didn’t speak as you watched them try to connect. Slowly, deliberately, you reached your hand up to wrap around his forearm, watched as the hand that held his kuru faltered at the intrusion and met his eyes as he searched yours for answer.
It didn’t come as a verbal one, but your mind had been made the moment you tugged his arm forward to allow his kuru to connect to yours. And in an instant the tendrils met, wrapping and fusing, snapping the bond into place.
A gasp tore from both of you at once, backs arching, eyes fluttering as raw sensation flooded through. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, but more than that: every buried feeling, every unspoken want, every flash of anger and longing and need crashed together in a single, shared current that left you both moaning messes.
He groaned your name like it hurt and you whined his so helplessly, fingers digging into his shoulders and the world narrowed to just the two of you.
Neteyam moved first, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he spun you both around and sank to his knees. He laid you gently on the cool floor beneath him, settling between your legs, face-to-face now with his forehead pressed to yours, kuru still joined, the bond pulsing with every heartbeat.
He slid back into you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, letting you feel everything – his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you he’d hidden behind every smirk and fight. And you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and for the first time with there being no crate, no wall, no anger between you, nothing but the bond, neither of you could deny the truth that lingered between you for years anymore.
The bond made it unbearable in the best way because you could feel everything.
You could feel every slow drag of him inside you echoed back through the link. You felt his pleasure at how tight and wet you were, your helpless clench around him, and the ache that flared harder with every inch he gave. You felt the way your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go, and he felt it too, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as his hips finally seated flush against yours.
“Fuck–” he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. “You feel… I can feel you everywhere.”
You couldn’t answer with words. The bond carried it for you: the rush of heat, the ache, the impossible fullness of him stretching you open while his emotions poured into you
He started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged the thick length of him along every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust sent a wave through the bond, pleasure looping between you until it built on itself, amplifying, stealing your breath. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines over his stripes; he hissed and answered by snapping his hips harder, driving a sharp cry from your throat.
Through the link you felt how much he loved that sound, how it made him throb inside you, how close he already was to losing control and you responded by sticking your mouth to his neck, and sucking hard in an attempt to quiet yourself.
“Tell me,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, “tell me you feel it too.”
You did. Eywa, you did. The anger was still there, flickering at the edges, but it only made the pleasure sharper, almost as if the bond was burning it clean and turning years of hate into something so much more overwhelming.
“I feel you,” you finally gasped as your mouth left his neck with a slimy pop, and you noticed the angry purple mark that sat in its wake. Your voice cracked, legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper. “All of you. Don’t stop–!”
The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.
“Mmm– ’tayem–”
Neteyam’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then picked up again, faster now with a cocky triumph you felt flooding the bond like heat. A low, smug chuckle vibrated against your neck as he nipped the skin, sucking and pinching at it with pride.
“I got you that good, huh?” He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. “Got the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?”
You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.
“Ma– tayem–”
He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this – loving that you, always so sharp-tongued and composed, always throwing insults at him and trying to embarrass him in front of your families, was reduced to this, such a moaning, whiny mess you couldn’t even get his name correct.
“Ca not even get your words right,” he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. “If only everyone could see you now.”
“Ma ‘teyam.” You managed it this time, much clearer and insistent of every syllable that trembled out of you on the next thrust. And he froze.
Not completely, his hips still rocked shallow and instinctively, but the rhythm stuttered hard, like someone had yanked his hips backwards and held them still. His eyes widened, searching yours through the haze, the cocky smirk smacked off his face in an instant as the meaning finally slammed into him.
Ma ‘teyam.
Your Neteyam
The bond flared hot with it, your claim, raw and unfiltered, pouring straight into him. A ragged groan tore out of his chest, half between shock and something much, much deeper, like a stirring pot of pleasure and disbelief and possession all tangled together into two bodies merged as one. His forehead dropped to yours again, losing every trace of that smug control because the words were echoing through the link like a vow, and it broke him.
A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, deep and wrecked and his whole body shuddered as the realization hit him harder than any phrase ever uttered to him. His hips jerked forward once, hard and uncontrolled, completely unlike his usual poise, as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, and that was it. He came with a broken cry of your name, voice cracking on the syllables as he spilled hot and deep, pulse after thick pulse flooding you.
The bond amplified everything and you felt every throb of his release as if it were your own and that made yours follow soon after, the overwhelming rush of his pleasure crashing into yours, the way his heart slammed against his ribs, the dizzying mix of disbelief and euphoria that Neteyam was now claimed by you in the most intimate way possible, solidified by the way your attached kuru still hung besides you, your deep purple marks decorated his neck, and your bodies lay against each other, sleek and fucked out.
His forehead pressed hard to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants against your lips. His arms trembled as he held himself above you, hips still twitching with aftershocks, grinding slow and shallow as if he couldn’t bear to pull out.
“Fuck… fuck–” he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior who’d been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. “You… you said…”
“That I despise you?” You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. “I do.”
A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. “I don’t even need to see your tail to know you lie.”
And as if to prove his point, he brought his hand around to the place where your kurus joined, stroking the exposed, sensitive nerves gently with his thumb. The bond hummed softly at the touch, sending a lazy ripple of warmth through you both and your tail flicked once, then curled deliberately around his thigh, holding him close.
He felt it, of course and a quiet, satisfied hum left his chest.
“See?” He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Even your tail is done fighting me.”
You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. “Do not get used to it, skxawng. The second we are back with the clan, I am telling everyone you cried after your father yelled at you.”
Neteyam snorted, shifting his weight so he could prop himself on an elbow and look down at you properly. His braids fell forward, framing his face, and the bond carried the soft glow of affection he was trying, and miserably failing to hide behind his usual smirk.
“Then I will have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me to–”
You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence and I will bite you again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. “I could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.”
“Maybe so.” He conceded easily. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your kuru in a way that made your spine shiver despite your best effort to stay at least a little defiant. “But then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You would miss arguing with me.”
You huffed, shoving at his chest. “I would finally earn peace.”
“Peace is boring.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. “And you would miss my family interrupting us every five minutes, thinking they will catch you slipping in the act. My dad likes messing with us too much to let you go.”
You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. “Your father likes me because I am not afraid to yell at you when you are being an arrogant teylupil. That is not the same as liking me.”
Neteyam’s grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be stronger. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
“Flattery will not save you,” you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didn’t have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. “When we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.”
Neteyam arched a brow, amusement flickering through the bond as his eyes flickered around at the area even messier then it was before you two had arrived. “You think they will believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you look…” He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. “…thoroughly ruined.”
You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. “You look worse, Tawtute. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.”
He laughed, full and unguarded this time “Then let them think what they want, I already won.” he whispered when you parted.
You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.
“I still despise you,” you muttered into his neck.
Showing - House Of The Dragon
Staring - Jacaerys Velaryon X Reader
Rating - 18+ (Nudity / Full sex / Riding)
Reading Time - 10 min 4 sec (1307)
Jacaerys's entire body locked up, a strangled, punched-out sound tearing from his throat as he felt her. Hot. Tight. "F-Fuck!" His hands flew to her hips, grip bruising as he fought the instinct to buck up and shove himself all the way in. "Y/n, gods-I can't-" He was shaking so hard it looked painful, tears pricking at his eyes from how good it felt just that tiny inch of her around him.
Y/n was slow and careful, as this wasn't the easiest thing for her to do, given this was the first time she'd ever had anything inside her… Well… Anything that wasn't her own fingers. And Jacaerys was, of course, far bigger than her fingers; she inched herself slowly down, taking more and more with each moment, gasping softly as she tried to relax some of her tightness.
"Y/n-gods, darling, please… don't tease me-" He groaned breathlessly, felt like he was going to burst like some over-swollen damn. He was panting as he'd just run from the Twins to King's Landing and back, his eyes wide as he tried to watch her while not going insane.
"Ahhh!" She grunted as she finally hit the bottom, hips to hips with him, completely buried.
"F-Fuck!" he sobbed, "You feel… gods, you feel perfect."
She seemed to pant in time with his own throbs, her legs trembling, her body mindlessly squeezing him as she tried to work out how to function.
"Darling, please, move."
She nodded slowly, picking herself up, pushing up on his stomach a little to slide him out of her, so only the head was left inside, before then sinking back down, but this time fast, more like a landing, which made her scream.
His eyes rolled back in his head, and every single thought in his head vanished. He was almost sure he was going to pass out-he'd never felt anything better in his entire life. It was all the air being punched from his lungs at once, all the heat from a thousand suns, every damn feeling in the world all at once. "Gods, please, d-do that again," he pleaded hoarsely, almost like the words were ripped out of him. He couldn't think of anything else.
She was trembling, shaking, but she just managed to do it again, crying as she hit his base again.
He was struggling to catch his breath at this point-each time she moved on him, it took every last bit of self-control to keep him from flipping her onto her back.
"I can't… I can't…" Y/n panted as she raised up once more.
"Please," Jacaerys whined, his eyes wide as he looked at her. He was begging at this point, begging like a needy little boy for more. "Please, darling, please don't stop…"
"You… You have to…" She begged.
"What?" he panted, "What do you want me to do?"
"Move… I can't do it… It's too much."
"Okay, okay." He shivered as he moved his hands to her hips again. His fingers tightened, digging into her skin. "I'll move. Just-" he gasped, "Just hang on to me, alright?"
Y/n nodded, holding him tightly as she was already dripping down him.
"Alright," Jacaerys whispered to himself, more than to her, his head spinning and his body trembling. He took another ragged breath before holding her hips. It was like lightning. Every nerve ending in his body was set on fire. He'd never felt anything like it in his life, like he was touching something sacred and special and beautiful, like she was an angel sent down to him from above.
She screamed, her head thrown back like that, her mouth open and gasping for air as his name fell helplessly from her lips.
"Gods - Y/n," he panted, "Can I-can I keep going? I have to-"
She nodded, helping by moving herself what little she could, too.
"Fuck-I'm close," he panted, "So damn close-" He was a lost man-he had no idea where he ended, and she began, not that it mattered. Every time her body clenched around him, every little noise she made as they moved together, it sent him closer to the edge.
Y/n was panting, screaming, but bouncing regardless, like a helpless whore, she didn't care anymore, she didn't care how badly it hurt her body refused to let her stop even for a second.
"That's it," he choked out, "Fucking-take me like that." His hips snapped up into hers hard enough to make the bed creak; he could feel himself unravelling fast now, his fingers digging bruises into her skin as he chased his own release.
Suddenly, after a hard snap of his hips, she screamed, animalisticly, her body shaking, her head thrown back, she clenched so tight around him he was actually worried she'd crush him, as her release washed over her.
Jacaerys saw stars-actual, literal stars. His vision whited out completely, his hips stuttering wildly before he came undone with a broken cry of her name. "A-Y/n-!" he sobbed, "Fucking gods-I love you I love you I LOVE YOU-" He collapsed back onto the mattress beneath her, panting and boneless; if someone had asked him for his name right now? He wouldn't have been able to remember it.
Y/n stayed upright for a few brief seconds, but wavered like a flag on a windy day, before she fell, literally fell off him onto the bed narrowly missing falling off the bed entirely and Into the floor, which would have been very hard to explain to the maester if she'd hurt herself. But she laid there panting and twitching like a rabbit struck by lightning.
Jacaerys's eyes snapped open the second she tumbled off of him, his entire body jolting upright in panic as he caught her just before she hit the floor. He held her against his chest, one hand already moving to brush hair out of her sweaty face. "Fucking hells, darling," he wheezed, "You okay? Did I hurt you?"
She slid her hand against his chest, panting… Words… Sorta… They were completely random and didn't make the slightest sense… He wasn't even completely confident all of them were westerosi words… Pretty confident he heard some valyrian randomly in there. Like he'd broken her brain.
He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her even closer, almost cradling her against his chest. When he spoke again his voice was low, rough. "I think I broke you."
"Hummmmmm… Hubby…" She mumbled, nuzzling his neck.
"Hubby?" He repeated with a laugh. "I didn't realize my pretty girl was so delirious. Can you even remember your own name right now?"
"… Boop." She said tapping his nose with her index finger.
Jacaerys shook with laughter, his head falling back against the pillow. He reached up and caught the offending finger, bringing it to his lips to place a gentle kiss on it. "Boop?" A smile played across his lips. "You're adorable, you know that?"
"Ummm again?"
Hw rolled his eyes, he adored this cute, boneless version of her. So, of course he obeyed the request, tapping her nose again with a low and amused, "Boop."
"noooo…" She whined. "Again. Again. Again." She demanded bouncing on his hips.
He obliged, tapping her nose gently again. "Boop boop."
Y/n pouted and fully sat up on Jacaerys's lap again, shifting her hips against his spent cock. "Again?"
Jacaerys's hands flew to her hips. He groaned at the feel of her shifting against him, already hardening again. He'd never been this fast to recover before but apparently his new favorite thing in the world was this completely senseless, delirious version of her in his arms. So, he gave her hip a gentle squeeze. "Again?" he drawled, his voice still a low, rough rumble. His eyes darkened when she asked, hips shifting involuntarily against her. "Sweetheart, you're going to be the death of me."
"Please? Again? Please, hubby…"
He leaned up to bury his face against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against her skin. "Anything you want, darling. I'll give you anything you want."
Y/n giggled in a way Jacaerys had rarely seen. He wasn't used to this giddy her, she was so reserved and responsible, only ever letting this playful side out on rare, brief glimpses, but this satisfied she was utterly broken and wanted only him. She hopped off his lap like a bunny and lay on her back with her legs wide open, biting on her index finger as she waited. "Hubby..." She begged for him.
Jacaerys's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, spread out like a feast, biting her finger, giggling. It sent heat straight to his already half-hard cock again. "Fucking gods," he groaned, "You're trying to kill me." He crawled over her before she could even blink, hands braced on either side of her head as he hovered above. His voice dropped into something rough and possessive, "Say it again."
"Hummmm... Hubby..." She giggled, grabbing him for a hard, passionate kiss.
He kissed her back with a bruising intensity, his tongue sliding against hers as he let out a low groan. He didn’t even bother trying to hide how hard she was making him, his hips pressed down against hers insistently. "That's it," he growled between kisses, "Say it one more time and I'll fuck you so good you forget your own name."
"Hubby, hubby, hubby." She begged, lacing the last of her corset, leaving her naked, completely naked.
His eyes darkened at the sight of her, exposed completely for the first time. He'd been imagining this for so goddamn long, and she was somehow even more perfect than he'd dreamed. He felt like he could weep at how damn beautiful she was. He had a look of pure, utter devotion in his eyes as he leaned down and kissed her neck, "My wife. My Darling." His voice was rough and ragged, full of emotion.
Helaena: the dragon of old shall take a rider of surprise.
You: oh I wonder who that could be.
…
You: *on the back of Cannibal, hanging on for dear life* what the fuck! I am not equipped for this shit!
Cannibal: *is happy taking his tiny human for a fly over the entire realm, he looks pissed that’s just how his dragon face sits* my tiny human roars with ferocity! What a mighty roar! That’s my rider right there!
october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good october will be good
You just turned 18 and when it’s finally your time to be married, every suitor find a tragical ending..
Request are open 🫶🏼
“Claimed by Fire”
The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting a warm glow across the gardens of the Red Keep. Today marked a significant milestone—you had finally turned eighteen, and with that came an overwhelming number of wedding proposals from eager suitors. Yet, a dark cloud loomed over the festivities. Whispers echoed through the halls, tales of vanished men and those found dead under mysterious circumstances.
Each proposal left you feeling more uneasy than the last. It seemed like every time you entertained a suitor, his fate was sealed. As much as you yearned for love and companionship, the dread of what might happen hung over you like a shroud.
You spent hours in the gardens, finding solace among the blooming flowers, hoping to escape the suffocating pressure of court life. Your sister, Rhaenyra, often came to visit, her presence a comfort, but even she couldn’t quell the unease that gnawed at you.
On one particularly quiet afternoon, you were lost in thought, staring at the vibrant petals of a rose when the heavy doors of the garden swung open. Daemon, your uncle stormed in, his usually playful demeanor replaced by a palpable fury that sent a shiver down your spine.
“Uncle, what’s wrong?” you asked, instinctively taking a step back.
“Wrong?” he spat, his voice laced with anger. “Those bastards think they can toy with you, and I will not allow it.” He stepped closer, his violet eyes blazing. “They want to marry you, but I know what’s really happening.”
Before you could respond, Daemon produced a bloodied cloth, unfurling it to reveal the severed head of one of your suitors. You stumbled back, horror coursing through you. “Daemon, what have you done?”
“Done?” he echoed, incredulous. “I’ve done what needed to be done. He was a coward, seeking to claim you while others plotted against you. No one will threaten what is mine.”
Your heart raced with a mix of fear and exhilaration. “What do you mean, ‘what is mine’?” you demanded, your voice shaking.
Daemon stepped closer, the air thick with tension. “You belong to me. I have loved you since you were a child, and now that you are of age, I will not let anyone else take you from me.”
His words hung heavily between you, igniting a storm of emotions. “But Daemon, this isn’t how it’s done,” you protested, feeling both fear and an undeniable pull towards him. “You can’t just kill suitors because you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he said, a dangerous smile creeping across his lips. “I’m protecting what’s rightfully mine. They will learn to fear the name Targaryen.”
A whirlwind of emotions swirled inside you—fear, excitement, and a thrilling attraction. “Is that all I am to you? A prize to be won?” you challenged, struggling against the intoxicating pull of his presence.
“Not just a prize,” Daemon replied, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You are my heart, my fire. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means bathing my hands in blood.”
You swallowed hard, your mind racing. The tension between you was palpable, electric. “And what if I don’t want this, Daemon?” you asked, searching his eyes for any sign of compromise.
He paused, the intensity in his gaze softening momentarily. “You think you have a choice? You’re not just a pawn in this game. You are my blood, a Targaryen. You are meant for greatness, and I intend to ensure you know it.”
Your heart raced as you processed his words. “You can’t just take me,” you whispered, but deep down, a part of you craved the very protection he offered, even if it came at such a high cost.
“I will not let anyone take you from me,” he vowed, his voice low and serious. “You are mine, and I will prove it to the realm.”
With that, Daemon closed the distance between you, capturing your lips with a searing kiss. It was fierce and demanding, a clash of passion and power that ignited something deep within you. You melted against him, overwhelmed by the heat of his body and the depth of his desire.
When he pulled back, his expression was intense, a mix of pride and possessiveness. “We will face whatever comes together,” he said, his voice husky. “I will protect you, and in time, you will understand why I do this.”
Your heart raced, torn between the danger and the thrill of being with him. You stood on the precipice of something new and terrifying, unsure of how to proceed.
As the days turned into weeks, the initial shock of Daemon’s violent declaration settled into an intense connection between you. The danger that once terrified you now felt like a tempest of passion, stirring your heart in ways you never expected. Daemon was not only fierce but also vulnerable in his own way, and you found yourself drawn to him more each day.
The whispers of court life continued, and the mystery of your suitors’ fates loomed larger than ever. Every glance, every whispered comment became a reminder of the peril surrounding you. Yet, with Daemon by your side, you felt an odd sense of security, as if you had stepped into a world where the rules no longer applied.
One evening, as you strolled through the moonlit gardens, Daemon caught your hand, pulling you close. “You should be careful,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “You never know who’s watching.”
“I can take care of myself,” you replied, trying to sound confident. “I’m not afraid.”
His laughter was rich and deep, echoing in the night. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. But bravery can lead to foolishness.”
You turned to face him, challenging him with your gaze. “And what would you have me do? Live in fear? Hide away while you fight my battles?”
Daemon’s expression grew serious. “It’s not about fear. It’s about protecting what’s mine. And you, my dear, are worth fighting for.”
You felt a rush of warmth at his words. “Do you really think I’m worth all this trouble?”
He leaned closer, his gaze locked onto yours. “You are more than worth it. You are my heart. I’d slay a hundred men to keep you safe.”
Your pulse quickened, the weight of his promise sending a thrill through you. The danger, the passion—it was intoxicating. But still, a small voice in your head warned you. “And what if it’s you who needs protecting, Daemon? You can’t take on the world alone.”
His smile was sly, and he brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. “Perhaps you underestimate me. I thrive in chaos. It’s in my blood.”
Just as you were about to respond, a rustling in the bushes caught your attention. Your heart raced as a shadow moved, and Daemon instinctively pulled you behind him, his posture protective and ready for confrontation.
“Who goes there?” he called out, his voice low and commanding.
A figure stepped into the moonlight, revealing itself to be one of the guards. “My lord, there have been rumors of more suitors arriving. They’re eager to win the lady’s favor.”
“Let them come,” Daemon replied, his voice dripping with disdain. “They will find only death at my hand.”
The guard nodded, backing away. As the tension in the air settled, you turned to Daemon, feeling the weight of his possessiveness. “You can’t keep doing this, Daemon. You’ll only draw more attention to us.”
He smirked, his expression both devilish and charming. “Good. Let them see. Let them know what happens to those who try to claim what belongs to me.”
The heat of his words ignited something deep within you—a mix of fear and excitement that left you breathless. “And what if I want to choose for myself?” you challenged, daring to look him in the eye.
Daemon stepped closer, his face inches from yours, his expression serious. “You don’t understand, do you? In this game of thrones, choices are often an illusion. I am fighting for you, and in return, I want you to accept that you are mine.”
His words sent a thrill coursing through you. “But what if I want to make my own choices?” you whispered, unsure if you were ready to surrender to this fate.
“Then choose me,” he urged, his voice low and sultry. “Choose to be with the one who will always protect you, no matter the cost.”
The intensity in his gaze made your heart race, and for a moment, you were lost in the promise of his words. The idea of surrendering to him, of being claimed in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying, was becoming increasingly tempting.
As the moonlight bathed you both in silver, you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders. But with Daemon, there was also a promise of fire and passion, a fierce loyalty that stirred your heart. Maybe, just maybe, you could learn to embrace this destiny he laid before you.
Days turned into a whirlwind of courtly intrigue and tension, each moment drawing you closer to Daemon and the fire that burned between you. As your relationship deepened, you found yourself balancing fear and desire, caught between the love that was blossoming and the darkness that surrounded you.
You began to understand that in this world of power plays and bloodshed, love could be both a weapon and a shield. And as you faced whatever challenges awaited, you knew one thing for certain: you were no longer just a pawn in someone else’s game; you were a Targaryen, and you would fight for your place in this world—right alongside Daemon.
I don’t even have a specific fandom or other if you had anything in mind, I’m in..
But yeah hotd, obx.. you know generally when a serie or movie is trending I have seen it 👀
Just, I’m French.. I know my English is not 100% perfect so if anyone has a request maybe just if you want some detail be specific so I could completely understand ☺️
During the weeding of your sister Rhaenyra and Leanor, Daemon decided it’s time to show everyone your his..
Request are open..
Under the Moonlit Sky
The halls of the Red Keep were alive with the sounds of celebration as Rhaenyra Targaryen wed Laenor Velaryon. Tapestries adorned the walls, and golden lights flickered like stars, but amidst the opulence, Daemon Targaryen felt a different kind of fire igniting within him—one fueled by his love for you, Rhaenyra’s younger sister.
You stood on the fringes of the festivities, your heart a mix of excitement and apprehension. Though you should have been celebrating your sister’s union, your thoughts were consumed by Daemon. His presence had always been magnetic, drawing you in with a charm that was impossible to resist. The night felt electric with unspoken emotions.
Across the grand hall, Daemon caught your eye. His gaze was intense, an unmistakable spark of desire lighting his features. With a swift, purposeful stride, he approached you, the chaos of the wedding fading into the background. “Come with me,” he said, his voice low and thrilling, sending shivers down your spine.
“Where are we going?” you asked, heart racing as anticipation coursed through you.
“I want everyone to see us.” He replied a wicked grin spreading across his face
Your pulse quickened at the thought of leaving the celebration, of stepping into the unknown with him. It was reckless, yet thrilling. “But Daemon, the wedding—”
“Let them have their wedding,” he interrupted, taking your hand and leading you through the dimly lit corridors. “Tonight is ours.”
As you slipped away from the crowded hall, you felt a rush of exhilaration.
The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries, the sounds of laughter and music ringing in your ears. Daemon’s grip on your hand was firm, leading you through the throngs of revelers. “This is where the real fun is,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief.
The crowd parted before you, drawn to the sight of Daemon, the infamous rogue prince, with his niece, the princess at his side. You felt the weight of their stares, both curious and judgmental, but in that moment, all you could see was him.
“Dance with me,” he urged, pulling you into the center of a lively gathering. The music swelled around you, and without hesitation, you surrendered to the moment. Daemon’s presence was intoxicating, and as you twirled beneath the stars, you felt the exhilaration of freedom.
The crowd watched, whispers rippling through the air as you lost yourself in the dance. Daemon spun you around, laughter bubbling up between you as he captured your waist, pulling you close. “Let them see,” he said, his breath warm against your ear. “Let them talk.”
But amidst the joy, a flicker of apprehension coursed through you. You caught sight of King Viserys, your father across the way, his expression a mix of confusion and disapproval. The tension in your chest tightened as you realized the implications of Daemon’s boldness.
“Daemon, we can’t—” you began, but he silenced you with a kiss, his lips brushing against yours with a fervor that stole your breath. The world around you faded, leaving only the heat of his body and the urgency of his touch.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes sparkled with triumph. “If the realm must know of our love, then so be it. We will not hide.”
As the night wore on, you danced, laughed, and reveled in the electric connection between you. But the reality of your situation loomed in the back of your mind. You were Rhaenyra’s sister, bound by duty, yet Daemon’s presence ignited a wildness in you that longed to be unleashed.
With each twirl and every laugh, you felt the weight of your desires push against the constraints of propriety. Daemon was a tempest, and you found yourself swept away, caught in the storm of his passion.
As the revelry continued, Daemon suddenly stopped, pulling you aside into a quieter corner of the hall, illuminated only by flickering torches. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his tone serious yet tender.
“Yes,” you replied without hesitation, your heart racing at his intensity.
“Then let’s make a statement,” he said, determination glinting in his eyes. “We will not be ignored.”
Before you could fully grasp his intent, he pulled you closer, brushing his lips against your temple. “I want everyone to know that you are mine.”
With that, he stepped back into the fray, pulling you along with him as he raised your intertwined hands into the air. The crowd turned to watch, surprise etched on their faces. Daemon’s voice rang out above the music, filled with confidence. “Tonight, I declare my love for this woman! The sister of the future queen! And my dear and loving princess”
Gasps erupted, and your heart raced. The onlookers exchanged bewildered glances, whispers swirling like leaves caught in a windstorm. King Viserys’s face tightened, a mix of shock and anger flashing in his eyes.
“Daemon!” you hissed, panic bubbling up inside you. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure they understand,” he said, unabashed. “You deserve to be recognized.”
“Enough!” Viserys’s voice boomed, cutting through the chatter. He strode toward you, concern and frustration painted on his face. “What is the meaning of this?”
Daemon faced him, unwavering. “Your Grace, I love her. She deserves a place beside me, not hidden in the shadows.”
The tension between the three of you crackled in the air. You stood beside Daemon, caught between loyalty to your family and the wild love you felt for him. “This isn’t the time, Daemon,” you urged quietly, your heart pounding.
“I won’t let you cast her aside,” Daemon declared, his voice steady. “If you refuse to acknowledge our bond, then I will make it impossible for you to ignore.”
Viserys’s eyes narrowed, weighing the implications of Daemon’s words. “You cannot simply declare this,” he warned, the authority in his voice attempting to reassert control. “You risk everything—”
“Everything is already at stake,” Daemon interrupted, his gaze fierce. “I will fight for what is mine.”
With the crowd watching, a hush fell over the street, the tension palpable. You could see the realization dawning on Viserys’s face, the weight of the situation sinking in. This was not just a declaration; it was a challenge to the very order of their family.
“Are you willing to marry her, Daemon?” Viserys asked, his voice low and measured, as if he were trying to calculate the fallout.
“I am,” Daemon responded without hesitation. “If that is what it takes for her to be by my side, I will marry her before the sun rises.”
The crowd erupted in murmurs, shock and excitement mingling in the air. You felt your heart race at the implications of his words. This was a path laden with uncertainty, but the thought of being with Daemon ignited a fierce determination within you.
“Daemon, you can’t—” you began, but he turned to you, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and resolve.
“No more hiding, my love,” he said softly. “You are meant to be with me. We can face whatever comes together.”
The realization washed over you like a wave. This was not just about you and Daemon; it was about forging a new path, challenging the norms of your world, and embracing the love that had been kept hidden for far too long.
As the celebration continued around you, you felt a sense of exhilaration. You were part of something larger, a movement that could reshape the future of House Targaryen. The night felt charged with possibility, the air thick with unspoken dreams.
As the revelry persisted and the crowd began to dance once more, you leaned in closer to Daemon, your heart pounding. “Whatever happens, I am with you.”
“Always,” he promised, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “We will rewrite our story.”
With that vow echoing in your heart, you stepped back into the celebration, hand in hand with Daemon Targaryen, ready to face whatever challenges awaited you. Under the moonlit sky, surrounded by the energy of the city, you knew that together you would forge a new destiny—one filled with love, passion, and the courage to defy tradition.
Hi! Can I make a request for a Daemon x Sister reader oneshot (or series don't know how your request work lol). I'm thinking Viserys never married Aemma and has many children. But we find out at some point as Daemon fucks the reader that none of the children are Viserys but all of them are Daemons.
I totally get if you hate this idea, just a girl in live with Daemon taking any crumbs I can get lol.
Hi you are my first ever request 🫶🏼🥹
So I try something here.. it’s a bit short but if people like it I might turn it into a série like seeing when they were younger/during/after the children..
Tell me what you think
Request are open ❤️
Daemon Targaryen x sister reader
Legacy of fire and secret
In the grand halls of the Red Keep, the air was thick with tension. The court bustled with whispers of impending conflict, but in a secluded chamber, a different story unfolded—one of secrets and hidden desires.
You were the beloved sister of Viserys and Daemon Targaryen, married your older brother the to King Viserys at the age of 16. Your marriage, while filled with duty and respect, had never ignited the passion you craved. You bore seven children—three daughters and four sons—each a blend of Targaryen fire and your own spirit. They were spirited, wild, and carried the unmistakable mark of Daemon’s lineage, from the silver hair to the striking violet eyes. They filled your life with joy but also with the heavy burden of secrets.
Daemon had always been a source of both comfort and danger. From your earliest days, his wild spirit had captivated you. As children, you shared stolen moments, laughter echoing in empty halls. But it wasn’t until that fateful night that everything changed.
The moon hung low in the sky, casting silvery light through the window as you wandered through the quiet corridors of the Keep. You had just finished a long evening with Viserys, who had retreated to his chambers, exhausted by the weight of the crown. Sleep eluded you, and instead, you found yourself drawn to the warmth of Daemon’s presence.
You found him in the training yard, practicing with his sword, his movements fluid and graceful. The sight of him sent a shiver down your spine. “Daemon,” you called softly, and he turned, a grin breaking across his face.
“Come to watch me practice, sister?” he teased, wiping sweat from his brow, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that sent your heart racing.
“Perhaps I came for more than that,” you replied, a playful smile tugging at your lips, your pulse quickening as he stepped closer.
“Is that so?” he said, stepping into your personal space, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “What else would you want from me?”
His teasing words wrapped around you like silk, igniting a familiar spark. “Maybe I just wanted to remind you how reckless you are,” you said, trying to sound lighthearted, but the tension in the air crackled with unspoken possibilities.
“Reckless is my middle name,” Daemon replied, his eyes glinting mischievously. “And you know you love it.”
As the moon climbed higher, you found yourselves drawn together, sharing secrets and laughter, as you had done so many times before. But this time felt different. The air was charged with unspoken words, and as he stepped closer, your heart raced.
“Why do you settle for a life of shadows?” Daemon asked, his voice low and intimate. “You deserve more than a king’s duty. You deserve passion, fire.”
His words ignited something within you, and before you knew it, you were in his arms, surrendering to the heat of the moment. The world outside faded away as you shared a kiss filled with longing and need. It felt reckless, dangerous—but also liberating.
That night changed everything. You knew you had crossed a line, yet in Daemon’s embrace, you felt alive in a way you hadn’t for years. The two of you slipped into a world of passion, hidden from the prying eyes of the court.
The days turned into weeks, and your secret meetings continued, each encounter more charged than the last. With each kiss and stolen touch, you found yourself falling deeper into a web of desire. You had become entwined in a dangerous dance, a secret world only the two of you inhabited.
As time passed, you realized you were pregnant. The thought sent your mind racing—how would you face Viserys? You had already borne three children Rhaenyra, Daerys and Rhaella, but this time felt different. The connection you shared with Daemon was undeniable and even stronger then before, and as your pregnancy progressed, you felt the weight of your deception more than ever.
When the time came, you gave birth to your first son, Aegon, followed by your daughter, Rhaena, then two more sons, Jaerys and Daemon II. Each child was a living testament to your love for Daemon, yet you presented them to Viserys as his own.
As your family grew, so did the tension. The kingdom seemed to sense the unrest, and whispers filled the court. Your children, all seven of them, were spirited and strong-willed—each one a reminder of the love you kept hidden. They laughed like Daemon, with their wild spirits shining through. But as much as you loved them, the burden of your secret grew heavier.
One evening, while the children played in the gardens, Daemon approached you, his expression a mix of mischief and seriousness. “You know they are mine as much as they are yours,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes.
You felt your heart race. “They are Targaryens, Daemon. They are both of ours.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “you hide that truth like a secret sin.”
“Because it is a sin,” you replied, a rush of defiance in your voice. “What would Viserys think?”
“Viserys deserves the truth, as do you,” Daemon replied, his intensity unwavering. “You deserve to live without hiding in the shadows.”
His words resonated deep within you. “And what would you have me do? Tell him everything and tear our family apart?”
Daemon’s eyes softened. “We could build something new. A family that embraces the truth instead of living a lie.”
———————
The weeks turned into months, and the tension within your heart grew unbearable. The laughter of your children became both a comfort and a reminder of your deception. You often found yourself lost in thought, staring at the faces of your children, wondering what the future held for them and for you.
During a particularly stormy afternoon, Daemon visited the nursery where you sat with your children. They were playing, their wild laughter filling the room, but you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders.
Daemon leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a soft smile. “They are beautiful,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
“They remind me of you,” you replied, your heart swelling as you watched them. “Every day, I see your spirit in them.”
He stepped closer, the air between you charged with unspoken words. “What will you do when the storm clears? Will you stand with me?”
You met his gaze, the tension palpable. “I don’t know, Daemon. I want to protect them, but I also don’t want to lose everything.”
“You won’t lose me,” he vowed, stepping closer. “We’ll find a way to make this work. Together.”
Just then, Aegon ran over, tugging at your skirts. “Mother, can we go outside? The rain stopped!”
You smiled, ruffling his hair. “Of course, my love. Let’s gather your siblings.”
As the children dashed outside, you felt a momentary sense of peace wash over you. You watched them play, their laughter echoing in the courtyard, but the reality of your situation loomed overhead.
Later that evening, after the children were settled for the night, you found yourself alone with Daemon in the quiet of your chamber. The door was closed, but the tension in the air was almost tangible.
“Are you ready to confront Viserys again?” Daemon asked, his voice low.
You sighed, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know if I can. He’s been hurt, and I can see it in his eyes.”
“But he deserves to know that you still love him,” Daemon insisted, stepping closer. “You owe him that truth.”
“And what of you?” you countered, searching his gaze. “Do you think he can accept us?”
Daemon reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch igniting a spark. “If he loves you, he will find a way. But you must be honest with him.”
You felt your heart race at his closeness, the air thick with tension. “What if I can’t bear to see him hurt?”
“Then don’t think about that. Think about what we can create together,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours. “A family built on love and honesty.”
His words resonated deep within you, and before you knew it, you were in his arms again, surrendering to the fire that had always burned between you. The kiss was a promise, a vow to fight for what you believed in, no matter the cost.
Later this night, after a particularly difficult day, you found yourself unable to sleep. The weight of your secrets pressed down on you, and you slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb your husband. You made your way to Daemon’s chambers again, drawn by an irresistible pull.
He was waiting for you, leaning against the window, the flickering candlelight illuminating his sharp features. “You came,” he said, relief washing over his face.
“I couldn’t stay away,” you admitted, stepping closer, the storm outside a mere backdrop to the tempest within.
“Troubled?” he asked, studying your face.
“More like… torn,” you replied, the weight of your emotions spilling out. “I can’t keep living this lie.”
“Then don’t,” Daemon said, stepping closer, the space between you charged with electricity. “Tell him the truth. We can face whatever comes together.”
His proximity made your heart race. “What if it shatters everything?” you whispered, looking into his intense gaze.
“Then we’ll rebuild,” he replied, his voice steady. “With our love as the foundation.”
You leaned in, capturing his lips with yours, pouring all your doubts and fears into that kiss. It was a promise—a vow to fight for the love you shared, no matter the cost. As you pulled away, breathless, you felt a sense of determination rising within you.
“Then we will fight,” you said, resolve hardening in your voice. “We will find a way to protect our children and claim our love.”
—————
The next day, as you prepared for dinner, your heart raced at the thought of what was to come. Would you be able to confront Viserys? As you laid in bed that night, the darkness enveloping you, you felt a surge of determination.
The following evening, you gathered the courage to speak with Viserys. The weight of your confession felt unbearable, but Daemon’s words echoed in your mind. You had to tell him the truth.
As you sat across from Viserys, the soft flicker of candlelight danced between you, and the weight of your secret felt insurmountable. “Viserys,” you began, your voice trembling. “There’s something I must tell you.”
He looked up, concern etched on his face. “What is it, my love?”
You took a deep breath, the truth burning on the tip of your tongue. “It’s about the children… and Daemon.”
Viserys’s expression shifted, confusion mingling with concern. “What do you mean?”
You steeled yourself, pouring your heart into the words. “They are not.. yours, Viserys. They are Daemon’s. Our love… it created them.”
The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Viserys’s eyes widened in shock, and you could see the pain in his gaze as he processed your confession. “How could you—”
“I never meant to hurt you,” you interrupted, tears welling in your eyes. “But I cannot deny the truth. Daemon and I… we’ve always shared a bond deeper than I realized.”
Viserys sat back, his expression a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. “You chose him over me. Over our family.”
“It wasn’t a choice,” you pleaded, your voice breaking. “It was something that happened—a connection that was always there. I tried to fight it, but I can’t hide anymore.”
Viserys’s face hardened, the hurt evident in his eyes. “You have betrayed me, and for that, I cannot forgive you easily.”
Your heart sank as the reality of your actions settled in. “Please, Viserys. I still love you.. it was just not enough... The children love you. This doesn’t have to end everything.”
As the weight of your words hung in the air, Daemon stepped into the room, his presence electric. The tension escalated as Viserys’s eyes narrowed at his brother.
“You,” Viserys spat, rising to his feet. “You’ve corrupted her.”
“Viserys, wait—” you tried to interject, but Daemon held up a hand.
“Let me speak,” Daemon said, his voice steady. “This was not just my doing. It was a shared choice, one that reflects the true nature of our bloodline. We are Targaryens, and we are bound by love and fire.”
Viserys’s expression was a mixture of rage and hurt, and you felt your heart breaking as you watched the man you once loved confront the man who had become your everything. “You think this is love?” Viserys said bitterly. “You’ve destroyed my family.”
“No, brother, it was never yours.. but mine” Daemon replied firmly. “We can build something new, one that embraces the truth instead of hiding from it. My children deserve to know their true heritage.”
The air crackled with tension as the three of you stood on the precipice of change. Viserys’s gaze flicked between you and Daemon, and you could see the struggle within him.
“Is this what you truly want?” he asked, his voice strained. “To tear apart what we built?”
You stepped forward, desperation flooding your voice. “I want us all to find a way to coexist. The children need both of us. They need love, not division.”
Viserys stared at you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “And what of your love for him? How can I trust you again?”
“I will prove it to you,” you promised, your heart racing. “I will do whatever it takes to mend this. We can find a path forward.”
As you stood together, the three of you—once torn apart by secrets—now united by the truth, you felt a sense of determination rise within you. The journey ahead would be fraught with challenges, but with Daemon and Viserys by your side, you would face it together.
The following days were filled with tension and uncertainty. The court buzzed with rumors, and whispers about your family echoed through the halls. You took solace in your children, their laughter a balm for your troubled heart. Rhaenyra, Daerys, Rhaella, Aegon, Rhaena, Jaerys, and Daemon II were the light in your life, and you vowed to protect them at all costs, but maybe king’s landing wasn’t the best option to raised them and the way Daemon was looking at her make her understand that’s soon things will changed.. again.
Aemond saw for the first time since Luc death, his niece the princess Lyra Velaryon on the battle of rook rest.
What if there might be another ending for the Targaryen?
My request are open.. I need ideas pls🫶🏼
“A Love Amidst the Flames”
The skies above Rook’s Rest were heavy with the scent of smoke and the promise of impending battle. Aemond Targaryen, perched atop Vhagar, scanned the horizon, his heart racing with a mix of anticipation and dread. His thoughts, however, were not on the strategy or the clash of armies. Instead, they were drawn to a figure soaring through the clouds on Silverwing, Jace twin sister the fierce and determined Lyra Velaryon.
As she approached, her long curly hair with a mix of white and black streamed behind her like a banner of defiance, her armor gleaming under the sun. Aemond felt a familiar ache in his chest. He had fought hard to bury his feelings for her, but the sight of her, clad in battle-ready gear, reignited a fire within him. She was a warrior, brave and resolute, unlike anyone else he had ever known.
Lyra had always understood him in ways that others did not. Their encounters in the shadows of the Keep had been filled with whispered dreams and shared laughter—a fleeting taste of a connection he had long desired. She had pushed him to embrace the strength of his lineage rather than hide from it, igniting a passion in him that he couldn’t ignore.
As she drew closer, Aemond’s resolve wavered. He had come to Rook’s Rest with the intent to defeat Rhaenyra’s forces, to reclaim his family’s honor, but seeing Lyra atop Silver Wing made his heart race for a different reason. The conflict within him grew—he had sworn to uphold his family’s name, yet the bond he felt with her made him hesitate.
“Stay back!” Lyra called out, her voice strong and unwavering. “This is my fight!”
Aemond tightened his grip on Vhagar’s reins, his heart torn. “You shouldn’t be here, Lyra!” he shouted, the words spilling from his lips before he could stop them. “You’re putting yourself in danger!”
Her fierce gaze met his, filled with determination and defiance. “And you think I would stand aside while my family fights? I will not be a pawn in this game any longer.”
Vhagar growled lowly, sensing Aemond’s turmoil, yet he could not bring himself to give the command to attack. The dragon’s instincts told him to defend his rider, but the sight of Lyra fueled a different instinct entirely—one of love and longing. Aemond knew that any attack would mean hurting her, or worst, and that was something he could never do.
As their dragons hovered in the air, the battle below raged on. Aemond could see his allies readying themselves for a confrontation, and the weight of duty pressed heavily on his shoulders. “This isn’t just about us,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “It’s about our families, our kingdoms.”
Lyra’s expression softened, her resolve faltering for just a moment. “I know what’s at stake, Aemond. But I won’t back down. I can’t. Not when everything is on the line.”
For a heartbeat, the world around them faded—the sounds of battle, the cries of warriors, the clash of steel—all became distant echoes as they locked eyes. In that moment, Aemond saw not just his opponent, but the girl he had fallen for, the fierce spirit that captivated him from the start.
“You’re too important to me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t let you get hurt.”
“I can take care of myself,” she replied, but there was a flicker of understanding in her gaze. “Just as you can. We can face this together, Aemond.”
With the weight of their destinies hanging in the balance, Aemond felt the decision settle within him. He would not betray her; he could not let their families’ feud dictate the course of their hearts. “Then let’s find a way to end this without further bloodshed,” he suggested, his voice steadier now.
Lyra nodded, a spark of hope igniting in her eyes. “Together, we can convince them to listen. There has to be another way.”
As they turned their dragons away from the battlefield, Aemond felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with fear. They soared high above the chaos, gliding through the skies that had once seemed so foreboding. The winds whipped around them, but in that moment, Aemond felt free, their shared resolve propelling them forward.
“Where do we go?” Lyra asked, her brow furrowed in thought.
“Let’s find a place to land where we can speak without the prying eyes of the court,” Aemond suggested, recalling a secluded glen not far from the battlefield. It was a place he and Lyra had once played as children, a sanctuary far removed from the politics of the court.
They landed in the clearing, dismounting as their dragons settled nearby. The sound of battle was muted here, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the chirping of distant birds. Aemond turned to Lyra, his heart pounding. “We can’t let them destroy each other,” he began, urgency in his voice. “Our families are caught in a cycle of hatred, and we’re the only ones who can break it.”
Lyra’s expression was fierce. “But how? They see us as enemies. We need to show them that unity is stronger than division.”
Aemond stepped closer, the space between them charged with tension. “What if we propose a truce? A meeting where both sides can discuss their grievances without swords drawn?”
“Do you really think they’ll listen?” she asked, doubt creeping into her voice.
“If we stand together, they will have no choice but to pay attention,” he replied, his voice steady. “You and I have always been stronger together. We can be the bridge they need.”
Lyra studied him for a moment, the weight of their families’ legacies hanging between them. “It’s a risk. But if we don’t try, we’ll lose everything. Not just our families, but ourselves.”
Aemond reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “Then let’s do this together. For us, for our families, for a future where we’re not defined by bloodshed.”
She squeezed his hand, her gaze steady. “Together.”
As they crafted their plan, Aemond felt a sense of purpose solidifying within him. They shared stories of their childhood, recalling moments of laughter that felt like lifetimes ago. The more they spoke, the more the tension between them shifted into something deeper—a bond forged not just by duty, but by shared dreams and desires.
But their moment of peace was short-lived. The sounds of battle began to intensify again, echoing in the distance. Aemond and Lyra exchanged worried glances. They needed to act quickly.
“We must return,” Aemond urged, his heart racing. “We need to gather support for our proposal.”
They mounted their dragons once more, the urgency of their mission fueling their flight. As they soared back toward the battlefield, Aemond’s mind raced with thoughts of how to present their plan. Would their families be willing to listen? Would the hatred that had festered for so long be able to be quelled by the simple words of two determined hearts?
As they descended, they spotted the assembled forces—both Rhaenyra’s and Aemond’s—poised for conflict. The tension was palpable, swords drawn and dragons roaring in the sky above.
Aemond took a deep breath, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders. “We’ll announce our intentions together,” he said, his heart pounding. “If they see us united, they may reconsider.”
Lyra nodded, her expression fierce. “For all the families we love, we have to try.”
They landed amidst their respective armies, the eyes of warriors upon them. Aemond stepped forward, Lyra at his side, and raised his voice above the clamor. “Brothers and sisters of House Targaryen, we come not as enemies, but as advocates for peace.”
The crowd fell silent, confusion rippling through the ranks. Aemond’s heart raced as he continued, “Our families are locked in a cycle of violence that threatens to consume us all. We propose a truce—a chance to lay down our swords and listen to one another.”
Gasps erupted from the soldiers, and whispers spread like wildfire. Lyra stepped forward, her voice ringing clear. “We cannot let our legacy be defined by bloodshed and hatred. We have the power to change our fate. Together, we can build a future where love and unity prevail.”
Aemond watched as the soldiers shifted, uncertainty painted on their faces. But then, a voice rose from the crowd—one of Rhaenyra’s loyalists. “You expect us to believe that you two can end this war? You’re merely children playing at peace!”
The words struck like a dagger, and Aemond felt a surge of fear. “We may be young, but we understand the cost of this war better than anyone. We’ve lost too much already—family, friends, hope.”
Another voice chimed in, this time from Aemond’s side. “What do you suggest instead? Another battle? More bloodshed?”
Aemond seized the moment, stepping further into the crowd. “We must choose to unite rather than divide. We owe it to our ancestors, to the legacy of House Targaryen. Let us sit down, listen to one another, and forge a new path.”
Lyra stood beside him, radiating strength. “This is our chance to redefine what it means to be Targaryens. To show that we can be united in purpose, even if our paths have diverged.”
The murmurs intensified, and Aemond could feel the weight of their words settling in the hearts of those around them. Slowly, he saw heads nodding, expressions shifting from hostility to contemplation.
But as hope flickered, Aemond’s heart sank when he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd—an ally turned foe, ready to disrupt their fragile peace. He stepped forward, his face twisted in disdain. “You dare suggest peace after all this? You are traitors!”
Aemond felt Lyra’s hand tighten around his. “We’re not traitors; we’re dreamers seeking a better future. This war will only lead to more suffering!”
The figure laughed, a cruel sound that echoed through the air. “You think you can change centuries of bloodshed with pretty words? You’re fools!”
Aemond felt the anger surge within him, but he forced himself to remain calm. “Perhaps we are fools. But we are fools willing to try.”
The air crackled with tension, and just as it seemed the moment might shatter, a voice broke through the din. It was one of Rhaenyra’s most trusted advisors. “What if we hear them out? What do we have to lose by listening?”
A shift occurred, and the crowd began to murmur. Aemond’s heart raced as he exchanged a glance with Lyra. Could it be that their message was taking root?
“Let us have a council,” the advisor continued. “A meeting to discuss terms, grievances, and hopes for our families. We owe it to ourselves to explore this possibility.”
Aemond felt the tide of sentiment shifting, hope blooming like a flower in the harshest of winters. As the murmurs of agreement spread, he turned to Lyra, their eyes locking in shared determination.
With the warriors now engaged in a dialogue rather than drawing swords, Aemond stepped closer to her. “We did it,” he said, breathless. “We opened a door.”
Lyra smiled, a mixture of relief and exhilaration washing over her. “This is just the beginning, Aemond. We must keep fighting for peace, together.”
As the council was convened, Aemond and Lyra stood side by side, united in purpose. They listened intently to the discussions, advocating for their vision of a united Targaryen legacy. With each word spoken, they felt the walls of animosity beginning to crumble, brick by brick.
Time passed slowly in the clearing, the sun dipping low in the sky. Aemond felt a weight lift as the Targaryens began to voice their hopes rather than their grievances. Ideas flowed—suggestions for alliances, reparations, and new terms for a lasting peace. Lyra spoke passionately, her voice cutting through the tension, her conviction palpable.
But as the discussions progressed, Aemond could sense that some were still hesitant. Old grudges and bitter feelings lingered like shadows, ready to pounce. He knew that one wrong word could send everything spiraling back into chaos.
Aemond leaned closer to Lyra, their shoulders brushing together. “We need a decisive moment,” he whispered. “Something to rally everyone behind our cause.”
Lyra nodded thoughtfully, her brow furrowed in concentration. “What if we proposed a joint celebration? A feast to mark this truce and symbolize our unity? It would show that we can come together, despite our differences.”
Aemond’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant! A festival of sorts, where we can celebrate our shared heritage and remind everyone of our bonds.”
As they discussed the details, Aemond felt a surge of hope. He had always admired Lyra’s intelligence and spirit, but now, as they brainstormed together, he saw how deeply their connection had grown. This was more than just a shared mission; it was a partnership forged in the fires of conflict and tempered by a shared vision for a brighter future.
Hours passed, and finally, the council reached a consensus. Aemond and Lyra stood before the gathered Targaryens, their hearts racing. “We propose a feast at Dragonstone,” Aemond declared, his voice echoing through the clearing. “A celebration of our unity, where we will honor our ancestors and the bond that ties us as Targaryens.”
The response was immediate—cheers erupted from the crowd, voices lifting in agreement. The momentum had shifted, and Aemond felt the weight of their collective hope.
Lyra stepped forward, her voice strong. “This feast will be our declaration of peace. It is a chance to heal old wounds and build new alliances.”
As the council wrapped up, Aemond felt a sense of relief wash over him. They had done it—they had sparked a glimmer of hope in a time of darkness. But as they walked away from the clearing, hand in hand, Aemond could not shake the feeling that their journey was far from over.
Days passed in a blur of preparation for the feast. As Dragonstone transformed into a vibrant setting filled with laughter, music, and food, Aemond found himself consumed by the weight of expectation. This was their moment, but the stakes were high.
Lyra was a whirlwind of energy, rallying support and encouraging those who still harbored doubts. Aemond admired her tenacity, watching her as she moved through the crowd, her presence magnetic. It reminded him of their childhood—how she had always been a beacon of light, guiding him through his darkest moments.
On the night of the feast, the grand hall of Dragonstone was adorned with banners and flowers, the air thick with anticipation. Aemond stood at the head of the table, looking out at the faces of his family and their allies. He felt a mix of pride and anxiety.
Lyra took her place beside him, her presence calming. “We can do this,” she whispered, squeezing his hand reassuringly.
As the feast began, laughter and music filled the air. Aemond watched as old rivals shared drinks, and the atmosphere shifted from one of tension to camaraderie. It was a sight he had never thought possible. He felt a swell of hope—a tangible promise of change.
When the time came for speeches, Aemond stood, his heart pounding in his chest. “Tonight, we gather not as enemies, but as kin. We are Targaryens, bound by blood and destiny. Let us honor our ancestors and forge a new path together.” His voice rang out with conviction.
The applause that followed was thunderous, echoing off the stone walls. Aemond felt a rush of warmth and relief. But as he glanced at Lyra, he saw a shadow of concern in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.
“It’s just… some are still uncertain. They’re waiting for a sign,” she replied, her voice low.
Aemond furrowed his brow, his mind racing. “We need to give them that sign. Something powerful.”
As the night wore on, Aemond and Lyra shared knowing glances, the unspoken bond between them strengthening with each passing moment. They moved through the crowd, laughing and engaging with their guests, but the pressure to prove their commitment to peace hung over them like a storm cloud.
Finally, as the stars began to twinkle overhead, Aemond felt a sudden surge of inspiration. “Let’s have a toast,” he announced, raising his goblet high. “To our families, to our past, and to a future filled with hope and unity.”
Lyra joined him, her eyes sparkling. “And to the bonds we share, stronger than any feud.”
As they raised their goblets, the hall fell silent. Aemond felt the weight of the moment settle upon him. “May we be guided by love, not hatred, and may this night mark the beginning of a new era for House Targaryen.”
As they drank, the tension in the room began to dissolve, replaced by an air of camaraderie. The guests began to join in, raising their own goblets in agreement. Aemond caught sight of the hesitant faces softening, the shadows of doubt lifting.
Suddenly, the doors of the hall burst open, and a figure strode in—a familiar warrior, one of Rhaenyra’s most loyal knights. Aemond’s heart raced as he recognized him, unsure of what to expect.
“Forgive my interruption,” the knight announced, his voice loud enough to be heard over the music. “But I have come to express my support for the truce.”
Aemond’s breath caught in his throat. “You… you wish to support our cause?”
The knight nodded, his expression resolute. “I have fought for Rhaenyra for years, but I see the truth now. The cycle of bloodshed must end. If you are willing to unite, so am I.”
The hall erupted into cheers, the atmosphere electric with renewed hope. Aemond turned to Lyra, a smile breaking across his face. This was the sign they had been waiting for.
As the celebration continued, the atmosphere shifted, and old grudges began to fade away, replaced by shared laughter and stories of the past. Aemond and Lyra moved through the crowd, soaking in the warmth of their families coming together. With every clink of goblets, every shared laugh, they felt their bond solidifying.
But just as the night seemed to reach its peak, a familiar voice cut through the revelry—a voice filled with anger and disdain. It was one of Aemond’s former allies, a bitter rival who had long resisted any notion of peace.
“This is madness!” he shouted, glaring at Aemond and Lyra. “You think this will last? We are Targaryens! We were born to rule, not to cower before our enemies!”
Aemond felt a surge of anger rising within him, but Lyra stepped forward, her presence commanding attention. “We are not cowering; we are choosing a different path. A path that values unity over division. You can choose to join us, or continue down a road that leads to destruction.”
The hall fell silent, all eyes on the rival. Aemond’s heart raced, the tension palpable. Would he dismiss their plea for peace?
Slowly, the rival’s expression shifted, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “And what if you fail? What if you’re betrayed?”
Lyra met his gaze, her voice unwavering. “We will face those challenges together. We are stronger united, and we will not give up.”
Aemond stepped forward, his voice steady. “This is our chance to prove that Targaryens can be more than warriors—we can be builders of a new legacy. Will you stand with us?”
The rival hesitated, glancing around at the faces of their kin, many of whom wore expressions of hope. Finally, he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Very well. I will give this truce a chance.”
The hall erupted into cheers again, the spirit of unity filling the air. Aemond looked at Lyra, their hearts racing in sync. They had forged a path toward peace, but they knew that their journey was only beginning.
As the night wore on, they danced together under the stars, their laughter blending with the music, a reflection of the bond they had forged. Aemond held her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his. “No matter what challenges we face, we’ll face them together,” he promised.
Lyra smiled, her eyes bright with determination. “Always.”
As the festivities continued, Aemond felt a profound sense of purpose. He had once been caught in the shadows of his family’s legacy, but now, standing beside Lyra, he felt empowered to carve out a new destiny—one built on love, hope, and the promise of a brighter future.
In that moment, Aemond knew that together, they would rise above the flames of conflict and pave the way for a new era—one where their love could flourish amidst the ashes of war.
Aegon was always very closed of his little sister Daeris, but when he was in aged to get married his mother the queen alicent decided to not choose Daeris for him, too afraid of what the both of them were capable..
Request are open 🫶🏼
Bound by fire
In the heart of the Red Keep, Aegon Targaryen often felt the weight of his crown pressing down on him, a reminder of the responsibilities and expectations that came with the throne. Yet, amidst the court’s scheming and whispers, there was one person who understood him completely: his younger sister, Daeris. From their earliest days, they had shared a bond that transcended the confines of royal duty, a connection forged in laughter and secret dreams.
As children, they often escaped the confines of the palace, sneaking into the gardens where the scent of blooming roses mingled with the promise of adventure. In those moments, they would share their hopes and fears, each confiding in the other as if they were the only two souls in a vast, uncaring world.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be free?” Daeris would ask, her voice barely above a whisper as they lay on the grass, the stars twinkling overhead.
“Every day,” Aegon would reply, a mix of yearning and longing in his gaze. “But we are Targaryens; our duty binds us to this throne, whether we like it or not.”
Yet even within the constraints of their noble lineage, Daeris’s laughter brought him solace. She had a way of finding light in the darkest corners, a gift that made the burdens of their heritage seem lighter, if only for a moment.
As they grew older, the shadows of their mother, Queen Alicent, loomed larger. Alicent’s ambitions for Aegon consumed her, and she often reminded him of the expectations placed upon him. “You must think of the realm, Aegon. Your duty is to your family and your crown,” she would insist, her voice both commanding and fearful.
Aegon understood his mother’s perspective but felt increasingly suffocated by her constraints. The pressure to conform to the expectations of a future king often drove him to seek solace in Daeris. Late at night, when the palace was quiet and the stars filled the sky, he would find her in the gardens, lost in thought.
“Daeris,” he would call softly, and she would turn, a smile breaking across her face that melted away his worries. “What are you thinking about?”
“About the future,” she would reply, her eyes sparkling with ambition. “What if we could change things? What if we could create a kingdom where love and strength prevail?”
He would draw her close, holding her tightly. “With you by my side, I believe anything is possible.”
But as the years passed and the responsibilities of kingship loomed nearer, the weight of their love became an unbearable secret. Alicent grew increasingly suspicious of their bond, fearing the power it could wield. “You must keep your distance, Aegon,” she warned. “The world will not accept what you share. It is a dangerous path.”
Despite her fears, Aegon felt an undeniable pull toward Daeris. Their moments together became more precious, their stolen glances filled with unspoken words. He cherished their shared laughter, the way her presence lit up his darkest days.
On the eve of his coronation, Aegon wrestled with his conflicting emotions. The throne was finally within reach, but the thought of ruling without Daeris by his side felt like a betrayal of everything they had dreamed of together. As he sat in his chambers, staring at the Iron Throne, he knew he had to make a choice that would change everything.
The day of the coronation dawned bright, but a storm brewed within Aegon. As he stood before the gathered lords and ladies of the realm, he felt the weight of their gazes, the expectation of his mother looming behind him. Yet, when he looked for Daeris, he saw her standing resolute among the crowd, her eyes filled with encouragement and love.
“My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice steady, though his heart raced. “Today marks not only the beginning of my reign but a new chapter for House Targaryen. I will not be the king who bends to fear or tradition. I will forge my own path.”
Alicent stepped forward, alarm flashing in her eyes. “Aegon, think carefully!” she implored, but he pressed on, unwavering.
“I hereby declare that Daeris, my sister, shall be my second wife.” His voice rang through the hall, and gasps echoed around him. The nobles were stunned, the tension palpable.
“Aegon, this is unwise,” Daeris whispered as she stepped forward, concern etched on her face.
“No,” he replied, determination surging within him. “It is time to embrace what we are. Together, we can unify this realm, harnessing the power of our bond. We will not be mere pawns in our mother’s game.”
The court held its breath as Daeris’s eyes widened. “But the consequences could be dire,” she cautioned. “The realm will never accept us..”
“Let them try,” Aegon said fiercely. “What we have is stronger than their fears. They will see that our union brings strength, not division. We can challenge the old ways and redefine the future of our house.”
As the silence stretched, Aegon felt a shift in the air, a subtle acknowledgment of their bond, a spark of acceptance that might just ignite a new path. Daeris looked deeply into his eyes, her trust in him unwavering.
“If this is what you truly want, I will stand by you,” she said softly, her heart racing with both excitement and fear. “We will face the storm together.”
With that, Aegon felt a rush of hope. The court remained silent, but he sensed a change, a ripple of acknowledgment that perhaps they could carve out their own destiny.
In the days that followed, their lives became a whirlwind of preparation and scrutiny. Aegon found himself navigating the political landscape, facing the pushback of nobles who could not fathom their union. Yet with each challenge, Daeris was his anchor. They would steal moments together, laughter echoing through the quiet corners of the palace.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Aegon found Daeris in the gardens, the light casting a golden glow around her. “You’ve been my strength through all of this,” he said, approaching her. “I don’t know how I would have faced the court without you.”
She turned, her smile warm and inviting. “We’re in this together, Aegon. We always have been. Our bond is stronger than any title or crown.”
Their hands found each other, fingers intertwining as they stood beneath the stars. “Do you ever think about what we dreamed of as children?” Aegon asked, his voice low. “A world where love could conquer fear?”
Daeris nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “Every day. And now, it feels like we have the chance to make that dream a reality.”
As the days turned into weeks, Aegon and Daeris continued to face opposition, but they remained steadfast. They attended feasts and council meetings, presenting a united front to those who dared to challenge their bond. With every whispered threat and glimmer of disapproval, their love deepened, transforming into an unbreakable force.
One fateful evening, during a grand feast, an ambitious lord rose to speak against them. “This union is an abomination!” he declared, his voice dripping with disdain. “You will bring ruin to the realm!”
Aegon felt anger surge within him, but Daeris placed a calming hand on his arm. “Let me,” she whispered. He nodded, stepping back to allow her to speak.
Daeris stood tall, her voice steady and clear. “Our love does not weaken the realm; it strengthens it. Together, we embody the unity that this kingdom so desperately needs. We are Targaryens, and our bond is a testament to the strength of our house.”
Her words hung in the air, and Aegon watched as some nobles shifted uneasily, their expressions softening. They had seen the depth of her conviction, the way her spirit shone when she spoke of their shared vision.
“Aegon and I share more than blood,” Daeris continued, her eyes piercing through the tension in the hall. “We share a vision for a future where love and loyalty prevail. Together, we will build a realm that serves all, not just the privileged few.”
The room fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in. Aegon felt a swell of pride for Daeris, knowing that her bravery was a reflection of their shared strength.
As the feast continued, whispers of approval began to ripple through the crowd. Aegon and Daeris exchanged a glance, the bond between them reaffirmed in that moment. They were not just siblings; they were partners in every sense, ready to face the challenges ahead.
In the weeks that followed, their relationship blossomed further. They spent evenings in the library, poring over ancient texts about their family history and the legacy they wished to create. Their discussions became fervent debates, laughter punctuating serious conversations as they envisioned a kingdom built on justice and love.
One night, as they studied a particularly ancient tome, Daeris leaned closer to Aegon, her hair brushing against his shoulder. “Do you ever feel like we’re meant to do this?” she asked softly, her breath warm against his skin. “To change the world?”
He turned to her, feeling the gravity of her words. “I do. With you, I feel like we can achieve anything. We are stronger together than apart.”
Daeris smiled, her expression radiant. “Then let’s not waste this chance. Let’s make the realm a better place, not just for us but for everyone.”
With each passing day, they plotted their reforms, improving the lives of the smallfolk, ensuring justice for the wronged, and uniting the divided houses of Westeros. Their shared ambition ignited a passion that made their bond deeper, a love that transcended mere sibling affection.
Yet, not all were supportive. As their popularity grew, so did the animosity from those who feared their union. A nobleman from a prominent house, feeling threatened by Aegon’s vision, began to rally dissenters, whispering poison into the ears of the court.
One evening, as Aegon and Daeris walked through the gardens, they overheard a group of nobles discussing their plans to undermine Aegon’s authority. Aegon’s jaw tightened, anger bubbling beneath the surface.
“We can’t let them get away with this,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “They’ll try to tear us apart.”
Daeris squeezed his hand, her gaze steady. “Then we must act swiftly. We can’t allow fear to dictate our future. We need to show them that our love is unshakeable.”
“Together,” he agreed, feeling the strength of her resolve fill him with determination.
Their strategy involved reaching out to the common folk, emphasizing that their union was a force for good. Aegon and Daeris began to hold public gatherings, inviting the smallfolk to speak and share their grievances. They listened intently, pledging to address their concerns and foster a more equitable kingdom.
One day, as they stood before a gathering crowd, Aegon spoke passionately about their vision. “We are Targaryens, but we are also your servants. We will fight for you, for your rights and your future. Our love will not just unite us; it will unite this kingdom.”
Daeris stepped forward, her voice clear and unwavering. “Together, we will build a realm where every voice is heard, where love is the guiding principle. We are here to serve, and we will not be afraid to challenge the status quo.”
The crowd erupted into cheers, their support invigorating. Aegon felt a surge of hope, knowing that with Daeris at his side, they could weather any storm. Their bond, once seen as a secret, now became a rallying cry for a new era.
But even as they garnered support, the forces against them grew more desperate. The nobleman, driven by his desire for power, orchestrated a scheme to undermine Aegon’s rule. He spread rumors of discontent and discord, painting Daeris as a puppet in Aegon’s grand plans.
One fateful night, as Aegon and Daeris were discussing their next steps in the library, the door burst open, and a group of nobles stormed in. “You have gone too far!” one of them shouted, eyes blazing with fury. “You threaten the very fabric of our realm!”
Aegon stepped protectively in front of Daeris, his heart racing. “You know nothing of our intentions. We are here to bring justice, not chaos.”
“Justice?” the nobleman scoffed. “You would tear apart the traditions that bind us together! Your love is an abomination that will ruin everything!”
Daeris stepped forward, her voice steady and resolute. “Our love is a strength, not a weakness. It represents hope for a future where fear no longer dictates our choices. We will not be silenced.”
Aegon’s heart swelled with pride as he watched her confront their enemies with such courage. “We will not cower before your threats,” he declared. “We will continue to fight for our vision, for our people, and for our love. And if we had to make the city burn of fire and blood with ours dragons then we will.. ”
The noblemen exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond. The tension in the room was palpable, but Aegon and Daeris stood firm, their hands clasped together—a united front against the opposition.
Days turned into weeks as the political landscape continued to shift. Aegon and Daeris worked tirelessly to strengthen their alliances and garner support from the common folk. They held gatherings, inviting everyone to share their stories and concerns. The more they listened, the more their bond solidified, transforming into a shared mission.
One evening, as they sat together in the gardens, Aegon turned to Daeris, his expression contemplative. “Do you ever worry about the future? About what it might hold for us?”
Daeris looked up at the stars, her gaze thoughtful. “Of course. But I believe that as long as we have each other, we can face anything. Our love is our greatest weapon.”
He smiled, feeling the warmth of her words envelop him. “With you, I feel invincible. We can reshape this kingdom together.”
As they continued to face challenges, their relationship deepened. They became each other’s confidants, allies, and best friends, navigating the complexities of their roles while holding tight to the dreams they shared.
But their trials were far from over. The nobleman’s campaign to discredit them intensified, culminating in a grand council meeting where he sought to undermine Aegon’s rule publicly. “This union threatens the stability of our realm!” he exclaimed, his voice rising above the murmurs of the gathered nobles. “Aegon’s judgment is clouded by his infatuation with his sister!”
Aegon felt the room grow tense, but he stood tall, fueled by the strength of Daeris’s presence beside him. “My sister is not my weakness; she is my strength,” he countered, his voice unwavering. “Together, we will build a realm that serves all, not just the privileged few.”
Daeris stepped forward, her gaze fierce. “Our love does not diminish the Targaryen legacy; it enhances it. We are committed to serving this kingdom, to listening to the voices of the people, and to creating a future where all can thrive.”
The tension in the hall was palpable, but there were whispers of support among the gathered nobles. Aegon felt a surge of hope; perhaps they were beginning to see the truth of their union.
As the council meeting concluded, Aegon and Daeris emerged into the cool evening air, their hearts racing with adrenaline. “Do you think we reached them?” Aegon asked, his breath still heavy from the confrontation.
“I believe we planted a seed of doubt in their minds,” Daeris replied, her eyes bright with determination. “We must keep pushing forward. The more we show our commitment to the people, the harder it will be for them to oppose us.”
Over the following weeks, Aegon and Daeris’s efforts began to bear fruit. Their gatherings grew larger, and they garnered support from unexpected allies. The common folk began to rally behind their vision, inspired by the unity they represented.
One afternoon, as they stood in front of a cheering crowd, Aegon felt a wave of exhilaration. “This is just the beginning,” he announced, his voice ringing with conviction. “Together, we will create a kingdom where love conquers fear, where every voice matters, and where our bond will become a symbol of hope for all not just of war again Rhaenyra and her bastards..”
Daeris’s heart swelled with pride as she watched her brother inspire the masses. They were not just siblings; they were champions of a new era.
But as their popularity grew, so did the desperation of their enemies. The nobleman who had opposed them continued to plot against them, seeking to exploit any weakness in their armor. He spread lies and rumors, attempting to turn the tide of public opinion against them.
One evening, Aegon and Daeris returned to the palace after a successful gathering. They were met by a somber Alicent, who had been visibly distressed.
“Aegon, there are rumors spreading like wildfire,” she warned, her voice shaky. “They claim that your union with Daeris is a danger to the realm. The council is divided, and they’re calling for a vote to question your legitimacy as king.”
Aegon felt a surge of panic. “What do we do? We can’t allow this to escalate.”
Daeris stepped forward, her eyes steady. “We confront them. We need to show them that our love is not a weakness; it is our greatest strength. We will not be cowed by their fears.”
In the following days, they prepared for a crucial council meeting. Aegon and Daeris crafted a passionate speech together, drawing from their shared vision for the kingdom. As they rehearsed, Aegon felt a sense of unity enveloping them.
On the day of the meeting, the tension in the council chamber was palpable. Lords and ladies filled the seats, their faces a mix of curiosity and disdain. Aegon and Daeris stood together at the front, their hands clasped firmly.
“My lords and ladies,” Aegon began, his voice steady despite the weight of scrutiny. “Today, we stand united, not just as brother and sister, but as partners dedicated to the future of this kingdom. Our bond is a symbol of strength, not weakness.”
Daeris stepped forward, her eyes fierce and unwavering. “We will not allow fear to dictate our choices. Our love represents hope, a chance for this kingdom to thrive. Together, we can create a realm where every voice is heard and respected.”
As they spoke, Aegon could feel the energy in the room shift. Some nobles shifted uncomfortably, while others nodded in agreement. Aegon and Daeris’s passion was infectious, and he could see that their message was resonating.
But then, the nobleman who had opposed them rose, his voice cutting through the air. “This union is unnatural! It undermines the very foundation of our realm!”
Aegon felt anger rise within him, but Daeris squeezed his hand, grounding him. “We are not asking for your acceptance; we are demanding your respect,” she declared. “Love knows no boundaries, and our bond will only strengthen the Targaryen legacy.”
The room fell silent, and for a moment, Aegon felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps they could win this battle together.
After what felt like an eternity, the council voted. Aegon and Daeris stood side by side, hands intertwined, as the results were announced. A narrow majority supported them, and a wave of relief washed over Aegon.
As the meeting adjourned, Daeris turned to him, her eyes sparkling with triumph. “We did it! Together.”
Aegon pulled her into a tight embrace, feeling the weight of their struggles lift momentarily. “This is just the beginning. We will continue to fight for our vision, for our people.”
In the following weeks, they faced renewed challenges, but their bond only grew stronger. Aegon and Daeris worked tirelessly, implementing reforms and listening to the concerns of the people. They became a force for change, their love inspiring hope throughout the realm.
Yet, even as they forged ahead, the specter of opposition loomed large. The nobleman, humiliated by their victory, grew increasingly desperate. He began to plot a more dangerous scheme, one that would put everything Aegon and Daeris had built at risk.
One fateful night, as Aegon and Daeris prepared to retire, a loud crash echoed through the halls. Aegon instinctively moved to protect Daeris, his heart racing. “Stay behind me,” he instructed, his voice firm.
As they stepped into the hallway, they were met by a group of armed men, their faces obscured by masks. The nobleman’s voice echoed through the shadows. “You’ve gone too far, Targaryens! It’s time to end this madness!”
Aegon’s heart raced as he drew Daeris close, their bond providing strength in the face of danger. “You will not harm us!” he shouted, his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him.
“Your reign ends tonight!” the nobleman hissed, his eyes filled with rage.
Daeris stepped forward, her expression fierce. “You underestimate us. Our love is a force that cannot be extinguished. We will fight for our future, no matter the cost.”
In that moment, Aegon felt the fire of determination ignite within him. They were more than siblings; they were warriors, united against the darkness threatening to tear them apart.
With a surge of adrenaline, Aegon charged forward, leading Daeris into the fray. Together, they fought back against their attackers, a whirlwind of strength and determination. They were not alone; the guards had been alerted, and soon the hall was filled with the sounds of clashing steel and cries of defiance.
As the battle raged, Aegon caught a glimpse of Daeris, her fierce spirit shining through as she defended herself with unwavering resolve. They moved in sync, each protecting the other, their bond forged in fire.
Finally, as the dust settled, the last of the attackers were subdued. Aegon turned to Daeris, breathless and exhilarated. “We did it!”
She nodded, her eyes bright with fierce determination. “We are stronger than they realize. Together, we can face anything.”
With their enemies vanquished, Aegon and Daeris emerged from the shadows, their love unbreakable, their resolve fortified. They would not allow anyone to tear them apart. They would forge ahead, side by side, as champions of a new era—a reign built on love, strength, and unwavering commitment to their people.
As they stood together, the weight of their shared struggles felt lighter. The future was uncertain, but Aegon knew that as long as they faced it together, there was nothing they could not overcome.
Their love had become a force of its own, inspiring hope across the realm and solidifying their place in history as not just a king and queen, but as beacons of change for all of Westeros.
Aemond x reader x sir criston (platonic) x rhaenyra (platonic)
Elena is the daughter of rhaenyra, and even if she was claimed as the daughter of Leanor, but she was in fact created during the union of the princess and sir criston..
Enjoy and don’t forget
Request are open ( please I beg you 🫶🏼🙏🏼)
Secrets and Shadows
The Red Keep thrummed with a tense energy, a palpable undercurrent of ambition and secrecy swirling in the air. Rhaenyra Targaryen paced in her chambers, cradling her newborn daughter, Elena, who slept soundly against her chest. The weight of her secret pressed heavily on her heart, the truth of Elena’s parentage a dangerous burden that could unravel the very fabric of her life.
Months had passed since that passionate night with Ser Criston Cole, a night filled with longing and reckless abandon that had ignited a fire within them both. When Rhaenyra discovered she was pregnant, fear gripped her. The implications were dire; a child born out of wedlock could bring ruin not only to her but also to the realm. So she made the decision that would haunt her: she would claim Elena as Laenor Velaryon’s daughter, ensuring her lineage and legacy remained intact.
In the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, she cradled Elena, her heart swelling with love and trepidation. The infant’s small features mirrored her own, and Rhaenyra could hardly bear the thought of losing her to the cruel judgments of the court.
As the months turned into years, Elena grew, her bright eyes and spirited nature becoming a source of joy for Rhaenyra. Yet, the secret weighed heavily on her, and she felt the shadow of the truth lurking, ready to pounce at any moment.
Among the court, Aemond Targaryen began to take notice of Elena. He had always been observant, and something about the girl caught his interest. Aemond’s curiosity shifted to obsession as he watched her, particularly drawn to a unique birthmark on her shoulder that mirrored one he bore himself. The resemblance intrigued him, leading him to ponder the girl’s true lineage.
One sunny afternoon, Aemond sought out Ser Criston, eager to gain insight into the knight who had so recently risen through the ranks. They found themselves in a secluded corner of the gardens, the atmosphere thick with tension.
“Ser Criston,” Aemond began, his casual tone belied by the sharpness in his gaze. “We need to talk about the princess’s daughter.”
Criston’s heart raced, instinctively sensing the direction of the conversation. “What about her?” he replied, striving to keep his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside.
“She’s remarkable,” Aemond said, leaning in closer, a predatory glint in his eye. “But there’s something peculiar—did you notice the birthmark on her shoulder? It’s quite distinctive, isn’t it?”
The words hit Criston like a blow, and a chill ran down his spine. “What are you insinuating, Prince Aemond?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain calm.
“I’m merely stating the facts,” Aemond replied, his smile betraying a sense of victory. “It makes one wonder about her true parentage... You have a similar mark, do you not?”
Criston felt the ground shift beneath him. Memories of that fateful night with Rhaenyra flooded back, and the implications of Aemond’s words clawed at him. “Elena is Laenor’s daughter,” he insisted, though doubt began to creep in.
“Is she?” Aemond pressed, a sly grin on his face. “It seems that the princess has woven quite the tale, doesn’t it? But I wonder if she’ll be able to keep it hidden from those who are truly observant.”
Criston stepped closer, the air between them crackling with tension. “You will not speak of her like that,” he warned, his voice low and fierce. “A women’s lineage is not a game.”
Aemond shrugged, feigning disinterest. “You’re quite defensive for someone who claims to have no stake in this. But it is intriguing, isn’t it? The way she looks at you—there’s a connection.”
The challenge in Aemond’s tone ignited a fire within Criston. “I care for Elena, yes, but that doesn’t give you the right to speculate. I will protect her and the Targaryen at all costs.”
“Protecting her may not be enough,” Aemond said, stepping back with a flourish. “Just remember, secrets have a way of surfacing in this court. If you truly wish to keep Elena safe, you might want to consider how much you reveal—especially to someone like me.”
With that, Aemond turned to leave, the weight of his insinuations hanging in the air. Criston felt a surge of anger and protectiveness welling within him. He could not allow anyone to threaten Elena.
As the days turned into weeks, Criston found himself increasingly drawn to the pair, shadowing her throughout the castle, his instincts on high alert. He watched Rhaenyra readswith Elena, their laughter echoing through the halls, and he felt a fierce protectiveness blossom in his heart.
One evening, as Rhaenyra and Elena were walking in the gardens, Criston approached, a smile breaking through the tension that had gripped him for so long. “May I join you, my lady?” he asked, kneeling beside them.
“Of course, Sir Criston,” Rhaenyra replied, her eyes lighting up. Elena smiled, reaching for his hand, her fingers wrapping around his own.
“She’s getting gorgeous every day,” Criston said, watching Elena with a mixture of pride and love. “You’ve done well, Rhaenyra.”
Rhaenyra’s expression softened as she looked at him. “Thank you Sir Criston... I couldn’t have done it without your support.”
Criston felt a swell of emotion at her words, the bond they shared deepening. “I will always be here for her, for both of you,” he promised, his voice firm. “I won’t let anyone threaten your safety or Elena’s.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze turned serious. “But you must also protect yourself. The court is a dangerous place, and Aemond’s curiosity could easily turn into something more malicious.”
Criston shook his head, resolve hardening within him. “I won’t let Aemond or anyone else dictate our fates. I’ll face whatever challenges come our way to keep Elena safe.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the garden, Criston felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would shield Elena from the dangers that lurked in the shadows. The world around her might be fraught with treachery, but within their small circle, he vowed to create a sanctuary.
Days passed, and Aemond’s obsession grew, his sharp eyes always lingering on Elena. Criston sensed the danger rising, and every encounter with Aemond left him feeling more on edge. He could not shake the feeling that Aemond was plotting something.
One afternoon, Criston confronted Rhaenyra. “We need to speak about Aemond. His interest in Elena is becoming too intense.”
Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed with concern. “What do you mean?”
“I fear he may try to use her against you, to expose the truth and worst if he want to have her as his wife..” Criston replied, his voice low and urgent. “We cannot allow that to happen.”
Rhaenyra’s expression turned grave. “Then we must be vigilant. Elena’s safety is paramount.”
Criston reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. “I will not let anything happen to either of you. I swear it.”
As they shared that moment of solidarity, Criston felt a surge of determination. He knew he had to confront Aemond directly, to make it clear that he would do anything to protect Elena from his schemes.
The next time Criston encountered Aemond in the halls, he approached him with purpose. “Aemond, we need to talk.”
Aemond looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “What is it, Ser Criston? More threats? I find them rather entertaining.”
“Leave Elena out of your games,” Criston warned, his voice low and fierce. “She is a child, not a pawn for your amusement.”
Aemond raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oh, a child really? She’s 17 Sir Criston, but I’m simply fascinated by her. She has the Targaryen fire in her, does she not?”
“She is more than that,” Criston shot back. “She is Rhaenyra’s daughter, and I will not allow you to put her in danger.”
Aemond stepped closer, their faces mere inches apart. “You’re quite protective of her. It’s touching, really. But you should know—there are consequences to defying me.”
Criston’s heart raced with anger and protectiveness. “I’m not afraid of you, Aemond. You may think you have the upper hand, but I will do whatever it takes to safeguard Elena.”
As Criston turned to leave, he felt Aemond’s gaze burning into his back, the tension thick in the air. He knew the game was far from over, but he would not falter. He would protect his family, no matter the cost.
Back in the safety of her chambers, Rhaenyra awaited Criston’s return. When he entered, she could see the tension in his posture, the fire in his eyes.
“What happened?” she asked, concern etching her features.
“Aemond thinks he can use Elena against us,” Criston said, pacing the floor. “I confronted him. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”
Rhaenyra moved closer, placing a hand on his arm. “You’ve done well to stand up to him. But we must be cautious. He’s dangerous.”
Criston looked down at her, his resolve hardening. “I won’t let him take either of you from me. She’s my family, my blood, and I will protect her at all cost.”
As he spoke those words, Rhaenyra felt the weight of their situation lift slightly. In the midst of the turmoil, there was solace in knowing that they were united in this fight. Together, they would navigate the treacherous waters of court intrigue, determined to keep their secret safe and their family intact.
In that moment, as they stood together, Rhaenyra felt a spark of hope ignite within her. They would face the challenges ahead with strength and courage, knowing that their bond was unbreakable.
The road would be fraught with danger, but together, they would overcome whatever obstacles lay in their path. For Elena, for their future, and for the love that had blossomed in the shadows, they would stand firm against the storm.
She’s the twin sister of Jace in it and she is at king’s landing since the death of the king.. enjoy
Request are open 🫶🏼
The Pull of Destiny
The moon hung high over King’s Landing, casting silvery light across the sprawling gardens of the Red Keep. For Lyanna Velaryon, twin sister of Jace, the stillness of the night belied the tumult that had recently engulfed her family. In the wake of the king’s injury, the atmosphere was charged with uncertainty, and her heart felt heavy with the weight of expectation.
In the lush gardens, she sought refuge among the fragrant blooms, their delicate petals a stark contrast to the chaos swirling within her mind. Memories of Aemond Targaryen filled her thoughts—his boyish laughter, the way he had always been drawn to her warmth, and the moments they had shared that now seemed distant yet impossibly close.
When Aemond entered the garden, his tall silhouette was framed by the moonlight, and Lyanna’s breath caught in her throat. There was a fierce intensity in his gaze, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. As he approached, she felt the familiar pull of their connection, but the tension of their current situation made her wary.
“Aemond,” she greeted, forcing a calmness into her voice. “What brings you here at this hour?”
“I had to see you,” he replied, urgency lacing his tone. “We need to talk about what’s happening—about us.”
Her heart raced, a mix of excitement and dread coursing through her. “What is there to discuss? The court is in disarray, and your mother—”
“Is irrelevant,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “I can’t pretend anymore. I want you, Lyanna, and I need you to understand that.”
Lyanna felt a flutter in her stomach, a mix of desire and fear. “You know how complicated this is, Aemond. The Lannisters, our families… they won’t let us be.”
“Then let them try!” Aemond’s voice rose, frustration simmering just below the surface. “I refuse to let anyone dictate my life, especially not my mother. I want you for who you are, not for what you represent.”
His words hung in the air, charged with emotion. The weight of his confession sent a shiver down her spine, and Lyanna’s heart began to race. “But what about the repercussions? Your claim to the throne… this could lead to war.”
“Then let them come,” he declared, eyes ablaze. “I would face anyone for you. You are worth the risk.”
Her mind raced, torn between the longing she felt and the fears that gripped her heart. “Aemond, you don’t understand. If we pursue this, we’ll become targets. It could destroy everything.”
“Everything is already on the brink of chaos,” he replied, moving even closer, their bodies mere inches apart. “I will not allow fear to dictate my choices. I want to build something with you—something real.”
Lyanna hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze. She wanted to believe in the possibility he offered, but doubt gnawed at her. “What if it all falls apart? What if I’m not strong enough?”
Aemond’s expression softened, and he took her hands in his, grounding her in the moment. “You are stronger than you think, Lyanna. And even if we face challenges, we will do it together. I believe in you.”
His faith in her was intoxicating, but it also terrified her. “Aemond, this isn’t just about us. What if your mother finds out? What if she tries to use this against you?”
“Let her try,” he said, his voice low and filled with conviction. “I will confront her. I will show her that I am not a boy to be manipulated. I want you, Lyanna. I will fight for you.”
Tears pricked at her eyes as she battled her emotions. “But what if this leads to chaos? What if we lose everything we hold dear?”
“Then we will face it together,” he said, determination etched in his features. “I will trade the throne for you in a heartbeat.”
His words struck a chord within her, a desperate longing mingling with fear. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “What if I can’t handle the pressure?”
“Then we’ll take it one step at a time,” he replied, his grip on her hands tightening. “But know this: I will always choose you, Lyanna. I will never let you go.”
The intensity of his gaze ignited something within her—a flicker of hope. But the nagging doubts lingered, heavy in the air. “I need time to think,” she finally said, pulling her hands away gently. “I can’t just jump into this.”
Aemond’s expression faltered, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. “You’re asking me to wait? After all this time?”
“It’s not that simple,” she insisted, her heart aching. “I don’t want to rush into something that could ruin us both.”
“Then what do you want?” he pressed, frustration mixing with desperation. “Do you want to marry a Lannister? Be used as a pawn in this game?”
Lyanna felt her heart clench at his words. “I don’t want that, Aemond! But I also can’t bear the thought of dragging you into a war because of me.”
Silence hung between them, thick with unspoken emotions. Aemond stepped back, the space between them now a chasm filled with uncertainty. “I can’t let you go without trying. I won’t.”
The resolve in his voice both thrilled and terrified her. “And I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered, tears threatening to spill. “Not yet.”
He nodded slowly, his expression darkening. “I understand. But you must know that every moment we’re apart feels like an eternity. I will not wait forever.”
Lyanna felt a pang of regret, wishing things were different. “I need to know that this is real, Aemond. That it’s not just the heat of the moment.”
“Then give me a chance to show you,” he said, stepping closer once more. “Let me prove my worth.”
Her heart ached with the pull between them, and she wanted nothing more than to surrender to him. “I can’t just turn off my fears. I’m not ready to leap into this without knowing what it means.”
Aemond’s eyes softened, a mixture of understanding and determination. “Then let’s take it slow. I will be patient, but know that I will always be here, waiting for you.”
The sincerity in his voice made her heart flutter, yet the fear of the unknown loomed large. “And if it all falls apart?”
“Then we will face it together,” he replied, his voice steady. “But I refuse to let anyone dictate our future. You are my heart, Lyanna, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”
With every word, she felt her defenses weakening, yet the fear of the consequences still held her back. “I’ll think about it,” she finally said, her voice a whisper.
As she stepped back, the distance between them felt unbearable. Aemond reached for her hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “Promise me you’ll consider it seriously. I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.”
Lyanna looked into his eyes, searching for the boy she had once known—the boy who had shared his dreams and fears with her. “I promise,” she said, feeling the weight of her words. “But I need time to find my way.”
“Then I’ll give you time,” Aemond said, though the reluctance in his voice was evident. “But I won’t let you slip away.”
As they stood together, the night wrapped around them like a protective cloak, Lyanna felt a sense of both hope and dread. She had made a choice, but the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty. With Aemond’s determination and her own fears clashing in her heart, she knew this was only the beginning of a tumultuous journey.
“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “we’ll figure it out together.”
With a heavy heart, they parted ways, the promise of what could be lingering in the air between them. As Lyanna walked away, she felt the weight of her decision pressing down on her. The future was uncertain, but in Aemond’s eyes, she had seen a glimpse of possibility—a love worth fighting for.
And as she gazed back at him, standing resolute in the moonlight, she knew that the pull of destiny was stronger than any fear. Together, they would navigate the treacherous waters of court politics and family expectations, their hearts entwined in a bond that refused to be broken.
Request are open.. please about anything you want..
Claiming Her
The sun hung low over King’s Landing, casting a golden hue across the city. Whispers of impending marriages and alliances filled the air, and for Daemon Targaryen, the most troubling news was that his niece, Alena Targaryen—the younger sister of Rhaenyra—was rumored to be engaged to a Lannister. At eighteen, she had blossomed into a captivating young woman, and the thought of her being given away sent a surge of possessiveness coursing through him.
Daemon had always held a flame for Alena, a secret desire that had simmered beneath the surface since they were children. Now, he couldn’t bear the thought of her being claimed by another man. He had to act quickly.
As he made his way through the bustling streets of the capital, his heart raced with determination. He found her in the gardens, the vibrant colors of blooming flowers contrasting against her pale skin. Silverwing, her dragon, lay nearby, basking in the sun. The sight of Alena nurturing her beloved beast filled him with longing.
“Daemon!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up at the sight of him. “You’re back!”
“Only to find you might be promised to a Lannister,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low and fierce. “What madness is this?”
Her expression shifted, a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “It’s not what you think. Father believes it’s a wise match.”
“Wise?” he scoffed, his frustration palpable. “What of your own desires? What do you want?”
“I—” she hesitated, glancing at Silverwing. “I don’t know. There’s so much pressure.”
Daemon’s heart ached at her uncertainty. “You should never feel trapped by expectations. You are a Targaryen, and you deserve to choose your own fate.”
“What can I do?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“Let me take you away from this place,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve come to claim you, to ensure you are not wed to anyone but me.”
Her breath caught at his words, a mix of shock and intrigue flashing across her face. “Claim me? But…”
“No ‘buts.’” His voice was steady, filled with resolve. “You belong with me, and I intend to make that known.”
The air around them crackled with tension. Daemon reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. She felt a shiver run down her spine, caught between duty and an undeniable attraction.
“Daemon, this is all so sudden,” she said, her heart racing.
“Is it?” he asked, stepping even closer, his gaze locking onto hers. “We have both felt this pull for years. I cannot let you be given away to someone who does not deserve you.”
“Then what do you propose we do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Come with me,” he urged, his tone softening. “Let’s ride Silverwing together. We can escape the confines of this court, even if just for a night.”
The prospect of flying with him filled her with exhilaration. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly so,” he replied, his eyes darkening with intensity. “I will not let anyone else have you. You are mine, and I will show you what that means.”
Before she could respond, Daemon pulled her into an embrace, and she felt the warmth of his body against hers. The world outside faded as she lost herself in the moment, the thrill of his presence overwhelming her senses.
“Daemon…” she murmured, caught in a whirlwind of emotions.
He leaned down, capturing her lips in a fierce kiss. The moment their mouths met, everything else vanished—the looming engagement, the pressures of court. It was just the two of them, lost in their shared desire.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Daemon searched her eyes. “Will you ride with me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, the thrill of rebellion coursing through her. “Let’s go.”
They hurried to the stables, where Silverwing awaited them, her scales shimmering in the fading light. As they mounted, Daemon’s arms wrapped around Alena’s waist, pulling her close.
“Hold on tight,” he instructed, his voice low and filled with promise.
With a powerful thrust of her wings, Silverwing took to the sky, Caraxes following them, the ground disappearing beneath them. The wind rushed past, and as they soared over King’s Landing, a sense of freedom enveloped her.
“Look at the world below us,” Daemon said, his breath warm against her ear. “This is our moment, just us against everything else.”
The exhilaration of flight and the intimacy of their shared space ignited her heart. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
Daemon turned his head slightly, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. “Together, we will face whatever comes. You are not just a pawn; you are my choice, my claim.”
As they flew higher, she felt a sense of belonging wash over her. With Daemon by her side, she was ready to embrace her destiny, free from the constraints of expectation and duty.
In that moment, as they soared through the night sky, she knew she had made the right choice. They were Targaryens, bound by blood and fire, and together they would forge their own path.
