libraryafterdark

✨️✨️✨️✨️

[libraryafterdark]

☆Masterlist☆

Sooooo this is my masterlist (yayyy)

I will reorganize everything here soon, once i've written more.

And pleaseee have mercy with me because english ist not my first language.

Im looking forward to it and have a nice day !

☆☆☆ requests are open ☆☆☆

Timothée Chalamet

Steve Harrington

Avatar twow

Rafe Cameron

Joel Miller

Smallville: Clark Kent

Celebritys

Others?....

[libraryafterdark]

Story Time With the Sullys

I'm bacccckkkkkkkk. The motivation comes from dear @dubiousdonkler So you need to say thanksss ;)))

Masterlist

The warm evening air drifted through the Sully family’s marui. Outside, the ocean waves rolled softly against the shore, but inside, a much more dangerous force was gathering, curious children.

“Auntie!” You looked down as two small Na’vi practically launched themselves into your lap. Lo’ak and Tsireya’s twins.

“What is it now?” you asked, already knowing the answer. “Tell us a story about Dad!” Across the marui, Lo’ak immediately froze. “No.” The children ignored him.

“Please!” Tsireya smiled. “I want to hear this too.” “Traitor,” Lo’ak muttered. You grinned. “Oh, I know exactly which story.” Lo’ak’s eyes widened.

“No.” “Oh yes.”The children cheered.

Years ago....

Back in the rainforest, when Lo’ak was about twelve years old. And incredibly stupid. You, Neteyam, Kiri, Tuk, and Lo’ak were supposed to be gathering fruit. A very simple task. Gather fruit. Come home. That was it.

Unfortunately, Lo’ak spotted something moving in the trees. His eyes lit up. “Guys.” Neteyam sighed immediately. “No.” “But listen-” “No.” “What if-” “No.”

Lo’ak pointed dramatically. “What if that’s a legendary forest beast?” Everyone looked. There was absolutely nothing there. Just leaves. “Lo’ak,” you said slowly, “that’s a branch.” “No, it’s not.” “It is.” “No.” “It is.” He crossed his arms.

“I’m going to investigate.” Neteyam grabbed his shoulder. “No you’re not.” Lo’ak slipped away.

Five seconds later he was halfway up a giant tree. “LO’AK!”

“I’m fine!” The famous last words of every Sully child.

For about thirty seconds everything was fine. Then-

“AAAAAAAH!” You all looked up. Lo’ak was no longer climbing. He was falling.

Apparently the “legendary forest beast” had actually been a sleeping hexapede. Which he had accidentally stepped on. The angry animal had kicked him directly off the branch. Lo’ak crashed through approximately seventeen layers of leaves. Then disappeared. Silence. Everyone stared.

“…Lo’ak?” Kiri called. A weak voice answered. “I’m okay.” Pause. “I think.”

You found him hanging upside down. His ankle was tangled in vines. His bow was gone. One "shoe" was gone. Nobody knew where. And somehow he had leaves stuck inside his hair. Neteyam looked at him. Then looked away. Then looked back.

Trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t work. The moment he snorted, everyone lost it. Even Tuk. Lo’ak swung helplessly. “STOP LAUGHING!” That only made it worse.

Then Jake showed up. Which somehow made everything worse. He looked at his upside-down son. Then at all of you. Then back at Lo’ak.

“…” “…” “…”

“How?” Lo’ak groaned. “I fell.” Jake nodded. “Clearly.” Another pause. Then Jake looked up at the vines. “Anybody got a knife?”

Twenty minutes later Lo’ak was finally free. The second his feet touched the ground he pointed at everyone.

“If any of you tell this story again-”

Present day...

“-and then Dad fell out of the tree!” you finished. The twins were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. “No way!” “Grandpa had to rescue him?!” You nodded seriously. “He was hanging there like a fruit.” The children absolutely lost it. Across the room, Lo’ak covered his face.

“I hate this family.” Tsireya was openly laughing now. “You never told me that.” “Because some stories should stay buried.” You smiled.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Lo’ak immediately looked suspicious. “What does that mean?” “It means I still have the story about the stingbat nest.” His face went pale. “Oh no.”

The twins gasped.

“The WHAT?” You leaned forward dramatically. “Well, your father once thought it would be a great idea to poke a stingbat nest with a stick…” Lo’ak stood up.

“Alright, story time is over.” The children grabbed your arms. “NO! KEEP GOING!” You grinned. Lo’ak groaned. And somewhere deep inside, you knew this was exactly what older siblings were born to do.

My laptop is still broken 😭 I can't take it anymore.

[libraryafterdark]

Between Two Worlds

Summary: You struggle with belonging and your place within your family, as distance and difficult decisions pull you apart and force you to confront where you truly fit.

Masterlist

There were moments, quiet, almost invisible ones,when you could feel it most. Not in the middle of training, not when your siblings were laughing or arguing or moving through the forest as if it had always belonged to them, but in the stillness between breaths, when everything slowed and the world seemed to sharpen around you. It was then that the feeling crept in, soft and persistent, like a thought you could never quite silence. You did not belong. Not fully.

The forest was beautiful, alive in ways that still took your breath away, but it did not always answer you the way it answered the others. Where Kiri seemed to melt into its rhythm, where Neteyam moved with instinctive precision, and Lo’ak adapted with stubborn ease, you hesitated, just slightly, just enough to notice. And Jake noticed everything. That was the problem.

“Again.” Your father’s voice carried across the clearing, steady and firm, though not as sharp as it could be. He was trying, lately, he had been trying more, but there was always something beneath it, something unspoken that you couldn’t quite ignore.

You adjusted your stance, tightening your grip on the bow, your fingers pressing harder than necessary as you drew the string back. Your shoulders aligned, your breathing slowed, and for a moment, everything felt right.

You released. The arrow struck the target, but not where it should have. Not where his would have.

Jake exhaled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer, his presence heavy but not unkind. “You’re overthinking it,” he said, his tone measured. “You’ve got the strength. You just… hesitate.” Hesitate.

The word lingered in the air between you, heavier than it should have been. “I’m not hesitating,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. His eyes flickered, just for a second, and you saw it the doubt. Not cruel, not intentional, but there all the same.

“Kid,” he started, softer now, “it’s not a bad thing. You just gotta trust your instincts.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Your instincts didn’t always feel like they belonged here.

It started small. A glance that lingered too long when you spoke, as if Jake was trying to figure out where your thoughts came from. A slight pause before he responded, like he was translating something he didn’t fully understand.

And then… “Go help Norm with the equipment today.”

The first time he said it, you hadn’t thought much of it. Norm was kind, patient in a way that felt different from the warriors, and his world the human world, was strangely familiar, even if you couldn’t explain why.

So you went. You listened. You learned. You adjusted wires and watched screens flicker with data you didn’t fully understand but somehow… didn’t feel entirely foreign either.

But then it happened again. And again.

Whenever training grew tense, whenever Jake’s frustration edged too close to the surface, he would pause, glance at you, and say it in that same careful tone:

“Why don’t you go help Norm for a bit?” At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Then you noticed the pattern. Your siblings stayed. You left.

“Why do you keep sending me away?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice softer than you intended but sharp enough to cut through the quiet of the evening. Jake froze slightly, his back still turned to you as he adjusted a piece of gear near the entrance of the marui. “I’m not sending you away,” he said after a moment, though the hesitation in his voice betrayed him.

“You are,” you replied, stepping closer, your chest tightening as the words built faster now, harder to contain. “Every time it gets difficult, every time I don’t do something right you send me to him. Like I don’t belong here.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Jake said quickly, turning to face you now, his expression caught somewhere between defensive and uncertain. “Then what are you doing?” Silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable. Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again, his jaw tightening slightly as if he was searching for the right words and coming up short.

“I just thought…” he started slowly, “it might be easier for you. You understand that stuff better. The tech, the way Norm works it comes more natural to you than…” “Than being like you all?” The words landed harder than you meant them to. Jake flinched. It was small, but you saw it.

“I never said that,” he replied, quieter now. “You didn’t have to.” Your voice broke slightly at the edges, and you hated it you hated how vulnerable it made you sound, how much it revealed. “I try,” you continued, your hands clenching at your sides. “I try to be like them. Like you. But it’s like… I’m always just slightly wrong. Like I’m standing in the right place, but I don’t fit in it.”

Jake’s expression shifted then, something deeper breaking through the surface. “That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softer now, almost careful.

“It is,” you whispered. “And you see it too. That’s why you send me away.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The forest hummed softly around you, alive and indifferent, as if it had no place for the weight of your words. Jake ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, and when he looked at you again, there was something raw in his expression, something you had never seen directed at you before.

“I don’t send you away because you don’t belong,” he said quietly. “I send you away because… I don’t know how to help you.” The words hit harder than anything else. Not anger. Just… truth. And somehow, that hurt more.

You swallowed, your chest tightening painfully as you looked away, blinking rapidly. “I don’t need you to fix me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Jake stepped closer again, slower this time, as if approaching something fragile.

“I know,” he replied. “But I’m your dad. That’s kind of the job.” A small, humorless laugh escaped you, and you shook your head. “Then maybe I’m just not something you can understand.” The words hung there, heavier than anything you had said before. Jake didn’t respond immediately.

But when he did, his voice was quiet, almost rough. “…maybe not.” The words did not comfort you. They did not soften anything. If anything, they settled somewhere deep inside your chest, heavy and unmoving, like something that would stay there long after this moment passed.

You nodded anyway, because there was nothing else to do, because you did not trust your voice not to break if you tried to answer, and because part of you already understood that this conversation whatever it was supposed to fix, had only made everything clearer.

Dinner that night felt… wrong. Not loud, not chaotic like it usually was when all of you were together, when Lo’ak and Kiri spoke over each other and Neteyam tried, unsuccessfully, to keep some kind of order while your parents exchanged amused looks that softened the edges of the day.

No, this time the quiet lingered too long between words, stretching thin and fragile, like something that might snap if anyone spoke too loudly.

You sat slightly apart, not far enough to be noticed immediately, but far enough that you could breathe without feeling watched, your hands resting loosely in your lap as you stared down at the food you had barely touched. Jake noticed.

“We need to talk,” he said finally, his voice cutting through the soft murmur of the forest outside, steady in a way that immediately made Neteyam straighten and Lo’ak go still. Neytiri’s gaze shifted to him, sharp and questioning, but she did not interrupt.

Something tightened in your chest. You already knew.

Or maybe you didn’t know exactly, but you felt it the shift in the air, the weight of something inevitable settling over all of you.

Jake exhaled slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck before looking at each of you in turn, lingering just a fraction longer on you before moving on. “It’s not safe here anymore,” he said. “The sky people—they’re coming back stronger, more organized. They’re hunting me. That puts all of you at risk.”

Silence followed, heavier this time. Lo’ak frowned slightly. “So what are we gonna do?” Jake hesitated. And in that hesitation, your stomach dropped. “We leave,” he said. “We go to the reef. The Metkayina will take us in. It’s safer there.”

The words landed differently for everyone else. You could see it. Neteyam nodding slowly, already accepting the responsibility that would come with it. Lo’ak’s curiosity flickering behind his uncertainty. Kiri tilting her head, thoughtful but not resistant. And you, You felt like the ground beneath you had disappeared.

“No.” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud,but you had. And now everyone was looking at you.

Jake’s expression shifted instantly, something tightening in his features as he studied you, already anticipating resistance, already bracing for it. “We don’t have a choice,” he said, his tone careful but firm. “I do,” you replied, your voice quieter but no less steady. “I’m not going.” The words seemed to echo, lingering in the space between all of you. Neytiri’s ears flicked slightly, her gaze moving between you and Jake, tension building in the line of her shoulders.

“You do not understand the danger,” she said softly, though there was steel beneath it. “I do,” you insisted, finally lifting your head, your eyes meeting Jake’s directly. “But the reef isn’t my home. You know that.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t about what you want,” he said. “It’s about keeping you alive.” “And sending me somewhere I don’t belong is supposed to do that?” Your voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. The hurt in it was enough.

Jake stood then, the movement abrupt enough to make Lo’ak flinch slightly. “I’m not arguing about this,” he said, his voice sharper now, the control slipping just enough to reveal the fear underneath. “We leave, and we leave together.” You shook your head slowly, your hands tightening in your lap.

“No,” you repeated, softer this time, but more certain. “You leave. I stay.” “Absolutely not.” The words came immediately, without hesitation.

“Why?” you asked, and now there was something else in your voice, something raw, something that had been building for longer than this moment. “Because I’m your daughter? Or because you don’t trust me to survive without you?”

Jake stared at you, caught off guard by the question, by the way you held his gaze without backing down.

“That’s not—” “Or is it because you already think I don’t belong here?” The silence that followed was suffocating.

Neytiri stepped forward slightly, her voice softer now, but no less urgent. “Child—” But Jake spoke first. “There’s another option. Your breath caught. You didn’t know why. Maybe because of the way he said it. “You could stay with Norm.”

The world seemed to tilt slightly, the words settling slowly, as if your mind refused to understand them at first. “With… him?” you repeated quietly.

Jake nodded, his expression serious now, focused in a way that felt too distant. “He knows how to take care of you. You’re comfortable there. You understand that world better than—” “Better than this one,” you finished for him, your voice hollow. “That’s not what I meant.” “It is.”

You stood then, the movement slower than his had been, but somehow heavier, your chest tightening with every breath as you stared at him. “You want to leave me behind,” you said, the realization settling in fully now, sharp and undeniable. “You’re choosing them and you’re leaving me here because it’s easier.”

Jake’s expression cracked. “That’s not fair,” he said, his voice rougher now. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“By sending me away. To people who are like me.” “By putting you somewhere you’ll be okay!” “I would be okay here!” Your voice broke then, the control slipping completely as the words finally spilled out, everything you had been holding back crashing to the surface all at once. “This is my home! Not the reef, not his lab,here! And you’re just… giving me up like I’m something that doesn’t fit with the rest of you!”

“No.” Jake’s voice was quieter now, but it hit harder than anything else. “I’m not giving you up,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. “I’m trying to protect you in the only way I know how.” “But you don’t even see what you’re doing,” you whispered, tears finally slipping free despite your effort to hold them back. “You’re choosing the place where I don’t belong… and then you’re surprised that I don’t want to go.”

Jake stopped just short of reaching for you, his hand hovering slightly in the air before dropping back to his side. For the first time, he looked… lost. Not like a leader, just … your father. And he didn’t know what to do.

“I can’t lose you,” he said finally, the words quieter now, almost breaking under their own weight. Your chest ached at that. Because you understood. But it didn’t make this hurt any less.

“You’re already pushing me away,” you replied softly.No one spoke after that. Because there was nothing left to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

That night, you didn’t sleep, and neither did he. Morning came too quickly.

It always did when you hadn’t slept, when your thoughts had kept you suspended somewhere between anger and something far more fragile, something that pressed against your ribs every time you tried to breathe too deeply. The forest was quieter than usual, as if it knew.

You heard them before you saw them. Movement. Voices. The soft, practiced rhythm of preparation. They were leaving.

You stood at the edge of the clearing for a long moment, watching them gather what little they would take, watching the way Neteyam moved with quiet efficiency, the way Lo’ak tried to act unaffected but kept glancing around like he was memorizing everything, the way Kiri lingered, her fingers brushing against leaves and branches as if she was saying goodbye in her own way.

Neytiri stood close to Jake. They were speaking in low voices, too quiet to hear, but you didn’t need to know the words to understand the weight of them.

This was a decision, a final one.

For a moment, you almost didn’t move. You almost stayed where you were, hidden just enough that you wouldn’t have to face it not yet, not like this.

But that wasn’t you. You had never been the one to run from things, even when they hurt. Especially when they hurt. So you stepped forward. They noticed immediately.

You turned to Neytiri, your mom, first. She stepped toward you immediately, her expression softer than it had been the night before, her hands coming up to cup your face gently, her forehead pressing against yours in a quiet, familiar gesture that made your throat tighten painfully.

“My child,” she murmured, her voice low and full of something that felt like both pride and grief tangled together. “You are strong. Do not forget that.”

You nodded, even though your vision blurred slightly, even though the words felt heavier than they should have “I won’t,” you whispered.

Neteyam was next. He hesitated for only a second before pulling you into a firm embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet protectiveness that had always been there, even when he didn’t say it out loud.

“You’ll be okay,” he said softly, though it sounded more like a promise he was trying to convince himself of. “I always am,” you replied, forcing a small smile you didn’t quite feel. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze searching your face as if he was trying to memorize it, as if he was trying to make sure you were really there. “I’ll come back,” he added quietly. You nodded. “I know.”

Lo’ak didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, shifting slightly, his usual confidence replaced by something uncertain, something that made him look younger than he probably wanted to. Then, suddenly, he stepped forward and hugged you tightly, almost too tightly, like if he didn’t, he might lose his nerve. “This is stupid,” he muttered into your shoulder. “You should come with us.” You let out a soft, shaky breath, your arms wrapping around him in return. “Maybe,” you said gently. “But I’m not.” He pulled back, frowning slightly, but he didn’t argue.

Kiri was the hardest. Because she didn’t try to hide anything. Her eyes were already shining when she reached you, her movements slower, more deliberate, as if she was feeling every second of this moment in a way none of the others quite were.

“You’re going to feel different without us,” she said softly, her voice almost distant, like she was listening to something only she could hear. You swallowed. “I already do.” She tilted her head slightly, studying you in that quiet, knowing way she had, before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around you gently.

“But you’re still connected,” she murmured. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.” You closed your eyes briefly. “I hope so.”

And then, There was only one person left. Jake hadn’t moved. He just stood there, watching, his arms crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding himself together, like any movement might break something he wasn’t ready to face. Your gaze met his.

You could say something. You should say something. There were words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and sharp and complicated, things you wanted to ask, things you wanted to understand, things you wanted him to fix even though you knew he couldn’t.

But none of them came out. Because in the end… You didn’t know how to say goodbye to him. Not like this, so you didn’t.

“I’ll be okay,” you said instead, your voice quieter now, steadier in a way that felt almost detached. Jake’s expression shifted slightly, something flickering behind his eyes, hurt, maybe, or realization, but he didn’t interrupt. You nodded once. Then you stepped back. “Goodbye.”

Hey guyyyssss, this was supposed to be my 10k special. But as you can see, it didn't quite go as planned. I really struggled with my computer for days, but it's completely broken. (Okay, it's almost 12 years old, but whatever.) So there are two parts I have to retype on my phone. Anyway, have fun reading! <333

[b6rntosdiee]

[libraryafterdark]

Hey guyyys, I have a question. I've been thinking a lot lately and I've been wondering if you'd like to have a long fic from me. So that there is a part that is just very long. (Who would have thought haha) That's why I just wanted to do a little vote. Especially that some people don't last so long or don't want to read so long fics. (Oh, and one more thing I wanted to say, the fic would be for Avatar (haha).

How manyyyyy words.....

4000-6000

7000-9000

10.000-moreeeeeeee

Voting ended onFeb 18

For me, 4000-6000 is usually a goal for my "normal" fics. :)

[libraryafterdark]

Guys, I can officially announce that the next Jake Sully! xDaughter fic is coming out in the next two days! Yayyy! And this time it's a special with 10,000 words. I'm currently about 2,000-2,500 words short, but I've set myself the goal of finishing in the next two days 🤭🤭

[libraryafterdark]

Honey, guess who’s back from jaillll!!!

I hope you’re well my lovely, I feel like a wife sending letters to her husband at war over yonder.

So, I’ve just cut myself a fringe/bangs and it’s got me thinking! What would Clark, OR, Joel think of you impulsively changing your hair? One minute you’ve got long hair, now it’s short. Bare forehead to the world one day, the next it’s covered by a nice curtain of hair. Natural strands sitting on your head at night, only for the next morning they’re dyed.

Idk, I’m in bed and thinking like usual.

Love you!!! ( — > —) ~ ❤︎₊ ⊹

You Changed Something

Ahhhhh guuurrrl, I missed you so much!!!! I finally had time to post this. I hope you like it <33

Masterlist

Clark Kent notices immediately. It’s not even something he thinks about anymore, not really, just something instinctive, the way his eyes find you in a crowded room, the way he registers the smallest changes without trying. So when you walk toward him the next morning, sunlight catching in your hair just a little differently

He stops mid-sentence. “Hey, I was thinking maybe we could—”His words trail off. Because something is different. Not wrong. You shift under his stare, suddenly very aware of yourself in a way you hadn’t been ten seconds ago.

“What?” you ask, a little defensive, fingers instinctively brushing against your hair. Clark blinks, like he’s trying to catch up to something his brain hasn’t fully processed yet. “You… changed something.”

You huff lightly, half-nervous, half-proud. “I cut it. And... dyed it. A little.” “A little,” he repeats, still staring, like that explains absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

Yesterday, your hair had been long, soft, familiar in the way things become when he sees them every day. It had fallen over your shoulders, sometimes in your face, sometimes tucked behind your ear when you were concentrating.

Now, it’s shorter. Lighter.

Soft strands frame your face in a way they didn’t before, and there’s a new color woven through it, subtle but noticeable, catching the light in ways that make it impossible for him not to look.

And the bangs. They fall just slightly into your eyes, brushing your lashes when you blink, shifting when you move, like something he’s not used to but can’t stop noticing.

Clark exhales slowly. “You did that… overnight?”

You shrug, trying to act casual, even though your heart is beating just a little faster now. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s usually when people read or—“Yeah, well,” you cut in quickly, “I cut my hair instead.”

There’s a pause. He steps closer. Not rushed, just drawn.

His hand lifts slightly, like he’s about to touch your hair, then stops halfway, his brows knitting together. “Can I?” You blink at him.

“Clark, it’s my hair, not a wild animal.” A small smile tugs at his mouth, soft and a little sheepish. “Right. Sorry.” But he still moves carefully when his fingers finally brush against the ends, like he’s afraid it might disappear if he’s too rough, like this version of you is something fragile and new.

“It’s shorter,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “No way, really?” you tease, but your voice softens when you see the way he’s looking at you.

His fingers slide slightly, catching one of the lighter strands between them, his gaze following the movement. “And different.”

You swallow. “You don’t like it.” It comes out quieter than you meant it to. Clark’s head lifts immediately, his expression shifting, something almost startled crossing his face.

“What? No—no, that’s not—” He stops, searching for the right words, like this matters more than he expected it to. “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.” There’s a beat of silence.

Then Clark shakes his head, stepping just a little closer, his voice softer now, more certain. “I like it,” he says. You hesitate. “You do?” He nods, his hand still lightly holding a piece of your hair, like he hasn’t quite realized he’s doing it.

“I mean… it’s different,” he admits, a faint, almost embarrassed smile appearing. “But it’s still you.” Something in your chest loosens at that. He lets out a small breath, like he’s figured something out.

“I think I just wasn’t expecting it,” he adds quietly.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him. “You don’t like change, huh?” Clark huffs softly, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. “Not when it’s you,” he says, more honest than he probably meant to be. That makes you pause. “Why?” His answer comes easier this time.

“Because I notice everything about you,” he says simply. “So when something changes… it just takes a second to catch up.” Your throat tightens slightly at that, warmth spreading through your chest. “Is it bad that I might change it again?” you ask, half-joking, half-testing.

Clark smiles then, softer, steadier, like he’s already adjusted. “You probably will,” he says. You grin. “Impulsively.”

“Definitely impulsively.”A small laugh escapes you. He shrugs lightly, his hand finally dropping from your hair, though his gaze lingers just a moment longer.

“That’s okay,” he adds. You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Clark nods, his expression warm, unwavering. “I’ll just keep relearning you.”

[libraryafterdark]

Request for FemSully!Reader,

There is a reason Neteyam knows what a seizure looks like.

Y/n sully, a hit to the head during a play fight between her and Lo’ak caused her to now suffer from seizures, from her first one at age 10, Neteyam had watched his mother care for his sister during her seizures.

He Knows What to Do

I'm bacccckkkkkkkkk !!! Whoop Whoop hehe ;)

Masterlist

There is a reason Neteyam knows what a seizure looks like, and if he could choose, he would give that knowledge back without hesitation, because it came from a moment he wishes had never happened.

It started with something small, the kind of careless, harmless thing that had happened a hundred times before between you and Lo'ak, a play fight filled with laughter, quick movements, and the usual teasing that always ended with one of you claiming victory. You were faster than him most days, sharper, always just a little ahead, and that day felt no different until your foot slipped where the ground betrayed you, catching on a rock you hadn’t seen, and suddenly the world tilted too fast for you to recover.

The sound of your head hitting the ground was dull and wrong, heavy in a way that seemed to echo through the forest, and everything went still in the second that followed.

Lo’ak’s laughter died instantly, replaced by a sharp, panicked call of your name, but you didn’t answer, and that silence was what made Neteyam move before he even understood why. His body reacted before his thoughts could catch up, dropping beside you with a sudden, tightening fear in his chest as he took in the sight of you lying there, eyes closed, breathing uneven, far too still for someone who had just been laughing seconds before.

“Go get Mom,” he said, his voice sharper than usual, edged with something he didn’t want to name, and Lo’ak didn’t argue this time, already running before the words had fully settled. Neteyam stayed. He always stayed.

The first seizure didn’t come immediately, which almost made it worse, because it gave everyone just enough time to believe you were fine. You had woken up, brushed it off, even smiled a little, insisting it was nothing, but Neteyam had noticed the small things that others might have missed, the way your movements were just slightly slower, the way your focus seemed to drift for a second too long, like something inside you hadn’t quite settled back into place.

He was watching you that evening, sitting near the fire as the family talked around you, when it happened. Your hand, which had been tracing absent patterns in the dirt, suddenly stilled, and for a brief moment you looked almost frozen, like time had paused just for you, before your body gave out beneath you and you dropped without warning.

The sound alone made his heart stop. “Y/n—” Your body jerked sharply, movements unnatural and uncontrolled, your breathing uneven and strained as if something had taken hold of you and refused to let go, and for a single, terrible second, Neteyam didn’t know what he was seeing.

Fear rooted him in place, cold and suffocating, because this wasn’t something he had been trained for, wasn’t something his father had prepared him to face, and the helplessness of that moment burned into him deeper than anything else.

“Mom!” he shouted, his voice breaking as he dropped to your side, his hands hovering uselessly because he didn’t know where to touch, didn’t know how to help without making it worse, and that uncertainty terrified him more than anything.

After that, things didn’t change all at once, but they shifted in quiet, undeniable ways that only someone paying close attention would notice, and Neteyam was always paying attention when it came to you.

He didn’t hover, not in the way that would make you feel fragile or watched, because he knew you hated that, knew how much it frustrated you to feel like something about you had changed in a way you couldn’t control. Instead, he stayed close without making it obvious, always within reach, always aware, always listening for the smallest signs that something wasn’t right. Because he had learned.

He had watched Neytiri carefully, memorizing the way she moved during your seizures, the way her hands were steady and gentle as she turned you onto your side, the way she protected your head from the ground, the way she spoke to you in a soft, grounding voice even when you couldn’t respond.

He held onto every detail, storing it away like something vital, because it was. Because next time, he refused to be the one who didn’t know what to do.

And there was a next time. There always was. You were walking with him along the roots of the trees, talking about something small and unimportant, your voice light in a way that almost made it feel like things were normal again, when your words cut off abruptly. It was subtle, something anyone else might have missed, but Neteyam didn’t.

He turned to you immediately, his expression tightening as he saw the shift in your eyes, the slight sway of your body, and he reached you just in time to catch you as your knees gave out beneath you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured quickly, lowering you carefully to the ground as your body began to seize, your movements sharp and uncontrollable, your breathing uneven and strained. This time, he didn’t freeze.

His hands were steady as he turned you onto your side, one supporting your head so it wouldn’t strike against the roots beneath you, remembering every step he had seen before, every quiet instruction he had learned without being told.

He didn’t try to hold you still, didn’t fight the movement, because he knew that wasn’t what you needed. What you needed was someone to stay. So he did. “It’s okay,” he said softly, his voice low and steady despite the tightness in his chest, his hand finding yours and holding it gently but firmly. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Even as the seconds stretched longer than he wanted, even as the fear lingered beneath the surface, he stayed exactly where he was. Because that was the one thing he could control.

When it passed, it always left you quiet, like something inside you had been drained, your energy slipping away until all that was left was exhaustion and the dull ache that followed every time.

Your eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then settling as you recognized where you were and who was beside you, and Neteyam didn’t move, didn’t pull away, his hand still wrapped around yours like an anchor. “You’re back,” he said softly, the tension in his voice easing just slightly. You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper as you asked, “Did it…?”

He nodded, his expression calm in a way that was meant to steady you. “It’s okay.” You looked away, frustration flickering across your face as you exhaled slowly. “I hate this.” “I know,” he answered without hesitation, his voice gentle but certain, not trying to fix it, not trying to make it something it wasn’t.

Over time, it became something quieter, something that blended into the rhythm of your lives in a way that didn’t make it any less real, but made it easier to carry.

Others didn’t always notice the signs, didn’t always see the subtle shifts that came before it happened, but Neteyam did, because he had trained himself to, because he refused to be caught off guard again.

And every time, he was already there before anyone else even realized what was happening. Because there is a reason Neteyam knows what a seizure looks like.

There is a reason he stays close, even when it seems unnecessary.

One evening, as the forest settled into quiet, you sat beside him, your shoulder resting lightly against his, the warmth of his presence grounding in a way you didn’t always admit out loud. “You don’t have to keep watching me like that,” you murmured, your voice soft, not accusing, just tired. He glanced down at you, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I’m not.”

You huffed quietly, a small, knowing sound. “You are.” For a moment, he didn’t answer, his gaze drifting ahead before he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I just want to be there if you need me.” You turned your head slightly, studying him, something soft and unspoken passing between you before you said, just as quietly, “I always need you.”

It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t heavy with expectation, just simple and honest in a way that made his chest tighten slightly. He nodded, shifting just enough so your shoulder rested more securely against his. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

[libraryafterdark]

Heyyyy guys, guess who's back from jail, hehe. So, I'm completely ready to post again, and maybe you'll get a little surprise today or tomorrow 🤭 because not posting doesn't mean I'm not writing ;)

[libraryafterdark]

Don’t Stand in My Doorway

Summary:

You’re in charge of your class, until Steve and Dustin show up. You try to keep control, but their presence makes everything more complicated.

Masterlist

The music carries out into the hallway long before they reach the door.

It’s loud, bright, almost aggressively cheerful, the kind of sound that doesn’t belong anywhere near something suspicious, which is exactly why Dustin slows down, grabbing Steve by the arm.

“Wait,” Dustin whispers. Steve frowns slightly, glancing at the glass window of the studio. “This is a gym.”

“Exactly,” Dustin says, like that proves everything. Inside, the room is full.

Mirrors line the walls, reflecting rows of synchronized movement, bright colors, leg warmers, bodies moving in rhythm to the music. And at the front, standing on a slightly raised platform, you lead them effortlessly, your voice cutting through the beat with practiced ease.

“And step—two, three—keep up, don’t slow down now—”

Steve’s attention lingers. Not on the class. On you. There’s something about the way you move confident, controlled, like you own every inch of the space around you. “Dude,” Dustin whispers, elbowing him. “Focus.”

“I am focusing,” Steve mutters, though he doesn’t look away. Dustin leans closer to the glass. “That guy with the black bag was heading this way, I swear..”

Steve barely hears him, because you turn. And for a brief second, your eyes catch on the door. On him. Recognition is immediate.

Your expression doesn’t change much, just a slight narrowing of your eyes, the smallest shift in your posture, but it’s enough. You’ve seen him before. Of course you have. Small town. Same school. Same people.

And unfortunately for Steve, you’ve never exactly liked him.

Still, you don’t stop the class. You don’t break rhythm. You just keep going, voice steady, as if he isn’t standing there watching you.

“Arms up—don’t get lazy now—” Steve straightens slightly, suddenly aware of how obvious he looks just standing there. Dustin presses closer to the glass. “I don’t see him, do you see him?” “No” Steve murmurs, though his gaze is still fixed on you.

The music didn’t stop you. Instead, you shouted over the beat, letting your voice cut through the rhythm, sharp and loud: “FUCK OFF, HARRINGTON! OR I’LL COME AND YOU CAN JOIN!”

The class froze mid-jump, eyes wide, some trying not to laugh. Steve blinked, stunned. Dustin doubled over, laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. “I—uh—I’m just…” Steve stammered. “Checking something!”

“Clearly,” you shot back, letting the outline of your blue thights and pink body fill the frame, neon leg warmers emphasizing every flex of your legs. “Either leave or join. Your choice.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “We’re not here for… whatever this is.” “You sure about that?” you said, smirking. “Because I could make this very interesting.” Dustin leaned in through the window. “Do it, man! For science!”

“No,” Steve muttered, voice low, but his eyes didn’t leave you. You shrugged, letting your gaze sweep over him like he was an open book. “Fine. Go. But don’t think you’re off the hook.”

You exhaled, leaning back against the doorframe, letting your muscles relax after the tension. A small smile tugged at your lips, a mixture of exhaustion and amusement.

~~

You left the neon glare and thumping music behind, the echo of your shouting still ringing faintly in your ears. The mall hallway felt quieter somehow, the air cooler against your skin as you brushed sweat from your brow.

Your legs ached pleasantly from the class strong, taut, powerful and for the first time since Harrington had shown up, you could breathe again.

Scoops Ahoy was only a few blocks away, and Robin was already behind the counter, balancing a cone in one hand while rolling her eyes at a kid’s over-the-top sundae creation.

“Guess who just stood in my doorway?” you said, sliding onto the stool beside her, still flushed and breathless, a faint sheen of sweat making your skin glimmer under the store lights. Robin raised an eyebrow. “Harrington?”

You groaned, flopping your hands onto the counter. “He and Dustin, peeking in like total idiots. And I shouted at him loud enough that the whole class heard. And he… didn’t leave.” Robin snorted, clearly amused. “Classic Harrington. What did you expect?”

You shook your head, a tired laugh escaping you. “I don’t know. Maybe for him to not act like a complete dork. I swear, Robin, sometimes he drives me insane.” Robin handed you a small cup of ice cream, her expression softening. “You handled it like you always do. Strong and impossible to ignore.”

You bit your lip, savoring the cold sweetness, letting your body relax into the comfort of the familiar space. The adrenaline from the class was fading, replaced by a quiet warmth. Being here with Robin her calm voice, her easy presence it felt like home after the chaos of Harrington’s unexpected visit.

And then the bell above the door jingled. You froze.

Steve and Dustin stepped inside, peering around the shop like kids sneaking into a candy store. Steve’s eyes immediately found yours, and for a moment he just stopped, unsure, awkward, grinning that stupid, infuriating grin.

“Uh… hey,” he said, voice low, not wanting to draw too much attention, but you could hear it just fine. Dustin waved frantically behind him. “Hi! We’re, uh… totally not here to spy on you, I swear!”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Figures you two would show up where I actually get a moment to breathe.” Steve stepped a little closer, leaning against the counter near you. “I just… wanted to check if you were okay after earlier.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “Really? Or you just missed me yelling at you?” He chuckled, and somehow it made the tension in your chest shift, soften. Dustin tugged at his sleeve, whispering, “Mission, Steve, mission…” but Steve didn’t move.

He just looked at you, and for once, there was no teasing, no chaos just that ridiculous, soft vulnerability he usually hid behind sarcasm.

Robin gave you a knowing look, sliding a napkin across the counter toward you. You took it, still laughing softly, the two of them standing there awkwardly yet undeniably present.

Heyyyyy Guysssss Guess who's backkkkk I hope you like it !!! yayyy

[fiddleheadfinn]

Send this to someone you love 💕

[libraryafterdark]

Hi!Could you write a sad fanfic?For example,the reader is the eldest daughter in the family.Therefore, she's older than Neteyam and responsible for the younger children.Jake raised her as a warrior and is very strict with her,unlike the other children. For example,he treats Kiri with a special tenderness, more than he does his own daughter.This deeply hurts the reader, but she doesn't show it. So,during the war,Jake entrusts her with protecting the younger children,which results in the reader's death.I need to cry because I still haven't recovered from Neteyam's death💔

Built for War

Awwww this idea really made me cry😭. I hope it doesn't make you cry (actually it does, so I'm not the only one who had to cry)

Have fun reading ✨

Masterlist

You were his first child, the one who came before the others softened him, before he learned how to kneel when someone cried instead of telling them to stand.

Jake Sully did not know how to be a father when you were born, he only knew how to be a soldier, so that is what he made of you.

From the time you could walk steadily, he placed a bow in your hands. From the time you could climb, he told you not to look down. When you fell, he did not rush forward in panic like other fathers might have, he stood back, arms crossed, watching with sharp eyes that measured strength instead of fear.

“Get up,” he would say, and you always did. You learned quickly that praise from him did not come in soft smiles or warm embraces. It came in nods. In fewer corrections. In silence that meant you had done well enough.

Then Neteyam was born, and something shifted not in you, but in him. He was still strict, still commanding, but with Neteyam there was pride that felt warm instead of heavy.

When Neteyam succeeded, Jake’s voice carried approval. When he failed, Jake corrected him, yes, but with a hand on his shoulder and a steady reminder that he would do better next time.

With you, it was always expectation. “You are the oldest.” “You set the example.” “You don’t get to make mistakes like that.”

Lo’ak came next, and Jake’s frustration with him felt different too louder, but almost… forgiving. Lo’ak was reckless, and Jake scolded him for it, yet there was something in his tone that said he understood that recklessness, because it mirrored his own.

Kiri was treated with a tenderness that carved something quiet and painful inside your ribs. When she asked questions about Eywa, Jake crouched to meet her eyes. When she grew overwhelmed, he softened, voice low, patient in a way you could not remember him ever being with you.

And Tuk — sweet, small Tuk wrapped around his finger so easily that sometimes you wondered if you had imagined the version of him that once lifted you into the air without worry about how strong you would become.

But you never complained. Because you were the firstborn.

You were the one who braided Tuk’s hair when her hands were too small to do it herself. You were the one who helped Neteyam practice late at night when he thought he was not good enough. You were the one who stood between Lo’ak and Jake when arguments burned too hot. You were the steady one, the reliable one, the one who did not cry when scolded.

Warriors do not cry. Warriors endure.

The night before the final battle, when the sky felt too quiet and the air carried the kind of stillness that comes before something terrible, Jake called you aside.

He did not ask if you were afraid. He did not tell you to stay safe. He simply looked at you with that assessing gaze and said, “You’re in charge of the younger ones. Keep them out of the fight unless it’s unavoidable.” There was trust in it. Heavy trust. The kind he had been building into you your entire life.

You straightened instinctively. “Yes, sir.” He placed his hand on your shoulder briefly, firm and grounding, and added, “You’re my strongest.” It was meant as pride, and maybe it was, but it felt like a burden settling more firmly across your back.

The battle was chaos, fire against water, screams swallowed by waves, gunshots splitting the sky. You moved through it the way he had trained you to move calculated, aware, always thinking three steps ahead. You kept Tuk close, directed Lo’ak with sharp gestures, reminded Kiri where to run and when to hide.

You were not thinking about yourself. You never did.

The moment comes in a blur a flash of metal, a split-second alignment of danger and innocence. The shot was meant for Neteyam. You see it in that strange way warriors sometimes do, where time stretches thin and clear. There is no hesitation in you. No weighing of cost.

You shove him aside. Pain tears through you, violent and blinding, and suddenly the world feels distant, as though you are underwater without having entered the sea.

You hit the sand, and it feels warm beneath you, too warm. Voices blur together. Tuk crying. Lo’ak shouting. Kiri praying. Neteyam is at your side first, his hands pressing desperately against the wound as though he can will your body to obey him.

“Stay with me,” he says, and it is almost ironic, because you have said those same words to him more times than you can count. You try to answer, but your voice feels thin. Then Jake is there.

He drops to his knees beside you with a force that shakes the ground, and for the first time in your life, he does not look like a leader or a warrior. He looks like a father. Terrified.

His hands press over yours, trying to stop what cannot be stopped, his voice breaking as he says your name again and again as if repetition alone could anchor you here. “You’re okay,” he insists, but the words tremble. “You’re okay.”

You look at him, and in his eyes you see something you have chased your entire life not expectation, not evaluation, but pure, raw love. “I tried,” you whisper, because that is what you have always done. Tried to be strong enough. Good enough. His face crumples in a way you have never seen.

“I know,” he says, voice shattering. “I know, baby.” The word hits harder than anything else. Baby.

You cannot remember the last time he called you that. You want to tell him you were not angry. You want to tell him you understood why he raised you the way he did. That maybe he had been trying to prepare you for a world that would not be gentle.

But the world grows dim around the edges. You feel your siblings close, their hands clutching at you as though they can keep you tethered through sheer will. Jake presses his forehead to yours, and his shoulders shake as he whispers apologies you can barely hear.

You protected them. You fulfilled the role he carved into you. And as the light fades, you realize that the only thing you ever truly wanted was this to be held like you were something fragile instead of forged.

After you are gone, the silence in the family feels unnatural, like something essential has been pulled from its center. Jake no longer speaks as sharply. He no longer demands perfection. He holds Tuk longer. He listens to Lo’ak without immediate correction. He answers Kiri’s questions with patience he once reserved only for her.

And sometimes, late at night, he sits alone with your bow resting across his lap, staring at the worn grip where your fingers once held tight, and he whispers into the quiet,

“I should have protected you.” But you were the firstborn.

[libraryafterdark]

Heyyyy guys, so many of you wanted an alternate ending! ✨️

So I wanted to ask if I should just write the ending and repost the story, or if I should make a separate post, leave everything else as is, and just change the ending.

Feel free to share your opinions :)

[libraryafterdark]

Would you please do reader is daughter of Jake Sully and she struggles with panic attacks or ptsd? She used to be seen as the strong one. Almost as good as Neteyam when it came to being a warrior and protecting her loved ones but over time the aspects of war changes her into someone quiet and timid, nearly shaking at any loud noise.

The Strong One

Sorryyyy for the little break <3333 i hope you like it ;)

TW: panic attacks

Masterlist

There was a time when people spoke about you the same way they spoke about Neteyam.

Not just because you were Jake Sully’s daughter, but because you carried yourself like someone who had been born for battle. Your arrows flew straight, your aim rarely faltered, and when danger came close to your family, you stepped forward without hesitation.

Your father had noticed early. “You move like a warrior,” he once told you after training, clapping a firm hand against your shoulder with pride that warmed your chest for days.

It meant something to you then. Being strong meant you were useful. Being useful meant you were needed. You trained beside Neteyam often, the two of you moving through drills together until your muscles burned. Sometimes Jake would stand back with his arms crossed, watching both of you with quiet approval.

“See that?” he would tell the others. “That’s how it’s done.” You carried those moments with you like armor. But war has a way of changing the meaning of strength. At first, the signs were small.

A loud crack during training would make your body stiffen before you even realized it. A sudden shout would send your heart racing, breath catching in your throat. You brushed it off, telling yourself it was nothing more than exhaustion or the remnants of adrenaline.

Warriors didn’t fall apart over things like that. So you said nothing.

The others still saw you as the same person, the one who moved quickly in battle, the one who stepped between danger and your siblings without thinking.

But slowly, something inside you began to shift. Loud noises started to feel like explosions even when they weren’t. Your chest tightened during patrols until breathing felt like dragging air through water. Sometimes your hands trembled so badly you had to hide them behind your back so no one would notice.

You became quieter. Less present.

The girl who once laughed easily with Lo’ak and teased Neteyam during training now spent long stretches alone, sitting near the water or wandering the forest where the sounds were softer.

Jake noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything.

At first, he assumed you were simply tired. The war had taken its toll on all of you, and he had seen soldiers retreat into silence before. But then came the day it happened in front of everyone.

Training had barely begun when one of the younger warriors dropped a spear nearby, the sudden crack against stone echoing sharply through the clearing.

The sound shouldn’t have meant anything. But your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your breath caught violently, chest tightening as though invisible hands had wrapped around your ribs and squeezed. The world blurred at the edges, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear the voices around you.

You staggered back, shaking. Someone called your name.

Another loud noise followed, just a bowstring snapping somewhere behind you and suddenly you were crouched on the ground with your hands over your ears, trying desperately to force air into lungs that refused to cooperate.

It felt like drowning. Like the battlefield had returned and dragged you back into its chaos. The clearing had gone silent. When you finally looked up through blurred vision, you realized everyone was staring. Neteyam stood frozen a few feet away, confusion and worry written across his face. Lo’ak had taken a step forward like he wasn’t sure whether to help or give you space.

And Jake… Jake looked stunned. You had never seen that expression on him before. Embarrassment burned through you hotter than the panic itself. You forced yourself to stand quickly, brushing off the sand as if nothing had happened.

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, though your voice trembled. No one moved. You refused to meet your father’s eyes. “I just need a minute.” You turned and walked away before anyone could stop you.

After that day, things became harder to hide.

Your body betrayed you more often now, reacting to sudden sounds or sharp movements with the same overwhelming panic. Nights were the worst, when memories slipped into your dreams and pulled you back into moments you had tried desperately to forget.

The girl who had once been fearless now jumped at shadows. And you hated it. You hated how weak it made you feel. You hated the way people looked at you differently, like something fragile had replaced the warrior they once knew. But what you hated most was the thought of your father seeing it.

Jake Sully had raised warriors. Not broken soldiers. So you avoided him when you could, slipping away before training ended or volunteering for tasks that kept you far from the others. It worked for a while.

Until one evening when a loud crash echoed through the village as a heavy basket slipped from someone’s hands and shattered against the ground. Your body reacted instantly.

Your knees buckled, breath vanishing from your lungs as the familiar crushing pressure wrapped around your chest. You barely made it a few steps before your vision darkened and the world spun violently around you.

You didn’t realize someone had caught you until strong arms steadied your shoulders. Your first instinct was to pull away. Then you heard his voice.

“Easy,” Jake said quietly. You froze. Of all the people to see this… You tried to straighten, wiping quickly at the tears you hadn’t realized had escaped. “I’m fine.”

Jake didn’t move. His hands remained firm on your shoulders, grounding you even as your breathing struggled to slow. “You’re not fine,” he said gently. The softness in his voice made something inside your chest crack.

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “I used to be,” you whispered. The admission slipped out before you could stop it. Jake was silent for a long moment. Then he guided you carefully to sit down on the nearby steps, lowering himself beside you.

“You think this means you’re not strong anymore?” he asked. You let out a shaky breath. “I can’t even handle a loud noise without falling apart.” His gaze softened.

“I’ve seen the strongest soldiers I ever knew come home from war shaking at the sound of fireworks,” he said quietly. “Strength doesn’t mean you walk away untouched.”

You didn’t answer. Your hands were still trembling in your lap. Jake noticed immediately. Without hesitation, he reached over and gently wrapped his larger hands around yours, steadying them.

“You protected this family when things got bad,” he continued. “You stood your ground when others would’ve run. You think that disappears because your mind’s trying to process what you went through?”

Your throat tightened. “I feel like I’m failing you.” Jake’s grip tightened slightly. “You could never fail me.” The words came without hesitation, firm and certain. When you finally looked at him, there was no disappointment in his eyes. Only concern. And something softer.

“You carried more than you should have,” he said quietly. “Now it’s our turn to carry you for a while.” For the first time in months, your chest loosened just enough to let a full breath through. Jake pulled you gently into his arms then, holding you the way he used to when you were small and the world still felt safe.

And for once, you didn’t fight it.

[libraryafterdark]

Hi!Could you write a sad fanfic?For example,the reader is the eldest daughter in the family.Therefore, she's older than Neteyam and responsible for the younger children.Jake raised her as a warrior and is very strict with her,unlike the other children. For example,he treats Kiri with a special tenderness, more than he does his own daughter.This deeply hurts the reader, but she doesn't show it. So,during the war,Jake entrusts her with protecting the younger children,which results in the reader's death.I need to cry because I still haven't recovered from Neteyam's death💔

Built for War

Awwww this idea really made me cry😭. I hope it doesn't make you cry (actually it does, so I'm not the only one who had to cry)

Have fun reading ✨

Masterlist

You were his first child, the one who came before the others softened him, before he learned how to kneel when someone cried instead of telling them to stand.

Jake Sully did not know how to be a father when you were born, he only knew how to be a soldier, so that is what he made of you.

From the time you could walk steadily, he placed a bow in your hands. From the time you could climb, he told you not to look down. When you fell, he did not rush forward in panic like other fathers might have, he stood back, arms crossed, watching with sharp eyes that measured strength instead of fear.

“Get up,” he would say, and you always did. You learned quickly that praise from him did not come in soft smiles or warm embraces. It came in nods. In fewer corrections. In silence that meant you had done well enough.

Then Neteyam was born, and something shifted not in you, but in him. He was still strict, still commanding, but with Neteyam there was pride that felt warm instead of heavy.

When Neteyam succeeded, Jake’s voice carried approval. When he failed, Jake corrected him, yes, but with a hand on his shoulder and a steady reminder that he would do better next time.

With you, it was always expectation. “You are the oldest.” “You set the example.” “You don’t get to make mistakes like that.”

Lo’ak came next, and Jake’s frustration with him felt different too louder, but almost… forgiving. Lo’ak was reckless, and Jake scolded him for it, yet there was something in his tone that said he understood that recklessness, because it mirrored his own.

Kiri was treated with a tenderness that carved something quiet and painful inside your ribs. When she asked questions about Eywa, Jake crouched to meet her eyes. When she grew overwhelmed, he softened, voice low, patient in a way you could not remember him ever being with you.

And Tuk sweet, small Tuk wrapped around his finger so easily that sometimes you wondered if you had imagined the version of him that once lifted you into the air without worry about how strong you would become.

But you never complained. Because you were the firstborn.

You were the one who braided Tuk’s hair when her hands were too small to do it herself. You were the one who helped Neteyam practice late at night when he thought he was not good enough. You were the one who stood between Lo’ak and Jake when arguments burned too hot. You were the steady one, the reliable one, the one who did not cry when scolded.

Warriors do not cry. Warriors endure.

The night before the final battle, when the sky felt too quiet and the air carried the kind of stillness that comes before something terrible, Jake called you aside.

He did not ask if you were afraid. He did not tell you to stay safe. He simply looked at you with that assessing gaze and said, “You’re in charge of the younger ones. Keep them out of the fight unless it’s unavoidable.” There was trust in it. Heavy trust. The kind he had been building into you your entire life.

You straightened instinctively. “Yes, sir.” He placed his hand on your shoulder briefly, firm and grounding, and added, “You’re my strongest.” It was meant as pride, and maybe it was, but it felt like a burden settling more firmly across your back.

The battle was chaos, fire against water, screams swallowed by waves, gunshots splitting the sky. You moved through it the way he had trained you to move calculated, aware, always thinking three steps ahead. You kept Tuk close, directed Lo’ak with sharp gestures, reminded Kiri where to run and when to hide.

You were not thinking about yourself. You never did.

The moment comes in a blur a flash of metal, a split-second alignment of danger and innocence. The shot was meant for Neteyam. You see it in that strange way warriors sometimes do, where time stretches thin and clear. There is no hesitation in you. No weighing of cost.

You shove him aside. Pain tears through you, violent and blinding, and suddenly the world feels distant, as though you are underwater without having entered the sea.

You hit the sand, and it feels warm beneath you, too warm. Voices blur together. Tuk crying. Lo’ak shouting. Kiri praying. Neteyam is at your side first, his hands pressing desperately against the wound as though he can will your body to obey him.

“Stay with me,” he says, and it is almost ironic, because you have said those same words to him more times than you can count. You try to answer, but your voice feels thin. Then Jake is there.

He drops to his knees beside you with a force that shakes the ground, and for the first time in your life, he does not look like a leader or a warrior. He looks like a father. Terrified.

His hands press over yours, trying to stop what cannot be stopped, his voice breaking as he says your name again and again as if repetition alone could anchor you here. “You’re okay,” he insists, but the words tremble. “You’re okay.”

You look at him, and in his eyes you see something you have chased your entire life not expectation, not evaluation, but pure, raw love. “I tried,” you whisper, because that is what you have always done. Tried to be strong enough. Good enough. His face crumples in a way you have never seen.

“I know,” he says, voice shattering. “I know, baby.” The word hits harder than anything else. Baby.

You cannot remember the last time he called you that. You want to tell him you were not angry. You want to tell him you understood why he raised you the way he did. That maybe he had been trying to prepare you for a world that would not be gentle.

But the world grows dim around the edges. You feel your siblings close, their hands clutching at you as though they can keep you tethered through sheer will. Jake presses his forehead to yours, and his shoulders shake as he whispers apologies you can barely hear.

You protected them. You fulfilled the role he carved into you. And as the light fades, you realize that the only thing you ever truly wanted was this to be held like you were something fragile instead of forged.

After you are gone, the silence in the family feels unnatural, like something essential has been pulled from its center. Jake no longer speaks as sharply. He no longer demands perfection. He holds Tuk longer. He listens to Lo’ak without immediate correction. He answers Kiri’s questions with patience he once reserved only for her.

And sometimes, late at night, he sits alone with your bow resting across his lap, staring at the worn grip where your fingers once held tight, and he whispers into the quiet,

“I should have protected you.” But you were the firstborn.

[libraryafterdark]

Hey guyyys, I have a question. I've been thinking a lot lately and I've been wondering if you'd like to have a long fic from me. So that there is a part that is just very long. (Who would have thought haha) That's why I just wanted to do a little vote. Especially that some people don't last so long or don't want to read so long fics. (Oh, and one more thing I wanted to say, the fic would be for Avatar (haha).

How manyyyyy words.....

4000-6000

7000-9000

10.000-moreeeeeeee

Voting ended onFeb 18

For me, 4000-6000 is usually a goal for my "normal" fics. :)

[libraryafterdark]

Sooooo guysssss most of you voted for 10.000 or more, and that's what you'll get, of course.

I'll probably do an Avatar fic of Jake or DaughterReader, so stay tuned ;)

Your libraryafterdark ✨️

[libraryafterdark]

So what about Clark who finds out reader still sleeps with their childhood plush? What would our sweetheart, Clark, be like?

Love your work!

-🌠

Still Soft

Masterlist

Awwww Thank uuuuuu <3 i hope you like it :)

It happens by accident. He isn’t snooping. Clark would never.

He’s just looking for the sweater you left in his loft after movie night, climbing the ladder quietly so he doesn’t wake you. The barn is dim, moonlight slipping through the wooden slats, turning everything silver and still.

That’s when he sees it. Tucked under your arm. A small, slightly worn plush rabbit. One ear bent from years of being held. Clark freezes.

Not because he thinks it’s silly. Because you look so peaceful.

You’re curled on your side on the couch, cheek pressed into the faded fabric, fingers loosely tangled in its fur like it’s something precious. Something grounding.

He stares at you for a long second. Then he smiles. Soft. Fond. Completely gone. The next morning, you wake up before he does.

Or at least, you think you do. You stretch and immediately realize the plush isn’t beside you. Panic flashes hot and irrational in your chest. You sit up quickly.

Clark is leaning against the barn post a few feet away, watching you with an unreadable expression.

And in his hands—Your rabbit.

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God,” you whisper. He tilts his head slightly. “It’s got a name, right?” You consider launching yourself off the loft. “I— It’s not— I don’t always—” Clark steps closer, careful, like you’re a skittish animal about to bolt. “It’s okay,” he says gently.

You cross your arms over yourself, mortified. “It’s stupid. I don’t even know why I still— It’s just from when I was little and I never—” He reaches you then, holding the plush between both hands like it’s something fragile.

“It’s not stupid.” You refuse to look at him. “I’m not five.” “I know.” His voice is warm. No teasing. No judgment. You glance up cautiously. He’s serious. “You think I don’t get it?” he says quietly. “Holding onto something that makes you feel safe?”

The words settle into you. Clark knows what it feels like to cling to pieces of comfort. To keep something small and familiar in a world that doesn’t always feel steady. You swallow. “You’re not… weirded out?”

He looks genuinely confused by that. “Why would I be?” You gesture helplessly at the rabbit. “Because.” Clark studies it for a second, then gently brushes his thumb over its bent ear. “It’s kind of cute.” Your eyes widen. “Clark.”

“What?” His lips twitch. “He looks well-loved.” You groan softly, burying your face in your hands. Clark steps closer and carefully presses the plush back into your arms. “There,” he says. You hold it automatically.

He watches you for a moment before adding, softer, “You don’t have to hide the parts of you that are still soft.” That makes you look up. His expression is open. Warm. Entirely sincere. “I like that about you,” he admits. Your chest tightens. “You do?”

He nods. “I think it’s brave,” he says. “Most people pretend they don’t need comfort. His hand comes up slowly, brushing your hair back from your face. “And if that helps you sleep,” he continues quietly, “then I’m glad you have it.”

There’s a pause. Then his smile turns faintly shy. “Though,” he adds, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.” You blink. “Jealous?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “He gets to hold you all night.” You laugh before you can stop yourself. Clark’s ears go a little red. “I just mean— I could— I mean, if you wanted—”

You lean forward and wrap one arm around him, plush still tucked between you. He melts instantly. Strong arms circling your back, careful but firm. You feel his cheek rest against the top of your head. After a second, he murmurs, “We can share.” You smile against his chest. “Okay.”

And when you lie back down, Clark slips in beside you, one arm around your waist, the other carefully adjusting the plush so it stays between you.

Not replacing it. Not mocking it. Just making space for it. For you. Because loving you, Clark decides, means loving every version of you.

[milliesfishes]

౨ৎ꣑ৎsteve when you get your wisdom teeth out౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x steve harrington large text version here!

"I have no mouth," you muttered to yourself, frowning at the ceiling, the edges of both the world and your mind fuzzy. "No mouth, no mouth."

A familiar face appeared in your view. Steve smiled, warm brown eyes looking over you. "How're you feeling, baby?"

Your eyes widened. "Steve." It sounded more like 'Stebe' because your mouth was stuffed with cotton. "I have no mouth?"

"No? You just got a buncha teeth pulled. It'd be a shame if they took your mouth too." His thumb brushed your cheek.

"I want ice cream."

"We got some ice cream yesterday. It's in the freezer." Steve took your hands, helping you sit up. The familiar sight of his room was a welcome one. He stuffed a pillow behind your back so you wouldn't have to lean against the headboard. "It's chocolate."

"I love chocolate."

You tipped forward and he caught you to lean against his shoulder. "Comin' to see me? Okay." Steve rubbed your back with careful fingers. "How's your mouth?"

"Sore." You frowned. "Did the doctor say no kissing?"

"No kissing with tongue, I think." He smoothed your hair with his thumb, palm at the back of your head. "That makes sense, right? Just until the wounds heal."

"I want a kiss." You frowned, and he leaned back, pressing his lips to yours as gentle as butterfly wings.

"Good?" Steve searched your eyes.

"Good." You smiled, leaning in to nuzzle his nose with yours. "Stevie?"

"Hmm?"

"You're so hot."

"Really?" Steve raised his eyebrows. "You think so?"

"Yeah."

"I had no idea." He looked thoughtful, rubbing your sides.

You scrunched your nose. "What's it like to have a penis?"

He coughed, bringing you back to lay on his shoulder. "Uh…well. I don't know. Never thought about it."

"Is it heavy?"

"No." You could feel his frown of confusion against your head. "I…guess it feels the same as an arm feels for you. Don't really notice it most of the time."

"Huh." Pulling back to look at Steve, you reached up with your finger to poke his nose. "You're pretty. So pretty, Stevie. You have such nice eyebrows, did you know that? All your hair is so nice." Reaching down, you snuck your hand under his shirt so you could feel his chest. "This hair is nice."

"Glad you like it." Steve kissed your head. "Look how pretty you are. Even when you're a little swollen."

"I'm swollen?" Your eyes widened in horror. "Steve, why didn't you tell me?"

"You've been using the ice pack. It's not so bad," he tried to soothe. "It's okay. You're okay."

Grumpy, you leaned back against the headboard. Steve smiled, scooting in to try and console you. "Baby." He smiled when you only pouted more. "What are you thinking?"

"I wanna be pretty." You crossed your arms.

"You're very pretty. I just said you are." Steve brushed some hair from your cheek. "Beautiful."

Your heart melted. "Really?"

"Really, really." Steve welcomed you back when you snuggled into him again. "You still want ice cream? Wanna take a field trip downstairs?"

"Yes!"

When you wrapped yourself around Steve like a koala bear, he laughed, clasping his arms around you. "Alright, that works, sure."

He stood, taking each step carefully. About halfway down the stairs you murmured, "Can we watch a movie?"

"Yeah, baby." When he reached the kitchen, he set you on the counter, hands flat on either side of your thighs as he leaned into you. "You sit pretty 'n think of something to watch, okay? I'll get out the ice cream."

You were boneless watching him. "Can we watch…um…Star Wars?"

"Which one?"

"All of them."

He returned with a two bowls in his hands, handing one to you. "Do you think you can hold these while I take us to the couch?"

"Uh huh!" It was a quick journey, but he rewarded you with a kiss on the nose anyways for keeping everything steady.

Steve arranged you on the couch while he went to pop the first movie in. When he returned, he stretched his legs around you, one arm slung over you, the other working the remote. You were tangled in his limbs, happy to be caught in his web.

"You okay?" he checked as you found a comfortable position, the opening notes of the score beginning to play.

Even though your mouth was still sore, you smiled wide, looking up at him, voice soft. "Happy. I'm happy."

"Good." He kissed your forehead. "I'm happy too."

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

PEOPLE WATCHING | steve harrington

You're so busy people watching, that you don't notice the way Steve Harrington looks at you.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 5.1k contains: seaon four steve, fluff, friends to lovers, steve harrington pining, workplace romance, flirty steve, use of y/n, suggestive language, reader is oblivious, steve drunkenly calling reader a pet name, robin being a menace, very small amount of reader x eddie munson (platonic!!) mention of being sick from alcohol (emetophobia warning). authors note: first Steve fic! teeth rooting fluff to dip my toes in but believe me, the smuts are brewing

to be added to my taglist

“I think they’re on a first date,” you observe quietly as Steve taps on the table top across from you.

“Hm?”

You roll your eyes. Steve was definitely checking out the girl a few tables away—Tracey McEvoy with whom he had went to school with, apparently visiting for Spring Break—and not paying attention to the conversation.

“I said,” you begin, looking at Steve pointedly before nodding your head towards a couple on the other side of the diner, “I think they’re on a first date.”

Steve looks over then.

“What makes you so sure it’s a first date?” He asks, looking back at you, brows furrowed, “they’re like fifty.”

You shrug, a wistful smile on your face, “I just know.”

Steve smiles a little, corners of his mouth twitching. You did this a lot. People watched. Made up stories about strangers and imagined their lives outside of that moment. Steve had thought you were just nosey at first but then he came to understand that you just liked stories. That you couldn’t not think about stranger’s lives. That you knew you would never know these people and that made you curious. You wanted to know. Wanted to know every heartache, every first day at work and every bad date. And so, you made up stories. You were probably wrong at least ninety per cent of the time, but you always sounded so sure that Steve always believed you. Well, most of the time. The story of the man who had definitely just committed a murder was a little far fetched.

“Alright, little miss voyeur, eat your pancakes before we’re late,” Steve says, nodding towards your half-eaten stack, “again.”

You roll your eyes but do as he says.

Sally’s was your go to haunt with Steve before a shift at Family Video. Robin would come along sometimes but the smell of eggs tended to make her heave and so—it was just a you and Steve thing and had been since you started working together nearly six months ago.

You're barely five more mouthfuls of pancakes before Steve finally asks—

"Why do you think it's their first date?"

You smile. You knew he'd ask. You had made Steve curious over the past few months with this particular quirk of yours. He wanted to know what you had come up with. No matter how wrong you may be.

There's a clatter as you drop your cutlery onto the table before turning to look back over at the couple.

"First of all, that's a new dress she's wearing. My mom just bought the same one. Plus, I can see the tag is still attached—you know, in case it doesn't work out, so she can return it. Secondly, he's got this nervous twitch. Keeps fixing his watch. If they've been on multiple dates, why would he be nervous?"

Steve mulls it over for a few moments. "Because they're having an affair and this is their first outing?" he offers with a slight smirk as he leans forward, invested now as his honeyed brown eyes flicker from yours and then back over to the couple. "I mean, it is breakfast. Who goes out for breakfast for their first date? Clearly, they went to pound town last night and he's married. Maybe he didn't tell Miss Label Still Attached and then she’s convinced him to go out for breakfast. And now he's shitting himself thinking someone he knows will spot him."

You look at Steve for a long moment, your eyes narrowing until you were glaring at him. He laughs. Sips his coffee before he leans forward, dipping his finger in the maple syrup on your plate.

"You ruined my story," you scold him, trying to swat his hand away but his middle finger was already dripping with the golden sticky liquid.

"Didn't," he replies, licking his finger clean and smiling at you nonchalantly. "Made it better. Your stories lack spice, (y/n). That couple last week you thought had just been to their twelve week scan? He was definitely was thinking about tearing her clothes off—"

"Steve!"

You're scolding him but you're laughing. But this was so Steve. Always lowering the tone. Always making you laugh.

"Sorry, (y/n) but I know a horn dog when I see one," he replies, winking over at you.

"Because it's like looking in a mirror?" You offer, brow raised and trying not to smile.

Steve looks back at you and returns your smile, “something like that."

It's quiet then for a few moments, you finishing your pancakes and Steve trying to get the waitress' attention for the bill.

"You know, you're good at reading people," Steve says gently after handing the waitress a twenty before you could even blink. You want to argue but you knew it would end with Steve shoving his fingers in his ears and humming loudly. You decide to let it slide this time. Next time maybe, you’ll be quicker at grabbing the bill before him.

"You really think so?" You ask him, tugging on your denim jacket and standing up from the booth.

Steve nods as he also stands up. His fingers brush over the denim as he adjusts your collar. Your eyes flicker down to watch him do so.

He ducks his head down, those warm eyes meeting yours before he smiles, "I know so," he murmurs back before pulling away and patting your head. "Now c'mon, before Robin decides to put on Piranha Part Two as the movie of the day. Again."

You were good at reading people. But you didn't see that Steve hadn't been looking at Tracey McEvoy. You were so busy watching everyone else that you didn't notice how Steve had been looking at you.

There was never a dull moment working in Family Video. Just this morning, Robin had managed to knock over an entire display and nearly broke her arm. Funnily enough, that was not the first time that had happened.

Another thing about working in Family Video? Steve was always attracting attention. Like the pretty blonde who had just walked in. Usually, Steve would entertain it. He had no shame in casually dating while shoving his feelings towards you to the side. But right now? Steve couldn't care less about that fact she was batting her lashes at him and leaning forward so he could plainly see her cleavage. No—he didn't care about that. Not when Eddie Munson was talking to you and had been for the past fifteen minutes. Especially when you were laughing at him and smiling and—

"—so," the blonde says to Steve, twirling a strand of silky hair around her finger. "Are you busy on Saturday? We could go out and then go back to my place and—”

"Busy," Steve mutters, not taking his eyes off you and Eddie—who was apparently having a difficult time picking between renting either Videodrome or The Hunger. "Super busy."

Steve knew logically that you and Eddie were just friends. He knew that. You and Eddie went way back—had been close since you begrudgingly tutored him in English. But when you were laughing with Eddie like that? Steve was wondering if you had ever laughed with him like that before.

"Dude!" Robin scolds Steve two minutes later, smacking him on the back of the head.

"Ow!" Steve exclaims, rubbing the spot where Robin had hit him with a frown. "What was that for?"

"You being a dummy!" Robin retorts as she gestures towards the window where the pretty blonde was getting into her car, dejected over Steve's disinterest. "What is wrong with you? That girl was flirting with you and she was a total babe!"

Steve blinks dumbly.

"What girl?" He asks because honestly? Seeing you and Eddie had made him momentarily forget about the whole ignoring his feelings for you thing. Made him forget other women existed outside of you.

Robin looks at Steve in disbelief and shakes her head. But Steve pays no mind to her. Instead, he takes the opportunity to back over at you. You were still talking to Eddie—at the counter and ringing up his eventual selection of Videodrome.

Robin notices. She doesn't say anything and just—observes. She notices how Steve's jaw clenches. How he stands up a little straighter. How his eyes are locked on the way Eddie leans over the counter to talk to you.

And Robin being Robin? Well, she couldn't help but meddle. Just a little.

"You know," Robin hums as she moves to stand right beside Steve, smiling a little as she does so. "I think (y/n) might like Eddie."

Steve looks at Robin so fast that she was sure he had gotten whiplash.

"What?!" Steve blurts out. "How do you know—"

Robin shrugs, a wry smile on her face. "Just...womanly instinct."

Steve knows that Robin is teasing. That she doesn't know a damn thing about whether you liked Eddie or not. But Steve? Well, on the outside he might appear as an overly confident and at times cocky guy but deep down? Deep down he was convinced that he didn't deserve a girl like you.

He had been an asshole in school. Had been an asshole to you at times, even. It was only when Nancy Wheler had come along, turned his world upside down (literally) and then broke his heart that he had realised that things he thought were important? Popularity, the status quo, his damn BMW—well, they didn't matter. Not one bit. He had let his want for the superficial things cloud his judgement. He became friends with the wrong people—became swept up in the wrong crowd.

These days however? Well, he didn't really give a damn about being popular. But he did want to be wanted, still, even now. He knew people needed him—Dustin needed him to take him to the arcade, Robin needed him to cover her shifts sometimes and the party needed him when the Upside Down came knocking but did anyone really want him? He wasn't convinced. And so, Steve was always the first to jump into danger. He needed to feel useful. Needed that validation still. And so, when it came to you, Steve did not have the guts to make a move. He was certain you deserved better.

But seeing you with Eddie...

"You look awfully distracted, dingus," Robin observes, thumping Steve on his arm to get his attention back.

Steve blinks, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He had spent so long just standing there thinking that Eddie had now left. You were humming to yourself—Steve imagined it would be an ABBA song. You were always humming along to ABBA.

"I'm not," Steve mumbles, his eyes flickering back over to you. You're rewinding tapes—watching an elderly couple browsing the new releases. Steve can only imagine the story you were already cooking up. "Do you think she really likes Eddie?" He asks Robin quietly, his warm eyes flickering between Robin and you.

Robin, being an agent of chaos that she was, just shrugs. "She might," she says, picking up a random tape and considering it. "She might not."

Steve opens his mouth to press Robin further, but your voice carries over the store.

"Steve! Can you help me with the—"

You didn't even have to finish your sentence before Steve is borderline sprinting across the store towards you.

"Oh Stevie," Robin murmurs to herself with a shake of the head. "You got it bad."

The next time you and Steve were at Sally's? Steve couldn't stop wondering about you and Eddie. He couldn't help it. Robin had successfully planted the seed and Steve? Well, Steve was making a mental note of every time you mentioned Eddie. It wasn't a lot, really. But Robin had got to Steve. Got to him bad.

You had just ordered pancakes (again) and Steve an omelette when Steve decides—fuck it—and asks:

"So, you and Eddie," Steve begins with an easy smile. "What's going on there?"

You blink. Genuinely confused. So confused, in fact, that you start to laugh.

"Eddie?" you say, still laughing a little. "You think—what? That I like Eddie?"

Steve shrugs—like it was nothing. Like if you said yes, you did like Eddie, that it wouldn't have cut him open. That it wouldn't feel as painful as a broken arm or being beaten by Russians again.

"Yeah—I mean, Robin seems you think you might."

"Yeah well, Robin is also convinced that Elvis isn't really dead," you point out, deeply amused by the situation.

"Yeah, well in Robin's defence—that customer who said she saw Elvis in a gas station in Hawaii was pretty convincing."

You roll your eyes, though you're still laughing. And when the waitress comes with your pancakes and Steve's omelette, he feels a little lighter. Just a little.

"So, you don't like Eddie?" He asks, needing the clarification as he pokes at the ham and cheese omelette on his plate. Eyes on you.

You look back up at Steve then, midway through a mouthful of pancake, your eyes meeting his. You take your time to chew and swallow your food before finally, you shake your head.

"No," you tell Steve. "No, I don't like Eddie. Not like that."

The relief on Steve's face is noticeable. His features soften and shoulders physically relax.

"Good," he breathes out before he really thought about what he was saying and then? He panics. Eyes widen. Fork dropping from his hand. Omelette pieces flying across the table. "I didn't mean—I just—I meant like—good because um, you know, Eddie's a—he's a drug dealer! And you wouldn't want to be involved with a drug dealer. You know? You could get in trouble and I’m going to have you bail you out and—"

But he stops talking when he realises that you weren't listening. Too busy watching a couple a few tables over—trying to encourage their baby to eat some scrambled eggs. But the baby? The baby was having none of it. Slamming her tiny fits onto the table and playing with the eggy bits instead.

"I bet she's named after Bonnie Tyler," you say and Steve? Well, Steve just hums in agreement and shoves some more of his omelette into his mouth. Because for once he was grateful that you had been too busy people watching to notice his little slip up.

Steve was usually (always) the one to give you a lift. It wasn't that you couldn't drive because you could. It was more that your car was...well, it was just a little bit unreliable. Just last month, it had broken down outside of the movie theatre and before that one of your wheels had nearly pinged off after you dropped your mom off at work.

And so, when Robin had called you one Friday night and asked you to pick her and Steve up from a party, you knew it was because they really, really needed you.

You parked up a little way down the street before getting out of your car and following the noise of the party. Usually, you would have joined Steve and Robin for a party like this but you had needed to babysit your little brother. And so, you had spent your Friday night watching He-Man before your mom had come home.

The party was loud. You could feel the bass from the outside. But thankfully, you didn't have to go inside and search for your friends. Because the moment you step into the front yard, someone very drunkenly yells your name.

You turn and—oh god.

Steve Harrington was drunk. Very drunk.

And he was stumbling towards you with a concerned but tipsy Robin by his side. You barely have time to react before Steve is wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a hug so tight that for a few moments, you can't breathe.

"Stevie, stopppp," Robin tells him, tugging his arm. "You're going to crush her."

"M'sorry," Steve slurs as he pulls away, though his hands remain on your shoulders as he looks down at you. You see his face is flushed, his eyelids drooping a little and that lazy, drunken smile Steve got. "Just sooooo happy to see you, pretty girl."

He says it so casually that you almost miss it. Almost. But your cheeks burn as the words slowly hit you and you have to tell yourself that Steve was drunk. He didn't have a clear mind. Wasn't thinking straight.

"Yeah, we're really happy to see you (y/n)," Robin chimes in. "Stevie here threw up—"

"Shhhh!"

"What have you guys drank?" you ask, smiling a little at the situation (because it was objectively funny) and ignoring how Steve's fingers were beginning to squeeze your shoulders. How he had called you pretty girl like it was nothing. How it made your stomach feel fluttery.

"The better question is," Robin replies, giggling. "What haven't we drank?"

"Oh god," you groan as Steve hums and start playing with your hair. The action makes you shudder. "If either of you throw up in my car—"

"I won't," Robin insists, hands up in surrender before glancing at Steve. "Not sure about Harrington here—"

"—M'good," Steve mumbles, smiling down at you in a way that plainly told you that he was not good. Not in the slightest. "S'good cause you're here."

Your face burns. You decide to ignore that.

"Okay," you say, putting your hand over one of Steve's and giving him a gentle pat in an effort for him to let you go. He doesn't. Just takes your hand instead. "Let's get you guys home."

Getting Robin to your car was much easier than Steve. Because Steve? Well, he was like Bambi on ice. Stumbling about every two seconds, distracted by for sale signs ("Hey! (y/n)! Robin! Let's go halves on this one!") and a neighbourhood cat ("come here sweet little kitty"). In the end, you had to throw his arm around your shoulder and wrap yours around his waist and practically drag him over to your car.

"Oh, not this death trap!" Steve huffs as soon as he sees your little red VW Beetle. "Why don't you drive—"

"I'm not driving your car," you cut across him before he could even think of suggesting such a thing. "I'll drive you back here to pick yours up tomorrow—"

Steve groans loudly. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum. You wouldn't have been shocked if he started to stamp his feet.

"Shotgun!" Robin yells, racing up to your car with surprising speed for someone who was as tipsy as she was.

And so, you have to wrestle a drunken and now giggling Steve into the backseat of your car by yourself. Robin is too busy in the passenger seat riffling through your cassettes to help.

When you eventually do manage to get Steve in your car, after having to do his seatbelt for him, he smiles at you.

"Thanks, pretty girl," he murmurs back in a drunken whisper. Your breath hitches a little when you see the look in his eyes. And then—

He leans forward and throws up in the backseat of your car.

"(y/n), again I am so sorry—"

"—you've said that about thirty times already, Steve. It's okay."

"No, it's not. Your backseat smells of vomit and I'm pretty sure I got some in your hair too. So let me pay for your seats to be cleaned or—"

And this was how your morning at Family Video was going. Steve was incredibly hungover and full of shame—which had lead him to apologise to you profusely ever since you picked him up to collect his car from the party.

"Steve, really. You don't have to pay for anything," you insist, though you had a feeling that may have to get your backseats reupholstered because Steve was right—even after you had spent a good two hours early this morning scrubbing and cleaning the seats—your car did still in fact, stink of liquor induced vomit.

Steve takes the VHS tapes from your hands, places them on the counter and looks at you—hands on his hips in that way he only ever did to Dustin Henderson or his friends when they would come in and try and rent an 18.

"(y/n)," he begins in a borderline stern voice. "I'm the one who threw up in your car. Let me pay for it."

"But—"

Steve silences you by pressing a finger to your lips and it takes you by such surprise that you do in fact stop talking.

"Let me pay for it," he says softly, tilting his head down a little bit to meet your eyes. "Please."

Your eyes move between his and despite your stubbornness, you find yourself nodding. And Steve? Well, he smiles. Despite the hangover, he couldn't help but feel a little smug when he realised you were letting him take care of you (or rather your car, but still). And well, taking care of you was one of Steve's favourite things to do.

He drops his hand then, pulling away to run his fingers through his hair. Trying to ignore how soft your lips had felt on his finger. Trying to not imagine how it would feel if it had been his lips instead of his finger—

"So, throwing up my guts aside," Steve says as he casually picks up your tapes and hands them back to you. "Did I do anything else embarrassing? Break dance in the street? Recreate that scene from Footloose again?"

He expects you to laugh because usually you would. Usually the mention of that time Steve had gotten so drunk he had tried to recreate one of the dances from Footloose made you burst into laughter. But you don't laugh instead, you flush. Steve notices because of course he does. He notices everything. Everything about you, anyway. He notices when you change your lip-gloss shade. He notices when you get a haircut. He notices when you get a new top. When you paint your nails a different colour. He notices when you're distracted. When you're sad. When you're quiet. And you flushing? Oh, he definitely noticed that.

"Oh no," Steve says, shoulders tensing slightly as his mind went through everything he could have possibly said to you whilst drink. The possibilities ranged from 'your ass looks great in jeans' to 'I had a dream once that we got married in Paris'. All options were equally horrifying. "Wh-what did I say? Was it bad?"

You shake your head quickly because no, it wasn't bad. Not at all. It was sweet. And confusing. Mainly confusing.

"No Steve," you tell him gently. "It wasn't it—you just—you kept calling me pretty girl," you say, laughing a little so he hopefully wouldn't notice your flush deepening. But he does. He notices.

"Oh," Steve says, returning your easy laughter. On the inside? He's planning a quick escape route. Lunch? He couldn't say that at ten in the morning. Keith wanted to see him? Maybe but then he may have to actually interact with Keith to sell the cover and well—nobody willingly talks to Keith. "Yeah—I—um, sorry about that. If I, um—made you uncomfortable or anything—"

"—you didn't," you interject quickly. Too quickly. You swallow—look away for a moment, bottom lip between your teeth. Steve pretends that the sight isn't burned into his irises.

"It was—it was...nice." You finish.

Steve swears the Upside Down could have swallowed Hawkins whole and he wouldn't have noticed a damn thing. Not when you were looking as shy as you were right now. Not when you just admitted that him calling you pretty girl had been 'nice'. Not weird, not creepy, not stupid but...nice. And so, Steve decides to be brave. Which, of course he was. He had fought demogorgons, demodogs, been captured and tortured by Russians—he was as brave as they came. But being brave in front of you? That was different. But he needed to try.

"Well, it's true," Steve murmurs, shrugging as he looks at you. "You are pretty."

He doesn't miss how your breathing quickens. How you look away from him so he doesn't see how your cheeks burn.

"Thanks?" You reply finally with a small, barely there smile.

For a moment—you two look at each other. In the middle of Family Video. You, for the first time, noticing the way Steve looks at you—the way he's always looked at you when you hadn't noticed. And him—he's just looking at you the way he always did. Like you were the only thing that made sense to him. Like you were the eighth damn wonder of the world.

And then—

The bell above the door chimes, signalling the arrival of a customer. The moment between you and Steve breaking. He's the first to look away. To greet the customer while you stand there—wondering what the hell you had missed while you had been too busy people watching.

The next time you two go to Sally's, it was a Saturday. Which meant it was busy. Really busy. Usually, this gave you ample opportunity to watch various people around you—the diner abuzz with all sorts of people. So many stories in one building. But today? Today, you're looking at Steve.

The way he fidgets by tapping his thigh when he orders for the both of you, almost like there was a part of him that was nervous to do so. How he always sips his coffee as soon as it arrives, even if it's still too hot. How he opts for BBQ sauce today with his omelette instead of tomato like he usually did. How he looked at you when you talked. How he looked at you when you weren't talking. How he looked at you when you laughed. How the brown jacket he was wearing hugs his arm. How his hair fell so fucking perfectly it was almost annoying. How handsome he was.

"So," Steve says, leaning back against his side of the booth and stretching out his arms. You notice how his shirt rides up a little. You notice the happy trail. "What stories have you cooked up so far?" He asks you, brow raised and intrigued.

"What?" You ask him dumbly before it clicks. "Oh."

You're quick to recover—making up something about how the man a few tables over looks a little sad and you posit the idea that he had may have been fired since he was wearing a business suit. Steve latches on the story and soon—he's dreamt up this entire narrative that this guy had been fired for an inappropriate relationship with his secretary. That he was here because he didn't know how to tell his wife and kids that they wouldn't be going on holiday to Hawaii this year.

You're nodding along but really? You're staring at the bit of BBQ sauce on the corner of Steve's mouth. You wonder, for a brief moment whether you had been staring at his lips to begin with or whether it was the sauce that had caught your eye in the first place. You had a feeling it was the former and the thought of that makes your stomach churn.

"Alright, what's going on with you?" Steve queries, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table and looking at you carefully. "Usually, you're all over this—what's wrong?"

The question makes your heart pound. Because you weren't entirely sure what was wrong. You felt the same you just were noticing things about Steve—one of your closest friends and your co-worker—that made your heart beat a little faster. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to call you pretty girl again.

"Nothing's wrong," you say finally after a few moments. "I just..." you pause, casting around for a way to say what you wanted to say without scaring him off. "You said...the other day you said I was good at reading people."

"Yeah?" Steve responds, evidently a tiny bit bewildered as to why you were bringing up that small comment he had made a few days prior. "You people watch all the time, of course you're good at reading people."

"See, I don't think I am," you say as you begin to fiddle with a loose piece of fabric on your jumper. "I—I notice small moments between strangers, sure but—I'm probably wrong like, half the time."

"And...I'm just thinking of all the things that—that I've missed."

Steve looks at you for a long moment, brow furrowed. "Like what?"

"Like...like how you always drive me to work even if you don't have a shift that day," you say, eyes meeting his across the table.

Steve shifts in his seat. Coughs into his hand. The other reaches for his coffee cup.

"How you always let me put my favourite films on but argue with Robin about hers—"

"Because she has a god awful taste in films," Steve mutters, ears red as a he sips from his still-hot coffee. "Yours are better."

"How you let me borrow your cassette tapes even though you know I won't bring them back."

"—oh, I plan on billing you for them. One day. Soon."

You're starting to smile a little, unable to look away from the guy across the table from you who you wished you had noticed sooner.

"And how you love my stories even though most of them are bullshit."

Steve shrugs. "I like the way you see the world."

You bite back a smile, pushing aside your half eaten plate of pancakes and leaning across the table a little.

"Can I do something?" You murmur quietly to him.

Steve nods and—after a moment's hesitation—he leans forward to meet you halfway.

He is sure you're going to kiss him. So sure, in fact that he closes his eyes.

But then, he feels a wet fingertip wiping the corner of his mouth. He stomach sinks as he opens his eyes.

"You had um, BBQ sauce," you tell him in a whisper.

"Oh," he says slowly, face flushing in embarrassment at his hopefulness, "thanks."

You almost let him pull away. Almost pull away yourself. But then—

Your hands cup his face and you're pulling him towards you, leaning uncomfortably over the table as you press your lips to his and kiss him.

He tastes like coffee and there's still a hint of BBQ sauce there but—as he kisses you back—slow and one of his hands carding through your hair—you don't mind one bit. Not when kissing him felt as good as a summer's day or as thrilling as a damn rollercoaster.

Steve is the first to pull away, just to look at your face. Just to remind himself he wasn't dreaming.

"Glad you finally paid attention to me," he murmurs.

"Shut up, Harrington," you say. And he does shut up—in the best way possible, with another kiss against your lips.

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

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